Chapter 16
The sight of Drakeforth’s feet suggested he had climbed a few rungs up the network of leather rigging. I sighed again and climbed up beside him. On the flat roof of the cabin, closer to the gently undulating gas-filled sausages, a small orchard of smaller trees had borne fruit. In an equally constrained enclosure beyond the trees, a tribe of goats watched us with intense interest.
“Hey, Drakeforth. You look like you have seen a goat,” I said with a grin.
“Indeed, and the source of our host’s persimmons.” Drakeforth climbed up onto the farm deck, and against my better judgement, I followed him.
The trees were waist height, growing closely together and rooted in rich, dark soil.
“Drakeforth,” I said carefully. “Are there large areas of Pathia were fertile soils are common place?”
“No,” Drakeforth replied, and bent to examine the tree crop.
“So, if you were going to grow fruit trees and goats, what would you do for dirt?”
“It depends entirely on where you were going to live,” Drakeforth replied, moving on to examine the goats.
I stepped carefully around the garden box and frowned at the goats.
“Sand can make an excellent building material, if you combine it with something binding and make bricks out of it.”
“Something binding?” I wanted to hear him say it.
“Yes, a high-fibre diet is essential for adding bindy-ness.”
“And the fruit?” I grinned.
“Goats can eat it. Gives you plenty of essential nutrients, and if you overdo the binding, fruit can be very persuasive.”
“You should be an advertising copywriter for laxative products,” I said.
“Advertising is all lies, told to people who want them to be true.”
“Ah, so advertising is the same as religion?” I turned the persimmon over in my hand and tried to remember if I knew how to eat the strange fruit.
“Not at all. Advertising is telling lies to people who want them to be true. Religion is telling lies to people who know them to be true.”
“Hang on, how can religious people know something is true and at the same time, they know it to be untrue?”
“Faith, Pudding.”
“Sure, but you are the living embodiment of the god Arthur, are you not?”
“I’m more sharing my personal space with a god. I am Vole Drakeforth, who has the living spirit of Arthur co-habitating in his consciousness.”
“Okay, so you are a god. Or a person containing a god. Kind of like one of those containers you put leftovers in.”
“Make your point, Pudding.”
“Then you know that religion is real. At least, Arthurianism.”
“Of course religion is real. It’s a very specific construct with a foundation in some universal truths.” Drakeforth seemed to be waiting for me to reach a conclusion that he had arrived at an hour ago.
“And yet, you have just said that religion is not true.”
“I also said that faith is how truth and untruth become interchangeable.”
“It doesn’t make it right though.” I was running out of road for this argument and had a nagging feeling that I had missed my exit. Whatever conclusion Drakeforth was expecting us to rendezvous at, he was probably on his second cup of tea by now.
“Sure it does. People are made up of a multitude of simple systems, and that leads to complex behaviour. Accepting things on faith is the least surprising outcome.” Drakeforth shrugged.
“I’ve heard you rail against religion often,” I reminded him.
“Religion, certainly. It’s a manufactured system of idiocy. Remember, Pudding, people like to believe in things. It gives them comfort.”
“No one would ever believe half the things I know to be true.” I ripped the persimmon open and wished I had a spoon.
“Exactly.” Drakeforth patted a goat that was trying to eat his trousers.
I ate my persimmon without using a spoon.