Picking the Ballad's Bones Read Online Free PDF Page B

for
attention. The resident border collie whined up at him, and the
custodian, thinking the animal wished to relieve itself, put it
out.
    And so the only other
being, besides the ghoul, who seemed to perceive Sir Walter
departed for a time, and the ghost sorely wished he had chains to
rattle or some other supernatural occupation, since it seemed the
natural ones were denied him. Really, he had always fancied the
supernatural without being particularly good at invoking or
explaining it in his own literature. Everyone said his ghosts were quite thin though not as thin as he
himself felt at the moment. He wished he had someone to advise him,
someone knowledgeable in the ways of otherwordly activity. Now, his
ancestor, Michael Scott the Wizard, would be an admirable advisor,
but unfortunately, even if the old necromancer was still cavorting
about on the plane nearest earth (and Walter had never particularly
fancied that the Wizard had been around even during Walter's own
lifetime), he was presumably under the same geographical-spiritual
restrictions that bound Sir Walter and could not go beyond his
grave and perhaps the tower where he had spent much of his life in
Scotland. Unfortunately, Sir Walter's Haliburton blood had entitled
him to be buried at the ruin of Dryburgh Abbey while his ancestor's
resting place was Melrose. Bloody inconvenient.
    The night returned and with it a
growing sense of what occurred around him, though he still had
great trouble telling if the occurrences were in the living world
or the other. One fairly persistent noise that came to his ear was
the keening of some musical instrument, playing now one tune, then
another. He wished he could hear the words. He dearly loved music
and it had always been a great disappointment to him that he was
virtually tone-deaf, though that had never spoiled his enjoyment of
a good song. He was, of course, a word man basically, and it was
lyrics that spoke to him most, though a catchy tune never hurt. He
caught familiar snatches of some of the tunes the instrument
played, although he didn't recognize other pieces. Focusing his
attention on the sound, he seemed to have a waking dream of a band
of weary and desperate people, among them a beautiful melancholy
lady, a woman with golden hair like so many damsels in distress he
on whose behalf he had once agitated his heroes. Her sadness
particularly caught his attention, but whether she was near or far
he could not tell and he passed the day in a state of perturbation.
What was the point of coming back to watch strangely dressed people
making rude remarks about the home he had built with such love and
care if he was to be impotent to do anything, or even to discover
what it was he was supposed to do? Or had his anger at finding his
library disturbed been somehow a test, his pride having called him
from heaven to intervene on behalf of his books and, having called
him forth, trapped him in this realm? What a sad pass that would
be!
    For the last two nights now, the
living music that haunted him from afar had kept him company, first
with a mournful tune, then with a wild and reckless one. He dimly
envisioned the band of travelers again, and tried to pay special
attention to the fair-tressed lady, thinking that if he could
perceive her and the music near her, perhaps she could perceive him
and the otherworldly comfort he had to offer, which he imagined
might possibly be somehow more potent than comfort of the worldly
kind, since when he was living, people always had seemed to set
great store by anything that came from beyond the pale.
    But instead of the woman he sought,
suddenly, as if someone had lit a fire, another image came to him,
of a flame-haired woman with a strumpet's laugh and a wild eye. She
wore trousers and a loose shirt, like many of the women who invaded
his home during the day, but he held her image longer than any of
the others. She seemed to be searching for something, calling
something, and once her questing