Moving Pictures

the Librarian shuffled along. Once or twice something heavy threw itself against a door, making the hinges rattle.
    There were noises.
    The orangutan stopped in front of an arched doorway that was blocked with a door made not of wood but of stone, balanced so that it could easily be opened from outside but could withstand massive pressure from within.
    He paused for a moment, and then reached into a little alcove and removed a mask of iron and smoked glass, which he put on, and a pair of heavy leather gloves reinforced with steel mesh. There was also a torch made of oil-soaked rags; he lit this from one of the flickering braziers in the tunnel.
    At the back of the alcove was a brass key.
    He took the key, and then he took a deep breath.
    All the Books of Power had their own particular natures. The Octavo was harsh and imperious. The Bumper Fun Grimoire went in for deadly practical jokes. The Joy of Tantric Sex had to be kept under iced water. The Librarian knew them all, and how to deal with them.
    This one was different. Usually people saw only tenth-or twelfth-hand copies, as like the real thing as a painting or an explosion was to, well, to an explosion. This was a book that had absorbed the sheer, graphite-gray evil of its subject matter.
    Its name was hacked in letters over the arch, lest men and apes forget.
    NECROTELICOMNICON.
    He put the key in the lock, and offered up a prayer to the gods.
    “Oook,” he said fervently. “Oook.”
    The door swung open.
    In the darkness within, a chain gave a faint clink.

    “She’s still breathing,” said Victor. Laddie leapt around them, barking furiously.
    “Maybe you should loosen her clothing or something,” said Gaspode. “It’s just a thought,” he added. “You don’t have to glare at me like that. I’m a dog, what do I know?”
    “She seems all right, but…look at her hands,” said Victor. “What the hell has she been trying to do?”
    “Tryin’ to open that door,” said Gaspode.
    “What door?”
    “That door there .”
    Part of the hill had slipped away. Huge blocks of masonry protruded from the sand. There were the stubs of ancient pillars, sticking up like fluoridated teeth.
    Between two of them was an arched doorway, three times as high as Victor. It was sealed with a pair of pale gray doors, either of stone or of wood that had become as hard as stone over the years. One of them was slightly open, but had been prevented from opening further by the drifts of sand in front of it. Frantically scrabbled furrows had been dug deep into the sand. Ginger had been trying to shift it with her bare hands.
    “Stupid thing to do in this heat,” said Victor, vaguely. He looked from the door to the sea, and then down at Gaspode.
    Laddie scrambled up the sand and barked excitedly at the crack between the doors.
    “What’s he doing that for?” said Victor, suddenly feeling spooked. “All his hair is standing up. You don’t think he’s got one of those mysterious animal premonitions of evil, do you?”
    “I think he’s a pillock,” said Gaspode. “Laddie shut up!”
    There was a yelp. Laddie recoiled from the door, lost his balance on the shifting sand, and rolled down the slope. He leapt to his feet and started barking again; not ordinary stupid-dog barking this time, but the genuine treed-cat variety.
    Victor leaned forward and touched the door.
    It felt very cold, despite the perpetual heat of Holy Wood, and there was just the faint suspicion of vibration.
    He ran his fingers over the surface. There was a roughness there, as though there had been a carving that had been worn into obscurity over the years.
    “A door like that,” said Gaspode, behind him, “a door like that, if you want my opinion, a door like that, a door like that,” he took a deep breath, “bodes.”
    “Hmm? What? Bodes what?”
    “It don’t have to bode anything,” said Gaspode. “Just basic bodingness is bad enough, take it from me.”
    “It must have been important. Looks a bit temple-ish,” said Victor. “Why’d she want to open it?”
    “Bits of cliff sliding down an’ mysterious doors appearin’,” said Gaspode, shaking his head. “That’s a lot of boding. Let’s go somewhere far away and really think about it, eh?”
    Ginger gave a groan. Victor crouched down.
    “What’d she say?”
    “Dunno,” said Gaspode.
    “It sounded like ‘I want to be a lawn,’ I thought?”
    “Daft. Touch of the sun there, I reckon,” said Gaspode