Believe: Small Gods

Small Gods by Terry Pratchett

Corgi

Pp. 381

Many people list Small Gods as the best of the Discworld novels. It is, however, probably my least favourite of the thirteen I have read so far. This is mainly due to the fact that the satire seems more obvious than in Pratchett’s other works, but also because organised religion, squabbling philosophers and the nature of belief are such easy targets for mockery.

The story opens in the city of Omnia, whose chief god, Om, has been reduced to a pitiful existence in the form of a turtle because no one really believes in him anymore. Gods need belief to live and thrive, and they fear becoming small gods, barely existing out in the desert wastelands with no believers at all. Om’s religion exists to perpetuate itself, with its rituals and vicious punishments and wars presided over by the psychotic Deacon Vorbis, like a sort of Inquisitor. 

One simple lad, Brutha, does believe in Om, and hears him telepathically when tending to his melon patch. Brutha’s belief is just enough to sustain Om, although the god has a lot of explaining to do. Brutha tells Om that according to The Book of Ossory as dictated to Ossory by Om, Om is omnipotent, but Om counters that not only did he not dictate these words, but “Don’t even remember anyone called Ossory.” He denies he chose anyone to tell his story. “They chose themselves”.

Furthermore, Om admits that he may have not strictly told the truth when he said there was no other god than him. “I exaggerated a bit. But they’re not that good. There’s one of ’em that sits around playing a flute most of the time and chasing milkmaids. I don’t call that very divine. Call that very divine? I don’t.”

The novel was written in 1992, but its discourse on certainty in religion and politics feels particularly pertinent in our post-truth world thirty years on. “Fear is strange soil. Mainly it grows obedience like corn, which grows in rows and makes weeding easy. But sometimes it grows the potatoes of defiance, which flourish underground.” Philosophers gather in town squares and brawl in bars over esoteric topics. Discussion can quickly escalate to argument followed by war, which is often binary and almost always arbitrary. While uncertainty can be troubling, it can also bring comfort with the knowledge that there are no absolutes. One character opines, “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.” Another counters, “Last night there seemed to be a chance. Anything was possible last night. That was the trouble with last nights. They were always followed by this mornings.”

Mere mortals struggle to make sense of life – hence the plethora of philosophers – but the gods are literally above it all. As the novel draws to a close, it returns to its beginnings, as Om surveys the world from his vantage point above the Hub. In a reference to the famous fable, he considers, “It seemed simpler when you were up here. It was all a game. You forgot that it wasn’t a game down there. People died. Bits got chopped off. We’re like eagles up here, he thought. Sometimes we show a tortoise how to fly. Then we let go.” Pratchett suggests that if there were gods, they have a vicious sense of humour and a total lack of decency.

It Comes to Us All: Reaper Man

Reaper Man by Terry Pratchett

Corgi Books

Pp. 287

Reaper Man is the eleventh Discworld novel and fleshes out the character of Death, as it were. In this adventure, Death’s time is running out; things aren’t dying the way they should be, which interrupts the fabric of existence; and everything is “filling up the world with life force.” Windle Poons is the oldest wizard in the world, and he is supposed to die, but Death doesn’t show up to collect him, so he doesn’t. Instead, he becomes a member of the Fresh Start Club, a dead rights activism group led by Reg Shoe and comprising other undead folk, such as a vampire and his wife who is desperately trying to conform to stereotype; including wearing certain clothes and speaking with a strong Eastern European accent. We also encounter Ludmilla, a werewolf who changes from woman to dog at full moon, a male dog, Lupine, who changes to human form at the same time, and a bogeyman called Schleppel who likes to lurk behind doors, so much so that he carries his own with him.

Meanwhile, oblivious to all the chaos, Death assumes the mantle of Bill Door and finds work at Miss Flitworth’s farm as an actual reaper man, helping with the harvest, leading to an extended gag about a scythe vs a Combination Harvester. As his time runs out both literally and metaphorically through a sort of egg-timer/ hour glass, he attempts to fit in with the villagers, drinking beer and playing darts. “It was amazing how many friends you could make by being bad at things, provided you were bad enough to be funny.” He is not used to living, which he finds odd, but also confronting. “Was that what it was really like to be alive? The feeling of darkness dragging you forward? How could they live with it? And yet they did, and even seemed to find enjoyment in it, when surely the only sensible course would be to despair.”

Delightful cameo appearances and side swipes at conventional wisdom, recall a fantasy Dickens. Mrs Cake is a clairvoyant who is able to answer questions before people have asked them – they still have to ask them anyway. The faculty wizards at the Unseen University get all sorts of things muddles, which makes for moments of humour, for example, when the Archdeacon (Ridcully) suggests that an RSVP is requested to an invitation, the Bursar exclaims, “Oh, good, I like sherry.” Ridcully himself is “simple-minded. This doesn’t mean stupid. It just meant that he could only think properly about things if he cut away all the complicated bits around the edges.”

The plot is suitably fanciful as evil snow globes hatch into shopping trolleys that converge on places, operating like worker ants or bees around a queen. This might or might not be the case; it is difficult to know for sure. As with all of Terry Pratchett’s work, there is a comically reverent tone to the rituals of human life. He refers to belief as an entity that “sloshes around in the firmament like lumps of clay spiralling into a potter’s wheel” seeking to attach itself to things, such as gods and icons.

Despite all this absurdity and hilarity, there is a touching homily on the nature and meaning of life. “No one is finally dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away – until the clock he wound up winds down, until the wine she has made has finished its ferment, until the crop they planted is harvested. The span of someone’s life, they say, is only the core of their actual existence.” Terry Pratchett is comfort reading for a variety of reasons: his turn of phrase; his ridiculous characters; his twinkling humour and his gentle satire, but above all it is his strong moral compass that truly points the way and keeps his readers coming back.