Soul Music

the guitar strings hummed.
    “Without A Shirt,” said Glod.
    “What?” said Imp.
    “It’s just a bit of musical nonsense,” said Glod. “Like ‘Shave and a haircut, two pence’?”
    “Sorry?”
    Bam-bam-a-bambam, bam BAM .
    “Shave and haircut good value for two pence,” said Lias.
    Imp looked hard at the stones. Percussion wasn’t approved of in Llamedos either. The bards said that anyone could hit a rock or a hollow log with a stick. That wasn’t music . Besides, it was…and here they’d drop their voices…too animal .
    The guitar hummed. It seemed to pick up sounds.
    Imp suddenly had a nagging feeling that there was a lot you could do with percussion.
    “Can I try?” he said.
    He picked up the hammers. There was the faintest of tones from the guitar.
    Forty-five seconds later, he put down the hammers. The echoes died away.
    “Why did you hit me on the helmet at the end there?” said Glod, carefully.
    “Sorry,” said Imp. “I think I got carried away. I thought you were a cymbal.”
    “It was very…unusual,” said the troll.
    “The music’s…in the stones,” said Imp. “You just have to llet it out. There’s music in everything, if you know how to find it.”
    “Can I try dat riff?” said Lias. He took the hammers and shuffled around behind the stones again.
    A-bam-bop-a-re-bop-a-bim-bam-boom .
    “ What did you do to them?” he said. “They sound…wild.”
    “Sounded good to me,” said Glod. “Sounded a whole lot better.”
    Imp slept that night wedged between Glod’s very small bed and the bulk of Lias. After a while, he snored.
    Beside him, the strings hummed gently in harmony. Lulled by their almost imperceptible sound, he’d completely forgotten about the harp.

    Susan awoke. Something was tugging at her ear.
    She opened her eyes.
    SQUEAK?
    “Oh, nooo —”
    She sat up in bed. The rest of the girls were asleep. The window was open, because the school encouraged fresh air. It was available in large amounts for free.
    The skeletal rat leapt onto the window ledge and then, when it had made sure she was watching, jumped into the night.
    As Susan saw it, the world offered two choices. She could go back to bed, or she could follow the rat.
    Which would be a stupid thing to do. Soppy people in books did that sort of thing. They ended up in some idiot world with goblins and talking animals. And they were such sad, wet girls. They always let things happen to them, without making any effort . They just went around saying things like “My goodness me,” when it was obvious that any sensible human being could soon get the place properly organized.
    Actually, when you thought of it like that, it was tempting…The world held too much fluffy thinking. She always told herself that it was the job of people like Susan, if there were any more like her, to sort it out.
    She pulled on her dressing gown and climbed over the sill, holding on until the last moment and dropping into a flower bed.
    The rat was a tiny shape scurrying across the moonlit lawn. She followed it around to the stables, where it vanished somewhere in the shadows.
    As she stood feeling slightly chilly and more than slightly an idiot, it returned, dragging an object rather bigger than itself. The thing looked like a bundle of old rags.
    The skeletal rat walked around the side of it and gave the ragged bundle a good hard kick.
    “All right , all right !”
    The bundle opened one eye, which swiveled around wildly until it focused on Susan.
    “I warn you,” said the bundle, “I don’t do the N word.”
    “I’m sorry?” said Susan.
    The bundle rolled over, staggered upright, and extended two scruffy wings. The rat stopped kicking it.
    “’M a raven, aren’t I?” it said. “One of the few birds who speak. The first thing people say is, oh, you’re a raven, go on, say the N word…If I had a penny for every time that’s happened, I’d—”
    SQUEAK.
    “All right , all right .” The raven ruffled its feathers. “This thing here is the Death of Rats. Note the scythe and cowl, yes? Death of Rats. Very big in the rat world.”
    The Death of Rats bowed.
    “Tends to spend a lot of time under barns and anywhere people have put down a plate of bran laced with strychnine,” said the raven. “Very conscientious.”
    SQUEAK.
    “All right. What does it—he want with me?” said Susan. “I’m not a rat.”
    “Very perspicacious of you,” said the raven. “Look, I didn’t ask to do this, you know. I was