by Tom Holt
‘I just did,’ Jason said. ‘I thought the beef first, then a bit of that pie, then . . .’
‘About the future of the human race.’
‘Oh, that. Well, I know for a fact that some of them aren’t allowed to eat beef, or pork, so they really won’t mind if . . .’
‘About whether the gods should be allowed to destroy laughter.’
Jason remembered. It had been nice when there was just the food to think about, but clearly his destiny, the world’s destiny and the destiny of the beef sandwiches were all somehow interlinked; how, he had no idea, but that was all right, he had never claimed he was Marcus Aurelius. Ah yes, the world. He considered the matter with the small area of his brain not mentally eating beef sandwiches, and after a short while he delivered the following judgment.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘if that place, or world, or whatever you want to call it, that I saw just now was what the world would be like if the gods did away with comedy, then I don’t think a lot of it and personally I wouldn’t like to live there. On the other hand, I wouldn’t like to live in Florida, but a lot of people are very taken with Florida, and who am I to say they’re wrong? I mean, one man’s meat . . .’ Meat. Ham. Beef. Pork. Chicken. Turkey. Veal. Lamb. Sausages. ‘One man’s meat,’ he forced himself - salami! Dear God, was there anything in the whole of creation as wonderful as a salami and mozarella salad, with fresh white bread on the side and - he forced himself to continue, ‘is another man’s poison and all that. I could just fancy a poison meat casserole, as it happens, but never mind. What I’m getting at is . . . Are you still there?’
‘Yes.’
‘What I’m getting at is . . . Will there be any mustard? Eventually, I mean?’
‘Quite possibly.’
‘What I’m trying to say is that I refuse to make a judgment, one way or another. I know what I want and what I’d do, but I’m blowed if I’m going to lay down the law to anybody else. Please stop me before I finally drift over the edge into complete incoherence, but I don’t hold with deciding things for people. My dad does that, and I don’t respect him very much for it. I don’t think it’s right to decide what other people’s lives are going to be like. Personally, when I think of the hash browns, corned beef hash, no, the hash, the cock-up I’ve made of my own life, I can’t really say that I’m in any position to shape other people’s. By the way, exactly why is all this up to me, anyway?’
‘Because.’
‘Ah. I might have guessed. Well, if you want me to decide between you and the gods, then, bearing in mind all the experiences I’ve had over the last few days, what I’ve seen of you and the various insights I’ve had into the way the gods go about things, and also bearing in mind the fact that Jupiter has always bossed me about and apparently you’ve been manipulating me ever since I was born and I always seem to find myself doing what my mother tells me to do, my decision is that I choose whichever side will make it possible for me to eat all this food at the earliest opportunity. Satisfied?’
‘No. Like I said, it’s not a bribe. More a sort of - what’s the word? Torture, that’s it. Until you make up your mind and reach a decision, citing good reasons, you can’t have any. Now get on with it.’
Jason scowled and, with the speed of a cat pouncing on a trailing ball of wool, hurled himself at an Eccles cake, which promptly scuttled away down a rabbit-hole.
‘Are you Prometheus?’ Jason asked.
‘I am,’ Prometheus replied.
Jason looked around; he had no idea where the voice was coming from. ‘Where are you?’ he said. ‘I can’t see you.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘You’re not looking in the right direction.’
Jason scanned through three hundred and sixty degrees. Nothing; well, lots of sandwiches and pies and pasties and cakes - and, he noticed, a Black Forest Gateau and some cheese straws which he’d previously overlooked. He loved cheese straws. Not that he was averse to cocktail olives, crisps, cashew nuts, Ritz crackers with little bits of fishy carnage on them and baby frankfurters, and right now he could eat the stale bread left out for the birds. Yes, lots of food. But no Titans of any description whatsoever.
‘Why me?’ he asked. ‘Because will not be acceptable as an explanation.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s meaningless and patronising and . . .’
‘No,’ Prometheus replied, ‘Why not is the answer to your enquiry. Now, if you don’t mind coming to a decision . . .’
‘No.’
‘The pasties are going cold.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Now look here . . .’
‘No.’ Jason folded his arms, and there was a scream of pain and terror. He looked down and saw Prometheus in his shirt pocket, pinned to the wall of his chest by a gigantic forearm. He quickly removed his arm and apologised. ‘What on earth are you doing in there?’ he added.
‘Damn you, Jason Derry,’ said the diminutive giant. ‘Why must you always be asking questions?’
Calmly, Jason lifted Prometheus out of his pocket and sat him down on the palm of his hand. ‘Because,’ he replied. ‘Now, either you can tell me what’s going on, properly this time, or else you can be put between two slices of bread and eaten. The choice is yours.’
‘Where are you going to get two slices of bread from, then?’
‘I can do without bread,’ Jason replied, ‘at a pinch.’
‘It would be cannibalism.’
‘Very probably.’
‘I taste horrible.’
‘How would you know?’
‘I can’t explain what’s happening,’ Prometheus said furiously, ‘until you’ve made the decision.’
‘I can’t make the decision,’ Jason shouted back, ‘until you’ve explained.’
‘What’s so difficult, for crying out loud?’ Prometheus shrieked. ‘It’s us or them, don’t you understand?’
‘Which is which?’
Prometheus didn’t reply; instead, he tucked his head between his knees and started to hum at the top of his voice. Jason swore and then put him gently down on a slice of anchovy toast, which immediately lifted into the air like a magic carpet and whisked him away into mid-air.
It was then that Jason came to a decision and the decision was that he’d had enough. He stood up, and as he did so he became aware of something round and hard, like a cricket ball, in his trouser pocket. It was uncomfortable, and so without looking at it he pulled it out and hurled it away with all his strength. Doing that was meant to make him feel better. It did. Much better.
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I see.’
‘I thought you would.’
Prometheus was standing beside him.
‘Hello Prometheus,’ he said. ‘You’ve grown a lot since I saw you last.’
And indeed he had. He was now about eight feet tall and still going strong.
‘And what do you see?’ Prometheus said.
‘Hang on,’ Jason said. He made a sideways lunge at a cream horn, which stayed very still and let him catch it without a trace of a struggle. He ate it. Served it right.
‘Now then,’ he said, licking cream off his upper lip. ‘What do I see? I see that the thing I just threw away was the world I was just in, the one where there were no jokes and the gods were in control. I see that I threw it so hard that it’s shortly going to punch a hole through the wall of the space/time continuum and vanish for ever.’
‘Very good,’ Prometheus said. He snapped his fingers and a guided eclair hopped up from the ground and piloted itself neatly into Jason’s mouth. ‘What else?’
‘I see that I subconsciously decided to do that because I don’t hold with the gods. They exist all right, but there’s no point in encouraging them. They’re quite big and strong enough to take care of themselves. As it is, they run the world as a huge game, scoring points for all the horrible things they trick us into doing. But it’s we who do them, of our own free
will (if you’ll pardon the expression); they just persuade us into it, like Dad persuaded me into being a Hero. No, stuff the gods. And the only weapon we have against them is laughter, because once there is laughter then nobody, however serious-minded or humourless he may be, will be able to take a bunch of clowns like Jupiter and Minerva and Mars and Neptune seriously for more than five minutes. Am I right?’
By way of affirmation a sausage roll hopped up onto his shoulder and slid down his chest into his hand. A moment later a salt-cellar appeared, running frantically along and puffing. Late as usual.
‘On the other hand, laughter itself cannot rule the world because it is a force of anarchy - did I just say that? Where do I pick these expressions up from, I wonder? - it’s a force of anarchy and cannot assert itself or exert authority. You can dissuade people from invading the country next door by making jokes, but you can’t make them do it. Thus Gelos can never rule.’
‘Actually,’ said Prometheus, as a doughnut snapped itself into two and one half floated towards Jason’s face, ‘you’ve got the right conclusion but for the wrong reason. Hence only half a doughnut. But do please carry on.’
‘Finally,’ Jason said, ‘I make this decision of my own free will, and I’m the only person in the history of the world who can, because . . . Hang on, that can’t be right.’
‘Don’t think about it,’ Prometheus urged. ‘Look, have some profiteroles.’ Profiteroles like chocolate-sauce-drenched cannonballs obligingly bobbed in the air in front of Jason’s eyes, but he ignored them.
‘No, but seriously,’ Jason said. ‘A couple of pages must have fallen out here or something, because . . .’
‘Stay with it, Jason,’ Prometheus said, ‘and don’t talk with your mouth empty.’ He turned to make impatient gestures at a cheesecake which had overslept and was now dashing towards them, yawning and struggling into its kiwi-fruit as it ran.
‘I make this decision of my own free will,’ Jason repeated slowly, ‘and I’m the only person in the history of the world who can, because . . . Look—’
‘Just say it.’
‘Because it is fated. Now just look here, will you?’
‘There now,’ Prometheus said soothingly, between sighs of relief, ‘that wasn’t so bad, now was it? Have a peach melba.’
Jason shook his head angrily. ‘I don’t want a peach melba,’ he snapped. ‘I want an explanation.’
‘Oh don’t start all that again.’
‘How can I have free will if it was fated all along?’
‘It was fated that you should have free will,’ Prometheus replied. ‘Brandy snap?’
‘Bugger brandy snaps.’
‘Cream slice?’
‘Stop drivelling away about food and tell me what it means. I don’t object to revelations as such, but I do insist on them being intelligible. I mean, how would Saint Paul have felt if Someone had popped up on the road to Damascus, thrown him off his horse and then said “The cauliflower is mightier than the hairdryer”?’
‘Apple doughnut?’
There was a long silence.
‘What did you just say?’
‘Would you like an apple doughnut?’
‘Look . . .’
‘Two apple doughnuts?’
‘With fresh cream?’
Prometheus shuddered slightly. ‘Of course,’ he said.
Nature held its breath while Jason thought about it. After all, it wasn’t as if it was entirely illogical, was it? Everybody else is predestined, but it is foretold that one day a Hero will arise who is able to choose for himself. Apple doughnuts. Oh, sod it, yes, why not?
‘Since you’re offering,’ Jason said, ‘yes.’
‘Yes what?’
‘Yes please?’
‘That’s better.’ Prometheus nodded to a waiting spirit, who hared off to Plato’s ideal world to borrow a couple of apple doughnuts. Luckily he got the last two. He returned.
‘Not bad,’ Jason said, licking his fingers. ‘Is that it, then?’
‘Not quite,’ said Prometheus.
Instinctively, Jason made a grab at the nearest plate, but missed by six inches. The food was playing hard to get again.
‘Don’t try to fight it,’ Prometheus advised him. ‘Think how embarrassing it would be going out to dinner and having the prawn cocktail leap out of the glass and hide under the sideboard until you’ve gone. Everyone else would be wondering which fork to use, and you’d be scooping in yours with a butterfly net.’
‘If this is your idea of helping me stay unbiased and impartial . . .’
Prometheus laughed. ‘Blow that,’ he replied. ‘You’ve made the decision. Now we need you on our side for the actual fighting.’
‘Ah,’ Jason said. ‘Fighting.’
‘Didn’t I mention the fighting?’
‘Not in so many words, no.’
‘Well,’ Prometheus said, ‘when the gods find out that the world they had such high hopes for has been kicked into touch and is now entirely beyond their reach, there’s a material risk that they might feel rather upset. Particularly,’ Prometheus added, ‘as they have now sworn to destroy this world so that they can move everything and everybody onto the other one. And you know how it is with gods; once they’ve sworn to do something, then it’s just got to be done . . .’
‘Balls,’ Jason replied.
Prometheus shook his head, startling a flock of lemon meringue pies that had pitched in a nearby tree. ‘You’re thinking of promises to mortals,’ he said. ‘That’s different. 11 I’m talking about a promise Jupiter has made to himself. He can’t break that.’
‘Can’t he?’
‘No. So you see there may actually be quite a bit of fighting in the not too distant future.’ Prometheus paused for a moment. ‘That’ll be nice, won’t it?’
‘Will it?’
‘I’d have thought you’d have been pleased,’ the Titan replied. ‘You’re a Hero. Heroes like fighting. It’s what they’re good at.’
‘That doesn’t always follow,’ Jason replied. ‘My mum’s cousin Henry is a dentist, and people are always saying how good he is at it, and he doesn’t enjoy it at all. Sometimes I think it’s that way with me and Heroism.’
‘Nonsense,’ Prometheus said firmly. ‘You’ll enjoy it once it’s started, I’m sure. And besides, you aren’t supposed to know the meaning of fear.’
‘Actually,’ Jason confessed, ‘I looked it up in the dictionary. Came as quite a surprise, actually. I always thought it was some sort of large bird.’
‘All right, all right,’ Prometheus said impatiently, ‘I should have said you know no fear. Now can we . . .?’
‘Maybe not fear,’ Jason interrupted, ‘but acute apprehension and blind panic I can manage quite easily. It’s just practice, after all, and these last few days . . .’
Just then, Jason felt something cold and wet against the back of his hand. Something cold, wet and tripartite. He looked down.
‘Hello, Cerberus, where the hell have you been?’ he started to ask, and then he noticed that Prometheus was staring at the dog with a look of combined loathing and horror. Normally Jason wouldn’t have thought anything of it, since he knew a lot of people who reacted to dogs in precisely that way; but Prometheus hadn’t seemed the type. He looked again. In one of its three mouths, the dog was holding a small blue, green and brown sphere that seemed extremely familiar.
‘Oh hell,’ Jason said. ‘He hasn’t, has he?’
Prometheus nodded. ‘Looks like it to me,’ he replied in a hoarse whisper. ‘You threw the Betamax world away; Fido here has fetched it back for you. Oh hell!’
The dog, sensing that man’s best friend had cocked it up again, laid his ears back and wandered over to the shade of a boulder, where he proceeded to lodge the Betamax world between his front paws and chew it. Jason and Prometheus looked at each other.
‘We’d better get it back from him quick,’ Prometheus said.
‘By we . . .’
‘Don’t st
and there arguing the toss. Get the bloody thing.’
Jason shrugged and reached for the surface-to-air scotch egg. It shied away. Jason started to protest, and Prometheus apologised. ‘What are you up to, though?’ he added.
‘Canine psychology,’ Jason replied. ‘I’ll also need a Bakewell tart and some sausages.’
These were provided and Jason wandered over to the boulder, sat down and started to eat. A moment later, the dog was sitting beside him giving him that wistful, pathetic look that all dogs seem to have in common. Then it opened its mouth to make the quintessential doggy hopeful panting noise, and of course the Betamax world rolled out of its jaws and trundled along the ground. Prometheus swooped down, picked it up and shoved it inside the front of his robe. Jason popped a foodstuff into each of the three sets of jaws, collected the Betamax world and let fly.
For the record, the Betamax world didn’t leave the space/time continuum at all. The friction it encountered on leaving the Earth’s atmosphere set it alight and it soon degenerated into a comet; given its unique genesis, however, it did not behave exactly as other comets do; that is to say, it combined the regularity of trajectory which is a characteristic of comets with the innate cussedness of all divine or semi-divine artefacts. For the rest of time, therefore, it circled through the galaxy, turning up with remorseless regularity exactly when it was least expected.
In any event, it ceased to be a Betamax world, and that was just as well. Because no sooner had it left Jason’s hand than the sky darkened and the sun made a dash for the safety of a dense cloudbank, pausing only to glint significantly on the speartips of the vanguard of a huge divine army making its way rapidly towards the surface of the planet.
Religious revivals have been endemic on the Number One World ever since the gods retired and went to live in the sun. Nobody is exactly sure why. One view is that mankind has a desperate need to believe in something, preferably something so blatantly absurd that only blind, unquestioning faith will suffice - for example, the belief which sprang up in the late nineteenth century and was still widely current in Jason Derry’s time and which held that human beings were not in fact created at all but were somehow the descendants of bald, mutant monkeys. The other view is that there is never anything much on television during the summer.
