Soul Music - Save

'Glod, slow down-'

And a white horse was overtaking them. A hooded shape leaned over and grabbed the reins. The cart hit a stone and was airborne for a moment before crashing back down on the road. Asphalt heard the splintering of posts as the wheels smashed into the fence, saw the traces snap, felt the cart swing around . . .

. . . and stop. So much happened later that Glod never did tell anyone about the sensation he had, that although the cart had definitely wedged itself uncertainly on the edge of the cliff it had also plunged on, tumbling over and over, towards the rocks . . .

Glod opened his eyes. The image tugged at him like a bad dream. But he'd been thrown across the cart as it skewed around, and his head was lying on the backboard. He was looking straight into the gorge. Behind him, wood creaked. Someone was holding on to his leg.

'Who's that?' he whispered, in case heavier words would send the cart over.

'It's me. Asphalt. Who's that holding on to my foot?'

'Me,' said Cliff. 'What're you holding on to, Glod?'

'Just . . . something my flailing hand happened to snatch at,' said Glod. The cart creaked again.

'It's the gold, isn't it?' said Asphalt. 'Admit it. You're holding on to the gold.'

'Idiot dwarf!' shouted Cliff. 'Let it go or we're going to die!'

'Letting go of five thousand dollars is dying,' said Glod.

'Fool! You can't take it with you!'

Asphalt scrambled for purchase on the wood. The cart shifted.

'It's going to be the other way around in a minute,' he muttered.

'So who,' said Cliff, as the cart sagged another inch, 'is holding Buddy?'

There was a pause while the three counted their extremities and attachments thereto.

'I . . . er . . . think he might have gone over,' said Glod.

Four chords rang out. Buddy hung from a rear wheel, feet over the drop, and jerked as the music played an eight- note riff on his soul. Never age. Never die. Live forever in that one last white-hot moment, when the crowd screamed. When every note was a heartbeat. Burn across the sky. You will never grow old. They will never say you died. That's the deal. You will be the greatest musician in the world. Live fast. Die young. The music tugged at his soul. Buddy's legs swung up slowly and touched the rocks of the cliff. He braced himself, eyes shut, and pulled at the wheel.

A hand touched his shoulder. 'No!' Buddy's eyes snapped open. He turned his head and looked into Susan's face, and then up at the cart.


'What . . . ?' he said, his voice slurred with shock.

He let go with one hand and fumbled clumsily for the guitar strap, slipping it off his shoulder. The strings howled as he gripped the guitar's neck and flung it into the darkness. His other hand slipped on the freezing wheel, and he dropped into the gorge. There was a white blur. He landed heavily on something velvety and smelling of horse sweat. Susan steadied him with her free hand as she urged Binky upwards through the sleet.

The horse alighted on the road, and Buddy slipped off into the mud. He raised himself on his elbows. 'You?'

'Me,' said Susan.

Susan pulled the scythe out of its holster. The blade sprang out; snowflakes that fell on it split gently into two halves without a pause in their descent.

'Let's get your friends, shall we?'

***

Soul Music - p240-241