Terry Pratchett: Soul Music

The flower‑bed erupted.

Modo had a brief vision of flames and something

arcing into the sky before his vision was blotted out by a rain of beads, feathers and soft black petals.

He shook his head, and ambled off to fetch his shovel.

" Sarge?"

" Yes, Nobby?"

" You know your teeth..."

" What teeth?"

" The teeth like in your mouth?"

" Oh, right. Yep. What about 'em?"

" How come they fit together at the back?"

There was a pause while Sergeant Colon prodded the recesses of his mouth with his tongue.

" It uh ah–" he began, and untangled himself. "Interesting observation, Nobby."

Nobby finished rolling a cigarette.

" Reckon we should shut the gates, sarge?"

" Might as well."

With the exact minimum amount of effort they swung the huge gates together. It wasn't much of a precaution. The keys had been lost a long time ago. Even the sign 'Thank you for Nott Invading Our City' was barely readable now.

" I reckon we should–" Colon began, and then peered down the street.

" What's that light?" he said. "And what's making that noise?"

Blue light glittered on the buildings at the end of the long street.

" Sounds like some kind of wild animal," said Corporal Nobbs.

The light resolved itself into two actinic blue lances.

Colon shaded his eyes.

" Looks like some kind of... horse or something."

" It's coming straight for the gates!"

The tortured roar bounced off the houses.

" Nobby, I don't think it's gonna stop!"

Corporal Nobbs threw himself flat against the wall. Colon, slightly more aware of the responsibilities of rank, waved his hands vaguely at the approaching light.

" Don't do it! Don't do it!"

And then picked himself up out of the mud.

Rose‑petals, feathers and sparks fell softly around him.

In front of him, a hole in the gates sparkled blue around the edges.

" That's old oak, that is," he said vaguely. "I just hope they don't make us pay for it out of our own money. Did you see who it was, Nobby? Nobby?"

Nobby edged carefully along the wall.

" He... he had a rose in his teeth, sarge."

" Yes, but would you recognize him if you saw him again?"

Nobby swallowed.

" If I didn't, sarge," he said, "it'd have to be one hell of an identity parade."

" I don't like this, Mr Glod! I don't like this!"

" Shut up and steer!"

" But this isn't the kind of road you're supposed to go fast on!"

" That's all right! You can't see where you're going anyway!"

The cart went around a corner on two wheels. It was starting to snow, a weak, wet snow that melted as soon as it hit the ground.

" But we're back in the hills! That's a drop down there! We'll go over the side!"

" You want Chrysoprase to catch us?"

" Giddyup, yah!"

Buddy and Cliff clung to the sides of the cart as it rocked from side to side into the darkness.

" Are they still behind us?" Glod yelled.

" Can't see anything!" shouted Cliff. "If you stopped the cart, maybe we could hear something?"

" Yeah, but suppose we heard something really up close?"

" Giddyup hiyah!"

" OK, so how about if we throw the money out?"

" FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS?"

Buddy looked over the edge of the cart. Darkness with a certain gulch‑like quality, a certain suggestion of depth, was a few feet from the side of the road.

The guitar twanged gently to the rhythm of the wheels. He picked it up in one hand. Strange how it was never silent. You couldn't silence it even by pressing on the strings heavily with both hands; he'd tried.

There was the harp beside it. The strings were absolutely silent.

" This is daft!" shouted Glod, from the front. "Slow down! You nearly had us over the side that time!"

Asphalt hauled on the reins. The cart slowed, eventually, to walking pace.

" That's better–"

The guitar screamed. The note was so high that it hit the ears like a needle. The horses jerked nervously in the shafts and then shot forward again.

" Hold them!"

" I am!"

Glod turned around, gripping the back of the seat.

" Throw that thing out!"

Buddy gripped the guitar and stood up, moving his arm back to hurl the thing into the gorge.

He hesitated.

" Throw it out!"

Cliff got to his feet and tried to take the guitar.

" No!"

Buddy whirled it around his head and caught the troll on the chin, knocking him backwards.

" No!"

" Glod, slow down–"

And a white horse was overtaking them. A hooded shape leaned over and grabbed the reins.

The cart hit a stone and was airborne for a mo­ment before crashing back down on the road. Asphalt heard the splintering of posts as the wheels smashed into the fence, saw the traces snap, felt the cart swing around...

... and stop.

So much happened later that Glod never did tell anyone about the sensation he had, that although the cart had definitely wedged itself uncertainly on the edge of the cliff it had also plunged on, tumbling over and over, towards the rocks...

Glod opened his eyes. The image tugged at him like a bad dream. But he'd been thrown across the cart as it skewed around, and his head was lying on the backboard.

He was looking straight into the gorge. Behind him, wood creaked.

Someone was holding on to his leg.

" Who's that?" he whispered, in case heavier words would send the cart over.

" It's me. Asphalt. Who's that holding on to my foot?"

" Me," said Cliff. "What're you holding on to, Glod?"

" Just... something my flailing hand happened to snatch at," said Glod.

The cart creaked again.

" It's the gold, isn't it?" said Asphalt. "Admit it. You're holding on to the gold."

" Idiot dwarf!" shouted Cliff. "Let it go or we're going to die!"

" Letting go of five thousand dollars is dying," said Glod.

" Fool! You can't take it with you!"

Asphalt scrambled for purchase on the wood. The cart shifted.

" It's going to be the other way around in a minute," he muttered.

" So who," said Cliff, as the cart sagged another inch, "is holding Buddy?"

There was a pause while the three counted their extremities and attachments thereto.

" I... er... think he might have gone over," said Glod.

Four chords rang out.

Buddy hung from a rear wheel, feet over the drop, and jerked as the music played an eight‑note riff on his soul.

Never age. Never die. Live for ever in that one last white‑hot moment, when the crowd screamed. When every note was a heartbeat. Burn across the sky.

You will never grow old. They will never say you died.

That's the deal. You will be the greatest musician in the world.

Live fast. Die young.

The music tugged at his soul.

Buddy's legs swung up slowly and touched the rocks of the cliff. He braced himself, eyes shut, and pulled at the wheel.

A hand touched his shoulder.

" No!"

Buddy's eyes snapped open.

He turned his head and looked into Susan's face, and then up at the cart.

" What... ?" he said, his voice slurred with shock.

He let go with one hand and fumbled clumsily for the guitar strap, slipping it off his shoulder. The strings howled as he gripped the guitar's neck and flung it into the darkness.

His other hand slipped on the freezing wheel, and he dropped into the gorge.

There was a white blur. He landed heavily on some­thing velvety and smelling of horse sweat.

Susan steadied him with her free hand as she urged Binky upwards through the sleet.

The horse alighted on the road, and Buddy slipped off into the mud. He raised himself on his elbows.

" You?"

" Me," said Susan.

Susan pulled the scythe out of its holster. The blade sprang out; snowflakes that fell on it split gently into two halves without a pause in their descent.