An excerpt from Small Gods -Terry Pratchett

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 But you … you’re omnicognisant,’ said Brutha.


‘That doesn’t mean I know everything.’


Brutha bit his lip. ‘Um. Yes. It does.’


‘You sure?’


‘Yes.’


‘Thought that was omnipotent.’


‘No. That means you’re all-powerful. And you are. That’s what it says in the Book of Ossory. He was one of the Great Prophets, you know. I hope,’ Brutha added.


‘Who told him I was omnipotent?’


‘You did.’


‘No I didn’t.’


‘Well, he said you did.’


‘Don’t even remember anyone called Ossory,’ the tortoise muttered.


‘You spoke to him in the desert,’ said Brutha. ‘You must remember. He was eight feet tall? With a very long beard? And a huge staff? And the glow of the holy horns shining out of his head?’ He hesitated. But he’d seen the statues and the holy icons. They couldn’t be wrong.


‘Never met anyone like that,’ said the small god Om.


‘Maybe he was a bit shorter,’ Brutha conceded.


‘Ossory. Ossory,’ said the tortoise. ‘No … no … can’t say I—’


‘He said that you spoke unto him from out of a pillar of flame,’ said Brutha.


‘Oh, that Ossory,’ said the tortoise. ‘Pillar of flame. Yes.’


‘And you dictated to him the Book of Ossory,’ said Brutha. ‘Which contains the Directions, the Gateways, the Abjurations and the Precepts. One hundred and ninety-three chapters.’


‘I don’t think I did all that,’ said Om doubtfully. ‘I’m sure I would have remembered one hundred and ninety-three chapters.’


‘What did you say to him, then?’


‘As far as I can remember it was “Hey, see what I can do!”’ said the tortoise.


Brutha stared at it. It looked embarrassed, insofar as that’s possible for a tortoise.


‘Even gods like to relax,’ it said.


‘Hundreds of thousands of people live their lives by the Abjurations and the Precepts!’ Brutha snarled.


‘Well? I’m not stopping them,’ said Om.


‘If you didn’t dictate them, who did?’


‘Don’t ask me. I’m not omnicognisant!’


Brutha was shaking with anger.


‘And the Prophet Abbys? I suppose someone just happened to give him the Codicils, did they?’


‘It wasn’t me—’


‘They’re written on slabs of lead ten feet tall!’


‘Oh, well, it must have been me, yes? I always have a ton of lead slabs around in case I meet someone in the desert, yes?’


‘What! If you didn’t give them to him, who did?’


‘I don’t know. Why should I know? I can’t be everywhere at once!’


‘You’re omnipresent!’


‘What says so?’


‘The Prophet Hashimi!’


‘Never met the man!’


‘Oh? Oh? So I suppose you didn’t give him the Book of Creation, then?’


‘What Book of Creation?’


‘You mean you don’t know?’


‘No!’


‘Then who gave it to him?’


‘I don’t know! Perhaps he wrote it himself!’


Brutha put his hand over his mouth in horror.


‘Thaff blafhngf!’


‘What?’


Brutha removed his hand.


‘I said, that’s blasphemy!’


‘Blasphemy? How can I blaspheme? I’m a god!’


‘I don’t believe you!’


‘But – but,’ said Brutha, ‘you’re saying the prophets were … just men who wrote things down!’


‘That’s what they were!’


‘But if you’ve been down here as a tortoise, who’s been listening to the prayers? Who has been accepting the sacrifices? Who has been judging the dead?’


‘I don’t know,’ said the tortoise. ‘Who did it before?’


‘You did!’


‘Did I?’


Brutha stuck his fingers in his ears and opened up with the third verse of Lo, the infidels flee the wrath of Om.

After a couple of minutes the tortoise stuck its head out from under its shell.

‘So,’ it said, ‘before unbelievers get burned alive … do you sing to them first?’

‘No!’

‘Ah. A merciful death...

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