Cohen and the God’s Jewels

Written by Paul Boehlert.

This is an original piece first published in the A Hat Full of Sci-Fi Facebook Group.

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‘…and it is said, so great was the slaughter that day that the Disc itself cooled a little. Loud were the lamentations of the women, and the empty yurts outnumbered the stars in the sky.’

Yimyim Khan settled back onto the log where he sat, smoke from the yak dung fire curling around his head and beard. The nomads of the Perfumed Horde greatly prized a woman with no sense of smell.

‘And now I invite the Great Warrior to favour us with a tale of his own.’

The guest leaned forward in his log, looking in turn at each of the fur-hatted men around the campfire.

‘Thish happened many yearsh ago,’ he said, ‘in the year of the Shushpicioushly Friendly Marmot…’

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It took three bashes with his shoulder, but finally the temple door grated open enough to let him through. It was still cold and gloomy inside, but at least the snow wasn’t up to his Nadgers*.

* A small range of mountains near the Hub.

Cohen the Barbarian stalked up the nave, his sword tip pivoting left and right as he scanned the shadows for danger. Aggressive stance aside, his manner was businesslike rather than bloodthirsty. Still, any temple guards or mad priests had better make sure their prayers had been said before they stepped into view.

It had taken twelve days of slogging through groin-deep drifts to reach this remote mountain peak. His horse had been, first, not up to the challenging conditions and, second, rather tough and gamy**. He’d been attacked by a Giant Mountain Wombat, which proved to be much better eating. This species was on the verge of extinction, and Cohen had been proud to do his part.

* An open-pasture, grass-fed diet does have its drawbacks.

In contrast to – or perhaps because of – all the hacking and slashing over the years, Cohen the Barbarian possessed quite a happy and well-adjusted temperament. He was clearly a perfect fit for his chosen career. A study by the Department of Social Sciences and Beer Tasting at Bugarup University had concluded that this was because he didn’t have to put up with the daily indignities, frustrations and miseries endured by others.

One example, they said, was that he didn’t have to commute to work each day. A typical morning for Cohen included rolling out of his blanket in dawn’s early light to fend off attacks from a baker’s dozen of animated skeleton warriors. Afterward, he would sit down to a tasty haunch of some endangered animal or other, amid the heaps of shattered bones.

Instead of being forced to deal with hundreds of aggressive, small-minded idiots on his way to work each morning, Cohen got the blood pumping* with a bit of healthy exercise, enjoyed a protein and cholesterol-packed breakfast, and had the satisfaction of starting his day with a small accomplishment, not unlike making one’s bed**.

* Usually not his own.

** Except Cohen never made his bed. That job was for palace servants, or sometimes the young lady from the previous evening, and in one memorable case a horned, fork-tailed fire demon from the Nether Hells who needed taking down a peg. The duvet did get badly singed, however, so not an unmixed blessing.

Barbarian heroes don’t have a Policies and Best Practices handbook, of course. But if Cohen had one, it would contain phrases like “lop”, “extreme prejudice”, “once your enemy is well alight”, and “the skulls of your supervisors and managers”. This robust approach would greatly boost employee morale if applied to human-resource manuals for those who work in retail sales or customer service. Oh, and call centers. Let’s not forget call centers.

When he was about halfway down the main nave of the temple, Cohen could at last make out the idol whose larger-than-life statue rose into the gloom at the far end. What he saw was quite surprising, especially since he thought he’d seen it all in his many decades of freelance hero-ing.

The dying mapmaker* who showed Cohen how to find this temple had mentioned that it was dedicated to the god Phutphut. Well, the god Phutphut was male, no question about that. Extremely male. He could have posed for any number of hillside chalk carvings, not to mention those long barrows with the humorous little hillocks at one end.

* Who only discovered he was dying a second or two before the arrival of YOU KNOW WHO. Significantly, he experienced this epiphany while bending over the map, just after revealing the temple’s exact location to Cohen. ‘Old barbarian bugger never even paid for the map’. Death, as usual, was unsympathetic.

Just to drive the point home, the sculptor had depicted old Phutphut in a very open-for-business sort of pose. Recalling a stack of wicker hoops outside the entrance, Cohen wondered if the temple’s ancient ceremonial rites had included some sort of ritual ring-toss.

Beneath the god’s enormous Obelisk of Power, or whatever his worshippers called it, though, was what Cohen had come all this way to find: the Jewels of Phutphut. Two huge and perfect crystalline teardrops, each facet glittering with internal fires, they would no doubt fetch a king’s ransom from the jewel markets of Al-Khali.

The Jewels’ brass mounting clasps and the marble surrounding them shone brightly, as if they had been stroked by millions of hands. A bit manky to a jewel thief of delicate disposition, perhaps, but to Cohen it just proved that these plums were ripe and ready for picking. Or perhaps some less-disturbing simile or visual image to that effect.

He unslung his pack, which held several delicate tools for loosening gems from their mountings. Not to mention a great whacking chisel and mallet, which Cohen suspected he’d be using before it was over.

But as he stepped forward and prepared to take Phutphut by his Jewels, a huge voice boomed through the deserted temple.

‘WHO DARES TO PROFANE THE SACRED PRECINCTS OF PHUTPHUT THE CURRENTLY-INCLINED-TO-BE-LESS-THAN-MERCIFUL?’

Cohen had whipped into a fighting crouch, sword in hand, at the first sound. But when no armed attackers appeared, he relaxed a bit and replied,

‘Big shtrapping lad like you, I’d exshpect, well, a more manly voishe.’

‘IDENTIFY YOURSELF, INFIDEL TEMPLE ROBBER WHO SMELLS LIKE AN INCONTINENT YETI!’

‘Name’sh Cohen.’

‘COHEN? THE BARBARIAN? HAH! PULL THE OTHER ONE, IT HAS THUNGAS ON.’

Rather than reply, Cohen rummaged in the pockets of his pack, eventually pulling out a small packet that glared through the gaps in its cloth wrappings. Turning away, he wrestled it into his mouth with much grunting and wet smacking noises.

Then he turned, and grinned, and the sanctuary was filled with light.

‘AH. I SEE. WELL, THERE’S A THING. ARE THOSE THE FAMOUS DINE-CHEWERS MADE FROM THE DIAMOND TEETH OF TROLLS?’

‘Got it in one.’

‘WHICH WOULD SEEM TO PROVE THAT YOU ARE, IN FACT, THE LEGENDARY COHEN THE BARBARIAN.’

‘Quick on the uptake, too. I like that in a god.’

‘THEY’RE FILTHY, BY THE WAY.’

‘What?’

‘THOSE TEETH. THEY’RE DISGUSTING. YOU OBVIOUSLY DON’T CLEAN THEM AFTER MEALS. I CAN SEE THE BITS OF MEAT FROM HERE. AND THAT’S BLACK MOLD IN THE SPACES BETWEEN THE TEETH! HONESTLY, YOU PUT THOSE THINGS IN YOUR MOUTH?’

Cohen pondered for a moment. The penny dropped.

‘All right then. You’d better come out where I can see you…madam.’

An intake of breath was followed by footsteps slowly descending stone stairs. Then, from a recess behind Phutphut’s legs stepped a temple priestess.

People who shamelessly use phrases like “tessellated pavements” and “beslubbered with Ichor” tend to picture temple priestesses as a somewhat more ethereal variety of swimsuit model. Upon seeing this priestess, however, the phrase that came irresistibly to mind was “good sturdy peasant stock”. The cult of Phutphut, apparently, was not big on fast days.

She did have an open, pleasant face, though, and masses of red hair braided close to her head, which made a nice warm cap for those chilly nocturnal vigils.

‘And you are…?’ inquired Cohen.

The woman drew herself up. ‘I am Gerda, High Priestess of the divine Phutphut.’

‘High priestess, eh? Then trot out your under-priestesses and novices and acolytes. Can’t wait to meet ’em.’

Gerda twisted her fingers. ‘It’s… just me, these days.’

‘Any temple guards? Sacrificers? Money-changers?’

‘Look you, everyone goes down to the lowland pastures with the flocks this time of year. It’s off-season for the mountain temple, and no one comes here in the normal course of things. I just stay to keep the fires lit and knock the icicles off Phutphut’s Staff of Life.’

‘Staff of Life. Hmm. Good name, good name. Very…numinous. And do you have some ceremony with the Staff of Life and those wicker hoops by the door?’

Gerda’s jaw dropped. ‘Are you a Seventh Level Initiate, that you know our liturgical rites?’

‘Wasn’t hard to figure out, girl. But I thought that sort of thing died out when Testikles the Concupiscent got relegated to the league of small gods.’

‘Phutphut used to be a pretty ordinary deity,’ replied Gerda. ‘General godding, that sort of thing. Bit of blessing, bit of smiting, see. But when Testikles faded away, our boy suddenly became a patron of fertility. Oh, and clacks towers for some reason.’

‘And the, ah, Staff of Life suddenly grew?’

‘In popularity, at least. The statues had always been pretty… optimistic. On nights when the Hublights can be seen, you almost can’t move for all the couples engaged in… fertility rites.’

‘Sounds pretty pleasant and normal. You tellin’ me that your religion doesn’t do flagellation or public penance?’

‘As the madam from Ankh-Morpork said, that bit costs extra.’ Gerda had dimples when she smiled. ‘There’s nothing wrong with a bit of fun, as long as it’s done for spiritual reasons.’

‘Well, good for old Phutphut,’ replied Cohen. ‘Can’t stand around chewin’ your fat all day, though, mistress. Got work to do.’

‘You’ve come to steal Phutphut’s Jewels, I assume?’

‘Like I said, you’re quick on the uptake. Don’t try to stop me.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it, you and your big sword. But I do want to tell you something that may save you embarrassment, not to mention years in prison and your personal pair of Jewels.’

‘And what might that be?’

‘The Jewels are fakes.’

‘Pull the other one, girl.’

‘No, it’s true. The real Jewels were sold off years ago, to settle some of the church’s debts. These, and the four sets that preceded them were made from a clear tree sap with a pinch of powdered tin for glitter. We make them in molds, and when they start looking a bit threadbare we gin up a new set and switch them out one dark night when none of the faithful are around.’

‘This lot have been rubbed to a high shine. D’you mean to tell me that nobody’s ever noticed they don’t feel right?’

‘Oh, the faithful don’t get to fondle Phutphut’s Jewels. That’s reserved for priestesses, and we’re all trained in the Secret Wisdom. I’m really the only one who bobbles the baubles these days. You can steal those jewels, Mr. the Barbarian, but I wouldn’t want to be the one who tries to pass them off as real in the Gem-cutters Quarter of Al-Khali. You’d wind up in prison, if you’re lucky. If you’re unlucky, well, bid farewell to your own Jewels and look forward to a new career guarding harems.’

Cohen seemed to shrink just a little. It was difficult to tell if this was due to disappointment, or to an over-active imagination where his Staff of Life was concerned.

‘Look,’ said Gerda. ‘Why don’t you come back to the cloister with me? Be a shame if you left empty-handed. There’s a pot of goat stew on the fire, and you could use a good feed. Have a nice soak in our hot spring, too, and I’ve got a wire brush that’ll be just the trick for those awful teeth. Don’t know what I can do with that armored kilt you’re wearing, though.’

‘It’s not armor, it’s leather. Got it years ago when searching for the Lost City of Ee. Never bin washed.’

‘Ew.’

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The next morning, Cohen left without even glancing at the Jewels. His hair and beard had been trimmed, several layers of grime had been chiseled off his skin, and the diamond teeth positively glowed. Gerda had packed him some food for the trip down the mountain back to civilization.

The priestess herself stood on a secret little balcony, whose windows were Phutphut’s eyes, and watched him leave. After a few minutes she went down the stone stairs and stood beneath the god’s mighty Staff. Stretching out one hand, she tenderly cupped and caressed Phutphut’s Jewels.

His real Jewels.

Oh, she had shown Cohen a pair of wooden molds that were used for casting replicas. There was even a set of new, false Jewels, glittering so brightly as to fool no one, that were ready to be substituted.

But the fist-sized teardrop gems in the statue were the actual Jewels, carefully preserved for hundreds of years by generations of priestesses. Many of whom had used the same useful subterfuge to pull the Mountain Wombat wool over the eyes of potential Jewel thieves.

All in all, a very… satisfying… encounter. Turning, Gerda climbed the stairs to her room. It was time to make her bed.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

‘You know, on shecond thoughtsh,’ muttered Cohen, ‘Here’sh one about my epic lasht shtand againsht the Winged Cavalry of Zitzh. One man againsht a thoushand.’

The little round fur-hatted men with the smelly hair and beards leaned forward in eager attention.