Discworld 16 - Soul Music

by Terry Pratchett

  Anyway, that was the incident of the midnight visitor. After a while, Susan considered that she must have imagined it. That was the only logical explanation. And Susan was good at those.

  Everyone, they say, is looking for something.

  Imp was looking for somewhere to go.

  The farm cart that had brought him the last stretch of the way was rumbling off across the fields.

  He looked at the signpost. One arm pointed to Quirm, the other to Ankh-Morpork. He knew just enough to know that Ankh-Morpork was a big city, but built on loam, and, therefore, of no interest to the druids in his family. He had three Ankh-Morpork dollars and some change. It probably wasn’t very much in Ankh-Morpork.

  He didn’t know anything about Quirm, except that it was on the coast. The road to Quirm didn’t look very worn, while the one to Ankh-Morpork was heavily rutted.

  It’d be sensible to go to Quirm to get the feel of city life. It’d be sensible to learn a bit about how city people thought before heading for Ankh-Morpork, which they said was the largest city in the world. It’d be sensible to get some kind of job in Quirm and raise a bit of extra cash. It’d be sensible to learn to walk before he started to run.

  Common sense told Imp all these things, so he marched off firmly toward Ankh-Morpork.

  As far as looks were concerned, Susan had always put people in mind of a dandelion on the point of telling the time. The College dressed its gels in a loose navy blue woolen smock that stretched from neck to just above the ankle—practical, healthy, and as attractive as a plank. The waistline was somewhere around knee level. Susan was beginning to fill it out, however, in accordance with the ancient rules hesitantly and erratically alluded to by Miss Delcross in Biology and Hygiene. Gels left her class with the vague feeling that they were supposed to marry a rabbit. (Susan had left with the feeling that the cardboard skeleton on the hook in the corner looked like someone she’d known…)

  It was her hair that made people stop and turn to watch her. It was pure white, except for a black streak. School regulations required that it be in two plaits, but it had an uncanny tendency to unravel itself and spring back into its preferred shape, like Medusa’s snakes.*

  And then there was the birthmark, if that’s what it was. It only showed up if she blushed, when three faint pale lines appeared up across her cheek and made it look exactly as though she’d been slapped. On the occasions when she was angry—and she was quite often angry, at the sheer stupidity of the world—they glowed.

  In theory it was, around now, Literature. Susan hated Literature. She’d much prefer to read a good book. Currently she had Wold’s Logic and Paradox open on her desk and was reading it with her chin in her hands.

  She listened with half an ear to what the rest of the class was doing.

  It was a poem about daffodils.

  Apparently the poet had liked them very much.

  Susan was quite stoic about this. It was a free country. People could like daffodils if they wanted to. They just should not, in Susan’s very definite and precise opinion, be allowed to take up more than a page to say so.

  She got on with her education. In her opinion, school kept on trying to interfere with it.

  Around her, the poet’s vision was taken apart with inexpert tools.

  The kitchen was built on the same gargantuan lines as the rest of the house. An army of cooks could get lost in it. The far walls were hidden in the shadows and the stovepipe, supported at intervals by soot-covered chains and bits of greasy rope, disappeared into the gloom somewhere a quarter of a mile above the floor. At least it did to the eye of the outsider.

  Albert spent his time in a small tiled patch big enough to contain the dresser, the table, and the stove. And a rocking chair.

  “When a man says ‘What’s it all about then, seriously, when you get right down to it?’ he’s in a bad way,” he said, rolling a cigarette. “So I don’t know what it means when he says it. It’s one of his fancies again.”

  The room’s only other occupant nodded. His mouth was full.

  “All that business with his daughter,” said Albert. “I mean…daughter? And then he heard about apprentices. Nothing would do but he had to go and get one! Hah! Nothing but trouble, that was. And you, too, come to think of it…you’re one of his fancies. No offense meant,” he added, aware of who he was talking to. “You worked out all right. You do a good job.”

  Another nod.

  “He always gets it wrong,” said Albert. “That’s the trouble. Like when he heard about Hogswatchnight? Remember that? We had to do the whole thing, the oak tree in a pot, the paper sausages, the pork dinner, him sitting there with a paper hat on saying IS THIS JOLLY? I made him a little desk ornament thing and he gave me a brick.”

  Albert put the cigarette to his lips. It had been expertly rolled. Only an expert could get a roll-up so thin and yet so soggy.

  “It was a good brick, mind. I’ve still got it somewhere.”

  SQUEAK, said the Death of Rats.

  “You put your finger on it, right enough,” said Albert. “At least, you would have done if you had a proper one. He always misses the point. You see, he can’t get over things. He can’t forget.”

  He sucked on the wretched homemade until his eyes watered.

  “‘What’s it all about, seriously, when you get right down to it?’” said Albert. “Oh, dear.”

  He glanced up at the kitchen clock, out of a special human kind of habit. It had never worked since Albert had bought it.

  “He’s normally in by this time,” he said. “I’d better do his tray. Can’t think what’s keeping him.”

  The holy man sat under a holy tree, legs crossed, hands on knees. He kept his eyes shut in order to focus better on the Infinite, and wore nothing but a loincloth in order to show his disdain of discly things.

  There was a wooden bowl in front of him.

  He was aware, after a while, that he was being watched. He opened one eye.

  There was an indistinct figure sitting a few feet away. Later on, he was sure that the figure had been of…someone. He couldn’t quite remember the description, but the person must certainly have had one. He was about…this tall, and sort of…definitely…

  EXCUSE ME.

  The holy man opened the other eye.

  “Yes, my son?” His brow wrinkled. “You are male, aren’t you?” he added.

  YOU TOOK A LOT OF FINDING. BUT I AM GOOD AT IT.

  “Yes?”

  I AM TOLD YOU KNOW EVERYTHING.

  The holy man opened the other eye.

  “The secret of existence is to disdain earthly ties, shun the chimera of material worth, and seek oneness with the Infinite,” he said. “And keep your thieving hands off my begging bowl.”

  The sight of the supplicant was giving him trouble.

  I’VE SEEN THE INFINITE, said the stranger. IT’S NOTHING SPECIAL.

  The holy man glanced around.

  “Don’t be daft,” he said. “You can’t see the Infinite. ’Cos it’s infinite.”

  I HAVE.

  “All right, what did it look like?”

  IT’S BLUE.

  The holy man shifted uneasily. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. A quick burst of the Infinite and a meaningful nudge in the direction of the begging bowl was how it was supposed to go.

  “’s black,” he muttered.

  NOT, said the stranger, WHEN SEEN FROM THE OUTSIDE. THE NIGHT SKY IS BLACK. BUT THAT IS JUST SPACE. INFINITY, HOWEVER, IS BLUE.

  “And I suppose you know what sound is made by one hand clapping, do you?” said the holy man nastily.

  YES. CL. THE OTHER HAND MAKES THE AP.

  “Aha, no, you’re wrong there,” said the holy man, back on firmer ground. He waved a skinny hand. “No sound, see?”

  THAT WASN’T A CLAP. THAT WAS JUST A WAVE.

  “It was a clap. I just wasn’t using both hands. What kind of blue, anyway?”

  YOU JUST WAVED. I DON’T CALL THAT VERY PHILOSOPHICAL
. DUCK EGG.

  The holy man glanced down the mountain. Several people were approaching. They had flowers in their hair and were carrying what looked very much like a bowl of rice.

  OR POSSIBLY EAU-DE-NIL.

  “Look, my son,” the holy man said hurriedly. “What exactly is it you want? I haven’t got all day.”

  YES, YOU HAVE. TAKE IT FROM ME.

  “What do you want?”

  WHY DO THINGS HAVE TO BE THE WAY THEY ARE?

  “Well—”

  YOU DON’T KNOW, DO YOU?

  “Not exactly. The whole thing is meant to be a mystery, see?”

  The stranger stared at the holy man for some time, causing the man to feel that his head had become transparent.

  THEN I WILL ASK YOU A SIMPLER QUESTION. HOW DO HUMANS FORGET?

  “Forget what?”

  FORGET ANYTHING. EVERYTHING.

  “It…er…it happens automatically.” The prospective acolytes had turned the bend on the mountain path. The holy man hastily picked up his begging bowl.

  “Let’s say this bowl is your memory,” he said, waving it vaguely. “It can only hold so much, see? New things come in, so old things must overflow—”

  NO. I REMEMBER EVERYTHING. EVERYTHING. DOORKNOBS. THE PLAY OF SUNLIGHT ON HAIR. THE SOUND OF LAUGHTER. FOOTSTEPS. EVERY LITTLE DETAIL. AS IF IT HAPPENED ONLY YESTERDAY. AS IF IT HAPPENED ONLY TOMORROW. EVERYTHING. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?

  The holy man scratched his gleaming bald head.

  “Traditionally,” he said, “the ways of forgetting include joining the Klatchian Foreign Legion, drinking the waters of some magical river, no one knows where it is, and imbibing vast amounts of alcohol.”

  AH, YES.

  “But alcohol debilitates the body and is a poison to the soul.”

  SOUNDS GOOD TO ME.

  “Master?”

  The holy man look around irritably. The acolytes had arrived.

  “Just a minute, I’m talking to—”

  He looked around. The stranger had gone.

  “Oh Master, we have traveled for many miles over—” said the acolyte.

  “Shut up a minute, will you?”

  The holy man put out his hand, palm turned vertical, and waved it a few times. He muttered under his breath.

  The acolytes exchanged glances. They hadn’t expected this. Finally, their leader found a drop of courage.

  “Master—”

  The holy man turned and caught him across the ear. The sound this made was definitely a clap.

  “Ah! Got it!” said the holy man. “Now, what can I do for—”

  He stopped as his brain caught up with his ears.

  “What did he mean, humans?”

  Death walked thoughtfully across the hill to the place where a large white horse was placidly watching the view.

  He said, GO AWAY.

  The horse watched him warily. It was considerably more intelligent than most horses, although this was not a difficult achievement. It seemed aware that things weren’t right with its master.

  I MAY BE SOME TIME, said Death.

  And he set out.

  It wasn’t raining in Ankh-Morpork. This had come as a big surprise to Imp.

  What had also come as a surprise was how fast money went. So far he’d lost three dollars and twenty-seven pence.

  He’d lost it because he’d put it in a bowl in front of him while he played, in the same way that a hunter puts out decoys to get ducks. The next time he’d looked down it had gone.

  People came to Ankh-Morpork to seek their fortune. Unfortunately, other people sought it too.

  And people didn’t seem to want bards, even ones who’d won the mistletoe award and centennial harp in the big Eisteddfod in Llamedos.

  He’d found a place in one of the main squares, tuned up, and played. No one had taken any notice, except sometimes to push him out of the way as they hurried past and, apparently, to nick his bowl. Eventually, just when he was beginning to doubt that he’d made the right decision in coming here at all, a couple of watchmen had wandered up.

  “That’s a harp he’s playing, Nobby,” said one of them, after watching Imp for a while.

  “Lyre.”

  “No, it’s the honest truth, I’m—” The fat guard frowned and looked down.

  “You’ve just been waiting all your life to say that, ain’t you, Nobby,” he said. “I bet you was born hoping that one day someone’d say ‘That’s a harp’ so you could say ‘lyre,’ on account of it being a pun or play on words. Well, har har.”

  Imp stopped playing. It was impossible to continue, in the circumstances.

  “It is a harp, actualllly,” he said. “I won it in—”

  “Ah, you’re from Llamedos, right?” said the fat guard. “I can tell by your accent. Very musical people, the Llamedese.”

  “Sounds like garglin’ with gravel to me,” said the one identified as Nobby. “You got a license, mate?”

  “Llicense?” said Imp.

  “Very hot on licenses, the Guild of Musicians,” said Nobby. “They catch you playing music without a license, they take your instrument and they shove—”

  “Now, now,” said the other watchman, “Don’t go scaring the boy.”

  “Let’s just say it’s not much fun if you’re a piccolo player,” said Nobby.

  “But surelly music is as free as the air and the sky, see,” said Imp.

  “Not round here it’s not. Just a word to the wise, friend,” said Nobby.

  “I never ever heard of a Guilld of Musicians,” said Imp.

  “It’s in Tin Lid Alley,” said Nobby. “You want to be a musician, you got to join the Guild.”

  Imp had been brought up to obey the rules. The Llamedese were very law-abiding.

  “I shallll go there directlly,” he said.

  The guards watched him go.

  “He’s wearing a nightdress,” said Corporal Nobbs.

  “Bardic robe, Nobby,” said Sergeant Colon. The guards strolled onward. “Very bardic, the Llamedese.”

  “How long d’you give him, Sarge?”

  Colon waved a hand in the flat rocking motion of someone hazarding an informed guess.

  “Two, three days,” he said.

  They rounded the bulk of Unseen University and ambled along The Backs, a dusty little street that saw little traffic or passing trade and was therefore much favored by the Watch as a place to lurk and have a smoke and explore the realms of the mind.

  “You know salmon, Sarge,” said Nobby.

  “It is a fish of which I am aware, yes.”

  “You know they sell kind of slices of it in tins…”

  “So I am given to understand, yes.”

  “Weell…how come all the tins are the same size? Salmon gets thinner at both ends.”

  “Interesting point, Nobby. I think—”

  The watchman stopped, and stared across the street. Corporal Nobbs followed his gaze.

  “That shop,” said Sergeant Colon. “That shop there…was it there yesterday?”

  Nobby looked at the peeling paint, the little grime encrusted window, the rickety door.

  “’Course,” he said. “It’s always been there. Been there years.”

  Colon crossed the street and rubbed at the grime. There were dark shapes vaguely visible in the gloom.

  “Yeah, right,” he mumbled. “It’s just that…I mean…was it there for years yesterday?”

  “You all right, Sarge?”

  “Let’s go, Nobby,” said the sergeant, walking away as fast as he could.

  “Where, Sarge?”

  “Anywhere not here.”

  In the dark mounds of merchandise, something felt their departure.

  Imp had already admired the Guild buildings—the majestic frontage of the Assassins’ Guild, the splendid columns of the Thieves’ Guild, the smoking yet still impressive hole where the Alchemists’ Guild had been up until yesterday. And it was therefore disappointing to find that the Guild of Musicians, when he eve
ntually located it, wasn’t even a building. It was just a couple of poky rooms above a barbershop.

  He sat in the brown-walled waiting room, and waited. There was a sign on the wall opposite. It said ‘For Your Comforte And Convenience YOU WILL NOT SMOKE.’ Imp had never smoked in his life. Everything in Llamedos was too soggy to smoke. But he suddenly felt inclined to try.

  The room’s only other occupants were a troll and a dwarf. He was not at ease in their company. They kept looking at him.

  Finally the dwarf said, “Are you elvish?”

  “Me? No!”

  “You look a bit elvish around the hair.”

  “Not ellvish at alll. Honestlly.”

  “Where you from?” said the troll.

  “Llamedos,” said Imp. He shut his eyes. He knew what trolls and dwarfs traditionally did to people suspected of being elves. The Guild of Musicians could take lessons.

  “What dat you got dere?” said the troll. It had two large squares of darkish glass in front of its eyes, supported by wire frames hooked around its ears.

  “It’s a harp, see.”

  “Dat what you play?”

  “Yes.”

  “You a druid, den?”

  “No!”

  There was silence again as the troll marshaled its thoughts.

  “You look like a druid in dat nightie,” it rumbled, after a while.

  The dwarf on the other side of Imp began to snigger.

  Trolls disliked druids, too. Any sapient species which spends a lot of time in a stationary, rocklike pose objects to any other species which drags it sixty miles on rollers and buries it up to its knees in a circle. It tends to feel it has cause for disgruntlement.

  “Everyone dresses like this in Llamedos, see,” said Imp. “But I’m a bard! I’m not a druid. I hate rocks!”

  “Whoops,” said the dwarf quietly.

  The troll looked Imp up and down, slowly and deliberately. Then it said, without any particular trace of menace, “You not long in dis town?”

  “Just arrived,” said Imp. I won’t even reach the door, he thought. I’m going to be mashed into a pullp.