Page 85 - An Evening with Maxwell's Daemons
P. 85

The Wind God’s Last Altar

        power and influence. As for a protagonist, the simplest and most
        credible would be a child, one whose inborn curiosity had not yet
        been  stifled  by  orthodoxy.  A  sort  of  emperor’s-new-clothes
        scenario, if you will.”
          “Ah, but how would such an iconoclastic outburst be triggered,
        and what would be its effect?” asked Perversity Tinderstack. “Let us
        suppose  the  young  innocent  sees  the  turbine  blades  turn  slightly
        one day when no one else is looking and no priestly intervention
        has been reverberated up the wind god’s private line. Would anyone
        believe  him?  His—presumably  you  have  a  male  in  mind,  Brad—
        disillusionment,  no  matter  how  vociferously  expressed,  could  be
        easily  stifled  by  the  elders.  Soon  he would  become  aware  of  two
        choices: leave the tribe and its security, or keep quiet and not rock
        the  boat.  The  latter  response,  indeed,  may  be  the  counsel  of  his
        parents,  if  not  his  peers.  A  rebellion,  in  this  harsh  environment,
        should  it  lead  to  internecine  warfare,  would  be  disastrous  for  all.
        Few would be willing to start up against the priests. So, given the
        predilection of the ignorant for unscientific accretion of myth upon
        myth, this could work like the Middle Ages when some naïf would
        have a vision and the ecclesiastical authorities could only respond
        by  folding  it  into  existing  dogma.  Is  that  a  big  enough  twist  for
        you?”
          “Ah,  well,”  mumbled  Razeberry.  “It  has  the  ring  of
        verisimilitude  and  the  sour  note  of  satire—as  well  as  a  whiff  of
        familiarity. Anyone else?”
          “It seems to me,” said Leith Mauker, “that such cults, at least in
        the imagination of we moderns, aren’t worth their salt unless they
        demand a human sacrifice on occasion to slake the thirst and satisfy
        the appetite of their hungry gods. The kid is doomed the minute he
        opens his mouth to tell what he saw. The shamans are always alert
        to the signs of the Chosen One, as such hero-victims are known
        nowadays.  The  wind  god  cannot  be  permitted  to talk  to  just any
        Tom, Dick or Harry. It seems like win-win for the priests: eliminate
        competition  and  make  a  larger  offering  than  usual  to  the  only
        power in town worth placating. Or the youth could be accused of
        serious apostasy or possession by the malevolent earth demons; or

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