I looked out the front of the dragonfly ship and saw that it followed a shining road that seemed familiar to me.
“When we arrive at a particular place,” said the Gardener, “I will take a shape that’s not my own. You will hide inside my skirts. You won’t make a sound, you won’t ask a question. When we leave will be time enough for questions, but for now, you will listen. All the pieces of our puzzle are in motion, the time approaches, and we must know what our enemies are planning. We will risk ourselves to see if they will tell us.”
Sophia had turned quite pale, and I took her hand in mind. “I was here once before with the Gardener,” I said. “Years ago. We will be all right.” She clutched my hand strongly. After a time the ship seemed to stop moving toward the space ahead that was cluttered, scattered, littered with blobs, clusters, clumps, bunches and sprinklings of…somethings.
Slowly we floated nearer, hearing as we did so a great murmur, as of waters washing endlessly against the edges of the galaxies.
The Gardener whispered, “This is the great tree where all mortal created deities roost, all the Gods from every-place, every-race, every-time. Look to your left and down. Those are the Earthian Members. Do you recognize any of them?”
When Sophia did not answer, I said, “I see an old man with an eye patch,” I said. “I forget his name. One of the gods of the people of the north that I read about as a child. And that very strong one with the hammer. That might be Thor.”
“Actually,” the Gardener murmured, “he is Thor, Hercules, Apollo, Gilgamesh, Adonis, Osiris, Krishna, virtually every young male deity known for strength, beauty, and intrepidity, just as my colleague, Mr. Weathereye, is Odin, Jupiter, Jove, Allah, Jehovah, or any other ancient male deity known for wisdom, power, and prescience. And the old woman there, Lady Badness, is Erda, Norn, Moira, Sophia, the wisewoman who can detect the pattern in the weavings of happenstance before mankind hears the shuttle coming.”
“I’m named for her?” asked Sophia.
“For her, yes. And I, Gardener, am also Demeter, Cybele, Freya, Earth Mother, Corn Goddess, a thousand names of female deities wise in the ways of growing things, solicitous of women and children, caretakers of the beasts of the field and the woods. Some of us Members are sizable, for many mortals, including humans, believe in strength, and power, and nurture, and wisdom.”
“What are all those hunched-up things?” asked Sophia.
The Gardener shook her head. “Sophia, those are the gods many humans prefer. They are hunched from ages of sitting on people’s shoulders, whispering encouragement.”
“But they’re tiny!” she said, in disbelief.
“Many humans prefer tiny gods,” said the Gardener. “Tiny gods of limited preoccupations…”
“Limited to what?” I demanded.
“To mankind, of course. And to each believer, particularly. Each human wants god to be his or her best friend, and it’s easier to imagine god being your best friend if he is a tiny little god interested only in a tiny world that’s only a kind of vestibule to an exclusive little heaven.”
“Some of them are yelling,” said Sophia.
“Oh, yes. Those are hellfire gods. Since there is no supernatural hell, they never really send anyone there, but their sources get enormous pleasure, thinking about it.”
“And those,” murmured Sophia. “Off to the side, all together?”
“I know what those are,” I said. “Gardener told me those are dead people whose spirits have been imprisoned here. Some group or other on Earth has deified them or sainted them and claimed they can do miracles, so instead of passing on, humans hold them here, at least until they’re forgotten.”
“Can they do miracles?” asked Sophia wonderingly.
Gardener murmured, “We only know what our Sources know, we can only do what they can do. Many times persons actually heal themselves, or their bodies do it for them, but they prefer to believe one of us did it.”
“What do you mean, you can only do what men can do? Men cannot fly about the universe in dragonfly ships,” said Sophia.
“The Gentherans can,” said the Gardener. “And long ago I melded with Sysarou, Gentheran goddess of Abundance and Joy, just as Mr. Weathereye down there has melded with Ohanja, Gentheran god of Honor, Duty, and Kindness. Gentherans have much the same needs mankind has; they have created similar deities, and we of Earth have melded with all the more accepted ones.”
“You can do that? Meld with the gods of other species?” I asked, astonished.
“If we are similar enough, yes, which is a good thing, for Gentherans remember far, far into the past, and since we have melded with them, we, too, remember far more than do the gods of mere Earthians.”
In the little silence that followed, I thought to myself that even if these gods could do nothing their people couldn’t do, the Gardener, no matter how she disclaimed it, had powers they did not have.
She whispered, “I am looking at that mob of little Earth gods, hoping to find among them a disguise I can use.”
The dragonfly ship came closer. “There,” Gardener said, pointing. “That little female one. Its name is Oh-pity-me. It cannot see the sun for the daylight nor the stars for the darkness, and it is worshipped by a surprising number of people. It is not fierce enough to be interesting to the K’Famirish Members, and they will find it utterly unthreatening. I choose that one. Now, come with me and be very, very still.”
The ship moved and unbecame. The Gardener was a small, dark cloud that hid us within her robes of dripping sorrow. We could see, we could hear, and we could understand everything we saw and heard, including the conversation of the three dark shapes nearest us, each lit by sullen fire.
“These are Dweller, Darkness, and
