Soul Music

SOMETHING…
    By common agreement they’d called Death Mr. Scrub. He didn’t know why. On the other hand, he was among people who could hold a lengthy discussion with a door. There may have been a logical reason.
    The beggars spent their day wandering invisibly around the streets, where people who didn’t see them carefully circled out of their way and threw them the occasional coin. Mr. Scrub fitted in very well. When he asked for money, people found it hard to say no.

    Scrote didn’t even have a river. It existed simply because there’s only so much land you can have before you have to have something else.
    It had two streets in the form of a cross, one tavern, one seed store, one forge, a couple of barns and, in a gesture of originality, one livery stable called SETH’S LIVERY STABLE.
    Nothing moved. Even the flies were asleep. Long shadows were the only occupants of the streets.
    “I thought you said dis was a one-horse town,” said Cliff, as they pulled up in the rutted, puddled area that was probably glorified by the name of Town Square.
    “It must have died,” said Asphalt.
    Glod stood up in the cart and spread his arms wide. He yelled:
    “Hello, Scrote!”
    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 der kind of town dat comes alive at night. Dis looks like der whole town should be buried at dere 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 travelers 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 spareribs.”
    “Not me,” said Cliff. “I’m too stony.”
    “Well, you’re in the rockery, then,” said the dwarf. He looked round 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 sometime 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.
    “A’m’zing,” said Glod, and stumbled forward. He levered himself off the floor and looked around.
    “Wh’s ths?”
    “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