Moving Pictures

rolled a crusted yellow eye skyward.
    “Er. Where are we going?” said Victor.
    “We’re goin’ to see a few Holy Wood folk,” said Gaspode. “’Cos there’s something weird goin’ on.”
    “Up on the hill? I didn’t know there were any people on the hill.”
    “They ain’t people,” said Gaspode.

    A little twig fire burned on the slope of Holy Wood Hill. Victor had lit it because—well, because it was reassuring. Because it was the sort of thing humans did.
    He found it necessary to remember he was human, and probably not crazy.
    It wasn’t that he’d been talking to a dog. People often talked to dogs. The same applied to the cat. And maybe even the rabbit. It was the conversation with the mouse and the duck that might be considered odd.
    “You think we wanted to talk?” snapped the rabbit. “One minute I’m just another rabbit and happy about it, next minute whazaam , I’m thinking. That’s a major drawback if you’re looking for happiness as a rabbit, let me tell you. You want grass and sex, not thoughts like ‘What’s it all about, when you get right down to it?’”
    “Yeah, but at least you eats grass,” Gaspode pointed out.
    “At least grass don’t talk back at you. The last thing you needs when you’re hungry is a bloody ethical conundrum on your plate.”
    “You think you’ve got problems,” said the cat, apparently reading his mind. “ I’m reduched to eating fish. You put a paw on your dinner, it shoutsh ‘Help!’, you got a major predicament.”
    There was silence. They looked at Victor. So did the mouse. And the duck. The duck was looking particularly belligerent. It had probably heard about orange sauce.
    “Yeah. Take us,” said the mouse. “There’s me, being chased by this ,” it indicated the cat looming over it, “around the kitchen. Scrabble, scrabble, squeak, panic. Then there’s this sizzling noise in my head, I see a frying pan—you understand? A second ago I never knew what frying was, now I’m holding the handle, he comes around the corner, clang . Now he’s staggering around saying ‘What hit me?’ I say ‘Me.’ That’s when we both realize. We’re talking.”
    “Concheptualishing,” said the cat. It was a black cat, with white paws, ears like shotgun targets, and the scarred face of a cat that has already lived eight lives to the full.
    “You tell him, kid,” said the mouse.
    “Tell him what you did next,” said Gaspode.
    “We came here,” said the cat.
    “From Ankh-Morpork?” said Victor.
    “Yeah.”
    “That’s nearly thirty miles!”
    “Yeah, and take it from me,” said the cat, “it’s hard to hitch-hike when you’s a cat.”
    “See?” said Gaspode. “It’s happening all the time. All sorts are turnin’ up in Holy Wood. They don’t know why they’ve come, only that it’s important to be here. An’ they don’t act like they do anywhere else in the world. I bin watchin’. Somethin’ weird’s goin’ on.”
    The duck quacked. There were words in there somewhere, but so mangled by the incompatibility of beak and larynx that Victor couldn’t understand a word.
    The animals gave it a sympathetic audience.
    “What’s up, Duck?” said the rabbit.
    “The duck says,” translated Gaspode, “that it’s like a migratory thing. Just the same feelin’ as a migration, he says.”
    “Yeah? I didn’t have far to come,” the rabbit volunteered.
    “We lived on the dunes anyway.” It sighed. “For three happy years and four miserable days,” it added.
    A thought struck Victor. “So you’d know about the old man on the beach?” he said.
    “Oh, him. Yeah. Him. He was always coming up here.”
    “What sort of person was he?” said Victor.
    “Listen, buster, up to four days ago I had a vocabulary consisting of two verbs and one noun. What do you think I thought he was? All I know is, he didn’t bother us. We probably thought he was a rock on legs, or something.”
    Victor thought about the book in his pocket. Chanting and lighting fires. What sort of person did that?
    “I don’t know what’s going on,” he said. “I’d like to find out. Look, haven’t you got names? I feel awkward, talking to people without names.”
    “Only me,” said Gaspode. “Bein’ a dog. I’m named after the famous Gaspode, you know.”
    “A kid called me Puss once,” said the cat doubtfully.
    “I thought you had names in your own language,” said Victor. “You know, like ‘Mighty Paws’ or—or ‘Speedy