“I don't know.”
“What god did they worship?”
“I don't know.”
“The statues are made of granite, but there's no granite near here.”
“They were very devout, then. They dragged it all the way.”
“And the altar block is covered in grooves.”
“Ah. Extremely devout. That would be to let the blood run off.”
“You really think they did human sacrifice?”
“I don't know! I want to get out of here!”
"Why? There's water and it's cool-
“Because . . . a god lived here. A powerful god. Thousands worshiped it. I can feel it. You know? It comes out of the walls. A Great God. Mighty were his dominions and magnificent was his word. Armies went forth in his name and conquered and slew. That kind of thing. And now no one, not you, not me, no one, even knows who the god was or his name or what he looked like. Lions drink in the holy places and those little squidgy things with eight legs, there's one by your foot, what d'you call 'em, the ones with the antennae, crawl beneath the altar. Now do you understand?”
“No,” said Brutha.
“Don't you fear death? You're a human!”
Brutha considered this. A few feet away. Vorbis stared mutely at the patch of sky.
“He's awake. He's just not speaking.”
“Who cares? I didn't ask you about him.”
“Well . . . sometimes . . . when I'm on catacomb duty . . . it's the kind of place where you can't help . . . I mean, all the skulls and things . . . and the Book says . . .”
“There you are,” said Om, a note of bitter triumph in his voice. “You don't know. That's what stops everyone going mad, the uncertainty of it, the feeling that it might work out all right after all. But it's different for gods. We do know. You know that story about the sparrow flying through a room?”
“No.”
“Everyone knows it.”
“Not me.”
“About life being like a sparrow flying through a room? Nothing but darkness outside? And it flies through the room and there's just a moment of warmth and light?”
“There are windows open?” said Brutha.
“Can't you imagine what it's like to be that sparrow, and know about the darkness? To know that afterward there'll be nothing to remember, ever, except that one moment of the light?”
No.
“No. Of course you can't. But that's what it's like, being a god. And this place . . . it's a morgue.”
Brutha looked around at the ancient, shadowy temple.
“Well . . . do you know what it's like, being human?”
Om's head darted into his shell for a moment, the nearest he was capable of to a shrug.
“Compared to a god? Easy. Get born. Obey a few rules. Do what you're told. Die. Forget.”