brutha

[Oats] opened the book at random, struck a match and read:
“…and in that time, in the land of the Cyrinites, there was a multiplication of camels…”
The match hissed out.
No help there, no clue. He tried again.
…and looked upon Gul-Arah, and the lamentation of the desert, and rode then to…”
Oats remembered the vampire’s mocking smile. What words could you trust? He struck the third match with shaking hands and flicked the book open again and read, in the weak and dancing light:
“…and Brutha said to Simony, ‘Where there is darkness we will make a great light…’
The match died. And there was darkness.
Granny Weatherwax groaned. At the back of his mind, Oats thought he could hear the sounds of hooves, slowly approaching.
Oats knelt in the mud and tried a prayer, but there was no answering voice from the sky. There never had been. He’d been told never to expect one. That wasn’t how Om worked anymore. Alone of all the gods, he’d been taught, Om delivered the answers straight into the depths of the head. Since the prophet Brutha, Om was the silent god. That’s what they said.
If you didn’t have faith, then you weren’t anything. There was just the dark.
He shuddered in the gloom. Was the god silent, or was there no one to speak?
He tried praying again, more desperately this time, fragments of childish prayer, losing control of the words and even of their direction, so that they tumbled out and soared away into the universe addressed simply to The Occupier.
The rain dripped off his hat.
He knelt and waited in the wet darkness, and listened to his own mind, and remembered, and took out the Book of Om once more.
And made a great light.

– on making a great light | Terry Pratchett, Carpe Jugulum

2

Discworld sketchdump - Small Gods

“Life in this world is, as it were, a sojourn in a cave. What can we know of reality? For all we see of the true nature of existence is, shall we say, no more than bewildering and amusing shadows cast upon the inner wall of the cave by the unseen blinding light of absolute truth, from which we may or may not deduce some glimmer of veracity, and we as troglodyte seekers of wisdom can only lift our voices to the unseen and say, humbly, ‘Go on, do Deformed Rabbit… it’s my favorite’.”

‘How many talking tortoises have you met?’ it said sarcastically.
'I don’t know,’ said Brutha.
'What d'you mean, you don’t know?’
'Well, they might all talk,’ said Brutha conscientiously, demonstrating the very personal kind of logic that got him Extra Melons. 'They just might not say anything when I’m there.’
—  Brutha’s logic | Terry Pratchett, Small Gods

Can we talk about Brutha?

Brutha, who walked through the desert, carrying an injured man. Brutha, who knew Vorbis was a murderer, an Inquisitor, a cold torturer of men. Brutha, who saw Vorbis injured on the beach and, knowing the apathy of the desert, carried him on his own back.

Let’s talk about Brutha who was betrayed by the man he trusted entirely, the same man he carried through the desert. Brutha, the true prophet, who spoke to his god every day and knew Vorbis for what he was.

Brutha, who knew his god walked with him every day in the desert. And when he looked back he saw only one set of footprints in the sand, because when things got really difficult he carried his god. Under the arm not supporting Vorbis.

Brutha, who was thrashed to within an inch of his life at the word of the very man he protected and carried through the desert. Brutha, bleeding and hurting and chained to the iron turtle, with the oven under his back getting hotter all the time—he looked up into the merciless gaze of Vorbis and, knowing Om would smite him, did not gloat. “I’m sorry,” he said, and he meant it. Brutha, who was slow and stupid, illiterate, unworthy, looked into the face of his torturer, his killer, and promised justice. But he wasn’t glad of it. He was sorry.

Brutha, who loved his god and strove to be his moral superior. Brutha, who carried his god through the wilderness, fed and nurtured his god when all others shunned him, who gave his god commandments not on stone tablets but on a murmur. Brutha, who promised his god life everlasting if his god believed in him.

Brutha, who was slow and stupid and simple, who knew that an army of ten thousand could not save Omnia from the wrath of her neighbors, but perhaps one man would be enough.

Brutha, who would not die for his god but he would live for him. He would live for him every day, busily, and teach others to do the same. Who filled each day to the brim until, at last, he died. Quietly.

Brutha, who walked with Death into the black desert, setting out on a journey to find Judgement. Brutha, who saw Vorbis there. Cruel, tyrannical, calculating Vorbis, so small and helpless after a near infinity on the cold, lightless dune, the man who not only killed but forced others to kill gladly. And Brutha looked upon this shell of a man, and lifted him up to carry him through the desert once again, leaving behind only one trail of footprints.

Brutha

anonymous asked:

As far as big moments go, I still think of Small Gods as one of the most influential books in my life. I was 14 and trying to figure out my faith and my own mortality. I got to the part in the desert where they're struggling to survive, and Om asks Brutha why he even bothers trying, knowing he'll die eventually anyway. I put the book down for a bit because that thought scared me so much, but when I picked it back up Brutha's answer of because right now, we're alive, really brought me some peace.

“I said, in a hundred years’ time we’ll all be dead.”

[…]

“Yes,” said Brutha. “We will.” He raised the bowl over his head, and turned.

Om ducked into his shell.

“But here–” Brutha gritted his teeth as he staggered under the weight. “And now–”

He threw the bowl. It landed against the altar. Fragments of ancient pottery fountained up, and clattered down again. The echoes boomed around the temple.

“–we are alive!”

this is such a great moment

6

“This is about the porridge. You remember, don’t you? I can’t recall where we were, Saint Germain, I expect…”

Dear Sir Pratchett,

I join my voice today to those of all the people you’ve inspired, to speak your name and talk about how deeply your books affected me. I can’t believe it’s already been a year, I regret tremendously not getting the chance to thank you in person for the world that you created.

Thank you for giving me role models at a time where I had trouble relating to those that have guided me through childhood, for creating characters that reached out to me and showed that it’s alright, it’s alright to be upset, to be furious, that disillusionment doesn’t make you a bad person. That no matter how low you’ve fallen you can still pick yourself up and ascend to great heights, that you and only you are responsible for who you are and the choices you make, that optimism is something you have to choose every day and decide consciously to live by it, that sometimes you just have to get on with the job as intensely as you can because no one else is there to do it, that simply believing in your dreams won’t bring you far without the hard work and that you don’t have to be born special to achieve greatness. 

Thank you for Granny Weatherwax, Sam Vimes, Susan Sto Helit, Tiffany Aching, for Death, and Brutha and every single other character of yours. through which you’ve showed humanity at its best and at its worst. Thank you for your anger, for your kindness and your thoughts. Your words inspire me every day to get things done, to create, to be kind, to strive to be better, to be, because here and now we are alive and no matter how insignificant we think we are, each of us has the power to change things.

Thank you for the puns, the laughs and the tears.

Perhaps not all things last, Sir Pratchett, but your magic will. And the ripples you’ve caused in the world won’t die away anytime soon.

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