Small Gods
Page 24

“It's all right,” said Didactylos. “I don't put any oil in it.”
“A lantern that doesn't shine for a man that doesn't see?”
“Yeah. Works perfectly. And of course it's very philosophical.”
“And you live in a barrel.”
“Very fashionable, living in a barrel,” said Didactylos, walking forward briskly, his fingers only occasionally touching the raised patterns on the plank. “Most of the philosophers do it. It shows contempt and disdain for worldly things. Mind you, Legibus has got a sauna in his. It's amazing the kind of things you can think of in it, he says.”
Brutha looked around. Scrolls protruded from their racks like cuckoos piping the hour.
“It's all so . . . I never met a philosopher before I came here,” he said. “Last night, they were all . . .”
“You got to remember there's three basic approaches to philosophy in these parts,” said Didactylos. “Tell him, Urn.”
“There's the Xenoists,” said Urn promptly. “They say the world is basically complex and random. And there's the Ibidians. They say the world is basically simple and follows certain fundamental rules.”
“And there's me,” said Didactylos, pulling a scroll out of its rack.
“Master says basically it's a funny old world,” said Urn.
“And doesn't contain enough to drink,” said Didactylos.
“And doesn't contain enough to drink.”
“Gods,” said Didactylos, half to himself. He pulled out another scroll. “You want to know about gods? Here's Xeno's Reflections, and old Aristocrates' Platitudes, and Ibid's bloody stupid Discourses, and Legibus's Geometries and Hierarch's Theologies . . . ”
Didactylos's fingers danced across the racks. More dust filled the air.
“These are all books?” said Brutha.
“Oh, yes. Everyone writes 'em here. You just can't stop the buggers.”
“And people can read them?” said Brutha.
Omnia was based on one book. And here were . . . hundreds . . .
“Well, they can if they want,” said Urn. “But no one comes in here much. These aren't books for reading. They're more for writing.”
“Wisdom of the ages, this,” said Didactylos. “Got to write a book, see, to prove you're a philosopher. Then you get your scroll and free official philosopher's loofah.”
The sunlight pooled on a big stone table in the center of the room. Urn unrolled the length of a scroll. Brilliant flowers glowed in the golden light.
“Orinjcrates' On the Nature of Plants,” said Didactylos. “Six hundred plants and their uses . . .”
“They're beautiful,” whispered Brutha.
“Yes, that is one of the uses of plants,” said Didactylos. “And one which old Orinjcrates neglected to notice, too. Well done. Show him Philo's Bestiary, Urn.”
Another scroll unrolled. There were dozens of Pictures of animals, thousands of unreadable words.
“But . . . pictures of animals . . . it's wrong . . . isn't it wrong to . . .”
“Pictures of just about everything in there,” said Didactylos.
Art was not permitted in Omnia.
“And this is the book Didactylos wrote,” said Urn.
Brutha looked down at a picture of a turtle. There were . . . elephants, they're elephants, his memory supplied, from the fresh memories of the bestiary sinking indelibly into his mind . . . elephants on its back, and on them something with mountains and a waterfall of an ocean around its edge . . .
“How can this be?” said Brutha. “A world on the back of a tortoise? Why does everyone tell me this? This can't be true!”
“Tell that to the mariners,” said Didactylos. “Everyone who's ever sailed the Rim Ocean knows it. Why deny the obvious?”
“But surely the world is a perfect sphere, spinning about the sphere of the sun, just as the Septateuch tells us,” said Brutha. “That seems so . . . logical. That's how things ought to be.”
“Ought?” said Didactylos. “Well, I don't know about ought. That's not a philosophical word.”
“And . . . what is this . . .” Brutha murmured, pointing to a circle under the drawing of the turtle.
“That's a plan view,” said Urn.
“Map of the world,” said Didactylos.
“Map? What's a map?”
“It's a sort of picture that shows you where you are,” said Didactylos.
Brutha stared in wonderment. “And how does it know?”
“Hah!”
“Gods,” prompted Om again. “We're here to ask about gods!”
“But is all this true?” said Brutha.
Didactylos shrugged. “Could be. Could be. We are here and it is now. The way I see it is, after that, everything tends towards guesswork.”
“You mean you don't know it's true?” said Brutha.
“I think it might be,” said Didactylos. “I could be wrong. Not being certain is what being a philosopher is all about.”
“Talk about gods,” said Om.
“Gods,” said Brutha weakly.
His mind was on fire. These people made all these books about things, and they weren't sure. But he'd been sure, and Brother Nhumrod had been sure, and Deacon Vorbis had a sureness you could bend horseshoes around. Sureness was a rock.
Now he knew why, when Vorbis spoke about Ephebe, his face was gray with hatred and his voice was tense as a wire. If there was no truth, what was there left? And these bumbling old men spent their time kicking away the pillars of the world, and they'd nothing to replace them with but uncertainty. And they were proud of this?
Urn was standing on a small ladder, fishing among the shelves of scrolls. Didactylos sat opposite Brutha, his blind gaze still apparently fixed on him.
“You don't like it, do you?” said the philosopher.
Brutha had said nothing.
“You know,” said Didactylos conversationally, “people'll tell you that us blind people are the real business where the other senses are concerned. It's not true, of course. The buggers just say it because it makes them feel better. It gets rid of the obligation to feel sorry for us. But when you can't see you do learn to listen more. The way people breathe, the sounds their clothes make . . .”
Urn reappeared with another scroll.
“You shouldn't do this,” said Brutha wretchedly. “All this . . .” His voice trailed off.
“I know about sureness,” said Didactylos. Now the light, irascible tone had drained out of his voice. “I remember, before I was blind, I went to Omnia once. This was before the borders were closed, when you still let people travel. And in your Citadel I saw a crowd stoning a man to death in a pit. Ever seen that?”
“It has to be done,” Brutha mumbled. "So the soul can be shriven and-'
“Don't know about the soul. Never been that kind of a philosopher,” said Didactylos. “All I know is, it was a horrible sight.”
"The state of the body is not-
“Oh, I'm not talking about the poor bugger in the pit,” said the philosopher. “I'm talking about the people throwing the stones. They were sure all right. They were sure it wasn't them in the pit. You could see it in their faces. So glad it wasn't them that they were throwing just as hard as they could.”
Urn hovered, looking uncertain.
“I've got Abraxas's On Religion,” he said.
“Old 'Charcoal' Abraxas,” said Didactylos, suddenly cheerful again. “Struck by lightning fifteen times so far, and still not giving up. You can borrow this one overnight if you want. No scribbling comments in the margins, mind you, unless they're interesting.”
“This is it!” said Om. “Come on, let's leave this idiot.”
Brutha unrolled the scroll. There weren't even any pictures. Crabbed writing fiIled it, line after line.
“He spent years researching it,” said Didactylos. “Went out into the desert, talked to the small gods. Talked to some of our gods, too. Brave man. He says gods like to see an atheist around. Gives them something to aim at.”
Brutha unrolled a bit more of the scroll. Five minutes ago he would have admitted that he couldn't read. Now the best efforts of the inquisitors couldn't have forced it out of him. He held it up in what he hoped was a familiar fashion.
“Where is he now?” he said.
“Well, someone said they saw a pair of sandals with smoke coming out just outside his house a year or two back,” said Didactylos. “He might have, you know, pushed his luck.”
“I think,” said Brutha, “that I'd better be going. I'm sorry to have intruded on your time.”
“Bring it back when you've finished with it,” said Didactylos.
“Is that how people read in Omnia?” said Urn.
“What?”
“Upside down.”
Brutha picked up the tortoise, glared at Urn, and strode as haughtily as possible out of the Library.
“Hmm,” said Didactylos. He drummed his fingers on the tables.
“It was him I saw in the tavern last night,” said Urn. “I'm sure, master.”
“But the Omnians are staying here in the palace.”
“That's right, master.”
“But the tavern is outside.”
“Yes.”
“Then he must have flown over the wall, do you think?”
“I'm sure it was him, master.”
“Then . . . maybe he came later. Maybe he hadn't gone in when you saw him.”
“It can only be that, master. The keepers of the labyrinth are unbribable.”
Didactylos clipped Urn across the back of the head with his lantern.
“Stupid boy! I've told you about that sort of statement.”
“I mean, they are not easily bribable, master. Not for all the gold in Omnia, for example.”
“That's more like it.”
“Do you think that tortoise was a god, master?”
“He's going to be in big trouble in Omnia if he is. They've got a bastard of a god there. Did you ever read old Abraxas?”
“No, master.”
“Very big on gods. Big gods man. Always smelled of burnt hair. Naturally resistant.”
Om crawled slowly along the length of a line.
“Stop walking up and down like that,” he said, “I can't concentrate.”
“How can people talk like that?” Brutha asked the empty air. “Acting as if they're glad they don't know things! Finding out more and more things they don't know! It's like children proudly coming to show you a full potty!”
Om marked his place with a claw.
“But they find things out,” he said. “This Abraxas was a thinker and no mistake. I didn't know some of this stuff. Sit down!”
Brutha obeyed.
“Right,” said Om. “Now . . . listen. Do you know how gods get power?”
“By people believing in them,” said Brutha. “Millions of people believe in you.”
Om hesitated.
All right, all right. We are here and it is now. Sooner or later he'll find out for himself . . .
“They don't believe,” said Om.
"But-
“It's happened before,” said the tortoise. “Dozens of times. D'you know Abraxas found the lost city of Ee? Very strange carvings, he says. Belief, he says. Belief shifts. People start out believing in the god and end up believing in the structure.”