Soul Music - Terry Pratchett [63]
What was more important was that from the moment of his death the book was writing music. Page after page had been covered with neat staves. While Susan watched, a clef drew itself in a series of careful loops.
What did it want? Why should it save his life?
And it was vitally important that she saved him instead. She could feel the certainty like a ball bearing in her mind. It was absolutely imperative. She’d never met him up close, she’d not exchanged a word with him, he was just one person, but it was him she had to save.
Grandfather had said she shouldn’t do that sort of thing. What did he know about anything? He’d never lived.
Blert Wheedown made guitars. It was quiet, satisfying work. It took him and Gibbsson, the apprentice, about five days to make a decent instrument, if the wood was available and properly seasoned. He was a conscientious man who’d devoted many years to the perfection of one type of musical instrument, on which he himself was no mean performer.
In his experience, guitarists came in three categories. There were the ones he thought of as real musicians, who worked at the Opera House or for one of the small private orchestras. There were the folk singers, who couldn’t play but that was all right because most of them couldn’t sing either. Then there were the—hemhem—troubadours and other swarthy types, who thought a guitar was, like a red rose in the teeth, a box of chocolates, and a strategically placed pair of socks, another weapon in the battle of the sexes. They didn’t play at all, apart from one or two chords, but they were regular customers. When leaping out of a bedroom window just ahead of an angry husband the one thing a paramour is least concerned about leaving behind is his instrument.
Blert thought he’d seen them all.
Mind you, first thing this morning he’d sold some to some wizards. That was unusual. Some of them had even bought Blert’s guitar primer.
The bell rang.
“Yes”—Blert looked at the customer, and made a huge mental effort—“sir?”
It wasn’t just the leather jerkin. It wasn’t just the wristbands with studs. It wasn’t just the broadsword. It wasn’t just the helmet with the spikes. It was the leather and the studs and the sword and the helmet. This customer couldn’t possibly be in categories one or two, Blert decided.
The figure stood looking uncertain, hands gripping convulsively, clearly not at home in a dialogue situation.
“This a guitar shop?” it said.
Blert looked around at the merchandise hanging from walls and ceiling.
“Er, yes?” he said.
“I wants one.”
As for category three, he didn’t look like someone used to bothering with chocolates or roses. Or even “hello.”
“Er…” Blurt grabbed one at random and held it out in front of him. “One like this?”
“I wants one that goes blam-Blam-blamma-BLAM-blammmm-oooiiieeee. Y’know?”
Blert looked down at the guitar. “I’m not sure it does that,” he said.
Two enormous black-nailed hands took it out of his grasp.
“Er, you’re holding it wro—”
“Got a mirror?”
“Er, no—”
One hairy hand was raised high in the air, and then plunged toward the strings.
Blert never wanted to repeat the next ten seconds. People shouldn’t be allowed to do that sort of thing to a defenseless musical instrument. It was like raising a little pony, feeding it and grooming it properly, plaiting ribbons in its tail. giving it a nice field with bunnies and daisies in it, and then watching the first rider take it out with spurs and a whip.
The thug played as if he were searching for something. He didn’t find it, but as the last discords faded away his features twisted into the determined expression of one who intends to go on looking.
“Yer, right. How much?” he said.
It was on sale for fifteen dollars. But Blert’s musical soul rebelled. He snapped.
“Twenty-five dollars,” was what he snapped.
“Yer, right.