Moving Pictures

Hunter.’ Or something.”
    He smiled encouragingly.
    The others gave him a long blank stare.
    “He reads books,” explained Gaspode. “See, the thing is,” he added, scratching himself vigorously, “animals don’t normally bother with names. I mean, we know who we are.”
    “Mind you, I like ‘Speedy Hunter,’” said the mouse.
    “I was thinking that’s more a cat’s name,” said Victor, starting to sweat. “Mice have friendly little names, like—like Squeak.”
    “Squeak?” said the mouse, coldly.
    The rabbit grinned.
    “And, and I always thought rabbits were called Flopsy. Or Mr. Thumpy,” Victor gabbled.
    The rabbit stopped grinning and twitched its ears.
    “Now look , pal—” it began.
    “Y’know,” said Gaspode cheerfully, in an attempt to revive the conversation, “I heard there’s this legend where the first two people in the world named all the animals. Makes you fink, don’t it.”
    Victor pulled out the book to cover his embarrassment. Chanting and lighting fires. Three times a day.
    “This old man—” he began.
    “What’s so important about him?” said the rabbit. “He just used to come up onto the hill and make noises a couple of times every day. You could set your…your,” it hesitated. “It was always the same times. Many times a day.”
    “Three times. Three performances. Like a sort of theater?” said Victor, running his finger down the page.
    “We can’t count up to three,” said the rabbit sourly. “It goes one…many. Many times.” He glared at Victor. “Mr. Thumpy,” it said, in withering tones.
    “And people from other places brought him fish,” said Victor. “There’s no one else living near here. They must have come from miles away. People sailed miles just to bring him fish. It’s as though he didn’t want to eat fish out of the bay here. And it’s teeming with them. When I went swimming I saw lobsters you wouldn’t believe.”
    “What did you name them?” said Mr. Thumpy, who wasn’t the kind of rabbit that forgot a grudge. “Mr. Snappy?”
    “Yeah, I want this cleared up right now,” squeaked the mouse. “Back home I was top mouse. I could lick any other mouse in the house. I want a proper name, kid. Anyone calls me Squeaky Boots,” he looked up at Victor, “is asking for a head shaped like a frying pan, do I make myself clear?”
    The duck quacked at length.
    “Hold it,” said Gaspode. “The thing is, the duck says,” said Gaspode, “that all this is part of the same thing. Humans and trolls and everything coming here. Animals suddenly talking. The duck says he thinks it’s caused by something here.”
    “How does a duck know that?” said Victor.
    “Look, friend,” said the rabbit, “when you can fly all the way across the sea and even end up finding the same bloody continent , you can start badmouthing ducks.”
    “Oh,” said Victor. “You mean mysterious animal senses, yes?”
    They glared at him.
    “Anyway, it’s got to stop,” said Gaspode. “All this cogitatin’ and talkin’ is all right for you humans. You’re used to it. Fing is, see, someone’s got to find out what’s causin’ all this…”
    They carried on glaring at him.
    “Well,” he said, vaguely, “maybe the book can help? The early bits are in some sort of ancient language. I can’t—,” he paused. Wizards weren’t welcomed in Holy Wood. It probably wasn’t a good idea to mention the University, or his small part in it. “That is,” he continued, choosing his words with care, “I think I know someone in Ankh-Morpork who might be able to read it. He’s an animal, too. An ape.”
    “How’s he in the mysterious senses department?” said Gaspode.
    “He’s red hot on mysterious senses,” said Victor.
    “In that case—” said the rabbit.
    “Hold it,” said Gaspode. “Someone’s coming.”
    A moving torch was visible coming up the hill. The duck rocketed clumsily into the air and glided away. The others disappeared into the shadows. Only the dog didn’t move.
    “Aren’t you going to make yourself scarce?” Victor hissed.
    Gaspode raised an eyebrow.
    “Woof?” he said.
    The torch zig-zagged erratically among the scrub, like a firefly. Sometimes it would stop for a moment, and then wander away in some totally new direction. It was very bright.
    “What is it?” said Victor.
    Gaspode sniffed. “Human,” he said. “Female. Wearin’ cheap scent.” His nose twitched again. “It’s called Passion’s Plaything