Moving Pictures

trouble ahead—” he began, the words flowing straight from somewhere else into his vocal chords.
    He took Ruby’s hand. A gold-tipped cane hit his left ear. A black silk hat materialized at high speed and bounced off his elbow. He ignored them.
    “But while dere moonlight, an’ music—”
    He faltered. The golden words were fading. The walls came back. The tables reappeared. The sequins flared and died.
    “Um,” said Detritus, suddenly.
    She was watching him intently.
    “Ur. Sorry,” he said. “Dunno what come over me, there.”
    Harga strode up to the table.
    “What was all that—” he began. Without shifting her gaze, Ruby shot out a treetrunk arm, spun him around, and pushed him through the wall.
    “Kiss me, you mad fool,” she said.
    Detritus’ brow wrinkled. “What?” he said.
    Ruby sighed. Well, so much for the human way.
    She picked up a chair and hit him scientifically over the head with it. A smile spread across his face, and he slumped forward.
    She picked him up easily and slung him over her shoulder. If Ruby had learned anything in Holy Wood, it was that there was no use in waiting around for Mr. Right to hit you with a brick. You had to make your own bricks.

    Click…
    In a dwarf mine miles and miles from the loam of Ankh-Morpork, a very angry overseer banged on his shovel for silence and spoke thusly:
    “I want to make this absolutely clear, right? One more, and I really mean it, one more, right? just one more Hiho-hiho out of you bloody lawn ornaments and it’s double-headed axe time, OK? We’re dwarfs , godsdammit. So act like them. And that includes you, Dozy!”

    Click…
    Make-my-day, Call-me-Mr-Thumpy hopped to the top of the dune and peered over. Then he slid back down again.
    “All clear,” he reported. “No humans. Just ruins.”
    “A playshe of our own,” said the cat, happily. “A playshe where all animals, regardlesh of shape or speciesh, can live together in perfect—”
    The duck quacked.
    “The duck says,” said Call-me-Mr-Thumpy-and-die, “it’s got to be worth a try. If we’re going to be sapient, we might as well get good at it. Come on.”
    Then he shivered. There had been something like a faint tang of static electricity. For a moment the little area in the sand dunes wavered as in a heat haze.
    The duck quacked again.
    Not-Mr-Thumpy wrinkled his nose. It was suddenly hard to concentrate.
    “The duck says,” he wavered, “the duck says…says…the duck…says…says…quack…?”
    The cat looked at the mouse.
    “Miaow?” it said.
    The mouse shrugged. “Squeak,” it commented.
    The rabbit wrinkled its nose uncertainly.
    The duck squinted at the cat. The cat stared at the rabbit. The mouse peered at the duck.
    The duck rocketed upward. The rabbit became a fast-disappearing cloud of sand. The mouse tore over the dunes. And, feeling a lot happier than it had done for weeks, the cat ran after it.

    Click…
    Ginger and Victor sat at a table in the corner of the Mended Drum. Eventually Ginger said: “They were good dogs.”
    “Yes,” said Victor, distantly.
    “Morry and Rock have been digging through the rubble for ages . They said there’s all kind of cellars and things down there. I’m sorry.”
    “Yes.”
    “Maybe we ought to put up a statue to them, or something.”
    “I’m not sure about that,” said Victor. “I mean, considering what dogs do to statues. Maybe dogs dying is all part of Holy Wood. I don’t know.”
    Ginger traced the outline of a knothole on the tabletop.
    “It’s all over now,” she said. “You do know that, don’t you? No more Holy Wood. It’s all over.”
    “Yes.”
    “The Patrician and the wizards won’t let anyone make anymore clicks. The Patrician was very definite about it.”
    “I don’t think anyone wants to make any,” said Victor.
    “Who’s going to remember Holy Wood now?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Those old priests built a kind of half-baked religion around it. They forgot all about what it really was. That didn’t matter, though. I don’t think you need chants and fires. You just need to remember Holy Wood. We need someone to remember Holy Wood really well .”
    “Yeah,” said Ginger, grinning. “You’d need a thousand elephants.”
    “Yeah.” Victor laughed. “Poor old Dibbler,” he said. “He never got them, either…”
    Ginger moved a fragment of potato around and around on her plate. There was something on her mind, and it wasn’t food.
    “But it was great,