“I am really disappointed in you, Brutha. Mmm?”
“Want . . . water . . .”
“-water,” said Nhumrod. “Trust in the great God.”
Brutha concentrated. Nhumrod vanished.
“Great God?” he said.
Somewhere there was some shade. The desert couldn't go on for ever.
The sun set fast. For a while, Om knew, heat would radiate off the sand and his own shell would store it, but that would soon go and then there would be the bitterness of a desert night.
Stars were already coming on when he found Brutha. Vorbis had been dropped a little way away.
Om pulled himself level with Brutha's ear.
“Hey!”
There was no sound, and no movement. Om butted Brutha gently in the head and then looked at the cracked lips.
There was a pecking noise behind him.
The scalbie was investigating Brutha's toes, but its explorations were interrupted when a tortoise jaw closed around its foot.
“I old oo, ugger ogg!”
The scalbie gave a burp of panic and tried to fly away, but it was hindered by a determined tortoise hanging on to one leg. Om was bounced along the sand for a few feet before he let go.
He tried to spit, but tortoise mouths aren't designed for the job.
“I hate all birds,” he said, to the evening air.
The scalbie watched him reproachfully from the top of a dune. It ruffled its handful of greasy feathers with the air of one who was prepared to wait all night, if necessary. As long as it took.
Om crawled back to Brutha. Well, there was still breathing going on.
Water . . .
The god gave it some thought. Smiting the living rock. That was one way. Getting water to flow . . . no problem. It was just a matter of molecules and vectors. Water had a natural tendency to flow. You just have to see to it that it flowed here instead of there. No problem at all to a god in the peak of condition.
How did you tackle it from a tortoise perspective?
The tortoise dragged himself to the bottom of the dune and then walked up and down for a few minutes. Finally he selected a spot and began digging.
This wasn't right. It had been fiery hot. Now he was freezing.
Brutha opened his eyes. Desert stars, brilliant white, looked back at him. His tongue seemed to fill his mouth. Now, what was it . . .
Water.
He rolled over. There had been voices in his head, and now there were voices outside his head. They were faint, but they were definitely there, echoing quietly over the moonlit sands.
Brutha crawled painfully toward the foot of the dune. There was a mound there. In fact, there were several mounds. The muffled voice was coming from one of them. He pulled himself closer.
There was a hole in the mound. Somewhere far underground, someone was swearing. The words were unclear as they echoed backward and forward up the tunnel, but the general effect was unmistakable.
Brutha flopped down, and watched.