Soul Music (42 page)

It made no real difference. Something like a soul flickered in the air where the missing pieces had been.

If you took a shining machine, and shone a light on it so that there were gleams and highlights, and then
took away the machine but left the light
 . . .

Only the horse's skull remained. That and the rear wheel, which spun in forks now only of flickering light, and was smouldering.

The thing whirred past Dibbler, causing his horse to throw him into the ditch and bolt.

Death was used to travelling fast. In theory he was already everywhere, waiting for almost anything else. The fastest way to travel is to be there already.

But he'd never been this fast while going this slow. The landscape had often been a blur, but never while it was only four inches from his knee on the bends.

The cart shifted again. Now even Cliff was looking down into the darkness.

Something touched his shoulder.

Buddy leaned past.

‘Glod, if you let go of the bag I can—'

‘Don't even think about it.'

‘There's no pockets in a shroud, Glod.'

‘You got the wrong tailor, then.'

In the end Buddy grabbed a spare leg and hauled. One at a time, clambering over one another, the Band eased themselves back on to the road. And turned to look at Susan.

‘White horse,' said Asphalt. ‘Black cloak. Scythe. Um.'

‘You can see her too?' said Buddy.

‘I hope we're not going to wish we couldn't,' said Cliff.

Susan held up a lifetimer and peered at it critically.

‘I suppose it's too late to cut some sort of deal?' said Glod.

‘I'm just looking to see if you're dead or not,' said Susan.

‘I
think
I'm alive,' said Glod.

‘Hold on to that thought.'

They turned at a creaking sound. The cart slid forward and dropped into the gorge. There was a crash as it hit an outcrop halfway to the bottom, and then a more distant thud as it smashed into the rocks. There was a ‘whoomph' and orange flames blossomed as the oil in the lamps exploded.

Out of the debris, trailing flame, rolled a burning wheel.

‘We would have been in dat,' said Cliff.

‘You think maybe we're better off now?' said Glod.

‘Yep,' said Cliff. ‘'Cos we're not dyin' in the wreckage of a burning cart.'

‘Yes, but she looks a bit . . . occult.'

‘Fine by me. I'll take occult over deep-fried any day.'

Behind them, Buddy turned to Susan.

‘I . . . think I've worked it out,' she said. ‘The music . . . twisted up history, I think. It's not supposed to be in
our
history. Can you remember where you got it from?'

Buddy just stared. When you've been saved from certain death by an attractive girl on a white horse, you don't expect a shopping quiz.

‘A shop in Ankh-Morpork,' said Cliff.

‘A mysterious old shop?'

‘Mysterious as anything. There—'

‘Did you go back? Was it still there? Was it in the same place?'

‘Yes,' said Cliff.

‘No,' said Glod.

‘Lots of interesting merchandise that you wanted to pick up and learn more about?'

‘Yes!' said Glod and Cliff together.

‘Oh,' said Susan, ‘
that
kind of shop.'

‘I knew it didn't belong here,' said Glod. ‘Didn't I say it didn't belong here? I
said
it didn't belong here. I
said
it was eldritch.'

‘I thought that meant oblong,' said Asphalt.

Cliff held out his hand.

‘It's stopped snowing,' he said.

‘I dropped the thing into the gorge,' said Buddy. ‘I . . . didn't need it any more. It must have smashed.'

‘No,' said Susan, ‘it's not as—'

‘The clouds . . . now
they
look eldritch,' said Glod, looking up.

‘What? Oblong?' said Asphalt.

They all felt it . . . a sensation that the walls had been removed from around the world. The air buzzed.

‘What's this now?' said Asphalt, as they instinctively huddled together.

‘You ought to know,' said Glod. ‘I thought you'd been everywhere and seen everything?'

White light crackled in the air.

And then the air became light, white as moonlight but as strong as sunlight. There was also a sound, like the roar of millions of voices.

It said:
Let me show you who I am. I am the music
.

Satchelmouth lit the coach-lamps.

‘Hurry up, man!' shouted Clete. ‘We want to
catch
them, you know! Hat. Hat. Hat.'

‘I don't see that it matters much if they get away,' Satchelmouth grumbled, climbing onto the coach as Clete lashed the horses into motion. ‘I mean, they're
away
. That's all that matters, isn't it?'

‘No! You saw them. They're the . . . the
soul
of all this trouble,' said Clete. ‘We can't let this sort of thing go on!'

Satchelmouth glanced sideways. The thought was flooding into his mind, and not for the first time, that Mr Clete was not playing with a full orchestra, that he was one of those people who built their own hot madness out of sane and chilly parts. Satchelmouth was by no means averse to the finger foxtrot and the skull fandango, but he'd never murdered anyone, at least on purpose. Satchelmouth had been made aware that he had a soul and, though it had a few holes in it and was a little ragged around the edges, he cherished the hope that some day the god Reg would find him a place in a celestial combo. You didn't get the best gigs if you were a murderer. You probably had to play the viola.

‘How about if we leave it right now?' he said. ‘They won't be back—'

‘Shut up!'

‘But there's no point—'

The horses reared. The coach rocked. Something went past in a blur and vanished in the darkness, leaving a line of blue flames that flickered for a little while, then went out.

Death was aware that at some point he would have to stop. But it was creeping up on him that, in whatever dark vocabulary the ghost machine had been envisaged, the words ‘slow down' were as inconceivable as ‘drive safely'.

It was not in its very nature to reduce speed in any circumstances other than the dramatically calamitous at the end of the third verse.

That was the trouble with Music With Rocks In. It liked to do things its own way.

Very slowly, still spinning, the front wheel rose off the ground.

Absolute darkness filled the universe.

A voice spake: ‘Is that you, Cliff?'

‘Yup.'

‘OK. Is this me: Glod?'

‘Yup. Sounds like you.'

‘Asphalt?'

‘'Sme.'

‘Buddy?'

‘Glod?'

‘And . . . er . . . the lady in black?'

‘Yes?'

‘Do you know where we are, miss?'

There was no ground under them. But Susan didn't feel that she was floating. She was simply standing. The fact that it was on nothing was a minor point. She wasn't falling because there was nowhere to fall to, or from.

She'd never been interested in geography. But she had a very strong feeling that this place was not locatable on any atlas.

‘I don't know where our
bodies
are,' she said, carefully.

‘Oh, good,' said the voice of Glod. ‘Really? I'm here, but we don't know where my body is? How about my money?'

There was the sound of faint footsteps far away in the darkness. They approached, slowly and deliberately. And stopped.

A voice said: One. One. One, two. One, two.

Then the footsteps went back into the distance.

After a while, another voice said: One, two, three, four—

And the universe came into being.

It was wrong to call it a big bang. That would just be noise, and all that noise could create is more noise and a cosmos full of random particles.

Matter exploded into being, apparently as chaos, but in fact as a chord. The ultimate power chord. Everything, all together, streaming out in one huge rush that contained within itself, like reverse fossils, everything that it was going to be.

And, zigzagging through the expanding cloud, alive, that first wild live music.

This
had shape. It had spin. It had rhythm. It had a beat, and you could dance to it.

Everything did.

A voice right inside Susan's head said:
And I will never die
.

She said, aloud: ‘There's a bit of you in everything that lives.'

Yes. I am the heart beat. The back beat
.

She still couldn't see the others. The light was streaming past her.

‘But he threw away the guitar.'

I wanted him to live for me
.

‘You wanted him to
die
for you! In the wreckage of the cart!'

What is the difference? He would be dead anyway. But to die in music . . . People will always remember the songs he never had the chance to sing. And they will be the greatest songs of all
.

Live your life in a moment
.

And then live for ever. Don't fade away
.

‘Send us back!'

You never left
.

She blinked. They were still on the road. The air flickered and crackled, and was full of wet snow.

She looked around into Buddy's horrified face.

‘We've got to get away—'

He held up a hand. It was transparent.

Cliff had almost vanished. Glod was trying to grip the handle of the money bag, but his fingers were slipping through it. His face was full of the terror of death or, possibly, of poverty.

Susan shouted: ‘He threw you away! That's not
fair
!'

A piercing blue light was heading up the road. No cart could move that fast. There was a roar like the scream of a camel who has just seen two bricks.

The light reached the bend, skidded, hit a rock and leapt into space over the gorge.

There was just time for a hollow voice to say
OH B
—

. . . before it hit the far wall in one great, spreading circle of flame.

Bones bounced and rolled down to the river-bed, and were still.

Susan spun around, scythe ready to swing. But the music was in the air. It had no soul to aim for.

You could say to the universe, this is not
fair
. And the universe would say: Oh, isn't it? Sorry.

You could save people. You could get there in the nick of time. And something could snap its fingers and say, no, it has to
be
this way. Let me tell you how it has to be. This is how the legend has to go.

She reached out and tried to take Buddy's hand. She could feel it, but only as a coldness.

‘Can you hear me?' she shouted, above the triumphant chords.

He nodded.

‘It's . . . it's like a legend! It
has
to happen! And I can't stop it – how can I kill something like music?'

She ran to the edge of the gorge. The cart was well on fire. They wouldn't appear in it. They would have
been
in it.

‘I can't stop it! It's not
fair
!'

She pounded at the air with her fists.

Blue flames flickered fitfully on the rocks of the dry river-bed.

A small fingerbone rolled across the stones until it came up against another, slightly larger bone.

A third bone tumbled off a rock and joined them.

In the semi-darkness there was a rattling among the stones and a handful of little white shapes bounced and tumbled between the rocks until a hand, index-finger reaching for the sky, rose into the night.

Then there was a series of deeper, more hollow noises as longer, larger things skipped end on end through the gloom.

‘I was going to make it better!' shouted Susan. ‘What's the good of being Death if you have to obey idiot rules all the time?'

As Susan turned, a toe-bone hopped across the mud and scuttled into place somewhere under Death's robe.

He strode forward, snatched the scythe from Susan and, in one movement, whirled it over his head and brought it down on the stone. The blade shattered.

He reached down and picked up a fragment. It glittered in his fingers like a tiny star of blue ice.

When the music spoke, the falling snow danced.

You can't kill me
.

Death reached into his robe, and brought out the guitar. Bits of it had broken off, but this didn't matter; the shape flickered in the air. The strings glowed.

Death took a stance that Crash would have died to achieve, and raised one hand. In his fingers the sliver glinted. If light could have made a noise, it would have flashed
ting
.

He wanted to be the greatest musician in the world. There has to be a law. Destiny runs its course
.

For once, Death appeared not to smile.

He brought his hand down on the strings.

There was no sound.

There was, instead, a cessation of sound, the end of a noise which Susan realized she'd been hearing all along. All the time. All her life. A kind of sound you never notice until it stops . . .