Small Gods by Terry Pratchett Page A

Nhumrod.
    “He has got a good memory?”
    “Good is the wrong word. It’s superb. He’s word-perfect on the entire Sept—”
    “Hmm?” said Vorbis.
    Nhumrod caught the deacon’s eye.
    “As perfect, that is, as anything may be in this most imperfect world,” he muttered.
    “A devoutly read young man,” said Vorbis.
    “Er,” said Nhumrod, “no. He can’t read. Or write.”
    “Ah. A lazy boy.”
    The deacon was not a man who dwelt in gray areas. Nhumrod’s mouth opened and shut silently as he sought for the proper words.
    “No,” he said. “He tries. We’re sure he tries. He just does not seem to be able to make the…he cannot fathom the link between the sounds and the letters.”
    “You have beaten him for that, at least?”
    “It seems to have little effect, deacon.”
    “How, then, has he become such a capable pupil?”
    “He listens,” said Nhumrod.
    No one listened quite like Brutha, he reflected. It made it very hard to teach him. It was like—it was like being in a great big cave. All your words just vanished into the unfillable depths of Brutha’s head. The sheer concentrated absorption could reduce unwary tutors to stuttering silence, as every word they uttered whirled away into Brutha’s ears.
    “He listens to everything,” said Nhumrod. “And he watches everything. He takes it all in.”
    Vorbis stared down at Brutha.
    “And I’ve never heard him say an unkind word,” said Nhumrod. “The other novices make fun of him, sometimes. Call him The Big Dumb Ox. You know the sort of thing?”
    Vorbis’s gaze took in Brutha’s ham-sized hands and tree-trunk legs.
    He appeared to be thinking deeply.
    “Cannot read and write,” said Vorbis. “But extremely loyal, you say?”
    “Loyal and devout,” said Nhumrod.
    “And a good memory,” Vorbis murmured.
    “It’s more than that,” said Nhumrod. “It’s not like memory at all.”
    Vorbis appeared to reach a decision.
    “Send him to see me when he is recovered,” he said.
    Nhumrod looked panicky.
    “I merely wish to talk to him,” said Vorbis. “I may have a use for him.”
    “Yes, lord?”
    “For, I suspect, the Great God Om moves in mysterious ways.”

    High above. No sound but the hiss of wind in feathers.
    The eagle stood on the breeze, looking down at the toy buildings of the Citadel.
    It had dropped it somewhere, and now it couldn’t find it. Somewhere down there, in that little patch of green.

    Bees buzzed in the bean blossoms. And the sun beat down on the upturned shell of Om.
    There is also a hell for tortoises.
    He was too tired to waggle his legs now. That was all you could do, waggle your legs. And stick your head out as far as it would go and wave it about in the hope that you could lever yourself over.
    You died if you had no believers, and that was what a small god generally worried about. But you also died if you died .
    In the part of his mind not occupied with thoughts of heat, he could feel Brutha’s terror and bewilderment. He shouldn’t have done that to the boy. Of course he hadn’t been watching him. What god did that? Who cared what people did? Belief was the thing. He’d just picked the memory out of the boy’s mind, to impress, like a con-juror removing an egg from someone’s ear.
    I’m on my back, and getting hotter, and I’m going to die …
    And yet…and yet…that bloody eagle had dropped him on a compost heap. Some kind of clown, that eagle. A whole place built of rocks on a rock in a rocky place, and he landed on the one thing that’d break his fall without breaking him as well. And really close to a believer.
    Odd, that. Made you wonder if it wasn’t some kind of divine providence, except that you were divine providence…and on your back, getting hotter, preparing to die …
    That man who’d turned him over. That expression on that mild face. He’d remember that. That expression, not of cruelty, but of some different level of being. That expression of terrible peace …
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