Discworld 27 - The Last Hero by Terry Pratchett Read Free Book Online Page B

of thoughts
and pictures. Leonard imagined in terms of shape and space. His daydreams
came with a cutting list and assembly instructions.
Lord Vetinari found himself hoping more and more for the success of his
other plan. When all else fails, pray ...
“All right now. lads, settle down. Settle down.” Hughnon Ridcully, Chief
Priest of Blind Io., looked down at the multitude of priests and
priestesses that filled the huge Temple of Small Gods.
He shared many of the characteristics of his brother Mustrum. He also saw
his job as being, essentially, one of organiser. There were plenty of
people who were good at the actual believing, and he left them to it. It
took a lot more than prayer to make sure the laundry got done and the
building was kept in repair. There were so many gods now ... at least two
thousand. Many were, of course, still very small. But you had to watch
them. Gods were very much a fashion thing. Look at Om, now. One minute he
was a bloodthirsty little deity in some mad hot country, and then
suddenly he was one of the top gods. It had all been done by not
answering prayers, but doing so in a sort of dynamic way that left open
the possibility that one day he might and then there'd he fireworks.
Hughnon, who had survived through decades of intense theological dispute
by being a mean man at swinging a heavy thurible, was impressed by this
novel technique.
And then, of course, you had your real newcomers like Aniger, Goddess of
Squashed Animals. Who would have thought that better roads and faster
carts would have led to that? But gods grew bigger when called upon at
need, and enough minds had cried out, “Oh god, what was that I hit?”
“Brethren!” he shouted, getting tired of waiting. “And sistren!”
The hubbub died away. A few flakes of dry and crumbling paint drifted
down from the ceiling.
“Thank you.” said Ridcully. “Now, can you please listen? My colleagues
and I,” - and here he indicated the senior clergy behind him - “have. I
assure you, been working for some time on this idea, and there is no
doubt that it is theologically sound. Can we please get on?”
He could still sense the annoyance among the priesthood. Born leaders
didn't like being led.
“If we don't try this,” he tried, “the godless wizards may succeed with
their plans. And a fine lot of mugginses we will look.”
“This is all very well, hut the form of things is important!” snapped a
priest. “We can't all pray at once! You know the gods don't like
ecumenicalism! And what form of words will we use, pray?”
“I would have felt that a short non-controversial-” Hughnon Ridcully
paused. In front of him were priests forbidden by holy edict from eating
broccoli, priests who required unmarried girls to cover their ears lest
they inflame the passions of other men, and priests who worshipped a
small shortbread-and-raisin biscuit. Nothing was non-controversial.
“You see, it does appear that the world is going to end.” he said weakly.
     
 
   
“Well? Some of us have been expecting that for some considerable time! It
will be a judgement on mankind for its wickedness!”
“Arid broccoli!”
“And the short haircuts girls are wearing today!”
“Only the biscuits will be saved!”
Ridcully waved his crozier frantically for silence.
“But this isn't the wrath of the gods.” he said. “I did tell you! It's
the work of a man!”
“Ah, but he may be the hand of a god!”
“It's Cohen the Barbarian.” said Ridcully.
“Even so, he might-”
The speaker in the crowd was nudged by the priest next to him.
“Hang on ...”
There was a roar of excited conversation. There were few temples that
hadn't been robbed or despoiled in a long life of adventuring, and the
priests soon agreed that no god ever had anything in his hand that looked
like Cohen the Barbarian. Hughnon turned his eyes up to the ceiling, with
its beautiful but decrepit panorama of gods and