Petty Pewter Gods

12

I headed for my house. The girl was long gone.

Used to be whenever I was out I had to knock so Dean would let me in. Before he left town he looted my savings to have a key lock installed so I could let myself in. Being a bright boy, I had my key with me. I used it.

The door opened an inch and stopped. Dean had the chain on.

I closed the door gently, took a moment to collect myself, knocked briskly. The Goddamn Parrot started up inside. O Wonder of Horrors, the little vulture had made it home on his own. I tried to avoid worrying about what kind of omen that might be.

I stepped back while I waited, studied the face of my house. It was a very dark brown, built of rough brick. I saw several places where the mortar needed tuck-pointing. The upstairs window trim needed fresh paint. Might be a job for Saucerhead some time when he wasn't tied up cracking skulls.

"Damn it, Dean! Come on! If you've had a heart attack and I've got to bust the door down I'm gonna break your legs."

There was a horrendous squawl behind me. I whirled. A huge, ugly ogre had gotten too near a donkey cart. A wheel had crushed his toes. He was bounding around on one foot offering to whip all comers.

"Ah, shuddup!" an old granny lady advised. She hooked the heel of his good foot with the crook of her umbrella. He went down hard. Ogres are solid-bottomed fellows, as a rule. This one was no exception. His breath deserted him in a mighty whoof. The cobblestones buckled. I might have a traffic hazard out front for months now. Maybe years. Who knew when a city crew would come and actually do something?

The crowd howled and mocked the ogre. Ogres are not popular because they are just not nice people, generally, but this was an especially tough crowd. They would have laughed had he been a sweet little old nun. Times had the mob in a vicious humor.

I spied my new friend Adeth. She wore a darker, longer wig and had changed apparel, but I was sure it was her. She moved like a cat now, without wasted motion, absolutely graceful. Maybe while Dean made up his mind to answer the door I could stroll over there and invite her to dinner.

I hammered the door some more. Then I got my key out again. I would unlock the damned thing again, then kick the chain loose. I was in one bad mood.

My head still throbbed like a couple of pixies were in there waltzing in combat boots.

Dean opened up as I reached with the key. "We have to talk," I told him. "Let's rehash the argument over that damned lock that cost me more than most guys make working twelve hours a day for two months."

"What happened?"

"I couldn't get into my own house, that's what happened! Some damned fool put the chain on!" The Goddamn Parrot was in fine voice. "When did that damned thing come home? How did it get inside?"

"Hours ago, Mr. Garrett. I thought you sent it." He nodded his head toward the Dead Man's room, scowled. "He told me to let it in." Dean shuddered.

On cue, I heard from Old Bones. Garrett. Come here. I want to review events of the past few months.

Him and his hobbies. "What you're going to hear about is events of the past few hours."

Dean shivered again. The Dead Man gives him the creeps. He has as little to do with His Nibs as he can.

"That dressed-up buzzard over there should of let you know I was having some trouble."

"I'll make some tea," Dean said, by way of offering a white flag.

"Sounds good. Thanks." When he gets those big hurt eyes it is hard to stay mad at him. "But you, you traitor, you deserter," I snapped through the doorway of the small front room, "you're going to star in an experiment to see if parrots make good hasenpfeffer." The shape my head was in, I was real short on tolerance.

I went into the Dead Man's room.

Pickled parrot?

"He must be good for something."

Do I detect a measure of crabbiness?

"Things are closing in on me. I was getting used to not having to deal with Dean's nagging. I was getting used to not having to deal with your outrageous demands. Then you woke up. He came home. I went out for a walk and a bunch of ugly wazoos bopped me on the head."

The picture the bird brought in had you lunging through a coach without the forethought to open the nether exit.

He has moments when he looks beyond the end of his nose. And an ugly nose it is, too.

The Dead Man has a human look to him. You glance into his room—the biggest in the house and poorly lighted at his insistence even though he cannot see—and your gaze is drawn to a wooden chair at the room's center. Maybe you could call it the Dead Man's throne. It is massive—but it has to be to support four hundred and some pounds. He has not moved in all the years I have known him. He has grown seedier. Though he can protect himself if he concentrates, mice and bugs do nibble when his attention wanders.

His outstanding feature, other than size, is his schnoz. It's like an elephant's trunk a little over a foot long.

Bad day?

"It was a bad day when I got woke up at a totally ridiculous hour, thank you very much. It has gone downhill ever since. Why don't you just dig into my head?"

I would prefer that you told it. I get more subtext examining the subjective side.

This from a guy who insisted I had to maintain my emotional distance when I reported to him. We might as well be married. You can't win with him.

This is not good.

"Hey, I hardly got started."

I read you. These are not friendly gods. These are old-style gods, all wrath and thou shalt not.

"You know them?"

Dean brought in a tray with teapot, honey, cup, spoon. What? Usually he just handed me a mug ready to go. Was he kissing up?

Only by reputation. They have been marginal pantheons since the beginning, deities of ancient nomadic immigrants. Both religions were too cold and hard to win many converts. They are much alike.

"Oh, your head!" Dean said. He was looking straight down at the top of my conk. "No wonder you're in a black mood. Don't move. I'll clean that up." He bustled out.

Apparently your skull is as thick as I have claimed.

"Huh?"

Your head wound is worse than you realized.

"What did I say? The good news just piles up." I reflected on what he had sent. "I got a question."

Yes? I felt a mental smirk.

"Back when we dealt with that crazy Loghyr you told me Loghyr never found proof of the existence of any gods and claimed logic suggests they can't exist. I believe you said ‘They are not necessary to explain anything. Nature does not provide that which is not needed.' "

That is correct. There is no concrete proof that any of the deities worshipped in this city exist as independent entities, outside the imaginations of those with the will to believe.

"Who tried to toss me through that coach door, then? You telling me they were scamming?"

That is a possibility deserving of examination. But to your question. For the sake of argument, your interlocuters were indeed Daiged, Rhogiro, and Ringo. Magodor gave you your answer in her remarks.

Oh boy. Here came my favorite part of our relationship, the part where he tries to expand my horizons by forcing me to expand my intellect.

Dean came back with our first aid stuff. I keep a good home medicine cabinet. For a while I had a girlfriend who was a doctor. She fixed me up because I seem to get dinged up every time I turn around.

"I'm a little woozy here, Chuckles. How's about you just hand it to me this time?"

All the span is gone out of you, Garrett. The very nature of their situation should shriek the answer. If they fall off the Street of the Gods, if they are forced to leave the Dream Quarter, if they lose their last True Believer, they cease to exist.

"Ouch!" Dean was dabbing at my head with a hot, wet rag. "You mean I wouldn't have this dent in my head if somebody didn't believe in the ugly boys?"

Essentially.

Dean asked, "Who sewed this up for you, Mr. Garrett?"

"Sewed what?" And to His Nibs, "But they exist on their own. Nobody dreamed what was happening to me."

Dean told me, "You have three... six... nine stitches here. You must have bled pretty bad."

"No wonder I'm so weak. I thought it was a concussion."

"Might be that, too."

They need only be imagined and believed in fervently enough, on the right level. They assume an existence of their own, within the attributes assigned them.

"Careful!" I snapped at Dean. "That's tender. They must have given me something to make it not hurt. Ouch! Damnit!... "

"Don't be such a pansy."

"You aren't digging for gold. Old Bones, your theory is absurd."

Gods are absurd, Garrett. And it is a hypothesis, not a theory. A theory is supported by experimental proof.

"I'm just looking to see if there's any infection," Dean grumbled, doing his hurt thing.

I ignored him, told the Dead Man, "There you go splitting hairs."

"Theory" is a much-abused word, particularly by those in the divinity trades. Be careful, Dean. If those stitches break, his brain may leak out. Have you formed any plans, Garrett? To deal with your situation?

My situation. "I take it I need to worry in a big way." When the Dead Man sets aside his own self-centered interests, I know he is troubled deeply. It was obvious that he had no problem believing that I could have fallen afoul of real gods and not just sleight-of-hand con folk somehow setting me up.

I answered his question. "I don't have a clue. That's why I came home. Are you going to pay your rent?" Though he insists he is a full partner, the most work he does is aimed at getting out of doing anything constructive.

"Right now I don't see any choice but to play along."

Indeed. Wriggling out of this will require intense self-discipline and long hours of work by all concerned.

"Don't whine. I hate it when you whine. You were way overdue to kick in around here anyway. You could've saved me a ton of grief with Maggie Jenn if you would've just woke up." He had unraveled the mystery at the heart of my most recent case before I had finished telling the first half of the tale. It was a case he had slept through stubbornly.