Moving Pictures

Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler, or C.M.O.T. as he liked to be called, sat up in bed and stared at the darkness.

In his head a city was on fire.

He fumbled hurriedly beside his bed for the matches, managed to light the candle, and eventually located a pen.

There was no paper. He specifically told everyone there ought to be some paper by his bed, in case he woke up with an idea. That’s when you got the best ideas, when you were asleep.

At least there was a pen and ink …

Images sleeted past his eyes. Catch them now, or let them go forever …

He snatched up the pen and started to scribble on the bedsheets.

A Man and A Woman Aflame With Passione in A Citie Riven by Sivil War!

The pen scritched and spluttered its way across the coarse linen.

Yes! Yes! This was it!

He’d show ’em, with their silly plaster pyramids and penny-and-dime palaces. This was the one they’d have to look up to! When the history of Holy Wood was written this was the one they’d point to and say: That was the Moving Picture to End all Moving Pictures!

Trolls! Battles! Romance! People with thin moustaches! Soldiers of fortune! And one woman’s fight to keep the — Dibbler hesitated — something-or-other she loves, we’ll think about this later, in a world gone mad!

The pen jerked and tore and raced onwards.

Brother against brother! Women in crinoline dresses slapping people’s faces! A mighty dynasty brought low!

A great city aflame! Not with passione, he made a note in the margin, but with flame.

Possibly even—

He bit his lip.

Yeah. He’d been waiting for this! Yeah!

A thousand elephants!

(Later Soll Dibbler said, ‘Look, Uncle, the Ankh-Morpork civil war — great idea. No problem with that. Famous historical occurrence, no problem. It’s just that none of the historians mentioned seeing any elephants.’

‘It was a big war,’ said Dibbler defensively. ‘You’re bound to miss things.’

‘Not a thousand elephants, I think.’

‘Who’s running this studio?’

‘It’s just that—’

‘Listen,’ said Dibbler. ‘Maybe they didn’t have a thousand elephants, but we’re going to have a thousand elephants, ’cos a thousand elephants is more real, OK?’)

The sheet gradually filled up with Dibbler’s excited scrawl. He reached the bottom and continued over the woodwork of the bed.

By the gods, this was the real stuff! No fiddly little battles here. They’d need just about every handleman in Holy Wood!

He sat back, panting with exhilarated exhaustion.

He could see it now. It was as good as made.

All it needed was a title. Something with a ring to it. Something that people would remember. Something — he scratched his chin with the pen — that said that the affairs of ordinary people were so much chaff in the great storms of history. Storms, that was it. Good imagery, a storm. You got thunder. Lightning. Rain. Wind.

Wind. That was it!

He crawled up to the top of the sheet and, with great care, wrote:

BLOWN AWAY.

Victor tossed and turned in his narrow bed, trying to get to sleep. Images marched through his half-dozing mind. There were chariot races and pirate ships and things he couldn’t identify, and in the middle of it all this thing, climbing a tower. Something huge and terrible, grinning defiance at the world. And someone screaming …

He sat up, drenched in sweat.

After a few minutes he swung his legs out of bed and went to the window.

Above the lights of the town Holy Wood Hill brooded in the first dim light of dawn. It was going to be another fine day.

Holy Wood dreams surged through the streets, in great invisible golden waves.

And Something came with it.

Something that never, never dreamed at all. Something that never went to sleep.

Ginger got out of bed and also looked towards the hill, although it is doubtful if she saw it. Moving like a sightless person in a familiar room, she padded across to the door, down the steps, and out into the tail of the night.

A small dog, a cat and a mouse watched from the shadows as she moved silently down the alley and headed for the hill.

‘Did you see her eyes?’ said Gaspode.

‘Glowing,’ said the cat. ‘Yukth!’

‘She’s going to the hill,’ said Gaspode. ‘I don’t like that.’

‘So what?’ said Squeak. ‘She’s always around the hill somewhere. Goes up there every night and moons around looking dramatic.’

‘What?’

‘Every night. We thought it was all this romance stuff.’

‘But you can see by the way she’s movin’ that somethin’s not right,’ said Gaspode desperately. ‘That’s not walkin’, that’s lurchin’. Like she’s bein’ pulled along by a inner voice, style of fing.’

‘Don’t look like that to me,’ said Squeak. ‘Walking on two legs is lurching, in my book.’

‘You’ve only got to look at her face to see there’s something wrong!’

‘Of course there’s something wrong. She’s a human,’ said Squeak.

Gaspode considered the options. There weren’t many. The obvious one was to find Victor and get him to come back here. He rejected it. It sounded too much like the silly, bouncy sort of thing that Laddie would do. It suggested that the best a dog could think of when confronted with a puzzle was to find a human to solve it.