"So start a new religion, a good one! You mentioned a Church of the Undivided. The Service is behind it?"
"It is the Service. The trouble is that the old gods have cornered the market. Say you find yourself a node—there's still good ones around—and you set up a new god, then you get asked what is he the god of? Anything worthwhile will have its own divinity already, and he or she will be an avatar of one of the Five. The Pentatheon have all bets covered. Even the Undivided tends to get identified with Visek, the Parent, so the mana benefits them ... him? Her? Visek's sort of androgynous.... Visek hasn't taken sides yet. I think the Service does him more good than harm. More good than they want to, certainly."
It was definitely not the right time of day for riddles, but Smedley had started this. And he did want to know more about Olympus and the Service. If he didn't find out from Exeter now, he would probably never have another chance. Who could resist the chance to learn about an alternative world?
Or was he just looking for a cause?
"You said some of the gods—strangers—some of them are all-right types?"
"A few.” Exeter began fiddling with a spoon, drawing lines on the tablecloth. “A few are secretly Service supporters. Lukewarm, mostly. Fence-sitters. One or two have converted, but not many have got away with it."
"Converted?"
"Mm. Like the Irish goddess Bríg, who became Saint Bridget. Or Cybele becoming the Black Madonna—back in the Dark Ages, scores of pagan deities became Christian saints. But in the Vales they're all vassals of the Five. If Tion, say, catches one of his minions consorting with the enemy, then he is seriously peeved."
"If Christianity did it in Europe, then why not try Christianity on Next-door?"
Exeter looked up with a smile. “And where exactly is Jerusalem? Who did you say these Romans were? Egypt? The Red Sea? I've been on the other side of this conversation a few times. What I got told then was that one big advantage Christianity had over the pagan gods was that it had a real historical basis, instead of just myth. But that's in this world. On Next-door it isn't."
"So what is the Church of the Undivided?"
"A hodgepodge. A Unitarian concoction of ethics and morals: Christian, Socratic, Buddhist, et cetera—the Golden Rule plus a universal god too holy to be named. That's an attempt to shut out Visek. As I said, that doesn't seem to work awfully well. It's a frightfully antiseptic sort of religion. No passion, you know?"
Smedley reached for toast and butter. “You're saying there's really nothing you can do, then?"
Exeter sighed. “There's nothing I can do, no. I'm branded as the Liberator and anything I tried to do would be warped by the prophecy and lead to killing Zath. That brings on catastrophe."
"Why?"
Exeter looked irritated. “You'll see if you just think about how it would have to be done. It would need an enormous amount of mana. How do I get that? What would I have to become?"
Yes, Julian should have seen that. If Exeter had invented all of this, he must have spent a lot of time working out the details. It was as logical as whist. “You'd have to start playing by their rules, you mean?"
"Playing their game. That's why I shan't ever go back there. As to whether there's anything you can do, old man ... you want to try?"
Smedley was not ready to face that question yet, but his pulse rate had jumped a fraction. “I'm asking what the Service can do."
"Keep trying and hoping.” Exeter's eyes were gleaming. Was he poking fun at the Service? Or at Smedley, for believing this fantasy? Or was he a supporter, coolly understating his enthusiasm? No way to tell, with him.
"But not praying? How do the faithful pray to a nameless god?"
"The whole point is that they don't. They pray to the apostles to intercede for them, because only the apostles can speak to the god. The apostles are not gods themselves, because he's Undivided; they're just the Chosen. Strangers from Olympus, of course.” Exeter smiled wryly. “The Service doesn't have the manpower to put a missionary in every pot, but they do try to have someone drop by every couple of fortnights. You understand why they have to do it that way?"
"So everybody shares in the mana? Does that work?"
"It works after a fashion. A chicken sacrificed to the Undivided in Joal, say, will not provide the Service with anything like the mana it would give Astina if it died to her glory in her temple there. Mana will flow between nodes, but there's a lot of steam leaks out. No other reason?"
Then he raised a quizzical eyebrow and waited.
Smedley began to feel nettled. “You're three years ahead of me and it's too early in the morning."
Exeter laughed, taking pity on him. “Right-oh! The real problem, my boy, it that we're all human. The reason the apostles are set up as a sort of nameless divine committee is that power corrupts, as Alice said the other night. The Service has had agents go over to the other side. They discover what they can do with mana and they like it. Set a chap up in his own chapel and pretty soon he begins to feel like it's his chapel, and these are his people. Sooner or later one of the Five will send a henchman around. Some of our chaps sell out. There was an Italian named Giovani who became Jovanee Karzon, god of wagons. All the best attributes have been taken, but there's always room for more. Did you know the Romans had a patron goddess of the-light-in-rooms-where-women-are-giving-birth?"
"No,” Smedley said grumpily, thinking that he did not want to. Having buttered the toast, he supposed he had better eat the horrid stuff. “You're saying it's hopeless?"
"No. Here's what I think, on the leveclass="underline" It may work! They may overthrow the Pentatheon. They're not fools, they're dedicated and wellmeaning, all of them. But it's going to be a long, long struggle. Two or three hundred years at the least. Christianity took longer. Islam was faster, but more brutal. If you think of mana as being like money, then the Five are stinking rich and getting richer. The Undivided is scratching for crumbs...."
The doorbell rang.
The two exchanged glances. Then Exeter pushed back his chair and stood up tall. He adjusted his tie and straightened his jacket. “That may just be the Women's Institute soliciting contributions for the church fete. Or it may not be.” He strode out, closing the door.
Smedley continued to masticate long-dead toast. Why was he so fascinated by the idea of Olympus? Was he just trying to flee from reality—the war, his mutilation, lost friends, the changed face of England? If he nurtured secret fancies of magic giving him his hand back, then he was seriously bonkers. Cold logic said he should not make any decisions yet, not for a long time. On the other hand, his nerves were improving. He had not wept since leaving Staffles. Dreaming of Olympus and Exeter's fantasy world was probably a lot healthier for him at the moment than brooding over his own reality. He had always been too prone to introspection.
He heard voices as the door began to open.
"I'll put the kettle on, then. You go in."
In came portly Ginger Jones, attempting to polish his pince-nez with a silk handkerchief and keep hold of a pair of bicycle clips at the same time. He looked hot. “Morning, Captain!"
"Morning, sir. Any news?"
Ginger put his specs on his nose, his handkerchief in one pocket, and his bicycle clips in another. “No. Oh ... thought you might need these.” From yet another pocket, he produced two packets of Player's.
Smedley's heart melted. “May you be blessed with many sons and your herds prosper!” He fumbled for matches.
"Lord, how would I explain that to the Head?” Ginger sat down chuckling. “Thought I'd drop over and hear some more of the Exeter-Through-the-Looking-Glass saga.” He glanced up as the man in question returned. “I posted your letter. Caught the evening collection, too."