Small Gods

slapped at Brutha, and suction dragged at his robes.
    “Om?”
    “Yes?”
    “I don’t think I can swim…”

    Gods are not very introspective. It has never been a survival trait. The ability to cajole, threaten, and terrify has always worked well enough. When you can flatten entire cities at a whim, a tendency toward quiet reflection and seeing-things-from-the-other-fellow’s-point-of-view is seldom necessary.
    Which had led, across the multiverse, to men and women of tremendous brilliance and empathy devoting their entire lives to the service of deities who couldn’t beat them at a quiet game of dominoes. For example, Sister Sestina of Quirm defied the wrath of a local king and walked unharmed across a bed of coals and propounded a philosophy of sensible ethics on behalf of a goddess whose only real interest was in hairstyles, and Brother Zephilite of Klatch left his vast estates and his family and spent his life ministering to the sick and poor on behalf of the invisible god F’rum, generally considered unable, should he have a backside, to find it with both hands, should he have hands. Gods never need to be very bright when there are humans around to be it for them.
    The Sea Queen was considered fairly dumb even by other gods. But there was a certain logic to her thoughts, as she moved deep below the storm-tossed waves. The little boat had been a tempting target…but here was a bigger one, full of people, sailing right into the storm.
    This one was fair game.
    The Sea Queen had the attention span of an onion bahji .
    And, by and large, she created her own sacrifices. And she believed in quantity.

    The Fin of God plunged from wave crest to wave trough, the gale tearing at its sails. The captain fought his way through waist-high water to the prow, where Vorbis stood clutching the rail, apparently oblivious to the fact that the ship was wallowing half-submerged.
    “Sir! We must reef sail! We can’t outrun this!”
    Green fire crackled on the tops of the masts. Vorbis turned. The light was reflected in the pit of his eyes.
    “It is all for the glory of Om,” he said. “Trust is our sail, and glory is our destination.”
    The captain had had enough. He was unsteady on the subject of religion, but felt fairly confident that after thirty years he knew something about the sea.
    “The ocean floor is our destination!” he shouted.
    Vorbis shrugged. “I did not say there would not be stops along the way,” he said.
    The captain stared at him and then fought his way back across the heaving deck. What he knew about the sea was that storms like this didn’t just happen. You didn’t just sail from calm water into the midst of a raging hurricane. This wasn’t the sea. This was personal.
    Lightning struck the mainmast. There was a scream from the darkness as a mass of torn sail and rigging crashed on to the deck.
    The captain half-swam, half-climbed up the ladder to the wheel, where the helmsman was a shadow in the spray and the eerie storm glow.
    “We’ll never make it alive!”
    C ORRECT .
    “We’ll have to abandon ship!”
    N O . W E WILL TAKE IT WITH US . I T’S A NICE SHIP .
    The captain peered closer in the murk.
    “Is that you, Bosun Coplei?”
    W OULD YOU LIKE ANOTHER GUESS ?
    The hull hit a submerged rock and ripped open. Lightning struck the remaining mast and, like a paper boat that had been too long in the water, the Fin of God folded up. Baulks of timber splintered and fountained up into the whirling sky…
    And there was a sudden, velvety silence.
    The captain found that he had acquired a recent memory. It involved water, and a ringing in his ears, and the sensation of cold fire in his lungs. But it was fading. He walked over to the rail, his footsteps loud in the quietness, and looked over the side. Despite the fact that the recent memory included something about the ship being totally smashed, it now seemed to be whole again. In a way.
    “Uh,” he said, “we appear to have run out of sea.”
    Y ES .
    “And land, too.”
    The captain tapped the rail. It was grayish, and slightly transparent.
    “Uh. Is this wood?”
    M ORPHIC MEMORY .
    “Sorry?”
    Y OU WERE A SAILOR . Y OU HAVE HEARD A SHIP REFERRED TO AS A LIVING THING ?
    “Oh, yes. You can’t spend a night on a ship without feeling that it has a sou—”
    Y ES .
    The memory of Fin of God sailed on through the silence. There was the distant sighing of wind, or of the memory of wind. The blown-out corpses of dead