Moving Pictures (17 page)

“Not really,” said Victor. “Everything looks interesting until you do it. Then you find it’s just another job. I bet even people like Cohen the Barbarian get up in the morning thinking, ‘Oh,
no
, not another day of crushing the jeweled thrones of the world beneath my sandalled feet.’”

“Is that what he does?” said Ginger, interested despite herself.

“According to the stories, yes.”

“Why?”

“Search me. It’s just a job, I guess.”

Ginger picked up a handful of sand. There were tiny white shells in it, which stayed behind as it trickled away between her fingers.

“I remember when the circus came to our village,” she said. “I was ten. There was this girl with spangled tights. She walked a tightrope. She could even do somersaults on it. Everybody cheered and clapped. They wouldn’t let
me
climb a tree, but they cheered
her
. That’s when I decided.”

“Ah,” said Victor, trying to keep up with the psychology of this. “You decided you wanted to be someone?”

“Don’t be silly. That’s when I decided I was going to be a lot more than just someone.”

She threw the shells toward the sunset and laughed. “I’m going to be the most famous person in the world, everyone will fall in love with me, and I shall live forever.”

“It’s always best to know your own mind,” said Victor diplomatically.

“You know what the greatest tragedy is in the whole world?” said Ginger, not paying him the least attention. “It’s all the people who never find out what it is they really want to do or what it is they’re really good at. It’s all the sons who become blacksmiths because their fathers were blacksmiths. It’s all the people who could be really fantastic flute players who grow old and die without ever seeing a musical instrument, so they become bad plowmen instead. It’s all the people with talents who never even find out. Maybe they are never even
born
in a time when it’s even possible to find out.”

She took a deep breath. “It’s all the people who never get to know what it is they can really be.
It’s all the wasted chances
. Well, Holy Wood is
my
chance, do you understand? This is my time for getting!”

Victor nodded. “Yes,” he said. Magic for ordinary people, Silverfish had called it. A man turned a handle, and your life got changed.

“And not just for me,” Ginger went on. “It’s a chance for all of
us
. The people who aren’t wizards and kings and heroes. Holy Wood’s like a big bubbling stew but this time different ingredients float to the top. Suddenly there’s all these
new
things for people to do. Do you know the theaters don’t allow women to act? But Holy Wood does. And in Holy Wood there’s jobs for trolls that don’t just involve hitting people. And what did the handlemen do before they had handles to turn?”

She waved a hand vaguely in the direction of Ankh-Morpork’s distant glow.

“Now they’re trying to find ways of adding sound to moving pictures,” she said, “and out
there
are people who’ll turn out to be amazingly good at making, making…making
soundies
. They don’t even know it yet—but they’re out there. I can feel them. They’re out there.”

Her eyes were glowing gold. It might just be the sunset, Victor thought, but…

“Because of Holy Wood, hundreds of people are finding out what it is they really want to be,” said Ginger. “And thousands and thousands are getting a chance to forget themselves for an hour or so. This whole damn world is being given a shake!”

“That’s it,” said Victor. “That’s what worries me. It’s as though we’re being slotted in. You think we’re using Holy Wood, but Holy Wood is using us. All of us.”

“How? Why?”

“I don’t know, but—”

“Look at wizards,” Ginger went on, vibrating with indignation. “What good has their magic ever done anyone?”

“I think it sort of holds the world together—” Victor began.

“They’re pretty good at magic flames and things, but can they make a loaf of bread?” Ginger wasn’t in the mood for listening to anyone.

“Not for very long,” said Victor helplessly.

“What does that mean?”

“Something
real
like a loaf of bread contains a lot of…well…I suppose you’d call it energy,” said Victor. “It takes a massive amount of power to create that amount of energy. You’d have to be a pretty good wizard to make a loaf that’d last in this world for more than a tiny part of a second. But that’s not what magic is really about, you see,” he added quickly, “because this world is—”

“Who cares?” said Ginger. “Holy Wood’s really doing things for ordinary people. Silver screen magic.”

“What’s come over you? Last night—”

“That was then,” said Ginger impatiently. “Don’t you see? We could be going somewhere. We could be becoming
someone
. Because of Holy Wood. The world is our—”

“Lobster,” said Victor.

She waved a hand irritably. “Any shellfish you like,” she said. “I was thinking of oysters, actually.”

“Were you? I was thinking of lobsters.”

“Bur
saar
!”

I shouldn’t have to run around like this at my age, thought the Bursar, scurrying down the corridor in answer to the Archchancellor’s bellow. Why’s he so interested in the damn thing, anyway? Wretched pot!

“Coming, Master,” he trilled.

The Archchancellor’s desk was covered with ancient documents.

When a wizard died, all his papers were stored in one of the outlying reaches of the Library. Shelf after shelf of quietly moldering documents, the haunt of mysterious beetles and dry rot, stretched away into an unguessable distance. Everyone kept telling everyone that there was a wealth of material here for researchers, if only someone could find the time to do it.

The Bursar was annoyed. He couldn’t find the Librarian anywhere. The ape never seemed to be around these days. He’d had to scrabble among the stuff
himself
.

“I think this is the last, Archchancellor,” he said, tipping an avalanche of dusty paperwork onto the desk. Ridcully flailed at a cloud of moths.

“Paper, paper, paper,” he muttered. “How many damn bits of paper in his stuff, eh?”

“Er…23,813, Archchancellor,” said the Bursar. “He kept a record.”

“Look at this,” said the Archchancellor. “‘Star Enumerator’…‘Rev Counter for Use in Ecclesiastical Areas’…‘Swamp Meter’…Swamp meter! The man was mad!”

“He had a very tidy mind,” said the Bursar.

“Same thing.”

“Is it, er, really important, Archchancellor?” the Bursar ventured.

“Damn thing shot pellets at me,” said Ridcully. “Twice!”

“I’m sure it wasn’t, er, intended—”

“I want to see how it was made, man! Just think of the sportin’ possibilities!”

The Bursar tried to think of the possibilities.

“I’m sure Riktor didn’t intend to make any kind of offensive device,” he ventured, hopelessly.

“Who gives a damn what
he
intended? Where is the thing now?”

“I had a couple of servants put sandbags around it.”

“Good idea. It’s—”

…whumm…whumm…

It was a muffled sound from the corridor. The two wizards exchanged a meaningful glance.

…whumm…
whumm
WHUMM.

The Bursar held his breath.

Plib

Plib.

Plib
.

The Archchancellor peered at the hourglass on the mantelpiece. “It’s doin’ it every five minutes now,” he said.

“And it’s up to three shots,” said the Bursar. “I’ll have to order some more sandbags.”

He flicked through a heap of paper. A word caught his eye.

Reality.

He glanced at the handwriting that flowed across the page. It had a very small, cramped, deliberate look. Someone had told him that this was because Numbers Riktor had been an anal retentive. The Bursar didn’t know what that meant, and hoped never to find out.

Another word was: Measurement. His gaze drifted upward, and took in the underlined title:
Some Notes on the Objective Measurement of Reality
.

Over the page was a diagram. The Bursar stared at it.

“Found anything?” said the Archchancellor, without looking up.

The Bursar shoved the paper up the sleeve of his robe.

“Nothing important,” he said.

Down below, the surf boomed on the beach. (…and below the surface, the lobsters walked backward along the deep, drowned streets…)

Victor threw another piece of driftwood onto the fire. It burned blue with salt.

“I don’t understand her,” he said. “Yesterday she was quite normal, today it’s all gone to her head.”

“Bitches!” said Gaspode, sympathetically.

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far,” said Victor. “She’s just aloof.”

“Loofs!” said Gaspode.

“That’s what intelligence does for your sex life,” said Don’t-call-me-Mr-Thumpy. “Rabbits never have that sort of trouble. Go, Sow, Thank You Doe.”

“You could try offering her a moushe,” said the cat.

“Preshent company exchepted, of course,” it added guiltily, trying to avoid Definitely-Not-Squeak’s glare.

“Being intelligent hasn’t done
my
social life any favors, either,” said Mr. Thumpy bitterly. “A week ago, no problems. Now suddenly I want to make conversation, and all they do is sit there wrinklin’ their noses at you. You feel a right idiot.”

There was a strangulated quacking.

“The duck says, have you done anything about the book?” said Gaspode.

“I had a look at it when we broke for lunch,” said Victor.

There was another irritable quack.

“The duck says, yes, but what have you
done
about it?” said Gaspode.

“Look, I can’t go all the way to Ankh-Morpork just like that,” snapped Victor. “It takes hours! We film all day as it is!”

“Ask for a day off,” said Mr. Thumpy.

“No one asks for a day off in Holy Wood!” said Victor.

“I’ve been fired once, thank you.”

“And he took you on again at more money,” said Gaspode.

“Funny, that.” He scratched an ear. “Tell him your contract says you can have a day off.”

“I haven’t got a contract. You
know
that. You work, you get paid. It’s simple.”

“Yeah,” said Gaspode. “Yeah. Yeah? A verbal contract. It’s simple. I
like
it.”

Toward the end of the night Detritus the troll lurked awkwardly in the shadows by the back door of the Blue Lias. Strange passions had wracked his body all day. Every time he’d shut his eyes he kept seeing a figure shaped like a small hillock.

He had to face up to it.

Detritus was in love.

Yes, he’d spent many years in Ankh-Morpork hitting people for money. Yes, it had been a friendless, brutalizing life. And a lonely one, too. He’d been resigned to an old-age of bitter bachelorhood and suddenly, now, Holy Wood was handing him a chance he’d never dreamed of.

He’d been strictly brought up and he could dimly remember the lecture he’d been given by his father when he was a young troll. If you saw a girl you liked, you didn’t just rush at her. There were proper ways to go about things.

He’d gone down to the beach and found a rock. But not any old rock. He’d searched carefully, and found a large sea-smoothed one with veins of pink and white quartz. Girls liked that sort of thing.

Now he waited, shyly, for her to finish work.

He tried to think of what he would say. No one had ever told him what to
say
. It wasn’t as if he was a smart troll like Rock or Morry, who had a way with words. Basically, he’d never needed much of what you might call a vocabulary. He kicked despondently at the sand. What chance did he have with a smart lady like her?

There was a thump of heavy feet, and the door opened. The object of desire stepped out into the night and took a deep breath, which had the same effect on Detritus as an ice cube down the neck.

He gave his rock a panicky look. It didn’t seem anything like big enough now, when you saw the size of her. But maybe it was what you did with it that mattered.

Well, this was it. They said you never forgot your first time…

He wound up his arm with the rock in it and hit her squarely between the eyes.

That’s when it all started to go wrong.

Tradition
said that the girl, when she was able to focus again, and if the rock was of an acceptable standard, should immediately be amenable to whatever the troll suggested, i.e., a candle-lit human for two, although of course that sort of thing wasn’t done anymore now, at least if there was any chance of being caught.

She shouldn’t narrow her eyes and catch him a ding across the ear that made his eyeballs rattle.

“You stupid troll!” she shouted, as Detritus staggered around in a circle. “What you do that for? You think I unsophisticated girl just off mountain? Why you not do it right?”

“But, but,” Detritus began, in terror at her rage, “I not able to ask father permission to hit you, not know where he living—”

Ruby drew herself up haughtily.

“All that old-fashioned stuff very uncultured now,” she sniffed. “It’s not the modern way. I not interested in any troll,” she added, “that not up-to-date. A rock on the head may be quite sentimental,” she went on, the certainty draining out of her voice as she surveyed the sentence ahead of her, “but diamonds are a girl’s best friend.” She hesitated. That didn’t sound right, even to her.

It certainly puzzled Detritus.

“What? You want I should knock my teeth out?” he said.

“Well, all right, not diamonds,” Ruby conceded. “But there proper modern ways now. You got to court a girl.”

Detritus brightened. “Ah, but I—” he began.

“That’s court, not caught,” said Ruby wearily. “You got to, to, to—” She paused.

She wasn’t all that sure what you had to do. But Ruby had spent some weeks in Holy Wood, and if Holy Wood did anything, it
changed
things; in Holy Wood she’d plugged into a vast cross-species female freemasonry she hadn’t suspected existed, and she was learning fast. She’d talked at length to sympathetic human girls. And dwarfs. Even
dwarfs
had better courtship rituals, for gods’ sake.
¹⁶
And what humans got up to was
amazing
.