Soul Music - Terry Pratchett [5]
Albert spent his time in a small tiled patch big enough to contain the dresser, the table, and the stove. And a rocking chair.
“When a man says ‘What’s it all about then, seriously, when you get right down to it?’ he’s in a bad way,” he said, rolling a cigarette. “So I don’t know what it means when he says it. It’s one of his fancies again.”
The room’s only other occupant nodded. His mouth was full.
“All that business with his daughter,” said Albert. “I mean…daughter? And then he heard about apprentices. Nothing would do but he had to go and get one! Hah! Nothing but trouble, that was. And you, too, come to think of it…you’re one of his fancies. No offense meant,” he added, aware of who he was talking to. “You worked out all right. You do a good job.”
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 roll-up 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.
The holy man opened the other eye.
“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 oneness 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.
“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