Moving Pictures (11 page)

Dibbler was asleep in his canvas chair with a handkerchief over his face. But Silverfish was wide awake.

“Where have you two been?” he shouted.

“I was hungry,” said Victor.

“And you’ll jolly well
stay
hungry, my lad, because—”

Dibbler lifted the corner of his handkerchief.

“Let’s get started,” he muttered.

“But we can’t have performers telling us—”

“Finish the click, and
then
sack him,” said Dibbler.

“Right!” Silverfish waved a threatening finger at Victor and Ginger. “You’ll never work in this town again!”

They got through the afternoon somehow. Dibbler made them bring a horse in, and cursed the handleman because the picture box still couldn’t be moved around. The demons complained. So they put the horse head-on in front of the box and Victor bounced up and down in the saddle. As Dibbler said, it was good enough for moving pictures.

Afterward, Silverfish very grudgingly paid them two dollars each and dismissed them.

“He’ll tell all the other alchemists,” said Ginger dispiritedly. “They stick together like glue.”

“I notice we only get two dollars a day but the trolls get three,” said Victor. “Why’s that?”

“Because there aren’t so many trolls wanting to make moving pictures,” said Ginger. “And a good handleman can get six or seven dollars a day. Performers aren’t important.” She turned and glared at him.

“I was doing OK,” she said. “Nothing special, but OK. I was getting quite a lot of work. People thought I was reliable. I was building a career—”

“You can’t build a career on Holy Wood,” said Victor.

“That’s like building a house on a swamp. Nothing’s real.”

“I liked it! And now you’ve spoilt it all! And I’ll probably have to go back to a horrible little village you’ve probably never even heard of! Back to bloody milkmaiding! Thanks very much! Every time I see a cow’s arse, I’ll think of you!”

She stormed off in the direction of the town leaving Victor with the trolls. After a while Rock cleared his throat.

“You got anywhere to stay?” he said.

“I don’t think so,” said Victor, weakly.

“There’s never enough places to stay,” said Morry.

“I thought I might sleep on the beach,” said Victor. “It’s warm enough, after all. I think I really could do with a good rest. Good night.”

He tottered off in that direction.

The sun was setting, and a wind off the sea had cooled things a little. Around the darkening bulk of the hill the lights of Holy Wood were being lit. Holy Wood only relaxed in the darkness. When your raw material is daylight, you don’t waste it.

It was pleasant enough on the beach. No one much went there. The driftwood, cracked and salt-crusted, was no good for building. It was stacked in a long white row on the tide line.

Victor pulled together enough to make a fire, and lay back and watched the surf.

From the top of the next dune, hidden behind a dry clump of grass, Gaspode the Wonder Dog watched him thoughtfully.

It was two hours after midnight.

It
had them now, and poured joyfully out of the hill, poured its glitter into the world.

Holy Wood dreams…

It dreams for everyone.

In the hot breathless darkness of a clapboard shack, Ginger Withel dreamed of red carpets and cheering crowds. And a grating. She kept coming back to a grating, in the dream, where a rush of warm air blew up her skirts…

In the not much cooler darkness of a marginally more expensive shack, Silverfish the moving picturesmith dreamed of cheering crowds, and someone giving him a prize for the best moving picture ever made. It was a great big statue.

Out in the sand dunes Rock and Morry dozed fitfully, because trolls are night creatures by nature and sleeping in darkness bruised the instincts of eons. They dreamed of mountains.

Down on the beach, under the stars, Victor dreamed of pounding hooves, flowing robes, pirate ships, sword fights, chandeliers…

On the next dune, Gaspode the Wonder Dog slept with one eye open and dreamed of wolves.

But Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler was not dreaming, because he was not asleep.

It had been a long ride to Ankh-Morpork and he preferred selling horses to riding them, but he was there now.

The storms that so carefully avoided Holy Wood didn’t worry about Ankh-Morpork, and it was pouring with rain. That didn’t stop the city’s night life, though—it just made it damper.

There was nothing you couldn’t buy in Ankh-Morpork, even in the middle of the night. Dibbler had a lot of things to buy. He needed posters painted. He needed all sorts of things. Many of them involved ideas he’d had to invent in his head on the long ride, and now had to explain very carefully to other people. And he had to explain it fast.

The rain was a solid curtain when he finally staggered out into the gray light of dawn. The gutters overflowed. Along the rooftops, repulsive gargoyles threw up expertly over passers-by although, since it was now five a.m., the crowds had thinned out a bit.

Throat took a deep breath of the thick city air.
Real
air. You would have to go a long way to find air that was realer than Ankh-Morpork air. You could tell just by breathing it that other people had been doing the same thing for thousands of years.

For the first time in days he felt that he was thinking clearly. That was the strange thing about Holy Wood. When you were there it all seemed natural, it all seemed just what life was all about, but when you got away from it and looked back, it was like looking at a brilliant soap bubble. It was as though, when you were in Holy Wood, you weren’t quite the same person.

Well, Holy Wood was Holy Wood, and Ankh was Ankh, and Ankh was solid and proof, in Throat’s opinion, against any Holy Wood weirdness.

He splashed through the puddles, listening to the rain.

After a while he noticed, for the first time in his life, that it had a rhythm.

Funny. You could live in a city all your life, and you had to go away and come back again before you noticed the way the rain dripping off the gutters had a rhythm all its own: DUMdi-dum-dum, dumdi-dumdi-DUM-DUM…

A few minutes later Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs of the Night Watch were sharing a friendly roll-up in the shelter of a doorway and doing what the Night Watch was best at, which was keeping warm and dry and staying out of trouble.

They were the only witnesses to the manic figure which splashed down the dripping street, pirouetted through the puddles, grabbed a drainpipe to swing around the corner and, clicking its heels together merrily, disappeared from view.

Sgt. Colon handed the soggy dog-end back to his companion.

“Was that old Throat Dibbler?” he said after a while.

“Yeah,” said Nobby.

“He looked happy, didn’t he?”

“Must be off ’is nut, if you ask me,” said Nobby. “Singing in the rain like that.”

Whumm…whumm…

The Archchancellor, who had been updating his dragon stud book and enjoying a late night drink in front of the fire, looked up.

…whumm…whumm…whumm…

“Bigods!” he muttered, and wandered over to the big pot. It was actually wobbling from side to side, as if the building was shaking.

The Archchancellor watched, fascinated.

…whumm…whummwhumm
whummWHUMM
.

It wobbled to a standstill, and went silent.

“Odd,” said the Archchancellor. “Damned odd.”

Plib
.

On the other side of the room, his brandy decanter shattered.

Ridcully the Brown took a deep breath.

“Bur
saar
!”

Victor was woken up by sandflies. The air was already warm. It was going to be another fine day.

He waded out into the shallows to wash and clear his head.

Let’s see…he still had his two dollars from yesterday, plus a handful of pennies. He could afford to stay a while, especially if he slept on the beach. And Borgle’s stoo, while only food in the technical sense, was cheap enough—although, come to think of it, eating there might involve embarrassing encounters with Ginger.

He took another step, and sank.

Victor hadn’t swum in the sea before. He surfaced, half-drowned, treading water furiously. The beach was only a few yards away.

He relaxed, gave himself time to get his breath back, and swam a leisurely crawl out beyond the breakers. The water was crystal clear. He could see the bottom shelving away sharply to—he surfaced for a quick breath—a dim blueness in which it was just possible, through the teeming shoals of fish, to see the outline of pale, rectangular rocks scattered on the sand.

He tried a dive, fighting his way down until his ears clanged. The largest lobster he had ever seen waved its feelers at him from a rocky spire and snapped away into the depths.

Victor bobbed up again, gasping, and struck out for the shore.

Well, if you couldn’t make it in moving pictures there was an opening here for a fisherman, that was certain.

A beachcomber would do all right, as well. There was enough wind-dried firewood piled up on the edge of the dunes to keep Ankh-Morpork’s fires supplied for years. No one in Holy Wood would dream of lighting a fire except for cooking or company.

And someone had been doing just that. As he waded ashore Victor realized that the wood further along the beach had been stacked not haphazardly but apparently by design, in neat piles. Further along, stones had been stacked into a crude fireplace.

It was clogged with sand. Maybe someone else had been living on the beach, waiting for their big chance in moving pictures. Come to think of it, the timber behind the half-buried stones had a dragged-together look. You could imagine, looking at it from the sea, that several balks of timber had been set up to form an arched doorway.

Perhaps they were still there. Perhaps they might have something to drink.

They were, indeed, still there. But they hadn’t needed a drink for months.

It was eight in the morning. A thunderous knocking awoke Bezam Planter, owner of the
Odium
, one of Ankh-Morpork’s mushrooming crop of moving-picture pits.

He’d had a bad night. The people of Ankh-Morpork liked novelty. The trouble was that they didn’t like novelty for long. The
Odium
had done great business for a week, had broken even for the next week, and was now dying. The late showing last night had been patronized by one deaf dwarf and an orangutan, who’d brought along its own peanuts. Bezam relied on the sale of peanuts and banged grains for his profit, and wasn’t in a good mood.

He opened the door and stared out blearily.

“We’re shut ’til two o’clock,” he said. “Mat’nee. Come back then. Seats in all parts.”

He slammed the door. It rebounded off Throat Dibbler’s boot and hit Bezam on the nose.

“I’ve come about the special showing of
Sword of Passione
,” said Throat.

“Special showing? What special showing?”

“The special showing I’m about to tell you about,” said Throat.

“We ain’t showing nothin’ about any special passionate swords. We’re showin’
The Exciting
—”

“Mister Dibbler says yore showing
Sword of Passione
,” rumbled a voice.

Throat leaned against the doorway. Behind him was a slab of rock. It looked as though someone had been throwing steel balls at it for thirty years.

It creased in the middle and leaned down toward Bezam.

He recognized Detritus. Everyone recognized Detritus. He wasn’t a troll you forgot.

“But I haven’t even
heard
of—” Bezam began.

Throat pulled a large tin from under his coat, and grinned.

“And here are some posters,” he added, producing a fat white roll.

“Mister Dibbler let me stick some up on walls,” said Detritus proudly.

Bezam unrolled the poster. It was in eye-watering colors. It showed a picture of what might just possibly be Ginger pouting in a blouse too small for her, and Victor in the act of throwing her over one shoulder while fighting an assortment of monsters with the other hand. In the background, volcanoes were erupting, dragons were zooming through the sky, and cities were burning down.

“‘The Motione-Picture They Coud Not Banne!’,” read Bezam hesitantly. “‘A Scorching Adventure In the White-Hotte Dawne of A New Continont! A Mann and a Womann Throne Together in the Wherlpool of a World Gone Madde!! STARING **Delores De Syn** as The Woman and **Victor Maraschino** as Cohen the Barbarian!!! THRILS! ADVENTURE!! ELEPHANTS!!! Cominge Soone to A Pit nr. You!!!!’”

He read it again.

“Who’s Staring Delores De Syn?” he said, suspiciously.

“That’s
starring
,” said Throat. “That’s why we’ve put stars against their names, see.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice to a piercing whisper. “They do say,” he said, “that she’s the daughter of a Klatchian pirate and his wild, headstrong captive, and
he’s
the son of…the son of…a rogue wizard and a reckless gypsy flamenco dancer.”

“Cor!” said Bezam, impressed despite himself. Dibbler permitted himself a mental slap on the back. He’d been quite taken with it himself.

“I reckon you should start showing it in about an hour,” he said.

“At this time in the morning?” said Bezam. The click he had obtained for the day was
An Exciting Study of Pottery Making
, which had been worrying him. This seemed a much better proposition.

“Yes,” said Dibbler. “Because a lot of people are going to want to watch it.”

“I dunno about that,” said Bezam. “Houses have been falling off lately.”

“They’ll want to watch this one,” said Throat. “Trust me. Have I ever lied to you?”

Bezam scratched his head. “Well, one night last month you sold me a sausage in a bun and you said—”

“I was speaking rhetorically,” snapped Throat.

“Yeah,” said Detritus.

Bezam sagged. “Oh. Well. I dunno about rhetorically,” he said.

“Right,” said Throat, grinning like a predatory pumpkin.

“Just you open up, and you can sit back and rake in the money.”

“Oh. Good,” said Bezam weakly.

Throat put a friendly arm around the man’s shoulders.

“And now,” he said, “let’s talk about percentages.”

“What’re percentages?”

“Have a cigar,” said Throat.

Victor walked slowly up Holy Wood’s nameless main street. There was packed sand under his fingernails.

He wasn’t sure that he had done the right thing.

Probably the man had just been some old beachcomber who’d just gone to sleep one day and hadn’t woken up, although the stained red and gold coat was unusual beach-combing wear. It was hard to tell how long he’d been dead. The dryness and salt air had been a preservative; they’d preserved him just the way he must have looked when he was alive, which was like someone who was dead.

By the look of his hut, he’d beachcombed some odd stuff.

It had occurred to Victor that someone ought to be told, but there was probably no one in Holy Wood who would be interested. Probably only one person in the world had been interested in whether the old man lived or died, and he’d been the first to know.

Victor buried the body in the sand, landward of the driftwood hut.

He saw Borgle’s ahead of him. He’d risk breakfast there, he decided. Besides, he needed somewhere to sit down and read the book.

It wasn’t the sort of thing you expected to find on a beach, in a driftwood hut, clutched in the hand of a dead man.

On the cover were the words
The Boke of the Film
.

On the first page, in the neat around hand of someone to whom writing doesn’t come easily, were the further words: This is the Chroncal of the Keeprs of the ParaMountain coppied out by me Deccan Beacuase Of the old onne it being fallin Apart.

He turned the stiff pages carefully. They seemed to be crammed with almost identical entries. They were all undated, but that wasn’t very important, since one day had been pretty much like the other.

Gott up. Went to lavatry. Made up fire, announused the Matinee Performanse. Broke fast. Colected woode. Made up fire. Foraged on the hille. Chanted the Evening Performansee. Supper. Sed the Late-Nite Performanse chant. Wnet to lavatry. Bed.

Gott up. Went to lavatry. Made up fire, sed the Matinee Performanse. Broke fast. Crullet the fisherman from Jowser Cove have left 2 fyne see bass. Clected woode. Heralded the Evewning Performanse, made up fire. Howskeepeing. Supper. Chanted the Late Night performanse. Bed. Gott up at Midnigte, went to lavaotry, checked fire, but it was not Needful of Woode
.

He saw the waitress out of the tail of his eye.

“I’d like a boiled egg,” he said.

“It’s stew. Fish stew.”

He looked up into Ginger’s blazing eyes.

“I didn’t know you were a waitress,” he said.

She made a show of dusting the salt bowl. “Nor did I until yesterday,” she said. “Lucky for me Borgle’s regular morning girl got a chance in the new moving picture that Untied Alchemists are making, isn’t it?” She shrugged. “If I’m really lucky, who knows? I might get to do the afternoon shift too.”

“Look, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s stew. Take it or leave it. Three customers this morning have done both.”

“I’ll take it. Look, you won’t believe it, but I found this book in the hands of—”

“I’m not allowed to dally with customers. This isn’t the best job in town, but you’re not losing it for me,” snapped Ginger. “Fish stew, right?”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.”

He flicked backward through the pages. Before Deccan there was Tento, who also chanted three times a day and also sometimes received gifts of fish and also went to the lavatory, although either he wasn’t so assiduous about it as Deccan or hadn’t thought it always worth writing down. Before that, someone called Meggelin had been the chanter. A whole string of people had lived on the beach, and then if you went back further there was a group of them, and further still the entries had a more official feel. It was hard to tell. They seemed to be written in code, line after line of little complex pictures…

A bowl of primal soup was plonked down in front of him.

“Look,” he said. “What time do you get off—”

“Never,” said Ginger.

“I just wondered if you might know where—”

“No.”

Victor stared at the murky surface of the broth. Borgle worked on the principle that if you find it in water, it’s a fish. There was something purple in there and it had at least ten legs.

He ate it anyway. It was costing him thirty pence.

Then, with Ginger resolutely busying herself at the counter with her back to him lighthouse-fashion, so that however he tried to attract her attention her back was still facing him without her apparently moving, he went to look for another job.

Victor had never worked for anything in his life. In his experience, jobs were things that happened to other people.

Bezam Planter adjusted the tray around his wife’s neck.

“All right,” he said. “Got everything?”

“The banged grains have gone soft,” she said. “And there’s no way to keep the sausages hot.”

“It’ll be dark, love. No one’ll notice.” He tweaked the strap and stood back.

“There,” he said. “Now, you know what to do. Halfway through I’ll stop showing the film and put up the card that says ‘Why not Try a Cool Refreshinge Drinke and Some Banged Grains?’ and then you come out of the door over there and walk up the aisle.”

“You might as well mention cool refreshing sausages as well,” said Mrs. Planter.

“And I reckon you should stop using a torch to show people to their seats,” said Bezam. “You’re starting too many fires.”

“It’s the only way I can see in the dark,” she said.

“Yes, but I had to let that dwarf have his money back last night. You know how sensitive they are about their beards. Tell you what, love, I’ll give you a salamander in a cage. They’ve been on the roof since dawn, they should be nice and ready.”

They were. The creatures lay dozing in the bottom of their cages, their bodies vibrating gently as they absorbed the light. Bezam selected six of the ripest, climbed heavily back down to the projection room, and tipped them into the showing-box. He wound Throat Dibbler’s film onto a spool, and then peered out into the darkness.

Oh, well. Might as well see if there was anyone outside.

He shuffled to the front door, yawning.

He reached up, and slid the bolt.

He reached down, and slid the other bolt.

He pulled open the doors.

“All right, all right,” he grumbled. “Let’s be having you…”

He woke up in the projection room, with Mrs. Planter fanning him desperately with her apron.

“What happened?” he whispered, trying to put out of his mind the memories of trampling feet.

“It’s a full house!” she said. “And they’re still queueing up outside! They’re all down the street! It’s them disgusting posters!”

Bezam got up unsteadily but with determination.

“Woman, shut up and get down to the kitchen and bang some more grains!” he shouted. “And then come and help me repaint the signs! If they’re queueing for the fivepenny seats, they’ll queue for tenpence!”

He rolled up his sleeves and grasped the handle.

In the front row the Librarian sat with a bag of peanuts in his lap. After a few minutes he stopped chewing and sat with his mouth open, staring and staring and staring at the flickering images.

“Hold your horse, sir? Ma’am?”

“No!”

By mid-day Victor had earned tuppence. It wasn’t that people didn’t have horses that needed holding, it was just that they didn’t seem to want him to hold them.

Eventually a gnarled little man from further along the street sidled up to him, dragging four horses. Victor had been watching him for hours, in frank astonishment that anyone should give the wizened homunculus a kindly smile, let alone a horse. But he’d been doing a brisk trade, while Victor’s broad shoulders, handsome profile and honest, open smile were definitely a drawback in the horse-holding business.

“You’re new to this, right?” said the little man.

“Yes,” said Victor.

“Ah. I could tell. Waitin’ for yer big break in the clicks, right?” He grinned encouragingly.

“No. I’ve had my big break, in fact,” said Victor.

“Why you here then?”

Victor shrugged. “I broke it.”

“Ah, is that so? Yessir, thank’ee sir, godsblessyousir, rightchewaresir,” said the man, accepting another set of reins.

“I suppose you don’t need an assistant?” said Victor wistfully.

Bezam Planter stared at the pile of coins in front of him. Throat Dibbler moved his hands and it was a smaller pile of coins, but it was still a bigger pile of coins than Bezam had ever seen while in a waking state.

“And we’re still showing it every quarter of an hour!” breathed Bezam. “I’ve had to hire a boy to turn the handle! I don’t know, what should I do with all this money?”

Throat patted him on the shoulder.

“Buy bigger premises,” he said.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Bezam. “Yeah. Something with fancy pillars out in front. And my daughter Calliope plays the organ really nice, it’d make a good accompaniment. And there should be lots of gold paint and curly bits—”

His eyes glazed.

It had found another mind.

Holy Wood dreams.

—and make it a palace, like the fabulous Rhoxie in Klatch, or the richest temple there ever was, with slave girls to sell the banged grains and peanuts, and Bezam Planter walking about proprietorially in a red velvet jacket with gold string on it—

“Hmm?” he whispered, as the sweat beaded on his forehead.

“I said, I’m off,” said Throat. “Got to keep moving in the moving-picture business, you know.”

“Mrs. Planter says you’ve got to make more pictures with that young man,” said Bezam. “The whole city’s talking about him. She said several ladies swooned when he gave them that smouldery look. She watched it five times,” he added, his voice rimed with sudden suspicion. “And that girl! Wow!”

“Don’t you worry about a thing,” said Throat loftily. “I’ve got them under contr—”

Sudden doubt drifted across his face.

“See you,” he said shortly, and scurried out of the building.

Bezam stood alone and looked around at the cobwebbed interior of the
Odium
, his overheated imagination peopling its dark corners with potted palms, gold leaf and fat cherubs. Peanut shells and banged grain bags crunched under his feet. Have to get it cleaned up for the next house, he thought. I expect that monkey’ll be first in the queue again.

Then his eye fell on the poster for
Sword of Passione
. Amazing, really. There hadn’t been much in the way of elephants and volcanoes, and the monsters had been trolls with bits stuck on them, but in that close up…well…all the men had sighed, and then all the women had sighed…It was like magic. He grinned at the images of Victor and Ginger.

Wonder what those two’re doing now? he thought. Prob’ly eating caviar off of gold plates and lounging around up to their knees in velvet cushions, you bet.

“You look up to your knees in it, lad,” said the horse-holder.

“I’m afraid I’m not getting the hang of this horse-holding,” said Victor.

“Ah, ’tis a hard trade, horse-holding,” said the man. “It’s learning the proper grovelin’ and the irreverent-but-not-too-impudent cheery ’oss-’older’s banter. People don’t just want you to look after the ’oss, see. They want a ’oss-’olding hexperience.”

“They do?”

“They want an amusin’ encounter and a soup-son of repartee,” said the little man. “It’s not just a matter of ’oldin’ reins.”

Realization began to dawn on Victor.

“It’s a performance,” he said.

The ’oss-’older tapped the side of his strawberry-shaped nose.

“That’s right!” he said.

Torches flared in Holy Wood. Victor struggled through the crowds in the main street. Every bar, every tavern, every shop had its doors thrown open. A sea of people ebbed and flowed between them. Victor tried jumping up and down to search the mob of faces.

He was lonely and lost and hungry. He needed someone to talk to, and she wasn’t there.

“Victor!”

He spun around. Rock bore down on him like an avalanche.

“Victor! My friend!” A fist the size and hardness of a foundation stone pounded him playfully on the shoulder.

“Oh, hi,” said Victor weakly. “Er. How’s it going, Rock?”

“Great! Great! Tomorrow we shoot
Bad Menace of Troll Valley
!”

“I’m very happy for you,” said Victor.

“You my lucky human!” Rock boomed. “Rock! What a name! Come and have a drink!”

Victor accepted. He really didn’t have much of a choice, because Rock gripped his arm and, plowing through the crowds like an icebreaker, half-led, half-dragged him toward the nearest door.

A blue light illuminated a sign. Most Morporkians could read Troll, it was hardly a difficult language. The sharp runes spelled out
The Blue Lias
.

It was a troll bar.

The smoky glow from the furnaces beyond the slab counter was the only light. It illuminated three trolls playing—well, something percussive, but Victor couldn’t quite make out what because the decibel level was in realms where the sound was a solid force, and it made his eyeballs vibrate. The furnace smoke hid the ceiling.

“What you havin’?” roared Rock.

“I don’t have to drink molten metal, do I?” Victor quavered. He had to quaver at the top of his voice in order to be heard.

“We got all typer human drink!” shouted the female troll behind the bar. It had to be a female. There was no doubt about it. She looked slightly like the statues cavemen used to carve of fertility goddesses thousands of years ago, but mostly like a foothill. “We very cosmopolitan.”