Moving Pictures

a gong. He tapped it. Bits of corrosion fell off, but the metal shivered under the light blow and gave out another tinny rumble under his touch. Below it, now that his eyes were instinctively seeking it out, was a six-foot metal pole with a padded ball at one end.
    He grabbed it and heaved it off its supports. Or tried to, at least. It was rusted solidly in place.
    The Librarian positioned himself at the other end, caught Victor’s eye, and this time they hauled on it together. Flakes of rust dug into Victor’s hands.
    It was immovable. The gong hammer and its supports had been turned by time and salt air into one single metallic whole.
    Then time seemed to slow and became a series of frozen events in the flickering light, like moving pictures sliding through the box.
    Click .
    Detritus reached down over Victor’s head, grasped the hammer by its middle, and lifted it up, tearing the rusted supports out of the very rock.
    Click .
    They threw themselves flat as he gripped it in both hands, flexed his muscles, and took a swing at the gong.
    Click.
    Click.
    Click.
    Click .
    Caught in a series of tableaux, Detritus appeared to move instantly into… click …different but connected positions as he pivoted on one horny foot, the hammer head… click …making a bright arc in the darkness.
    Click .
    The impact knocked the gong so far backward that the chains broke, and it slammed against the wall of the pit.
    Sound came back quickly and in vast quantities, as though it had been dammed up somewhere and had then suddenly been released, to slosh joyfully back into the world and drown every eardrum.
    Booong.
    Click .

    The giant figure on the slab sat upright slowly, dust cascading off it in slow streams. Underneath it was gold, untarnished by the years.
    It moved slowly but deliberately, as though propelled by clockwork. One hand grasped the giant sword. The other gripped the edge of the slab to steady the figure as its long, tapering legs swung down to the ground.
    It stood upright, ten feet tall, rested its hands on the hilt of the sword, and halted. It didn’t look very much different from its posture on the slab, but this time there was an air of alertness about it, a sense of huge energies idly ticking over. It paid no attention at all to the four who had awoken it.
    The screen stopped its wild pulsating. Something had sensed the presence of the golden man and was focusing its attention on him. Which meant that it was temporarily removing it from elsewhere.
    There was a stirring from the audience. They were waking up.
    Victor grabbed the Librarian and Detritus.
    “You two,” he said. “Get everyone out of here. Get them out of here fast .”
    “Oook!”
    The Holy Wood people didn’t need much encouragement. Seeing the shapes on the screen clearly, without the cushion of hypnosis, was enough to make anything brainier than Detritus have a sudden urge to be a long way away. Victor could see them struggling over the seats, fighting to escape from the pit.
    Ginger started to follow them. Victor stopped her.
    “Not yet,” he said, quietly. “Not us.”
    “What do you mean?” she demanded.
    He shook his head. “We have to be the last ones out,” he said. “It’s all part of Holy Wood. You can use the magic, but it uses you, too. Besides, don’t you want to see how it all ends?”
    “I had rather hoped to see how it all ends from a long way off.”
    “OK, look at it another way…it’s going to take a couple of minutes for them to get out. We might as well have a clear run at it, eh?”
    They could hear shouts in the ante-chamber as the former audience piled into the tunnel.
    Victor walked up the suddenly-deserted aisle to the back row and sat down in a vacated seat.
    “I hope old Detritus is bright enough not to be left holding up the ceiling again,” he said.
    Ginger sighed, and sat down next to him.
    Victor put his feet up on the seat in front of him and fumbled in his pockets.
    “Would you like,” he said, “some banged grains?”
    The golden man was just visible under the screen. His head was bowed.
    “You know, he does look like my Uncle Oswald,” said Ginger.
    The screen went dark with such suddenness the inrushing blackness almost made a noise.
    This must have happened many times before, Victor thought. In dozens of universes. The wild idea arrives, and somehow the golden man, the Oswald or whatever, arises. To control it. Or something. Maybe wherever Holy Wood goes, Osric follows.
    A point of