wrath and thou shalt not.
“You know them?”
Dean brought in a tray with teapot, honey, cup, spoon. What?
Usually he just handed me a mug ready to go. Was he kissing up?
Only by reputation. They have been marginal pantheons since
the beginning, deities of ancient nomadic immigrants. Both
religions were too cold and hard to win many converts. They are
much alike.
“Oh, your head!” Dean said. He was looking straight
down at the top of my conk. “No wonder you’re in a
black mood. Don’t move. I’ll clean that up.” He
bustled out.
Apparently your skull is as thick as I have
claimed.
“Huh?”
Your head wound is worse than you realized.
“What did I say? The good news just piles up.” I
reflected on what he had sent. “I got a question.”
Yes?
I felt a mental smirk.
“Back when we dealt with that crazy Loghyr you told me
Loghyr never found proof of the existence of any gods and claimed
logic suggests they can’t exist. I believe you said
‘They are not necessary to explain anything. Nature does not
provide that which is not needed.’ ”
That is correct. There is no concrete proof that any of the
deities worshipped in this city exist as independent entities,
outside the imaginations of those with the will to
believe.
“Who tried to toss me through that coach door, then? You
telling me they were scamming?”
That is a possibility deserving of examination. But to your
question. For the sake of argument, your interlocuters were
indeed Daiged, Rhogiro, and Ringo. Magodor gave you your answer
in her remarks.
Oh boy. Here came my favorite part of our relationship, the part
where he tries to expand my horizons by forcing me to expand my
intellect.
Dean came back with our first aid stuff. I keep a good home
medicine cabinet. For a while I had a girlfriend who was a doctor.
She fixed me up because I seem to get dinged up every time I turn
around.
“I’m a little woozy here, Chuckles. How’s
about you just hand it to me this time?”
All the span is gone out of you, Garrett. The very nature of
their situation should shriek the answer. If they fall off the
Street of the Gods, if they are forced to leave the Dream Quarter,
if they lose their last True Believer, they cease to
exist.
“Ouch!” Dean was dabbing at my head with a hot, wet
rag. “You mean I wouldn’t have this dent in my head if
somebody didn’t believe in the ugly boys?”
Essentially.
Dean asked, “Who sewed this up for you, Mr.
Garrett?”
“Sewed what?” And to His Nibs, “But they exist
on their own. Nobody dreamed what was happening to me.”
Dean told me, “You have
three . . . six . . . nine
stitches here. You must have bled pretty bad.”
“No wonder I’m so weak. I thought it was a
concussion.”
“Might be that, too.”
They need only be imagined and believed in fervently enough,
on the right level. They assume an existence of their own, within
the attributes assigned them.
“Careful!” I snapped at Dean. “That’s
tender. They must have given me something to make it not hurt.
Ouch! Damnit! . . . ”
“Don’t be such a pansy.”
“You aren’t digging for gold. Old Bones, your theory
is absurd.”
Gods are absurd, Garrett. And it is a hypothesis, not a
theory. A theory is supported by experimental proof.
“I’m just looking to see if there’s any
infection,” Dean grumbled, doing his hurt thing.
I ignored him, told the Dead Man, “There you go splitting
hairs.”
“Theory” is a much-abused word, particularly by
those in the divinity trades. Be careful, Dean. If those stitches
break, his brain may leak out. Have you formed any plans, Garrett?
To deal with your situation?
My
situation. “I take it I need to worry in a big
way.” When the Dead Man sets aside his own self-centered
interests, I know he is troubled deeply. It was obvious that he had
no problem believing that I could have fallen afoul of real gods
and not just sleight-of-hand con folk somehow setting me up.
I
“You know them?”
Dean brought in a tray with teapot, honey, cup, spoon. What?
Usually he just handed me a mug ready to go. Was he kissing up?
Only by reputation. They have been marginal pantheons since
the beginning, deities of ancient nomadic immigrants. Both
religions were too cold and hard to win many converts. They are
much alike.
“Oh, your head!” Dean said. He was looking straight
down at the top of my conk. “No wonder you’re in a
black mood. Don’t move. I’ll clean that up.” He
bustled out.
Apparently your skull is as thick as I have
claimed.
“Huh?”
Your head wound is worse than you realized.
“What did I say? The good news just piles up.” I
reflected on what he had sent. “I got a question.”
Yes?
I felt a mental smirk.
“Back when we dealt with that crazy Loghyr you told me
Loghyr never found proof of the existence of any gods and claimed
logic suggests they can’t exist. I believe you said
‘They are not necessary to explain anything. Nature does not
provide that which is not needed.’ ”
That is correct. There is no concrete proof that any of the
deities worshipped in this city exist as independent entities,
outside the imaginations of those with the will to
believe.
“Who tried to toss me through that coach door, then? You
telling me they were scamming?”
That is a possibility deserving of examination. But to your
question. For the sake of argument, your interlocuters were
indeed Daiged, Rhogiro, and Ringo. Magodor gave you your answer
in her remarks.
Oh boy. Here came my favorite part of our relationship, the part
where he tries to expand my horizons by forcing me to expand my
intellect.
Dean came back with our first aid stuff. I keep a good home
medicine cabinet. For a while I had a girlfriend who was a doctor.
She fixed me up because I seem to get dinged up every time I turn
around.
“I’m a little woozy here, Chuckles. How’s
about you just hand it to me this time?”
All the span is gone out of you, Garrett. The very nature of
their situation should shriek the answer. If they fall off the
Street of the Gods, if they are forced to leave the Dream Quarter,
if they lose their last True Believer, they cease to
exist.
“Ouch!” Dean was dabbing at my head with a hot, wet
rag. “You mean I wouldn’t have this dent in my head if
somebody didn’t believe in the ugly boys?”
Essentially.
Dean asked, “Who sewed this up for you, Mr.
Garrett?”
“Sewed what?” And to His Nibs, “But they exist
on their own. Nobody dreamed what was happening to me.”
Dean told me, “You have
three . . . six . . . nine
stitches here. You must have bled pretty bad.”
“No wonder I’m so weak. I thought it was a
concussion.”
“Might be that, too.”
They need only be imagined and believed in fervently enough,
on the right level. They assume an existence of their own, within
the attributes assigned them.
“Careful!” I snapped at Dean. “That’s
tender. They must have given me something to make it not hurt.
Ouch! Damnit! . . . ”
“Don’t be such a pansy.”
“You aren’t digging for gold. Old Bones, your theory
is absurd.”
Gods are absurd, Garrett. And it is a hypothesis, not a
theory. A theory is supported by experimental proof.
“I’m just looking to see if there’s any
infection,” Dean grumbled, doing his hurt thing.
I ignored him, told the Dead Man, “There you go splitting
hairs.”
“Theory” is a much-abused word, particularly by
those in the divinity trades. Be careful, Dean. If those stitches
break, his brain may leak out. Have you formed any plans, Garrett?
To deal with your situation?
My
situation. “I take it I need to worry in a big
way.” When the Dead Man sets aside his own self-centered
interests, I know he is troubled deeply. It was obvious that he had
no problem believing that I could have fallen afoul of real gods
and not just sleight-of-hand con folk somehow setting me up.
I
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