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    Small Gods: A Discworld Novel
    Small Gods: A Discworld Novel
    Small Gods: A Discworld Novel
    Ebook397 pages6 hours

    Small Gods: A Discworld Novel

    By Terry Pratchett

    4.5/5

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    "Humorously entertaining. . . subtly thought-provoking. . . Pratchett's Discworld books are filled with humor and magic." —Chicago Tribune

    "Think J.R.R. Tolkien with a sharper, more satiric edge." —Houston Chronicle

    The thirteenth novel in the Discworld series from New York Times bestselling author Sir Terry Pratchett.

    Lost in the chill deeps of space between the galaxies, it sails on forever, a flat, circular world carried on the back of a giant turtle— Discworld —a land where the unexpected can be expected. Where the strangest things happen to the nicest people. Like Brutha, a simple lad who only wants to tend his melon patch. Until one day he hears the voice of a god calling his name. A small god, to be sure. But bossy as Hell.

    Religion is a competitive business in the Discworld. Everyone has their own opinion and their own gods, of every shape and size—all fighting for faith, followers, and a place at the top. So when the great god Om accidentally manifests himself as a lowly tortoise, stripped of all divine power, it’s clear he’s become less important than he realized.

    In such instances, you need an acolyte, and fast. Enter Brutha, the Chosen One—or at least the only One available. He wants peace, justice and love—but that’s hard to achieve in a world where religion means power, and corruption reigns supreme.

    The Discworld novels can be read in any order but Small Gods is a standalone.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins
    Release dateMar 17, 2009
    ISBN9780061803208
    Small Gods: A Discworld Novel
    Author

    Terry Pratchett

    Terry Pratchett (1948–2015) was the acclaimed creator of the globally revered Discworld series. In all, he authored more than fifty bestselling books, which have sold more than one hundred million copies worldwide. His novels have been widely adapted for stage and screen, and he was the winner of multiple prizes, including the Carnegie Medal. He was awarded a knighthood by Queen Elizabeth II for his services to literature in 2009, although he always wryly maintained that his greatest service to literature was to avoid writing any.

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    Reviews for Small Gods

    4.5/5

    141 ratings96 reviews

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    • 5/5
      The first time that Pratchett makes it clear that he's a genius of literature, not just of comic fantasy. (Or maybe makes it clear that those can be the same thing). Yes, a turtle is a main character. Exploring the deepest parts of human nature, with jokes.
    • 5/5
      I ended up reading this concurrently with the minor prophets series we're doing in Sunday school. It was interesting to say the least. I’m not sure it gave me the insights my pastor hoped for our series, but it certainly made both texts more engaging and relevant.

      Small Gods is the story of the main god of Omnia, Om. He started out with a single believer and built up a great empire. But somewhere along the way his believers started believing more in the church as an institution and not in the god himself. All except Brutha, a novice who thinks slowly and has a memory better than an adamantium trap. Also, Om is stuck in the body of a lowly tortoise. Also, there are rumblings of dissent and scientific inquiry into the physical reality of the Disc that the Quisistion can’t seem to quell.

      There are references to Greek philosophy and how great thinkers always have to be a little crazy with their jumping out of bathtubs shouting and writing books that no one reads as their entry into the ranks of philosophers. Galileo makes an appearance, standing up for science and facts in the face of religious oppression. There are ruminations about what happens to the gods of disappear civilizations. and then there is Brutha, the Last Believer. What makes him a believer, when so many more pious people just aren’t? Is he going to accept his prophetship, or will he start off like Jonah? Pratchett raises some interesting questions about the church as an institution and faith both individual and corporate. I think I will revisit this book at the end of my Discworld odyssey.
    • 5/5
      In the Great God Om's new manifestation, he finds himself in the body of a tortoise, but manages to find a prophet, the simple but extremely loyal Brutha. I already love Pratchett's Discworld series, but this is easily my favorite so far. The satire is absolutely spot-on and so is the humor - I listened to this on audio and got more than one odd look from passers-by when I would laugh out loud in public. Don't bother collecting quotes, though - you'll have to highlight the whole book.
    • 5/5
      The best of the Discworld novels, IMHO
    • 4/5
      Pratchett's Discworld version of holy wars, religious fundamentalism, crises of faith, and the lion and the thorn.A fun-enough story, amusing-enough characters and a few out-loud chuckles = par for the Discworld course.
    • 4/5
      The turtle moves!
    • 4/5
      Expecting an easy read, it took me much longer to finish the book than anticipated. At times, I found it hard to laugh. I was filled with great sadness when reading about the implied atrocities and evil characters in the book. Vorbis crawled under my skin like no character in a book has for a long time. He reminded me of dictators, mass murderers and other sociopaths, as he was supposed to. There is something in him that reminds me of Putin, Assad or Trump. I just did not see the fun in adding him to Discworld. He and his Quisition are just too horrible to imagine.It's still funny, and you find the usual wisdom, astute observations and puns you'd expect, but it did not make it the enjoyable read I was hoping for from Pratchett. Call it an evolutionary step to more depth, but... Well, just not a Pratchett.Or maybe it is the REAL Pratchett, the smart guy who sees right through how humanity works. Who can deliver his criticism in a satire. Maybe he finally stopped watering down what he saw. Maybe it is Discworld novel as he intended to write them.It is a good thing I was treated to this horrible treatise on propaganda and power politics. Maybe it is good thing I was not being able to escape to Discworld as I usually do.I hope the next book will be lighter.
    • 5/5
      This is the book that I return to over and over again when I have nothing new to read. If you've never read a Terry Pratchett book about his imaginary Discworld, you should. Pratchett puts his characters in situations oddly familiar to citizens of this world and makes you think about what our world is really like. This particular book is about religion with all of its good and bad. But mostly Pratchett is FUNNY FUNNY FUNNY. In this book. the main character Brutha finds a small turtle in the garden who claims to be a god that formally was in the form of a bull. Because he is now lacking in believers he has fallen to the lowly status of "turtle" and soon will disappear all together. Its falls to Brutha to find new believers for the god and bring him back to his former glory. I've read all of his books, and this is one of the best.
    • 3/5
      A slow-starter for me, with confusing cast of characters. Once it got going there was much to chew on about belief systems and religion and government. Seems to stand alone in the Discworld series, but I'd recommend others much more.
    • 4/5
      The great god Om appears as a small old grumpy tortoise. I found the idea interesting that the people believed in the church, the Quisition, but no longer believe in the god.
    • 3/5
      Funny and fluffy.
    • 3/5
      An engaging Discworld novel thinly disguised as a commentary on life, the universe and everything. What happens when a god no longer has any followers? Especially a small god. Well, he becomes a tortoise being chased by an eagle. But with one true believer, Brutha all things can change.
    • 3/5
      Read this for a book group. The god of Omnia has become a grumpy tortoise with Brutha, his one believer. Original and thought-provoking. And I'm glad I have tasted a Terry Pratchett book at last. But don't feel inclined to read any more, and think I would have enjoyed this much more as a young teenager.
    • 4/5
      Not sure if I just wasn't in the mood for this one or not, but I didn't find it as enjoyable as the last few. I think my hate for people like Vorbis kept getting in the way. Other than that it was still a good book, and it made plenty of great points about people and their religions. Especially poingnant with the current presidential election going on here in the US. Too many people hate by rote and too many more follow out of fear or duty to a mislead cause.
    • 5/5
      The great god Om has come down in the world. A long way down. In fact, so far down that he his little legs have considerable trouble with stairs and ditches. In short, he is a tortoise. The only person who believes in him is the novice Brutha, and Brutha rather just wants to be left in peace to tend his melons and work on avoiding the inquisition. But both Om and the inquisition have other ideas. Om wants his believers back, and as for the inquisition, well, you just can't let people get away with saying the world is spherical.Terry Pratchett's satire on religion is not only very entertaining but also has a lot to say about the ways in which religious belief can become corrupted.
    • 5/5
      In Omnia, everybody worships the great god Om, immortalized in temple art as a virile bull. So it comes as a surprise then, to simple-minded temple acolyte Brutha, when a tortoise speaks to him claiming to be Om. Turns out Om has been trapped in the body of a tortoise for the last few years and Brutha is the only person who can hear him. Before long Om and Brutha are sent on a mission to Ephebe as the Omnian Empire tries to expand, and new gods battle with the old.I think this is one of my favourite Discworld novels. It’s one of the few that isn’t set in Ankh-Morpork, though Ankh-Morpork does feature in it a bit, but most of it takes place in Omnia and Ephebe, a city-state of philosophers modeled after Ancient Athens. Very few familiar characters appear, but what the book does is hilariously satirize organized religion. Pratchett pokes fun at religious doctrine and politics, contrasting them to simple, good-hearted Brutha. Brutha represents the best of the human spirit and his portrayal, especially as he matured, was incredibly tender. Small Gods also poses the question of where gods come from and why religion exists.A fun, smart, warm book. I cheered for Brutha and Om the entire way through.
    • 5/5
      It's quite a brilliant creation from Mr. Pratchett. He points out so many of the fallacies that exist in the religions of this world, and asks, then answers so many of the questions about supernatural beings that baffle so many so often in this world.
    • 4/5
      While I don't think the book kept a steady pace, and it meanders in ways that don't always work, this is my favorite of the Discworld books I've read. It has a more solid plot, with a more meaningful conclusion than the Pratchett books I've read so far - which are usually strongest in their quotable sections, and the author's voice.

      I wish that there was more involvement and examination of the small gods themselves, but this was a really enjoyable read. We owe more to Terry Pratchett than most people know - and it feels like his influence is only growing (see Groening's Disenchanted).
    • 4/5
      {Thirteenth of 41: Discworld series. Fantasy, humour, satire}{Bookclub}Another book in the Discworld pantheon with Sir Terry at his hilarious best. This book frequently made me smile, laugh, giggle silently or guffaw out loud though I suspect a lot of it went over my head, as usual. I did start off writing down funny quotes but it was interrupting my reading having to pause so often.‘Time is a drug. Too much of it kills you.’So: the major gods of Discworld live at Cori Celesti - but away from the Hub, on the outskirts of deserts or deep in marshes, people believe in small gods, linked to local waterholes and so on. And as the numbers of their followers grow, so does their status of these gods and their powers increase. Upon the belief in one such god, the Great God Om, is the city of Omnia sustained. And the novice priest Brutha (who has been a novice for many years and is likely to remain a novice for many more years) is one of his most fervent believers, having been brought up in a small village by his grandmother who instilled that belief deep in him.His eighth prophet being scheduled to appear, the Great God Om descends to earth and takes the form of ... a one-eyed tortoise.Now consider the tortoise ... It has about as good a turn of speed as you need to hunt down a lettuce.’Who, having survived the fate once already, has a dread of being seized by an eagle and dropped from a great height. ‘Gravity is a habit that is hard to shake off.’Actually, Brutha is probably Om's only true believer; fortunately, the eagle drops the Great God Om (as a tortoise) into Brutha's garden. And so events are set in motion.Om, being arrogant in his power, has a tendency to lose his temper easily...'Om lost his temper and turned Lu-Tze into a lowly worm in the deepest cesspit of hell, and then got even more angry when the old man went on peacefully shovelling.'The devils of infinity fill your living bones with sulphur!' he screamed.This did not make a great deal of difference.'... but unfortunately (or not) his stock is rather low at the moment. The problem is that religion in the great city of Omnia is all show and no substance.We also meet Vorbis who is in charge of the Quisition and is effectively in charge of Omnia's priesthood (and thereby, Omnia) and who has a Trump-like tendency to believe the lies he tells others to believe. He hears about the heresy that proposes that the Discworld is supported on the back of four elephant which stand on the shell of a giant turtle which is slowly swimming through space when all good Omnians know that the world is round and revolves around its pole.And so with this cast of characters we travel to Ephebe where philosophers congregate and where the second greatest library on Discworld is situated - before it was burned down. I confess, I didn’t digest Small Gods in one sitting. But the plot zigs and zags in unexpected ways, none of which I foresaw. Of course, everything works out happily, thanks in no small part to Lu-Tze the history monk (based on Lao Tse the philosopher, according to the Discworld wiki), who is there to observe events, otherwise they would just be random happenings.And Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler’s distant relative, Cut-Me-Own-Hand-Off-Diblah, makes an appearance or several. Necessarily, so does Death.This book was absolutely hilarious in spots, funny in others, satirical in some and just narrative in parts.4 stars
    • 4/5
      The first book of Pratchett's that I ever read; it remains my favourite Discworld novel.
    • 5/5
      Small Gods is the thirteenth Discworld book, but it stands alone and can be read independently. Pretty much the only reoccurring character to make an appearance is Death, since Small Gods is set before the events in the other novels.Brutha is a simple novice hoeing melons when his god Om speaks to him in the form of a tortoise, a form he’s been stuck in for three years. You see, on the Discworld, gods are created when people believe in them, and no one really believes in Om. They believe in the artifice – the buildings, the ritual, and the Quisition – but nobody believes in Om himself, except for Brutha.Small Gods is rather obviously a satirical take on religion, but it manages to satirize without ever being mean spirited, a real accomplishment. Small Gods is also one of the deepest Discworld novels. Here, Pratchett has a lot to say on the nature of belief and humanity.The story centers around Brutha and Om, and the two characters work very well together. Over the course of the book, they both come to grow and change, learning more about the world.“Om began to feel the acute depression that steals over every realist in the presence of an optimist.”Small Gods is also one of the darker Discworld books. While still hilariously funny, this is a book that contains the Quisition, torturers who “purify” the unfaithful. The main villain, Vorbis, head of the Quisition, is undoubtedly evil, but what makes him frightening is how he shapes the people around him.All in all, Small Gods is an excellent book. I know many people consider it to be the best Discworld novel, and I can’t say they’re wrong. I highly recommend it.Originally posted on the The Illustrated Page.
    • 5/5
      This wonderful standalone novel set in Terry Pratchett's Discworld starts with the idea that gods are only as powerful as their true believers. At the beginning of the novel a distant god who has long ignored his followers comes to awareness trapped in the body of a turtle. He has exactly one believer left; a naive farmboy. In order to stop being a turtle, he has to convince the farmboy that he's really a god, then get the boy to recruit more believers. As his campaign for new believers continues and he spends more and more time in the presence of his god, the farmboy begins to question his own belief system. Lots of great philosophy about religion couched in one of the funniest books I've ever read.
    • 5/5
      One of my favorite books
    • 5/5
      I LOVE this book. Probably my favourite Discworld after Thief of Time. Well worth a reread.
    • 4/5
      Gods can only exist when people believe in them, not merely fear their earthly administration - AKA The Church. In order to survive the millennia, a god must improve the lives of his subjects - or perish in the desert. It only takes one man to alter the course of history – towards community or war. The build-up was a bit tedious, but Pratchett’s satire/observations are delightful.His prose is rather stellar at times:Humans! They lived in a world where the grass continued to be green and the sun rose every day and flowers regularly turned into fruit, and what impressed them? Weeping statues. And wine made out of water! As if the turning of sunlight into wine, by means of vines and grapes and time and enzymes, wasn't a thousand times more impressive and happened all the time... But how much worse to have been a god, and to now be no more than a smoky bundle of memories, blown back and forth across the sand made from the crumbled stones of your temples...Ordinary madness he could deal with. In his experience there were quite a lot of mad people in the world. But Vorbis had passed right through that red barrier and had built some kind of logical structure on the other side. Rational thoughts made out of insane components...
    • 3/5
      I have a love/hate r'ship with the Discworld books.
      I enjoy every encounter I have with Rincewind, the Luggage, and the Librarian.
      Carrot is mildly interesting
      Bits of concepts throughout the series are clever.
      Pretty much the rest of the characters, and books, annoy and/or frustrate me.
    • 5/5
      The more Discworld novels I read, the more I respect Pratchett and his pisstaking ways.

      This time, he goes after both religion and philosophy (...but mostly religion). It's fantastic in that he skewers it from all sides...those that push the religion, those that follow it blindly, and the gods themselves.

      What makes me respect him is, he's never (pardon the pun) preachy, and he always gets guffaws from me. I have to say, staring down 41 books can be intimidating, but now, at about a third of the way through, I'm so glad I've taken the plunge.
    • 3/5
      This was one of Terry Pratchett's earlier books, and not really one of my favourites - but they're all worth re-reading every so often, and one like this is good for half an hour every evening for a week or so.

      It's an interesting premise: that there are many gods, whose power is determined by the number of people who believe in them. And, indeed, this 'fact' that readers are aware of is considered a heresy by the religious elite of Omnia, where the great god Om is considered all-powerful, and the world considered to be a globe. Unfortunately there are so many rules and regulations, and so many punishments, that the 'Quisition' is in charge of the country, and very few people actually believe in Om.

      The book is about Brutha, a very naive novice with a photographic memory, who may be the last remaining believer in Om.
      There's a sort of personal pilgrimage for Brutha, a more straightforward plot than is usual for Pratchet, and a lot of satirical references to the damage that religions have done over the years, and a few amusing one-liners.

      No doubt some Christians would be offended by this book (and indeed those of other religions) but I don't see why we shouldn't laugh at ourselves, and see the many problems that some supposedly religious folk have created over the years. There's a clear contrast between true faith and legalism, even if the 'real' gods are caricatured and rather silly, and much to think about.

      So... good for a light read; a stand-alone Discworld novel which doesn't include any characters who appear elsewhere (other than Death, and a variation on Dibbler the salesman). Quite amusing in places and worth having in any Discworld collection. But not one of the very best.
    • 3/5
      A fantasy/sci fi spoof of religion. Would have been better if shorter.Read Samoa Jun 2003
    • 4/5
      Pratchett is well known to have been an unbeliever and this is a satire on organised religion and where it can lead. If you are one of those people who like to kill people and claim you do it in the name of God then there is a sting in the tale. Otherwise though it's not nasty. The concept of the smalls gods is a good one, Pratchett shows wisdom and at times it's very funny. Certainly comic throughout. The ending is not as good as many by him. Perhaps I was expecting something a little less happy and more realistic (all that stuff about the eagle and the tortoise), but I think Pratchett just liked Prophet Brutha too much to be too horrible to him.

    Book preview

    Small Gods - Terry Pratchett

    Small Gods

    A Novel of Discworld®

    Terry Pratchett

    Contents

    Begin Reading

    About the Author

    Praise

    Books by Terry Pratchett

    Copyright

    About the Publisher

    Begin Reading

    Now consider the tortoise and the eagle.

    The tortoise is a ground-living creature. It is impossible to live nearer the ground without being under it. Its horizons are a few inches away. It has about as good a turn of speed as you need to hunt down a lettuce. It has survived while the rest of evolution flowed past it by being, on the whole, no threat to anyone and too much trouble to eat.

    And then there is the eagle. A creature of the air and high places, whose horizons go all the way to the edge of the world. Eyesight keen enough to spot the rustle of some small and squeaky creature half a mile away. All power, all control. Lightning death on wings. Talons and claws enough to make a meal of anything smaller than it is and at least take a hurried snack out of anything bigger.

    And yet the eagle will sit for hours on the crag and survey the kingdoms of the world until it spots a distant movement and then it will focus, focus, focus on the small shell wobbling among the bushes down there on the desert. And it will leap . . .

    And a minute later the tortoise finds the world dropping away from it. And it sees the world for the first time, no longer one inch from the ground but five hundred feet above it, and it thinks: what a great friend I have in the eagle.

    And then the eagle lets go.

    And almost always the tortoise plunges to its death. Everyone knows why the tortoise does this. Gravity is a habit that is hard to shake off. No one knows why the eagle does this. There’s good eating on a tortoise but, considering the effort involved, there’s much better eating on practically anything else. It’s simply the delight of eagles to torment tortoises.

    But of course, what the eagle does not realize is that it is participating in a very crude form of natural selection.

    One day a tortoise will learn how to fly.

    The story takes place in desert lands, in shades of umber and orange. When it begins and ends is more problematical, but at least one of its beginnings took place above the snowline, thousands of miles away in the mountains around the Hub.*

    One of the recurring philosophical questions is:

    Does a falling tree in the forest make a sound when there is no one to hear?

    Which says something about the nature of philosophers, because there is always someone in a forest. It may only be a badger, wondering what that cracking noise was, or a squirrel a bit puzzled by all the scenery going upwards, but someone. At the very least, if it was deep enough in the forest, millions of small gods would have heard it.

    Things just happen, one after another. They don’t care who knows. But history . . . ah, history is different. History has to be observed. Otherwise it’s not history. It’s just . . . well, things happening one after another.

    And, of course, it has to be controlled. Otherwise it might turn into anything. Because history, contrary to popular theories, is kings and dates and battles. And these things have to happen at the right time. This is difficult. In a chaotic universe there are too many things to go wrong. It’s too easy for a general’s horse to lose a shoe at the wrong time, or for someone to mishear an order, or for the carrier of the vital message to be waylaid by some men with sticks and a cash flow problem. Then there are wild stories, parasitic growths on the tree of history, trying to bend it their way.

    So history has its caretakers.

    They live . . . well, in the nature of things they live wherever they are sent, but their spiritual home is in a hidden valley in the high Ramtops of the Discworld, where the books of history are kept.

    These aren’t books in which the events of the past are pinned like so many butterflies to a cork. These are the books from which history is derived. There are more than twenty thousand of them; each one is ten feet high, bound in lead, and the letters are so small that they have to be read with a magnifying glass.

    When people say It is written . . . it is written here.

    There are fewer metaphors around than people think.

    Every month the abbot and two senior monks go into the cave where the books are kept. It used to be the duty of the abbot alone, but two other reliable monks were included after the unfortunate case of the 59th Abbot, who made a million dollars in small bets before his fellow monks caught up with him.

    Besides, it’s dangerous to go in alone. The sheer concentratedness of History, sleeting past soundlessly out into the world, can be overwhelming. Time is a drug. Too much of it kills you.

    The 493rd Abbot folded his wrinkled hands and addressed Lu-Tze, one of his most senior monks. The clear air and untroubled life of the secret valley was such that all the monks were senior; besides, when you work with Time every day, some of it tends to rub off.

    The place is Omnia, said the abbot, on the Klatchian coast.

    I remember, said Lu-Tze. Young fellow called Ossory, wasn’t there?

    "Things must be . . . carefully observed, said the abbot. There are pressures. Free will, predestination . . . the power of symbols . . . turning-point . . . you know all about this."

    Haven’t been to Omnia for, oh, must be seven hundred years, said Lu-Tze. Dry place. Shouldn’t think there’s a ton of good soil in the whole country, either.

    Off you go, then, said the abbot.

    I shall take my mountains, said Lu-Tze. The climate will be good for them.

    And he also took his broom and his sleeping mat. The history monks don’t go in for possessions. They find most things wear out in a century or two.

    It took him four years to get to Omnia. He had to watch a couple of battles and an assassination on the way, otherwise they would just have been random events.

    It was the Year of the Notional Serpent, or two hundred years after the Declaration of the Prophet Abbys.

    Which meant that the time of the 8th Prophet was imminent.

    That was the reliable thing about the Church of the Great God Om. It had very punctual prophets. You could set your calendar by them, if you had one big enough.

    And, as is generally the case around the time a prophet is expected, the Church redoubled its efforts to be holy. This was very much like the bustle you get in any large concern when the auditors are expected, but tended towards taking people suspected of being less holy and putting them to death in a hundred ingenious ways. This is considered a reliable barometer of the state of one’s piety in most of the really popular religions. There’s a tendency to declare that there is more backsliding around than in the national toboggan championships, that heresy must be torn out root and branch, and even arm and leg and eye and tongue, and that it’s time to wipe the slate clean. Blood is generally considered very efficient for this purpose.

    And it came to pass that in that time the Great God Om spake unto Brutha, the Chosen One:

    Psst!

    Brutha paused in mid-hoe and stared around the Temple garden.

    Pardon? he said.

    It was a fine day early in the lesser Spring. The prayer mills spun merrily in the breeze off the mountains. Bees loafed around in the bean blossoms, but buzzed fast in order to give the impression of hard work. High above, a lone eagle circled.

    Brutha shrugged, and got back to the melons.

    Yea, the Great God Om spake again unto Brutha, the Chosen One:

    Psst!

    Brutha hesitated. Someone had definitely spoken to him from out of the air. Perhaps it was a demon. Novice master Brother Nhumrod was hot on the subject of demons. Impure thoughts and demons. One led to the other. Brutha was uncomfortably aware that he was probably overdue a demon.

    The thing to do was to be resolute and repeat the Nine Fundamental Aphorisms.

    Once more the Great God Om spake unto Brutha, the Chosen One:

    Are you deaf, boy?

    The hoe thudded on to the baking soil. Brutha spun around. There were the bees, the eagle and, at the far end of the garden, old Brother Lu-Tze dreamily forking over the dung heap. The prayer mills whirled reassuringly along the walls.

    He made the sign with which the Prophet Ishkible had cast out spirits.

    Get thee behind me, demon, he muttered.

    "I am behind you."

    Brutha turned again, slowly. The garden was still empty.

    He fled.

    Many stories start long before they begin, and Brutha’s story had its origins thousands of years before his birth.

    There are billions of gods in the world. They swarm as thick as herring roe. Most of them are too small to see and never get worshiped, at least by anything bigger than bacteria, who never say their prayers and don’t demand much in the way of miracles.

    They are the small gods—the spirits of places where two ant trails cross, the gods of microclimates down between the grass roots. And most of them stay that way.

    Because what they lack is belief.

    A handful, though, go on to greater things. Anything may trigger it. A shepherd, seeking a lost lamb, finds it among the briars and takes a minute or two to build a small cairn of stones in general thanks to whatever spirits might be around the place. Or a peculiarly shaped tree becomes associated with a cure for disease. Or someone carves a spiral on an isolated stone. Because what gods need is belief, and what humans want is gods.

    Often it stops there. But sometimes it goes further. More rocks are added, more stones are raised, a temple is built on the site where the tree once stood. The god grows in strength, the belief of its worshipers raising it upwards like a thousand tons of rocket fuel. For a very few, the sky’s the limit.

    And, sometimes, not even that.

    Brother Nhumrod was wrestling with impure thoughts in the privacy of his severe cell when he heard the fervent voice from the novitiates’ dormitory.

    The Brutha boy was flat on his face in front of a statue of Om in His manifestation as a thunderbolt, shaking and gabbling fragments of prayer.

    There was something creepy about that boy, Nhumrod thought. It was the way he looked at you when you were talking, as if he was listening.

    He wandered out and prodded the prone youth with the end of his cane.

    Get up, boy! What do you think you’re doing in the dormitory in the middle of the day? Mmm?

    Brutha managed to spin around while still flat on the floor and grasped the priest’s ankles.

    "Voice! A voice! It spoke to me!" he wailed.

    Nhumrod breathed out. Ah. This was familiar ground. Voices were right up Nhumrod’s cloister. He heard them all the time.

    Get up, boy, he said, slightly more kindly.

    Brutha got to his feet.

    He was, as Nhumrod had complained before, too old to be a proper novice. About ten years too old. Give me a boy up to the age of seven, Nhumrod had always said.

    But Brutha was going to die a novice. When they made the rules, they’d never allowed for anything like Brutha.

    His big red honest face stared up at the novice master.

    Sit down on your bed, Brutha, said Nhumrod.

    Brutha obeyed immediately. Brutha did not know the meaning of the word disobedience. It was only one of a large number of words he didn’t know the meaning of.

    Nhumrod sat down beside him.

    Now, Brutha, he said, you know what happens to people who tell falsehoods, don’t you?

    Brutha nodded, blushing.

    Very well. Now tell me about these voices.

    Brutha twisted the hem of his robe in his hands.

    It was more like one voice, master, he said.

    —like one voice, said Brother Nhumrod. And what did this voice say? Mmm?

    Brutha hesitated. Now he came to think about it, the voice hadn’t said anything very much. It had just spoken. It was, in any case, hard to talk to Brother Nhumrod, who had a nervous habit of squinting at the speaker’s lips and repeating the last few words they said practically as they said them. He also touched things all the time—walls, furniture, people—as if he was afraid the universe would disappear if he didn’t keep hold of it. And he had so many nervous tics that they had to queue. Brother Nhumrod was perfectly normal for someone who had survived in the Citadel for fifty years.

    Well . . . Brutha began.

    Brother Nhumrod held up a skinny hand. Brutha could see the pale blue veins in it.

    "And I am sure you know that there are two kinds of voice that are heard by the spiritual," said the master of novices. One eyebrow began to twitch.

    Yes, master. Brother Murduck told us that, said Brutha, meekly.

    —told us that. Yes. Sometimes, as He in His infinite wisdom sees fit, the God speaks to a chosen one and he becomes a great prophet, said Nhumrod. Now, I am sure you wouldn’t presume to consider yourself one of them? Mmm?

    No, master.

    "—master. But there are other voices, said Brother Nhumrod, and now his voice had a slight tremolo, beguiling and wheedling and persuasive voices, yes? Voices that are always waiting to catch us off our guard?"

    Brutha relaxed. This was more familiar ground.

    All the novices knew about those kinds of voices. Except that usually they talked about fairly straightforward things, like the pleasures of nighttime manipulation and the general desirability of girls. Which showed that they were novices when it came to voices. Brother Nhumrod got the kind of voices that were, by comparison, a full oratorio. Some of the bolder novices liked to get Brother Nhumrod talking on the subject of voices. He was an education, they said. Especially when little bits of white spit appeared at the corners of his mouth.

    Brutha listened.

    Brother Nhumrod was the novice master, but he wasn’t the novice master. He was only master of the group that included Brutha. There were others. Possibly someone in the Citadel knew how many there were. There was someone somewhere whose job it was to know everything.

    The Citadel occupied the whole of the heart of the city of Kom, in the lands between the deserts of Klatch and the plains and jungles of Howondaland. It extended for miles, its temples, churches, schools, dormitories, gardens, and towers growing into and around one another in a way that suggested a million termites all trying to build their mounds at the same time.

    When the sun rose the reflection of the doors of the central Temple blazed like fire. They were bronze, and a hundred feet tall. On them, in letters of gold set in lead, were the Commandments. There were five hundred and twelve so far, and doubtless the next prophet would add his share.

    The sun’s reflected glow shone down and across the tens of thousands of the strong-in-faith who labored below for the greater glory of the Great God Om.

    Probably no one did know how many of them there were. Some things have a way of going critical. Certainly there was only one Cenobiarch, the Superior Iam. That was certain. And six Archpriests. And thirty lesser Iams. And hundreds of bishops, deacons, subdeacons, and priests. And novices like rats in a grain store. And craftsmen, and bull breeders, and torturers, and Vestigial Virgins . . .

    No matter what your skills, there was a place for you in the Citadel.

    And if your skill lay in asking the wrong kinds of questions or losing the righteous kind of wars, the place might just be the furnaces of purity, or the Quisition’s pits of justice.

    A place for everyone. And everyone in their place.

    The sun beat down on the temple garden.

    The Great God Om tried to stay in the shade of a melon vine. He was probably safe here, here inside these walls and with the prayer towers all around, but you couldn’t be too careful. He’d been lucky once, but it was asking too much to expect to be lucky again.

    The trouble with being a god is that you’ve got no one to pray to.

    He crawled forward purposefully towards the old man shoveling muck until, after much exertion, he judged himself to be within earshot.

    He spake thusly: Hey, you!

    There was no answer. There was not even any suggestion that anything had been heard.

    Om lost his temper and turned Lu-Tze into a lowly worm in the deepest cesspit of hell, and then got even more angry when the old man went on peacefully shoveling.

    The devils of infinity fill your living bones with sulphur! he screamed.

    This did not make a great deal of difference.

    Deaf old bugger, muttered the Great God Om.

    Or perhaps there was someone who did know all there was to be known about the Citadel. There’s always someone who collects knowledge, not because of a love of the stuff but in the same way that a magpie collects glitter or a caddis fly collects little bits of twigs and rock. And there’s always someone who has to do all those things that need to be done but which other people would rather not do or, even, acknowledge existed.

    The third thing the people noticed about Vorbis was his height. He was well over six feet tall, but stick-thin, like a normal proportioned person modeled in clay by a child and then rolled out.

    The second thing that people noticed about Vorbis was his eyes. His ancestors had come from one of the deep desert tribes that had evolved the peculiar trait of having dark eyes—not just dark of pupil, but almost black of eyeball. It made it very hard to tell where he was looking. It was as if he had sunglasses on under his skin.

    But the first thing they noticed was his skull.

    Deacon Vorbis was bald by design. Most of the Church’s ministers, as soon as they were ordained, cultivated long hair and beards that you could lose a goat in. But Vorbis shaved all over. He gleamed. And lack of hair seemed to add to his power. He didn’t menace. He never threatened. He just gave everyone the feeling that his personal space radiated several meters from his body, and that anyone approaching Vorbis was intruding on something important. Superiors fifty years his senior felt apologetic about interrupting whatever it was he was thinking about.

    It was almost impossible to know what he was thinking about and no one ever asked. The most obvious reason for this was that Vorbis was the head of the Quisition, whose job it was to do all those things that needed to be done and which other people would rather not do.

    You do not ask people like that what they are thinking about in case they turn around very slowly and say You.

    The highest post that could be held in the Quisition was that of deacon, a rule instituted hundreds of years ago to prevent this branch of the Church becoming too big for its boots.* But with a mind like his, everyone said, he could easily be an archpriest by now, or even an Iam.

    Vorbis didn’t worry about that kind of trivia. Vorbis knew his destiny. Hadn’t the God himself told him?

    There, said Brother Nhumrod, patting Brutha on the shoulder. I’m sure you will see things clearer now.

    Brutha felt that a specific reply was expected.

    Yes, master, he said. I’m sure I shall.

    —shall. It is your holy duty to resist the voices at all times, said Nhumrod, still patting.

    Yes, master. I will. Especially if they tell me to do any of the things you mentioned.

    —mentioned. Good. Good. And if you hear them again, what will you do? Mmm?

    Come and tell you, said Brutha, dutifully.

    —tell you. Good. Good. That’s what I like to hear, said Nhumrod. That’s what I tell all my boys. Remember that I’m always here to deal with any little problems that may be bothering you.

    Yes, master. Shall I go back to the garden now?

    —now. I think so. I think so. And no more voices, d’you hear? Nhumrod waved a finger of his non-patting hand. A cheek puckered.

    Yes, master.

    What were you doing in the garden?

    Hoeing the melons, master, said Brutha.

    Melons? Ah. Melons, said Nhumrod slowly.

    Melons. Melons. Well, that goes some way toward explaining things, of course.

    An eyelid flickered madly.

    It wasn’t just the Great God that spoke to Vorbis, in the confines of his head. Everyone spoke to an exquisitor, sooner or later. It was just a matter of stamina.

    Vorbis didn’t often go down to watch the inquisitors at work these days. Exquisitors didn’t have to. He sent down instructions, he received reports. But special circumstances merited his special attention.

    It has to be said . . . there was little to laugh at in the cellar of the Quisition. Not if you had a normal sense of humor. There were no jolly little signs saying: You Don’t Have To Be Pitilessly Sadistic To Work Here But It Helps!!!

    But there were things to suggest to a thinking man that the Creator of mankind had a very oblique sense of fun indeed, and to breed in his heart a rage to storm the gates of heaven.

    The mugs, for example. The inquisitors stopped work twice a day for coffee. Their mugs, which each man had brought from home, were grouped around the kettle on the hearth of the central furnace which incidentally heated the irons and knives.

    They had legends on them like A Present From the Holy Grotto of Ossory, or To The World’s Greatest Daddy. Most of them were chipped, and no two of them were the same.

    And there were the postcards on the wall. It was traditional that, when an inquisitor went on holiday, he’d send back a crudely colored woodcut of the local view with some suitably jolly and risqué message on the back. And there was the pinned-up tearful letter from Inquisitor First Class Ishmale Pop Quoom, thanking all the lads for collecting no fewer than seventy-eight obols for his retirement present and the lovely bunch of flowers for Mrs. Quoom, indicating that he’d always remember his days in No. 3 pit, and was looking forward to coming in and helping out any time they were shorthanded.

    And it all meant this: that there are hardly any excesses of the most crazed psychopath that cannot easily be duplicated by a normal, kindly family man who just comes in to work every day and has a job to do.

    Vorbis loved knowing that. A man who knew that, knew everything he needed to know about people.

    Currently he was sitting alongside the bench on which lay what was still, technically, the trembling body of Brother Sasho, formerly his secretary.

    He looked up at the duty inquisitor, who nodded. Vorbis leaned over the chained secretary.

    What were their names? he repeated.

    . . . don’t know . . .

    I know you gave them copies of my correspondence, Sasho. They are treacherous heretics who will spend eternity in the hells. Will you join them?

    . . . don’t know names . . .

    I trusted you, Sasho. You spied on me. You betrayed the Church.

    . . . no names . . .

    Truth is surcease from pain, Sasho. Tell me.

    . . . truth . . .

    Vorbis sighed. And then he saw one of Sasho’s fingers curling and uncurling under the manacles. Beckoning.

    Yes?

    He leaned closer over the body.

    Sasho opened his one remaining eye.

    . . . truth . . .

    Yes?

    . . . The Turtle Moves . . .

    Vorbis sat back, his expression unchanged. His expression seldom changed unless he wanted it to. The inquisitor watched him in terror.

    I see, said Vorbis. He stood up, and nodded at the inquisitor.

    How long has he been down here?

    Two days, lord.

    And you can keep him alive for—?

    Perhaps two days more, lord.

    Do so. Do so. It is, after all, said Vorbis, our duty to preserve life for as long as possible. Is it not?

    The inquisitor gave him the nervous smile of one in the presence of a superior whose merest word could see him manacled on a bench.

    Er . . . yes, lord.

    Heresy and lies everywhere, Vorbis sighed. And now I shall have to find another secretary. It is too vexing.

    After twenty minutes Brutha relaxed. The siren voices of sensuous evil seemed to have gone away.

    He got on with the melons. He felt capable of understanding melons. Melons seemed a lot more comprehensible than most things.

    Hey, you!

    Brutha straightened up.

    I do not hear you, oh foul succubus, he said.

    Oh yes you do, boy. Now, what I want you to do is—

    I’ve got my fingers in my ears!

    Suits you. Suits you. Makes you look like a vase. Now—

    I’m humming a tune! I’m humming a tune!

    Brother Preptil, the master of the music, had described Brutha’s voice as putting him in mind of a disappointed vulture arriving too late at the dead donkey. Choral singing was compulsory for novitiates, but after much petitioning by Brother Preptil a special dispensation had been made for Brutha. The sight of his big round face screwed up in the effort to please was bad enough, but what was worse was listening to his voice, which was certainly powerful and full of intent conviction, swinging backward and forward across the tune without ever quite hitting it.

    He got Extra Melons instead.

    Up in the prayer towers a flock of crows took off in a hurry.

    After a full chorus of He is Trampling the Unrighteous with Hooves of Hot Iron Brutha unplugged his ears and risked a quick listen.

    Apart from the distant protests of the crows, there was silence.

    It worked. Put your trust in the God, they said. And he always had. As far back as he could remember.

    He picked up his hoe and turned back, in relief, to the vines.

    The hoe’s blade was about to hit the ground when Brutha saw the tortoise.

    It was small and basically yellow and covered with dust. Its shell was badly chipped. It had one beady eye—the other had fallen to one of the thousands of dangers that attend any slow-moving creature which lives an inch from the ground.

    He looked around. The gardens

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