Moving Pictures

‘My husband wouldn’t get out of his chair if I was being et by dragons,’ said the thin woman. She gave Ginger a gentle prod. ‘But you want to wear more clothes, miss. Next time you’re taken off to be rescued, you insist they let you take a warm coat. I never see you on the screen without thinking to myself, she’s temptin’ a dose of ’flu, going around like that.’

‘Where’s ’is sword?’ said the child, kicking its mother on the shin.

‘I expect he’ll be off to fetch it directly,’ she said, giving Victor an encouraging smile.

‘Er. Yes,’ he said. ‘Come on, Ginger.’ He grabbed her hand.

‘Give the lad room,’ shouted the pipe smoker authoritatively.

A space cleared around them. Ginger and Victor saw a thousand expectant faces watching them.

‘They think we’re real,’ moaned Ginger. ‘No-one’s doing anything because they think you’re a hero, for gods’ sake! And we can’t do anything! This Thing is bigger than both of us!’

Victor stared down at the damp cobblestones. I can probably remember some magic, he thought, but ordinary magic’s no good against the Dungeon Dimensions. And I’m pretty sure real heroes don’t hang around in the middle of cheering crowds. They get on with the job. Real heroes are like poor old Gaspode. No-one ever notices them until afterwards. That’s the reality.

He raised his head slowly.

Or is this the reality?

The air crackled. There was another kind of magic. It was snapping wildly in the world now, like a broken film. If only he could grab it …

Reality didn’t have to be real. Maybe if conditions were right, it just had to be what people believed …

‘Stand back,’ he whispered.

‘What’re you going to do?’ said Ginger.

‘Try some Holy Wood kind of magic.’

‘There’s nothing magic about Holy Wood!’

‘I …think there is. A different sort. We’ve felt it. Magic’s where you find it.’

He took a few deep breaths, and let his mind unravel slowly. That was the secret. You did it, you just didn’t think about it. You just let the instructions come from outside. It was just the job. You just felt the eye of the picture-box on you, and it was a different world, a world that was just a flickering silver square.

That was the secret. The flicker.

Ordinary magic just moved things around. It couldn’t create a real thing that’d last for more than a second, because that took a lot of power.

But Holy Wood easily created things over and over again, dozens of times a second. They didn’t have to last for long. They just had to last for long enough.

But you had to work Holy Wood magic by Holy Wood’s rules …

He extended a rock-steady hand towards the dark sky.

‘Lights!’

There was a sheet of lightning that illuminated the whole city …

‘Picture box!’

Gaffer spun the handle furiously.

‘Action!’

No-one saw where the horse came from. It was just there, leaping over the heads of the crowd. It was white, with lots of impressive silver work on the bridle. Victor swung up into the saddle as it cantered past, then made it rear impressively so that it pawed the air. He drew a sword which hadn’t been there a moment before.

The sword and the horse flickered almost imperceptibly.

Victor smiled. Light glinted off a tooth. Ting. A glint, but no sound; they hadn’t invented sound, yet.

Believe it. That was the way. Never stop believing. Fool the eye, fool the brain.

Then he galloped between the cheering lines of spectators towards the University and the big scene.

The handleman relaxed. Ginger tapped him on the shoulder.

‘If you stop turning that handle,’ she said sweetly, ‘I’ll break your bloody neck.’

‘But he’s nearly out of shot—’

Ginger propelled him towards Windle Poons’ ancient wheelchair and gave Windle a smile that made little clouds of wax boil out of his ears.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, in a sultry voice that caused all the wizards to curl their toes up in their pointy shoes, ‘but could we borrow you for a minute?’

‘Way-hey! Draw it mild!’

… whumm … whumm …

Ponder Stibbons knew about the vase, of course. All the students had wandered along to have a look at it.

He didn’t pay it much attention as he sneaked along the corridor, attempting once again to make a bid for an evening’s freedom.

… whummwhummWHUMMWHUMMWHUM— Mwhumm.

All he had to do was cut across through the cloisters and …

PLIB.

All eight pottery elephants shot pellets at once. The resograph exploded, turning the roof into something like a pepper shaker.

After a minute or two Ponder got up, very carefully. His hat was simply a collection of holes held together by thread. A piece had been taken out of one of his ears.

‘I only wanted a drink,’ he said, muzzily. ‘What’s wrong with that?’

The Librarian crouched on the dome of the Library, watching the crowds scurrying through the streets as the monstrous figure lurched nearer.

He was slightly surprised to see it followed by some sort of spectral horse whose hooves made no sound on the cobbles.