“Firkin,” Will said, “we’ve got to talk.”
Firkin was sitting in a font in the middle of a burned-out temple to Lawl. The king of the gods was attempting to look down sternly upon them, but his statue had taken several serious blows, and looked a little cross-eyed. Above them, a crew of men were hard at work, stripping the lead tiles from the frame of the roof above. Dust, splinters, and nails rained down about them in small eddying showers.
“Lip flappery!” Firkin announced to the empty room. “Tongue-smacking witchcraft. You come to weave it into my mind with your sound words. Get your thinking into my brain with your lexical magic-ery.”
He grinned broadly at Will. “Won’t work,” he said with a grin. He turned the side of his head toward Will, pushed back the wild tangle of hair, and revealed a blackened chewed-up thing that could, possibly, be described as his ear. He had plugged it with something yellow and revolting.
“Keeps out that word tomfoolery,” Firkin said with a knowing wink to Will.
“But,” Will protested, “you can hear me.”
Firkin’s grin disappeared like a cockroach scuttling for the shadows. “Prototype,” he grunted, then stared sullenly at his feet.
Several pounds of lead crashed to the floor in the corner of the church. The tile floor cracked. “Sorry,” someone yelled halfheartedly from up above. Considering people had flocked to this place in his name, Will might have expected a little more regret.
He took a breath. Tried to regain control of the conversation.
“This prophet thing,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets and starting to pace. “It’s really getting out of hand.”
“Not hands,” said Firkin, leaning forward. There was still some water left in the font. It splashed over the sides. Firkin tapped the side of his head. “In heads, it is. Words put ideas in heads. Like little burrowing beetles. Yes.” He nodded to himself three times. “Words are burrowing beetles with idea seeds. And seeds grow. Grow in brains. And burst out of mouths.” He pantomimed vomiting. “Become words. Propagation that is. Big long word with lots of syllables. I know it. You know it. Because of the seeds.” Firkin’s eyes rolled. “In our brains.”
“Right,” said Will, struggling through the analogy. “But I think that perhaps some pruning of this particular idea could be in order.”
“What idea?”
For just a moment, Firkin looked perfectly lucid. And perfectly confused. It was one of the most unsettling things Will had ever seen.
“This idea that I’m a prophet,” he said, trying to find his footing.
“You’re not a prophet?” asked Firkin, still looking perplexed.
“No,” said Will. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but it seemed like Firkin was actually receptive to outside input for a moment. He needed to take as much advantage as he could.
“Who said you were?” asked Firkin. He looked interested now.
“You did,” Will pointed out.
“Quite the bold statement on my part,” Firkin commented.
“But false.” Will wanted to be clear on that point.
“Well,” said Firkin, “I should clear that up then.”
Will smiled. All of a sudden, this was going astonishingly well. Firkin stood up, looked around. His gaze fell upon the workers above him. “Oy!” he yelled at the top of his lungs.
Several of the group stopped, looked down. “What’s it?” yelled one.
“This guy!” Firkin screeched back. He pointed at Will just to be clear. “He’s not the prophet.”
There was a distinct pause at this. Will felt like he’d somehow been blindsided, even though this was exactly what he’d asked for.
“Erm, okay then,” called back one of the workers. “Good to know.”
Firkin beamed. He turned to Will. “Well,” he said, “that seems to have cleared that up.”
Which didn’t explain why Will felt more confused.
“Hey,” called the talkative man from above. “Where do you want all this lead then?”
“In the central square!” Firkin snapped back, a bark of authority suddenly slipping into his screeching voice. “The prophet compels you!”
“All hail the prophet!” the men called back as one.
Will stood and stared at Firkin. “I thought we just talked about this,” he said.
“About what?” Firkin was all innocence and confusion again.
“About this prophet stuff. The prophet doesn’t compel anyone to do anything.”
Firkin’s face twisted through a variety of expressions Will could not entirely place. It seemed to settle on something between disgust and indignation. “How the fuck would you know?” asked Firkin. “You just told me. You’re not him.”