Going Postal

Het Of Thut,” said Anghammarad.
    “Never heard of any King Het,” said Jimmy Tropes.
    “I Expect That Is Because The Land Of Thut Slid Under The Sea Nine Thousand Years Ago,” said the golem solemly. “So It Goes.”
    “Blimey! You’re nine thousand years old?” said Groat.
    “No. I Am Almost Nineteen Thousand Years Old, Having Been Born In The Fire By The Priests Of Upsa In The Third Ning Of The Shaving Of The Goat. They Gave Me A Voice That I Might Carry Messages. Of Such Things Is The World Made.”
    “Never heard of them, either,” said Tropes.
    “Upsa Was Destroyed By The Explosion Of Mount Shiputu. I Spent Two Centuries Under A Mountain of Pumice Before It Eroded, Whereupon I Became A Messenger For The Fishermen Kings Of The Holy Ult. It Could Have Been Worse.”
    “You must’ve seen lots of things, sir!” said Stanley.
    The glowing eyes turned to him, lighting up his face. “Sea Urchins. I Have Seen Many Sea Urchins. And Sea Cucumbers. And The Dead Ships, Sailing. Once There Was An Anchor. All Things Pass.”
    “How long were you under the sea?” said Moist.
    “It Was Almost Nine Thousand Years.”
    “You mean…you just sat there?” said Aggy.
    “I Was Not Instructed To Do Otherwise. I Heard The Song Of The Whales Above Me. It Was Dark. Then There Was A Net, And Rising, And Light. These Things Happen.”
    “Didn’t you find it…well, dull?” said Groat. The postmen were staring.
    “Dull,” said Anghammarad blankly, and turned to look at Miss Dearheart.
    “He has no idea what you mean,” she said. “None of them have. Not even the younger ones.”
    “So I expect you’ll be keen to deliver messages again, then!” said Moist, far more jovially than he’d intended. The golem’s head turned toward Miss Dearheart again.
    “Keen?” said Anghammarad.
    She sighed. “Another tough one, Mr. Moist. It’s as bad as ‘dull.’ The closest I can come is: ‘You will satisfy the imperative to perform the directed action.’”
    “Yes,” said the golem. “The Messages Must Be Delivered. That Is Written On My Chem .”
    “That’s the scroll in their heads that gives a golem his instructions,” said Miss Dearheart. “In Anghammarad’s case, it’s a clay tablet. They didn’t have paper in those days.”
    “You really used to deliver messages for kings?” said Groat.
    “Many Kings,” said Anghammarad. “Many Empires. Many Gods. Many Gods. All Gone. All Things Go.” The golem’s voice got deeper, as if he was quoting from memory. “Neither Deluge Nor Ice Storm Nor The Black Silence Of The Netherhells Shall Stay These Messengers About Their Sacred Business. Do Not Ask Us About Saber-Toothed Tigers, Tar Pits, Big Green Things With Teeth, Or The Goddess Czol.”
    “You had big green things with teeth back then?” said Tropes.
    “Bigger. Greener. More Teeth,” rumbled Anghammarad.
    “And The Goddess Czol?” said Moist.
    “Do Not Ask.”
    There was a thoughtful silence. Moist knew how to break it.
    “And you will decide if he is a postman?” he said softly.
    The postmen went into a brief huddle, and then Groat turned back to Moist.
    “He’s a postman and a half, Mr. Moist. We never knew. The lads say—well, it’d be an honor, sir, an honor to work with him. I mean, it’s like…it’s like history, sir. It’s like…well—”
    “I always said The Order goes back a long way, didn’t I?” said Jimmy Tropes, aglow with pride. “There was postmen back inna dawn ’o time! When they hears we’ve got a member who goes all that way back, the other secret societies are gonna be as green as, as…”
    “Something big with teeth?” Moist suggested.
    “Right! And no problem with his chums, neither, if they can take orders,” said Groat generously.
    “Thank you, gentlemen,” said Moist. “And now all that remains”—he nodded to Stanley, who held up two bit tins of royal blue paint—“is their uniform.”
    By general agreement, Anghammarad was given the unique rank of Extremely Senior Postman. It seemed…fair.
    Half an hour later, still tacky to the touch, each one accompanied by a human postman, the golems took to the streets. Moist watched heads turn. The afternoon sunlight glinted off royal blue and Stanley, gods bless him, had found a small pot of gold paint, too. Frankly, the golems were impressive. They gleamed.
    You had to give people a show. Give them a show, and you were halfway to where you wanted to be.
    A voice behind him said:
The Postman