Small Gods

it’s just the same with mother goddesses. There’s only one of ’em. She just got a lot of wigs and of course it’s amazing what you can do with a padded bra.”
    There was absolute silence in the desert. The stars, smeared slightly by high-altitude moisture, were tiny, motionless rosettes.
    Away toward what the Church called the Top Pole, and which Brutha was coming to think of as the Hub, the sky flickered.
    Brutha put Om down, and laid Vorbis on the sand.
    Absolute silence.
    Nothing for miles, except what he had brought with him. This must have been how the prophets felt, when they went into the desert to find…whatever it was they found, and talk to…whoever they talked to.
    He heard Om, slightly peevish, say: “People’ve got to believe in something. Might as well be gods. What else is there?”
    Brutha laughed.
    “You know,” he said, “I don’t think I believe in anything any more.”
    “Except me!”
    “Oh, I know you exist,” said Brutha. He felt Om relax a little. “There’s something about tortoises. Tortoises I can believe in. They seem to have a lot of existence in one place. It’s gods in general I’m having difficulty with.”
    “Look, if people stop believing in gods, they’ll believe in anything,” said Om. “They’ll believe in young Urn’s steam ball. Anything at all.”
    “Hmm.”
    A green glow in the sky indicated that the light of dawn was chasing frantically after its sun.
    Vorbis groaned.
    “I don’t know why he won’t wake up,” said Brutha. “I can’t find any broken bones.”
    “How do you know?”
    “One of the Ephebian scrolls was all about bones. Can’t you do anything for him?”
    “Why?”
    “You’re a god.”
    “Well, yes. If I was strong enough, I could probably strike him with lightning.”
    “I thought Io did the lightning.”
    “No, just the thunder. You’re allowed to do as much lightning as you like but you have to contract for the thundering.”
    Now the horizon was a broad golden band.
    “How about rain?” said Brutha. “How about something useful? ”
    A line of silver appeared at the bottom of the gold. Sunlight was racing towards Brutha.
    “That was a very hurtful remark,” said the tortoise. “A remark calculated to wound.”
    In the rapidly growing light Brutha saw one of the rock islands a little way off. Its sand-blasted pillars offered nothing but shade, but shade, always available in large quantities in the depths of the Citadel, was now in short supply here.
    “Caves?” said Brutha.
    “Snakes.”
    “But still caves?”
    “In conjunction with snakes.”
    “Poisonous snakes?”
    “Guess.”

    The Unnamed Boat clipped along gently, the wind filling Urn’s robe attached to a mast made out of bits of the sphere’s framework bound together with Simony’s sandal thongs.
    “I think I know what went wrong,” said Urn. “A mere overspeed problem.”
    “Overspeed? We left the water!” said Simony.
    “It needs some sort of governor device,” said Urn, scratching a design on the side of the boat. “Something that’d open the valve if there was too much steam. I think I could do something with a pair of revolving balls.”
    “It’s funny you should say that,” said Didactylos. “When I felt us leave the water and the sphere exploded I distinctly felt my—”
    “That bloody thing nearly killed us!” said Simony.
    “So the next one will be better,” said Urn, cheerfully. He scanned the distant coastline.
    “Why don’t we land somewhere along here?” he said.
    “The desert coast?” said Simony. “What for? Nothing to eat, nothing to drink, easy to lose your way. Omnia’s the only destination in this wind. We can land this side of the city. I know people. And those people know people. All across Omnia, there’s people who know people. People who believe in the Turtle.”
    “You know, I never meant for people to believe in the Turtle,” said Didactylos unhappily. “It’s just a big turtle. It just exists. Things just happen that way. I don’t think the Turtle gives a damn. I just thought it might be a good idea to write things down and explain things a bit.”
    “People sat up all night, on guard, while other people made copies,” said Simony, ignoring him. “Passing them from hand to hand! Everyone making a copy and passing it on! Like a fire spreading underground!”
    “Would this be lots of copies?” said Didactylos cautiously.
    “Hundreds! Thousands!”
    “I suppose it’s too late to