Soul Music

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 rollup 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.

'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 one-ness 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.

'Ah-ha, 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 TOMMOROW. 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 looked around irritably. The acolytes had arrived.

'Just a minute, I'm talking to—'

The stranger had gone.

'Oh, master, we have travelled 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