Soul Music

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