Moving Pictures

’cos I want to. Yeah.”
    Then he whined for a bit and shuffled into the shadows, where there was less chance of being seen.
    In the room above, Victor was standing facing the wall. This was humiliating. It had been bad enough bumping into a grinning Mrs. Cosmopilite on the stairs. She had given him a big smile and a complicated, elbow-intensive gesture that, he felt certain, sweet little old ladies shouldn’t know.
    There were clinks and the occasional rustle behind him as Ginger got ready for bed.
    “She’s really very nice. She told me yesterday that she had had four husbands,” said Ginger.
    “What did she do with the bones?” said Victor.
    “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” said Ginger, sniffing. “All right, you can turn around now. I’m in bed.”
    Victor relaxed, and turned round. Ginger had drawn the covers up to her neck and was holding them there like a besieged garrison manning the barricades.
    “You’ve got to promise me,” she said, “that if anything happens, you won’t try to take advantage of the situation.”
    Victor sighed. “I promise.”
    “It’s just that I’ve got a career to think about, you see.”
    “Yes, I see.”
    Victor sat by the lamp and took the book out of his pocket.
    “I’m not trying to be ungrateful or anything like that,” Ginger went on.
    Victor ruffled through the yellowing pages, looking for the place he’d got to. Scores of people had spent their lives by Holy Wood Hill, apparently just to keep a fire alight and chant three times a day. Why?
    “What are you reading?” said Ginger, after a while.
    “It’s an old book I found,” said Victor, shortly. “It’s about Holy Wood.”
    “Oh.”
    “I should get some sleep if I were you,” he said, twisting so that he could make out the crabby script in the lamp light.
    He heard her yawn.
    “Did I finish telling you about the dream?” she said.
    “I don’t think so,” said Victor, in what he hoped was a politely discouraging voice.
    “It always starts off with this mountain—”
    “Look, you really shouldn’t be talking—”
    “—and there are stars around it, you know, in the sky, but one of them comes down and it’s not a star at all, it’s a woman holding a torch over her head—”
    Victor slowly turned back to the front of the book.
    “Yes?” he said, carefully.
    “And she keeps on trying to tell me something, something I can’t make out, about waking something, and then there are a lot of lights and this roar, like a lion or a tiger or something, you know? And then I wake up.”
    Victor’s finger idly traced the outline of the mountain under the stars.
    “It’s probably just a dream,” he said. “It probably doesn’t mean anything.”
    Of course, Holy Wood Hill wasn’t pointed. But perhaps it was once, in the days when there had been a city where now there was a bay. Good grief. Something must have really hated this place.
    “You don’t remember anything else about the dream, by any chance?” he asked, with feigned casualness.
    There was no answer. He crept to the bed.
    She was asleep.
    He went back to the chair, which was promising to become annoyingly uncomfortable within half an hour, and turned down the lamp.
    Something in the hill. That was the danger.
    The more immediate danger was that he was going to fall asleep, too.
    He sat in the dark and worried. How did you wake up a sleepwalker, anyway? He recalled vaguely that it was said to be a very dangerous thing to do. There were stories about people dreaming about being executed and then, when someone had touched them on the shoulder to wake them up, their heads had fallen off. How anyone ever knew what a dead person had been dreaming wasn’t disclosed. Perhaps the ghost came back afterward and stood at the end of the bed, complaining.
    The chair creaked alarmingly as he shifted position. Perhaps if he stuck one leg out like this he could rest it on the end of the bed, so that even if he did fall asleep she wouldn’t be able to get past without waking him.
    Funny, really. For weeks he’d spent the days sweeping her up in his arms, defending her bravely from whatever it was Morry was dressed up as today, kissing her, and generally riding off into the sunset to live happily, and possibly even ecstatically, ever after. There was probably no one who’d ever watched one of the clicks who would possibly believe that he’d spend the night sitting in her room on a chair made out of splinters. Even he found