Soul Music

The name‑board over the livery stable parted from its last nail and landed in the dust.

" What I like about this life on the road," said Glod, "is the fascinating people and interesting places."

" I expect it comes alive at night," said Asphalt.

" Yes," said Cliff. "Yes, I can believe dat. Yes. Dis looks like the kind of town dat comes alive at night. Dis looks like the whole town should be buried at the crossroads with a stake through it."

" Talking of steak..." said Glod.

They looked at the tavern. The cracked and peeling sign just managed to convey the words 'The Jolly Cabbage'.

" I doubt it," said Asphalt.

There were people in the dimly lit tavern, sitting in sullen silence. The travellers were served by the inn­keeper, whose manner suggested that he hoped they died horribly just as soon as they left the premises. The beer tasted as if it was happy to connive at this state of affairs.

They huddled at one table, aware of the eyes on them.

" I've heard about places like this," whispered Glod. "You go into this little town with a name like Friendly or Amity, and next day you're spare ribs."

" Not me," said Cliff. "I'm too stony."

" Well, you're in the rockery, then," said the dwarf.

He looked around at a row of furrowed faces and raised his mug theatrically.

" Cabbages doing well?" he said. "I see in the fields they're nice and yellow. Ripe, eh? That's good, eh?"

" That's Root Fly, that is," said someone in the shadows.

" Good, good," said Glod. He was a dwarf. Dwarfs didn't farm.

" We don't like circuses in Scrote," said another voice. It was a slow, deep voice.

" We're not a circus," said Glod brightly. "We're musicians."

" We don't like musicians in Scrote," said another voice.

There seemed to be more and more figures in the gloom.

" Er... what do you like in Scrote?" said Asphalt.

" Well," said the barman, now a mere outline in the gathering darkness, "round about this time of year we generally have a barbecue down by the rockery."

Buddy sighed.

It was the first time he'd made a sound since they'd arrived in the town.

" I guess we'd better show them what we play," he said. There was a twang in his voice.

It was some time later.

Glod looked at the door handle. It was a door handle. You got hold of it with your hand. But what was supposed to happen next?

" Door handle," he said, in case that would help.

" Y'r sposed do s'ning w'vit," said Cliff, from somewhere near the floor.

Buddy leaned past the dwarf and turned the handle.

" Am'zing," said Glod, and stumbled forward. He levered himself off the floor and looked around.

" Wh's the?"

" The tavern keeper said we could stay here for free," said Buddy.

" S'mess," said Glod. "Some'ne fetch me a brm and a scr'bing brsh this min't."

Asphalt wobbled in, carrying the luggage and with Cliff's sack of rocks in his teeth. He dropped the lot on the floor.

" Well, that was astonishing, sir," he said. "The way you just went into that barn and said, and said... what was it you said?"

" Let's do the show right here," said Buddy, lying down on a straw mattress.

" Amazing! They must have been coming in from miles around!"

Buddy stared at the ceiling and played a few chords.

" And that barbecue!" said Asphalt, still radiating enthusiasm. "The sauce!"

" The be'f!" said Glod.

" The charcoal," murmured Cliff happily. There was a wide black ring around his mouth.

" And who'davthought," said Glod, "that you could brew a beer l'ke that outa cauliflowers?"

" Had a great head on it," said Cliff.

" I thought we were going to be in a bit of trouble there, before you played," said Asphalt, shaking the beetles out of another mattress. "I don't know how you got them dancing like that."

" Yes," said Buddy.

" And we din't even get paid," murmured Glod. He slumped back. Shortly there were snores, given a slightly metallic edge by the reverberation in his helmet.

When the others were asleep Buddy put the guitar down on the bed, quietly opened the door and crept downstairs and into the night.

It would have been nice if there had been a full moon. Or even a crescent. A full moon would have been better. But there was just a half‑moon, which never appears in romantic or occult paintings despite the fact that it is indeed the most magical phase.

There was a smell of stale beer, dying cabbages, barbecue embers and insufficient sanitation.

He leaned against Seth's livery stable. It shifted slightly.

It was fine when he was on stage or, as it had been tonight, on an old barn door set on a few bricks. Everything was in bright colours. He could feel white‑hot images arcing across his mind. His body felt as though it were on fire but also, and this was the important bit, as if it was meant to be on fire. He felt alive.

And then, afterwards, he felt dead.