Small Gods

really. That was all rather a mistake,” he said. “My parents named me Sevrian Thaddeus Ungulant, and then one day, of course, most amusing, someone drew attention to the initials. After that, it all seemed rather inevitable.”
    The wheel rocked slightly. St. Ungulant’s skin was almost blackened by the desert sun.
    “I’ve had to pick up herming as I went along, of course,” he said. “I taught myself. I’m entirely self-taught. You can’t find a hermit to teach you herming, because of course that rather spoils the whole thing.”
    “Er…but there’s…Angus?” said Brutha, staring at the spot where he believed Angus to be, or at least where he believed St. Ungulant believed Angus to be.
    “He’s over here now,” said the saint sharply, pointing to a different part of the wheel. “But he doesn’t do any of the herming. He’s not, you know, trained. He’s just company. My word, I’d have gone quite mad if it wasn’t for Angus cheering me up all the time!”
    “Yes…I expect you would,” said Brutha. He smiled at the empty air, in order to show willing.
    “Actually, it’s a pretty good life. The hours are rather long but the food and drink are extremely worthwhile.”
    Brutha had a distinct feeling that he knew what was going to come next.
    “Beer cold enough?” he said.
    “Extremely frosty,” said St. Ungulant, beaming.
    “And the roast pig?”
    St. Ungulant’s smile was manic.
    “All brown and crunchy round the edges, yes,” he said.
    “But I expect, er…you eat the occasional lizard or snake, too?”
    “Funny you should say that. Yes. Every once in a while. Just for a bit of variety.”
    “And mushrooms, too?” said Om.
    “Any mushrooms in these parts?” said Brutha innocently.
    St. Ungulant nodded happily.
    “After the annual rains, yes. Red ones with yellow spots. The desert becomes really interesting after the mushroom season.”
    “Full of giant purple singing slugs? Talking pillars of flame? Exploding giraffes? That sort of thing?” said Brutha carefully.
    “Good heavens, yes,” said the saint. “I don’t know why. I think they’re attracted by the mushrooms.”
    Brutha nodded.
    “You’re catching on, kid,” said Om.
    “And I expect sometimes you drink…water?” said Brutha.
    “You know, it’s odd, isn’t it,” said St. Ungulant. “There’s all this wonderful stuff to drink but every so often I get this, well, I can only call it a craving , for a few sips of water. Can you explain that?”
    “It must be…a little hard to come by,” said Brutha, still talking very carefully, like someone playing a fifty-pound fish on a fifty-one-pound breaking-strain fishing-line.
    “Strange, really,” said St. Ungulant. “When ice-cold beer is so readily available, too.”
    “Where, uh, do you get it? The water?” said Brutha.
    “You know the stone plants?”
    “The ones with the big flowers?”
    “If you cut open the fleshy part of the leaves, there’s up to half a pint of water,” said the saint. “It tastes like weewee, mind you.”
    “I think we could manage to put up with that,” said Brutha, through dry lips. He backed toward the rope-ladder that was the saint’s contact with the ground.
    “Are you sure you won’t stay?” said St. Ungulant. “It’s Wednesday. We get sucking pig plus chef’s selection of sun-drenched dew-fresh vegetables on Wednesdays.”
    “We, uh, have lots to do,” said Brutha, halfway down the swaying ladder.
    “Sweets from the trolley?”
    “I think perhaps…”
    St. Ungulant looked down sadly at Brutha helping Vorbis away across the wilderness.
    “And afterward there’s probably mints!” he shouted, through cupped hands. “No?”
    Soon the figures were mere dots on the sand.
    “There may be visions of sexual grati—no, I tell a lie, that’s Fridays…” St. Ungulant murmured.
    Now that the visitors had gone, the air was once again filled with the zip and whine of the small gods. There were billions of them.
    St. Ungulant smiled.
    He was, of course, mad. He’d occasionally suspected this. But he took the view that madness should not be wasted. He dined daily on the food of the gods, drank the rarest vintages, ate fruits that were not only out of season but out of reality. Having to drink the occasional mouthful of brackish water and chew the odd lizard leg for medicinal purposes was a small price to pay.
    He turned back to the laden table that shimmered in the air. All this…and all the little gods