Moving Pictures by Terry Pratchett Page A

that. Just like this song came into our heads, all at once. What d’you think of that?”
    “What song?” said Ginger.
    “Search me. We just call it the ‘Hiho’ song. That’s all it was. Hihohiho. Hihohiho.”
    “Sound like every other dwarf song I ever did hear,” rumbled the troll.

    It was past two o’clock when they got back to the moving-picture-making place. The handleman had the back off the picture box and was scraping at its floor with a small shovel.
    Dibbler was asleep in his canvas chair with a handkerchief over his face. But Silverfish was wide awake.
    “Where have you two been?” he shouted.
    “I was hungry,” said Victor.
    “And you’ll jolly well stay hungry, my lad, because—”
    Dibbler lifted the corner of his handkerchief.
    “Let’s get started,” he muttered.
    “But we can’t have performers telling us—”
    “Finish the click, and then sack him,” said Dibbler.
    “Right!” Silverfish waved a threatening finger at Victor and Ginger. “You’ll never work in this town again!”
    They got through the afternoon somehow. Dibbler made them bring a horse in, and cursed the handleman because the picture box still couldn’t be moved around. The demons complained. So they put the horse head-on in front of the box and Victor bounced up and down in the saddle. As Dibbler said, it was good enough for moving pictures.
    Afterward, Silverfish very grudgingly paid them two dollars each and dismissed them.
    “He’ll tell all the other alchemists,” said Ginger dispiritedly. “They stick together like glue.”
    “I notice we only get two dollars a day but the trolls get three,” said Victor. “Why’s that?”
    “Because there aren’t so many trolls wanting to make moving pictures,” said Ginger. “And a good handleman can get six or seven dollars a day. Performers aren’t important.” She turned and glared at him.
    “I was doing OK,” she said. “Nothing special, but OK. I was getting quite a lot of work. People thought I was reliable. I was building a career—”
    “You can’t build a career on Holy Wood,” said Victor.
    “That’s like building a house on a swamp. Nothing’s real.”
    “I liked it! And now you’ve spoilt it all! And I’ll probably have to go back to a horrible little village you’ve probably never even heard of! Back to bloody milkmaiding! Thanks very much! Every time I see a cow’s arse, I’ll think of you!”
    She stormed off in the direction of the town leaving Victor with the trolls. After a while Rock cleared his throat.
    “You got anywhere to stay?” he said.
    “I don’t think so,” said Victor, weakly.
    “There’s never enough places to stay,” said Morry.
    “I thought I might sleep on the beach,” said Victor. “It’s warm enough, after all. I think I really could do with a good rest. Good night.”
    He tottered off in that direction.
    The sun was setting, and a wind off the sea had cooled things a little. Around the darkening bulk of the hill the lights of Holy Wood were being lit. Holy Wood only relaxed in the darkness. When your raw material is daylight, you don’t waste it.
    It was pleasant enough on the beach. No one much went there. The driftwood, cracked and salt-crusted, was no good for building. It was stacked in a long white row on the tide line.
    Victor pulled together enough to make a fire, and lay back and watched the surf.
    From the top of the next dune, hidden behind a dry clump of grass, Gaspode the Wonder Dog watched him thoughtfully.

    It was two hours after midnight.
    It had them now, and poured joyfully out of the hill, poured its glitter into the world.
    Holy Wood dreams…
    It dreams for everyone.
    In the hot breathless darkness of a clapboard shack, Ginger Withel dreamed of red carpets and cheering crowds. And a grating. She kept coming back to a grating, in the dream, where a rush of warm air blew up her skirts…
    In the not much cooler darkness of a marginally more expensive shack, Silverfish the