Downfall of the Gods (4 page)

“Yes.”

“Ah. Are we going to charm the Queen of the Dead into letting Lysippus go?”

“You can try.”

“I don’t do charm.”

Not strictly true, though I suspect he didn’t realise that was what he was doing. “You’ll think of something, I’m sure,” I said. “A resourceful man like you.”

He sighed. “All right,” he said. “If the Kingdom of the Dead is an actual place, where is it?”

“Beyond the Portals of the Sunset,” I said, “on the far edge of the Great White Desert, at the place where the River of Lost Souls passes under the Bridge of Forgetfulness.” He gave me a blank look. “I’ll draw you a map.”

“Which country is it in? Can we ride there, or do we need a ship? Are we at war with the people whose land we have to cross? Can I drink the water? Do I have to get a visa?”

I told him where we were going. Forgive me if I leave out the specifics; classified. “At this time of year? I’ll freeze.”

“Actually, the White Desert is the hottest place on Earth.”

He’d gone pale. “This is going to be a logistical nightmare,” he said. “We’ll need wagons, mules, drivers, porters, a large armed escort—”

I shook my head. “You can’t take anyone else with you,” I said. “Not other mortals, anyway.”

“Why the hell not?”

“They’re not the ones who need to redeem themselves. Only you.”

“For pity’s sake, woman.” He realised what he’d said and glanced at me. I shrugged. “For pity’s sake,” he repeated. “In order to cross mountains, forests and deserts I’m going to need food and water, far more than I can carry. And a tent, and climbing gear, and an axe for firewood, and money, and weapons. Or are you going to magic all that out of thin air whenever I need it?”

“In your dreams,” I said. “This is a penance, not a holiday.”

“Why do I get the feeling you haven’t thought this through? I’ll need changes of clothing, spare boots, rope, accurate and detailed maps, a portable stove and cooking gear. Don’t just shake your head like that, I’m human. I need things.”

“No,” I said. “You just think you do. All you actually need is for me to forgive you your terrible sin, because if I don’t you’re going to die. Everything else is just would-be-nice.”

S
OME PEOPLE JUST
won’t listen. The rest of the day was incredibly dull. We had to go to see his bankers, so he could draw out money. Then we had a dreary trudge round the city while he tried on about ninety pairs of boots, ditto travelling cloaks, hats, thornproof leggings, ultra-lightweight oilskin trousers, whatever. The only points of interest for me were the gadgets he insisted on looking at; folding knives with six different blades and a spoon, collapsible tents that doubled as stoves and dog-sleighs, hats with button-down compartments for fish-hooks, flints and tinder. The ingenuity of it all; the idea that mortals can to some degree compensate for their lack of strength and endurance by the judicious use of
things
. Buy this hat or that four-in-one shovel/waterflask/boar-spear/walking-stick and you can hike your way up the pyramid of hierarchies until you’re practically a god. Poor darlings. If only it were possible.

He kept it to the bare minimum (so he said) but by nightfall he was struggling along under a hundred and twenty pounds dead weight, and with every step he took he clanked like a dozen buckets. “Satisfied?” I asked him.

“No.”

“You should be. You’ve redistributed a considerable amount of wealth and provided for the families of hardworking artisans. And when you get sick of lugging all that junk around and dump it by the roadside, I expect the poor villagers who find it will be able to sell it for good money.”

He stopped, and leaned against a wall. “Clarify something for me, please.”

“Sure.”

“If I die while trying to carry out this idiotic quest, will I escape eternal damnation?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know. For crying out loud—”

“I hadn’t considered the point,” I said. “I mean, it’s hard to me to understand. I was sort of assuming that of course you’d make it there, because for me it’s a twominute stroll. But you mortals are so frail, you drop dead from the silliest things.”

He was breathing hard through his nose. “Consider it now.”

“Don’t rush me,” I said. “There are arguments on both sides. How dare you try and bounce me into making up my mind?”

He groaned, and shifted the weight of his Feather-Lite combination rucksack/tent/parasol/coracle. “When you decide,” he said, “please tell me. I’d like to know if I’ve got the option of just giving up and dying.”

“Sissy,” I said.

T
HERE ARE SEVERAL
different ways for members of my family to take on human form. We can weave a cloud of illusion—mortals look at us and see what we want them to—or we can create and inhabit an actual physical body. I tend to favour the latter. I’ve always loved dressing up, ever since I was a little girl, and besides, if you want to understand a man, I always say, you need to walk a mile on his feet. I take pains to equip myself with bodies that are fit, strong and healthy as well as radiantly beautiful. The body I’d selected for this job was about as close to functional perfection as human flesh and blood can get. Height-to-weight ratio, metabolic rate and lung capacity were optimal, the muscles and tendons perfectly tuned and supple, and I’d fuelled it with the full recommended daily intake of vitamins, proteins and carbohydrates. But next day, after nine hours or so of walking—

“Keep up, can’t you?”

“I’ve got a stone in my shoe,” I lied.

“You’re dawdling.”

“I’ve got shorter legs than you.”

“So make them longer.”

I’d toyed with the idea, but I was pretty sure he’d notice. So, when he was looking the other way, I dispensed with the flesh and blood, resumed my usual form and clothed it in an illusion of what I’d been looking like all day. Much better. I could float along beside him comfortably without getting splints in my shins. “You’ve changed,” he said suspiciously. “There’s something different about you.”

“I’ve done my hair. How much further is it?” “Not long now.”

“Let me see the map.”

Boring. A waste of time. They have so little time, yet

they don’t seem concerned about frittering it away on repetitive activities such as walking. If I had to move at their pace I’d die of frustration.

“You’ve got the map upside down,” he said. “Makes no difference. I can read non-relativistically.” He pulled a sad face. “I don’t need a fixed viewpoint,” I explained.

“But you do need a map.”

“I’m trying to enter into the spirit of things.”

“Admit it,” he said. “You’re tired.”

Well, it was very perceptive of him. “Yes,” I said. “My mortal body can’t keep up with me.”

“Fine.” He took off his cloak and spread it on the grass. “Have a rest.”

“No, thank you.”

“Have a rest,” he repeated. “Look, we’ll cover far more ground if we rest for half an hour and then proceed for three hours at three miles an hour than if we drag on at two and a bit for three and a half hours. Simple mathematics.”

I sat down. It felt wonderful. “You’re not tired,” I said.

“No. I’m used to walking.”

I thought for a moment. “You could’ve insisted we carry on, thereby causing me pain and humiliation. But you didn’t. Why?”

He shrugged. “It wouldn’t have been a nice thing to do.”

“But politically, in the power-struggle between us, you’d have scored points. You’d have allowed me to make a fool of myself, thereby securing a slight edge.”

He gave me a curious look. “I don’t think in those terms. Do you?”

“Always.”

He gathered some dry sticks, lit a fire, boiled some water and made jasmine tea. My feet were killing me— my real ones. As I said, I’d got rid of the flesh-and-blood ones earlier; but the ache somehow lingered, just as humans claim they feel pain in long-since-amputated limbs. I pulled off the illusion of boots and wriggled my toes till the feeling started to come back.

He was looking at me. “What?” I said.

“Nothing.”

He was lying. “What?” I repeated.

“When you’re ready,” he said, “we’d better get going. We’ve still got a long way to go.”

I shrugged, and suffused my entire being with strength and vigour. “Fine,” I said. “I was just giving you a chance to rest.”

Up in the sky, my uncle Actis was about four-fifths through the daily grind. I hoped he hadn’t seen me, but when I looked closely, he winked and waved. Clown.

“You shouldn’t do that.”

“What?”

“Stare straight into the sun. You’ll hurt your eyes.”

“Sweet of you to be concerned,” I said.

The collar of the illusion of a coat was chafing the back of my neck—yes, all my imagination, but a chafing sensation is none the less uncomfortable when it’s all in your head—so I peeled it off. He screamed, and dropped to his knees.

“Oh,” I said. “Sorry.” I created the illusion of a longsleeved blouse.

“You stupid bloody woman,” he was shrieking. “I’m blind. I can’t see.”

“Careless of me,” I said, restoring his sight. “It’s all right. No harm done.”

He opened his eyes, rubbed them and groaned. “You just don’t get it, do you? You’re like a giant in a playground. You never look where you’re putting your feet.”

“I said I’m sorry.”

He was massaging his forehead. “Headache?”

“Yes. No, don’t do
anything
,” he snapped, “just leave me alone, all right?”

“Now you’re being childish.”

“This is hopeless,” he said. He struggled to his feet, then sat down on the ground. “No offence,” he said, “but how would it be if we split up and I met you at wherever this place is we’re going?”

“Don’t be stupid. You’ll never get there on your own.” “I can try.”

“You’ll die,” I told him. “And if you die before you’ve fulfilled your penance, you’ll suffer eternal torment. Probably,” I added. “At any rate, it’s not worth the risk.”

He sighed. “I don’t think I can stand any more of this.”

“What?”

“Being with you.”

S
TICKS AND STONES
can’t break my bones, but words sure can hurt me.

Words, in fact, are the only things that can hurt us, in our family. It hit me like—well, like the ground, I suppose; except that when one of us gets hurled from the ramparts of heaven, it’s the ground that takes the heavy damage. I was so shocked I couldn’t bear to stay there any more. With a thought, I soared back through the clouds, to where I always go when I’m upset; which is silly, because that’s where nearly everything that upsets me happens.

“Hello,” I called out. “I’m home.”

Mother was in the Lesser Great Hall. I perceive it as a bleak, freezing cold hexagonal chamber at the far end of the house, with the back wall forming a huge picture window looking out on the Eastern Sea. She looked at me. “What are you doing here?” she said. “Aren’t you supposed to be doing something?”

She was weaving. It’s supposed to be the destinies of men, but I think it’s just something she does to pass the time. Could be both, of course. “I needed a break.”

“Really.”

“That mortal just insulted me.”

“Poor baby.”

“He said he couldn’t stand being with me.” She clicked her tongue. “Well,” she said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

A silence can be more eloquent than a million words.

“What?” I demanded.

“That’s mortals for you,” she said. “No tact.” Coming from her, it was one of the most outrageous

statements ever made. “Tact,” I repeated. “You agree with him, don’t you?”

“Of course not. Don’t be silly.”

“You do. You think I’m unpleasant to be with.”

“Sweetheart.” She wasn’t looking at me. “You’re my daughter and I love you. I want you to know that.”

Terrible things happen when we get angry. Not to us, naturally. “But?”

She took just a little bit too long over choosing her words. “I’ve had plenty of time to get used to you,” she said.

T
IME
. T
HE
T word, in our house.

A mortal stands on the same hilltop every night and looks at the sky. To him, it appears that the stars are moving. All wrong, of course. The stars don’t move; it’s the Earth. (Sorry, didn’t you know that? Oops. Forget I spoke)

It’s the same with us and Time. We don’t change. Things move past us, but we’re fixed. I think I may have been young once, for twenty years, the blink of an eye; it was over so quick I didn’t notice and certainly can’t remember. I shall never be older than I am now, except in a dressing-up body. Of course I can look like anybody or anything I want, to anyone else; I can’t see myself, for obvious reasons, except in a mirror or a glass darkly, and I never bother. Everybody and everything else blossoms and flourishes like leaves on a tree, and withers and perishes, but naught changeth me; so what would be the point?

Pol once said something interesting. If you don’t travel, you don’t arrive.

So, yes; my mother and my father, my brothers, sisters, uncles and aunts have all had plenty of time to get used to me. And even now, they can’t stand me for more than five minutes. Am I really that bad?

“N
O
,”
MY MOTHER
said.

There were tears in my eyes. “You’re just saying that.”

“You’re really not that bad,” she said, “compared to the rest of us. No worse.”

“No better?”

She snapped her fingers and the Loom of Destiny vanished. “This is all because you’ve been spending time with mortals,” she said. “It doesn’t do anyone any good. Look at Pol. All those dreadful mortal females. It makes him sulky and sarcastic.”

“No better than any of the others?”

She shrugged. “What’s so special about being better?” she said. “It’s not like they give prizes for it.”

I looked at her for quite some time. Then I said; “Thank you. That’s all I needed to know.”

“Is it? Did I say something clever?”

I nodded. “Purely by accident. I think I’ll go now.”

I could feel her relax. “It’s not that I don’t like having you home,” she said. “It’s just—”

“Yes.”

She smiled at me. “I’m glad we understand each other.”