Where does it begin? A simple question with complex answers, and they are all correct. Everything starts somewhere.
For the monk, Lu Tze, History began before his time and his task was to preserve it, more or less. For the God, Om, power began with a shepherd but real power had to be rebuilt from ground up… very closely from the ground. And for Brutha, the illiterate novice with the unquestioning belief? Questions began the day a tortoise appeared in the melon patch he was hoeing, but answers only found him when he began to search his heart. As for all the other believers, whether true faith ever began is a more philosophical question. The answer is simplest, for this newcomer to Discworld, for my story began with Small Gods.
Pick a time in Discworld and go back one hundred years to Omnia. Here, the religion of Om is king and The Word is the Law. The law is dictated by rituals, hierarchy, Books of Prophets and above all by Vorbis, the Exquisitor, whose word is religiously feared. After all, sheep follow where the shepherd goes, especially when prodded with a red hot iron staff and manacled at the ankles to one another. For one among them, Brutha, dumb as the ox, his blind faith would have meant a lifetime of subservience and placid calm behind walled gardens. But no, a tortoise had to drop from the sky and loudly declared himself Om as heard in the tiny voice of God in Brutha’s mind.
When God speaks to you, and you only, it can be only one of two reasons. Either you are mad, or everyone else is deaf. Metaphorically, of course. There is also, to Brutha and Om’s collective dismay, a far more remote, and much more heretical third reason - that God only has one true believer left to hear. From here on out, and not quite of their own volition, Brutha and Om embark on a journey of self-discovery across stormy seas to a foreign land, and return through the scorching desert. Novice and tortoise each bore a heavy burden on their backs, but with each step and from each other, man and God find enlightenment.
Small Gods is a brilliant satire on organized religion with its mighty tentacles a stranglehold on humanity and freedom. Doctrines, be it science or religion, even philosophy are poked fun at, not with the intent to ridicule, I don’t think, but to gently challenge ingrained convictions. Personally, I take no offense at what might be considered as polemic but I can understand if it ruffled some feathers. Especially if you are an eagle bitten on the leg by your food. It is shocking at first, and painful too, but everything can be rationalized.
Fear not, Small Gods is not all hellfire and brimstone (there was lightning aplenty, but no sulphur and DEATH did make cameos). It is Terry Pratchett, after all! Now, I cannot profess to knowing exactly what that means, since this is my first Pratchett, but I have it on good authority that he writes with a humorous turn of phrase, that is at once witty and cynical and warm. There is profound philosophical underpinning too, right beneath the comedic surface. The prose is accessible and even resembling beautiful at times, but it never takes itself too seriously unless it is seriously funny. Nothing I have read in Small Gods speaks to the contrary, so suffice to say, I am now a believer.
Where does a newly convert go from here? Why, to the future, of course! (This might be an opportune moment for The Librarian to appear again). Roughly one hundred years from now in Small Gods DiscWorld #13 to where it all really began with The Color of Magic, DiscWorld #1. See you there.