He looked out of the window. It was blue out there, with the thick fluffy clouds below looking substantial enough to walk on. Although, even Plunk knew better than to try that… now. As his assigned guardian angel, Betty, had said after she’d saved him, ‘even you gods are not that immortal.’
Plunk remembered, shivering. It was a long way down back to the planet surface that was once all he’d known. At the time, after falling through the deceptive solidity of the clouds, Plunk knew that the speed he was approaching that surface he would make quite a mess. He’d once dropped a box of ripe fruit from the upper storey of the barn by accident. Now he knew how soft how delicate living beings were, despite how solid they looked. They were too easily broken.
Plunk shivered again as he remembered what happened to the last weather god, the one he’d been press-ganged into replacing. The people had grown so tired of the constant rain. People who spend their lives either soaking wet or damp do eventually run out of patience, especially when the crops fail for another consecutive summer.
Unless he got the hang of the weather, and soon, Plunk knew that he too would be summoned by the damp and angry priests. He too would be forced to face the wrath of the people he was supposed to work for.
The rest of the gods were getting worried. Even Stanley, the god of postage stamps, was concerned about the growing lack of faith in the gods. Stanley had the least to worry about as the planet over which they ruled had yet to invent Post Offices, let alone a postal system.
The other gods though, would chuckle together whenever Stanley the god of stamps appeared. They knew that, in time, the people on the planet below would invent a postal system, and then Stanley would undoubtedly face their wrath.
There was already talk of streamlining the celestial operation, a call to phase out some of the older gods. Gods like the god of pointed sticks, a senile old fool who would corner anyone in the heavens to warn them of the dangers of flint.
Plunk returned to his… it was called a desk. He thought it looked like a workbench a carpenter would use, except for the strange tools, devices and machines that littered it surface. There was paper everywhere, most of it with lots of words. Betty was trying to teach Plunk to read. But as yet he’d only managed the basics of reading. This celestial realm had a bureaucratic language all of its own that bore hardly any relation to the language Plunk was used to, which as a former farmer, was high in the use of swearwords and had little call for precise bureaucratic legalese.
He looked across the desk at what was called a monitor. As far as he could work out it was some sort of window that looked out on the world below. The world below was grey, damp and it was raining – as usual. Betty said the technical bods (whatever they were – some sort of demon, he presumed) in the weather god’s department were working on a glitch in a new system they’d installed to stop the planet overheating, which meant it now rained all the time.
Plunk just hoped they fixed it before he was summoned back to the surface to face the angry populace. He remembered what happened to the last weather god. It would make falling through a cloud seem like a holiday.