Moving Pictures

purple light appeared, and grew faster very quickly. Victor felt that he was dropping down a tunnel.
    The golden figure raised its head.
    The light twisted, and took on random features. The screen wasn’t there anymore. This was something entering the world. It wasn’t an image at the other end of the hall, but something frantically trying to exist.
    The golden man drew back his sword.
    Victor shook Ginger’s shoulder.
    “I think this is where we leave,” he said.
    The sword connected. Golden light filled the cave.
    Victor and Ginger were already racing down the steps of the ante-chamber when the first shock hit. They stared at the tunnel’s empty mouth.
    “Not on your life,” said Ginger. “I’m not going to be trapped in there again.”
    The flooded stairs lay in front of them. Of course, they must connect to the sea, and really it was only a few yards away, but the water was inky black and, in Gaspode’s word, boding.
    “Can you swim?” said Victor. One of the cavern’s rotting pillars crashed down behind them. From the pit itself came a terrible wailing.
    “Not very well,” said Ginger.
    “Me neither,” he said. The commotion behind them was getting worse.
    “Still,” he said, taking her hand. “We could look on this as a great opportunity to improve really quickly .”
    They jumped.

    Victor surfaced fifty yards offshore, lungs bursting. Ginger erupted a few feet away. They trod water, and watched.
    The earth trembled.
    Holy Wood Town, built of unseasoned wood and short nails, was shaking apart. Houses folded down on themselves slowly, like packs of cards. Here and there small explosions indicated that stores of octo-cellulose were involved. Canvas cities and plaster mountains slid into ruin.
    And between it all, dodging the falling timber but letting nothing else stand in their way, the people of Holy Wood ran for their lives. Handlemen, actors, alchemists, imps, trolls, dwarfs—they ran like ants whose heap is ablaze, heads down, legs pumping, eyes fixed furiously on the horizon.
    A whole section of hill caved in.
    For a moment Victor thought he saw the huge golden figure of Osbert, as insubstantial as dust motes in a shaft of light, rise over Holy Wood and bring its sword around in one all-embracing sweep.
    Then it was gone.

    Victor helped Ginger ashore.
    They reached the main street, silent now except for the occasional creak and thud as another plank dropped off the half-collapsed buildings.
    They picked their way over fallen scenery and broken picture boxes.
    There was a crash behind them as the “Century of the Fruitbat” sign slipped off its moorings and thudded on the sand.
    They passed the remains of Borgle’s commissary, whose destruction had increased the average food quality of the entire world by a small but significant amount.
    They waded through unreeled clicks, flapping in the wind.
    They climbed over broken dreams.
    At the edge of what had been Holy Wood, Victor turned and looked back once.
    “Well, they were right at last,” he said. “You’ll never work in this town again.”
    There was a sob. To his surprise, Ginger was crying.
    He put his arm around her.
    “Come on,” he said. “I’ll walk you home.”

    Holy Wood’s own magic, now rootless and fading, crackled across the landscape, looking for pathways to earth itself:
    Click…
    It was early evening. The reddened light of the setting sun filled the windows of Harga’s House of Ribs, which was nearly deserted at this time of day.
    Detritus and Ruby sat awkwardly on human-size chairs.
    The only other person around was Sham Harga himself, smearing the dirt more evenly around the vacant tables with a cloth and whistling vaguely.
    “Ur,” Detritus ventured.
    “Yes?” said Ruby, expectantly.
    “Ur. Nuffin,” said Detritus. He felt out of place here, but Ruby had insisted. He kept feeling she wanted him to say something, but all he could think of was hitting her with a brick.
    Harga stopped whistling.
    Detritus felt his head twist around. His mouth opened.
    “Play it again, Sham,” said Holy Wood.
    There was a crashing chord. The back wall of the House of Ribs moved aside into whatever dimension these things go, and an indistinct but unmistakable orchestra occupied the space normally filled by Harga’s kitchen and the noisome alley behind it.
    Ruby’s dress became a waterfall of sequins. The other tables whirled away.
    Detritus adjusted an unexpected tuxedo, and cleared his throat.
    “Dere may being