Soul Music - Library

Susan opened another door and stepped into the library. It was a room even bigger than the hall of lifetimers. Bookcases rose like cliffs; a haze obscured the ceiling.

But of course it'd be childish, she told herself, to think that she could go in waving the scythe like a magic wand and turn the world into a better place overnight. It might take some time.

So she should start in a small way and work up. She held out a hand.

'I'm not going to do the voice,' she said. 'That's just unnecessary drama and really a bit stupid. I just want the book of Imp y Celyn, thank you very much.'

Around her the busyness of the library went on. Millions of books quietly carried on writing themselves, causing a rustle like that of cockroaches. She remembered sitting on a knee or, rather, sitting on a cushion on a knee, because the knee itself had been out of the question. Watching a bony finger follow the letters as they formed on the page. She'd learned to read her own life-

'I'm waiting,' said Susan meaningfully. She clenched her fists. IMP Y CELYN, she said.

The book appeared in front of her. She just managed to catch it before it fluttered to the floor. 'Thank you,' she said.

She flicked through the pages of his life until she came to the last one, and stared. Then she hastily went back until she found, written neatly down, his death in the Drum. It was all there - all untrue. He hadn't died. The book was lying. Or - and this she knew was a far more accurate way of looking at it - the book was true and reality was lying. 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?

***

Soul Music - p124-125