Downfall of the Gods Read online

  “There doesn’t seem to be a door.”

  “There isn’t.” I knocked on the wall three times.

  “Keep your mouth shut,” I told him. “Don’t say anything.”

  “Mphm. Look, do you actually need me here for any thing? Because if not, I can wait outside.”

  “Quiet,” I told him, then grabbed him by the wrist and led him through the wall.

  Nothing, it goes without saying, had changed since I was there last. Auntie didn’t appear to have moved so much as an inch on her throne. Around her feet the squeaking dead still clustered, like dogs begging at table.

  “Hello, auntie, it’s me again.”

  “You’re back. Why?”

  “I’ve brought Lord Archias with me,” I said brightly.

  “If it’s all right, he’d like to have a quick word with Lysippus.”

  “Would he really.”

  “Yes. He wants to apologise. Don’t you?”

  Archias was standing rooted to the spot, eyes bulging, mouth open. I gave him a warning tug on the wrist.

  “Don’t you?”

  “What? Oh yes. Please,” he added, quite unprompted by me. Of course, it doesn’t carry quite so much weight coming from a mortal.

  Auntie looked at him, then back at me, trying to make up her mind. There is, of course, a protocol for such situations. Why there should be one or how it came to be formulated I have no idea. Mortals can’t get into Auntie’s house, because there is no door. In spite of that, there’s a protocol.

  It goes like this. If a mortal wants to ask a question of the dead, he must go to the House of the Dead (see above). Having received permission from the Queen of Death, he must then sacrifice a lamb and fill a silver chalice with its blood—that’s all to do with the ancient superstition that blood somehow encapsulates the life-force; it does no such thing, but never mind. He pours a libation of blood onto the ground; the ghost he wants to question drinks the blood and is temporarily re-animated, resuming a simulacrum of his physical body for just long enough to answer the question. There’s a bunch of other rules and regulations—no eating or drinking while you’re there, no looking back over your shoulder as you leave, stuff like that—but basically that’s it. Perfectly straightforward, if a bit archaic and pointless.

  I realised I’d forgotten something. “Did you bring a knife?” I hissed in his ear.

  He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a flake of knapped flint. “Will this do?”

  Not ideal; but I couldn’t very well ask for the loan of one. No metal in Auntie’s house, she’s old-fashioned. “That’s fine,” I said. “Kill the lamb and drain its blood into the chalice.”

  “Have I got to?”

  “Kill the bloody lamb.”

  He did so, prising its head up with his crooked elbow under its chin to expose the throat. It struggled a few times, then relaxed and stretched out. The flow of blood into the cup sounded like an old man peeing.

  “Permission granted.” Auntie sat up just a little and sniffed a couple of times. “Who did you say he wants to talk to?”

  “Lysippus, auntie. Lysippus son of—” I dried. “Melias.”

  “Lysippus son of Melias of the deme of Mesogaea,” I said. “Him,” I added, and pointed.

  Auntie nodded stiffly. I picked the chalice up off the floor and tilted it until a single drop of blood trickled over the rim and dropped (like a goddess falling from the ramparts of heaven) onto the dusty, quite filthy floor. The black splodge it made in the dust started to smoke. The smoke wavered and thickened, and became a man. Just a shape at first; then it sort of came into focus—eyes and a nose, then particular eyes and a particular nose, in a unique configuration that made an individual, rather than merely a generic human. He opened his eyes, blinked. “Archias?”

  “Hello, Lysippus.”

  “Good God, man, I barely recognised you.”

  “It’s been a while.”

  “Has it?” Lysippus frowned, as if trying to work out some impossible problem. “Didn’t you just kill me?”

  “Yes.”

  The look on Lysippus’ face was that first-thing-in-the morning, not-properly-awake stare. “You stabbed me.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I caught you in bed with my wife.”

  “What? Oh, yes, so you did.” Lysippus massaged his forehead with his fingers. “Look, I’m sorry about that.”

  “Forget it. These things happen. I shouldn’t have killed you.”

  “No, maybe not.” Lysippus closed his eyes, rubbed them with his thumbs, opened them again. “Still, I asked for it, didn’t I? Come to think of it, I was always— well, doing stuff to you. All your life.” He thought for a moment, then added, “I didn’t think you minded.”

  “I minded.”

  “Yes, well, you would, wouldn’t you? That’s only reasonable. Strange I never appreciated it at the time.” He frowned again. “I knew you hated it, actually, but deep down, I had this stupid notion, it was all just a game and it didn’t mean anything. I guess I was wrong about that.” Archias nodded. “But I overreacted,” he said. “I shouldn’t have killed you.”

  “Well.” Lysippus shrugged. “Makes no odds really, in the long run. I mean, nothing does, does it? You end up here, no matter what you do. Maybe a year or two earlier, but so what?”

  I cleared my throat. “Does that mean you forgive him?” For a moment neither of them seemed to know which one I was talking to. Then Lysippus said, “Sure, no hard feelings. Actually, it’s not bad here. Peaceful. One day is very much like another, if you see what I mean.” He was starting to get faint. I let another drop fall to the floor. Some other ghosts tried to edge close, but I nudged them away with my foot. “It’s important,” I said, “that you forgive him. That you both forgive each other.”

  “Is it?” Lysippus looked at me blankly. “I forgive him.

  No problem.”

  “Archias?”

  “What? Oh, me too.”

  There was a moment of awkward silence. The ghosts had stopped whinnetting; they were all gazing fixedly at the chalice. There was a whole lambful of blood in there, they seemed to be telling me, and I’d only used two drops. Shame to let the rest go to waste.

  “There now,” I said. “That wasn’t too hard, was it?”

  “Have you nearly finished?” aunt Feralia said. “Only, I hate to rush you, but I’m really very busy.”

  Archias gave me a despairing look. I shrugged.

  “Auntie,” I said. “I know I asked before and you said no, but would you please, please lend me Lysippus son of Melias just for a few years, it’d make such a difference to me, I promise I’ll bring him back in tip-top condition, as a special favour to me and I’ll be utterly, utterly grateful and your slave for ever? Please, auntie? Please?”

  “No.”

  “I think you’re being really mean.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “I think,” I said, “that it’s praiseworthy and honourable to do your job well and uphold the rules, but sometimes it’s even more praiseworthy and honourable to bend the rules just a bit to help out a loved one or a family member in dire need, to the point where doing your job and upholding the rules to an unreasonable extent can actually be blameworthy and dishonourable, because you’re putting your own honour above someone else’s. That’s selfish, which is dishonourable per se. It’s also a tacit admission of weakness, because it’s implying that the rules are stronger than you are, whereas a really strong person only obeys the rules when he wants to, because he agrees with them. I know that when you took this job you gave your solemn oath to see to it that the dead shall not return, but I think putting the rules and the rule of law above everything else is the sort of behaviour I’d expect from a mortal, because they’re weak and they don’t know any better. We should make it clear that to us all things are possible, including breaking our own word where necessary. I think that if you won’t let me borrow Lysippus son of Melias, people will s
ay it’s because you’re afraid of Father and being cast down from the ramparts of heaven, which I know isn’t true because you’re not afraid of anybody and anything, are you? Well?”

  “You know what? I don’t give a damn what you think.” Complete silence; even the ghosts had stopped twittering. Then Archias said, “That was your cunning plan?

  Sweet reason?”

  “Be quiet,” I told him. “Obviously we’re wasting our time here. Sorry, but because of a certain person’s intransigence, you can’t have your forgiveness and I’ve been made to look a fool, and this whole quest has been for nothing. Well, auntie, it’s your choice, if there are unpleasant consequences for you then on your head be it, I refuse to bear any responsibility. Come on, Archias, we’re leaving.”

  I turned round, tugging him along behind me, straight through the wall and out into the fresh air.

  “SO THAT’S IT,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  He sat down on the last step of the bridge and buried his face in his hands. “You failed.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You failed.”

  I glared at him. “Can I just remind you,” I said, “this was meant to be your quest and your assignment, and I was just along to give you help and moral support? If anyone’s failed, it was you.”

  He looked up at me. “Bullshit,” he said. “You’ve been in charge ever since we left the City, telling me what to do.”

  “You chose to take my help and advice. Your choice. Free will.”

  “Bullshit. I trusted you. Even when you weren’t there, because you’d gone swanning off and forgotten me, I prayed to you. You were in charge, you decided what we were going to do, you failed.”

  I smiled at him. “Who says?”

  He looked at me blankly. “What?”

  “Who says I failed?”

  “Don’t be stupid. We went to get Lysippus. We left without him. Therefore—”

  “Whatever became,” I interrupted him, “of the second lamb?”

  He opened his mouth, closed it again and looked round. “I guess I must’ve left it there. What possible difference—?”

  “Hold still.”

  I leant forward. From the top of his boot, I pulled something like a flat, folded piece of parchment. I unfolded it. First I unfolded the small flat square into a full-size flat human silhouette. Then I unfolded the two-dimensional shape into three dimensions. A quick flick of tepid blood from the chalice brought it to life. “Behold,” I said. “Lysippus son of Melias, in the flesh. I do not fail. Got that?”

  I let go of Lysippus and he stumbled, then caught his balance and stood up. He saw Archias. “You,” he said.

  “Lysippus?”

  “Bastard!” Lysippus roared, and hit Archias in the mouth so hard he fell over. “You killed me!” he roared, drawing his foot back for a kick. “You were my friend, and you damn well killed me!”

  I caught hold of his hair and dragged him to his knees. “Yes, well,” I said, “you’re better now, so no harm done. And Archias came all the way here, at great trouble and expense, to bring you back to life. Say thank you.”

  I tightened my grip on his hair. “Thanks,” he muttered.

  “Sorry, I can’t quite hear you.”

  “Thank you,” he shouted. I let him go and he fell forward on his face. “Now then,” I said. “I want you two to shake hands and be friends.”

  Archias spat out a tooth, then reached out his hand. Lysippus hesitated for a moment. I let my shadow fall across him. He grabbed Archias’ hand, held it for a fraction of a second, then let go as though it was burning him.

  “There,” I said, “that’s better. Everybody’s friends with everybody else.” I let Lysippus back off a pace or two, then I asked him, “What’s the last thing you remember?”

  “Him stabbing me, of course.”

  “Mphm. Would you like to go home now?”

  “Yes.” He stopped, then stared at me. “Goddess?”

  “That’s right.”

  He dropped to his knees and banged his forehead on the ground. “Forgive me. I meant no disrespect.”

  “Of course you didn’t, that’s fine. Now, are you friends with Archias again?”

  “Yes, goddess. I love him like a brother.”

  “Splendid. Now, I’m going to send you home by magic. When you get there, you’ll forget you ever saw me. You’ll forget Archias ever hurt you. You’ll live the rest of your life happily writing music and studying philosophy.”

  “Yes, goddess.”

  “Off you go, then.” I snapped my fingers and he vanished.

  Archias was looking at me. “Is he for real?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Was that actually him? Or just one of your sockpuppets?”

  I scowled at him for that. “That was the real, one and only Lysippus, son of Melias, of the deme of Mesogaea,” I said. “He was dead but now he’s alive again. I didn’t fail. And you succeeded.” I smiled. “You’ll be a hero now,” I said. “The stuff of legend. They’ll write epics about you. Your name will never die. Won’t that be nice?”

  “But—”

  I grinned at him. “The second lamb.”

  “What?”

  I sat down beside him on the step. “You remember the second lamb.”

  “Yes.”

  “That,” I told him, “was no lamb. That was my brother Polyneices, god among other things of shapes and illusions. While I was making my big, futile, impassioned speech and everybody was looking at me, Pol stopped being a lamb and turned back into himself, only invisible. He grabbed Lysippus’ ghost, folded it up really small and stuffed it down inside your boot. Then he turned himself into the spitting image of Lysippus’ ghost, while we made a quick getaway. Piece of cake,” I added. “The old distraction routine. It never fails.”

  “Then your brother—”

  “Is still in there, yes. But don’t worry, he’ll be fine, unless he eats or drinks anything, and he’s too smart to do that.”

  “But the Lady of Death—Won’t she be angry when she finds out?”

  “Livid,” I said. “Spitting feathers. But screw her. She was mean and she wouldn’t help me when I asked her nicely, so nobody’s going to have the slightest bit of sympathy. And Pol will just walk out through the wall and go home.” I paused, expecting a torrent of praise. It didn’t come. “Well?”

  “You cheated.”

  “What? Well of course I cheated.”

  “It was a trick,” he said bitterly. “It was a stupid trick. It was meaningless. It was stealing.”

  I shook my head. “Theft is taking with intent to permanently deprive the owner,” I said. “In sixty years, she’ll get him back again. Not theft, just borrowing.”

  “It’s childish.”

  I realised I wasn’t angry with him, in spite of his ingratitude. “I suppose it was, rather. But we’re all a bit childish in my family. I guess childhood’s the closest you mortals get to being us, when you’re still too young to appreciate the implications of your own mortality.” I smiled at him. “It’s a shame you have to grow up, really.”

  He stood up. “I’d like to go home now, please. If you’ve finished with me.”

  “Of course. Close your eyes and you’ll be there in two seconds.”

  “No,” he said, “I didn’t mean back to the City. I want to go home. There.”

  He was pointing at his stupid little hut, with the goat-pen out back. “You aren’t serious.”

  “That’s my home,” he said. “I built it with my own two hands, and it rests on the five pillars of happiness. Four pillars,” he amended. “I’m never going back. That’s all right, isn’t it?”

  “Suit yourself,” I said. “Oh, and you’re forgiven.”

  “Am I? That’s nice.”

  “That means,” I said, slightly nettled, “that you won’t suffer eternal damnation.”

  “No,” he said. “Instead I’ll end up in there, with her.” He jerked his thumb back over the
bridge. “Big difference.”

  “Aren’t you at least going to thank me?”

  “Thank you,” he said. “Goodbye.”

  ON MY WAY home, I noticed a huge crater, just north of Perimadeia. I flew closer, and saw a small, sad-looking figure slowly climbing over the rim.

  “Hello, Pol.”

  “Oh. It’s you.”

  “Dad was cross, then.”

  “Yes. Dad was very cross.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” He stopped and looked back over his shoulder. “Actually,” he said, “you were quite right. I don’t feel particularly bad about it. In fact, I couldn’t really give a shit.”

  “Mphm. What about when all the others laugh at you and call you names?”

  “Like I care. And besides, they won’t. They’ll be thinking, the old fool’s losing it, it’ll be my turn next.” He looked at me. “The twilight of the gods, sis.”

  “Oh well.”

  “It’s a pity, though. With honour and shame, we were just about viable. Without them—”

  “No great loss.”

  “True. And to be honest with you, I’m so bored I don’t much care. It’s no fun being god of wisdom when you’re a member of a race of idiots.”

  “In the kingdom of the stupid, the half-witted man is king.”

  He frowned. “Thank you,” he said. “I think. It’s the humans I feel sorry for. Without us, all they’ll have is Right and Wrong. They’ll get themselves in the most awful tangle.”

  “Still,” I said, “there it is. Our time is up. When you gotterdammerung, you gotterdammerung.”

  He gave me a pained look. “That’s truly awful,” he said.

  “Yes, well. I’m the goddess of laughter, all right?”

  I don’t think the pain on his face was just for the crummy joke. “Not for much longer, Sis.”

  YOU MAY RECALL that Lysippus was an atheist.

  After Archias’ unexplained disappearance, Lysippus married Archias’ wife and lived a long and happy life, writing music. Among other notable achievements, he invented opera. His masterpiece, Twilight of the Idols, was a concerted attack on religion and the god delusion. It sparked off a wave of free thinking and made atheist both acceptable and fashionable. There will, of course, be a backlash and all copies of Lysippus’ works will be burnt (apart from the ones on my shelves, of course) but the true believers won’t be able to turn back the clock. Faith in the gods will gradually die out , and my family— well. I never liked them much, to be honest with you.