'Gosh. Isn't life interesting,' said Victor, 'when you see it from someone else's perspective . . . ?'
Gaspode rolled a crusted yellow eye skyward.
'Er. Where are we going?' said Victor.
'We're goin' to see a few Holy Wood folk,' said Gaspode. ' 'Cos there's something weird goin' on.'
'Up on the hill? I didn't know there were any people on the hill.'
'They ain't people,' said Gaspode.
A little twig fire burned on the slope of Holy Wood Hill. Victor had lit it because well, because it was reassuring. Because it was the sort of thing humans did.
He found it necessary to remember he was human, and probably not crazy.
It wasn't that he'd been talking to a dog. People often talked to dogs. The same applied to the cat. And maybe even the rabbit. It was the conversation with the mouse and the duck that might be considered odd.
'You think we wanted to talk?' snapped the rabbit. 'One minute I'm just another rabbit and happy about it, next minute whazaam, I'm thinking. That's a major drawback if you're looking for happiness as a rabbit, let me tell you. You want grass and sex, not thoughts like "What's it all about, when you get right down to it?" '
'Yeah, but at least you eats grass,' Gaspode pointed out. 'At least grass don't talk back at you. The last thing you needs when you're hungry is a bloody ethical conundrum on your plate.'
'You think you've got problems,' said the cat, apparently reading his mind. 'I'm reduched to eating fish. You put a paw on your dinner, it shoutsh "Help!", you got a major predicament.'
There was silence. They looked at Victor. So did the mouse. And the duck. The duck was looking particularly belligerent. It had probably heard about orange sauce.
'Yeah. Take us,' said the mouse. 'There's me, being chased by this,' it indicated the cat looming over it, 'around the kitchen. Scrabble, scrabble, squeak, panic. Then there's this sizzling noise in my head, I see a frying pan you understand? A second ago I never knew what frying was, now I'm holding the handle, he comes around the corner, clang. Now he's staggering around saying "What hit me?" I say "Me." That's when we both realize. We're talking.'
'Concheptualishing,' said the cat. It was a black cat, with white paws, ears like shotgun targets, and the scarred face of a cat that has already lived eight lives to the full.
'You tell him, kid,' said the mouse.
'Tell him what you did next,' said Gaspode.
'We came here,' said the cat.
'From Ankh-Morpork?' said Victor.
'Yeah.'
'That's nearly thirty miles!'
'Yeah, and take it from me,' said the cat, 'it's hard to hitch-hike when you's a cat.'
'See?' said Gaspode. 'It's happening all the time. All sorts are turnin' up in Holy Wood. They don't know why they've come, only that it's important to be here. An' they don't act like they do anywhere else in the world. I bin watchin'. Somethin' weird's goin' on.'
The duck quacked. There were words in there somewhere, but so mangled by the incompatibility of beak and larynx that Victor couldn't understand a word.
The animals, gave it a sympathetic audience.
'What's up, Duck?' said the rabbit.
'The duck says', translated Gaspode, 'that it's like a migratory thing. Just the same feelin' as a migration, he says.'
'Yeah? I didn't have far to come,' the rabbit volunteered. 'We lived on the dunes anyway.' It sighed. 'For three happy years and four miserable days,' it added.
A thought struck Victor. 'So you'd know about the old man on the beach?' he said.
'Oh, him. Yeah. Him. He was always coming up here.'
'What sort of person was he?' said Victor.
'Listen, buster, up to four days ago I had a vocabulary consisting of two verbs and one noun. What do you think I thought he was? All I know is, he didn't bother us. We probably thought he was a rock on legs, or something.'
Victor thought about the book in his pocket. Chanting and lighting fires. What sort of person did that?
'I don't know what's going on,' he said. 'I'd like to find out. Look, haven't you got names? I feel awkward, talking to people without names.'
'Only me,' said Gaspode. 'Bein' a dog. I'm named after the famous Gaspode, you know.'
'A kid called me Puss once,' said the cat doubtfully.
'I thought you had names in your own language,' said Victor. 'You know, like "Mighty Paws" or or "Speedy Hunter". Or something.'
He smiled encouragingly.
The others gave him a long blank stare.
'He reads books,' explained Gaspode. 'See, the thing is,' he added, scratching himself vigorously, 'animals don't normally bother with names. I mean, we know who we are.'
'Mind you, I like "Speedy Hunter",' said the mouse.
'I was thinking that's more a cat's name,' said Victor, starting to sweat. 'Mice have friendly little names, like - like Squeak.'
'Squeak?' said the mouse, coldly.
The rabbit grinned.
'And, and I always thought rabbits were called Flopsy. Or Mr Thumpy,' Victor gabbled.
The rabbit stopped grinning and twitched its ears.
'Now look, pal-' it began.
'Y'know,' said Gaspode cheerfully, in an attempt to revive the conversation, 'I heard there's this legend where the first two people in the world named all the animals. Makes you fink, don't it.'
Victor pulled out the book to cover his embarrassment. Chanting and lighting fires. Three times a day.
'This old man-' he began.
'What's so important about him?' said the rabbit. 'He just used to come up on to the hill and make noises a couple of times every day. You could set your . . . your,' it hesitated. 'It was always the same times. Many times a day.'
'Three times. Three performances. Like a sort of theatre?' said Victor, running his finger down the page.
'We can't count up to three,' said the rabbit sourly. 'It goes one . . . many. Many times.' He glared at Victor. 'Mr Thumpy,' it said, in withering tones.
'And people from other places brought him fish,' said Victor. 'There's no-one else living near here. They must have come from miles away. People sailed miles just to bring him fish. It's as though he didn't want to eat fish out of the bay here. And it's teeming with them. When I went swimming I saw lobsters you wouldn't believe.'
'What did you name them?' said Mr Thumpy, who wasn't the kind of rabbit that forgot a grudge. 'Mr Snappy
'Yeah, I want this cleared up right now,' squeaked the mouse. 'Back home I was top mouse. I could lick any other mouse in the house. I want a proper name, kid. Anyone calls me Squeaky Boots', he looked up at Victor, 'is asking for a head shaped like a frying pan, do I make myself clear?'
The duck quacked at length.
'Hold it,' said Gaspode. 'The thing is, the duck says,' said Gaspode, 'that all this is part of the same thing. Humans and trolls and everything coming here. Animals suddenly talking. The duck says he thinks it's caused by something here.'
'How does a duck know that?' said Victor.
'Look, friend,' said the rabbit, 'when you can fly all the way across the sea and even end up finding the same bloody continent, you can start badmouthing ducks.'
'Oh,' said Victor. 'You mean mysterious animal senses, yes?'
They glared at him.
'Anyway, it's got to stop,' said Gaspode. 'All this cogitatin' and talkin' is all -right for you humans. You're used to it. Fing is, see, someone's got to find out what's causin' all this . . . '
They carried on glaring at him.
'Well,' he said, vaguely, 'maybe the book can help? The early bits are in some sort of ancient language. I can't-,' he paused. Wizards weren't welcomed in Holy Wood. It probably wasn't a good idea to mention the University, or his small part in it. 'That is,' he continued, choosing his words with care, 'I think I know someone in AnkhMorpork who might be able to read it. He's an animal, too. An ape.'
'How's he in the mysterious senses department?' said Gaspode.
'He's
red hot on mysterious senses,' said Victor.
'In that case-' said the rabbit.
'Hold it,' said Gaspode. 'Someone's coming.'
A moving torch was visible coming up the hill. The duck rocketed clumsily into the sir and glided away. The others disappeared into the shadows. Only the dog didn't move.
'Aren't you going to make yourself scarce?' Victor hissed.
Gaspode raised an eyebrow.
'Woof?' he said.
The torch zig-zagged erratically among the scrub, like a firefly. Sometimes it would stop for a moment, and then wander away in some totally new direction. It was very bright.
'What is it?' said Victor.
Gaspode sniffed. 'Human,' he said. 'Female. Wearin' cheap scent.' His nose twitched again. 'It's called Passion's Plaything.' He sniffed again. 'Fresh laundry, no starch. Old shoes. Lot of studio make-up. She's been in Borgle's and had-' his nose twitched '-stoo. Not a big plate.'
'I suppose you can tell how tall she is, can you?' said Victor.
'She smells about five foot two, two and a half,' hazarded Gaspode.
'Oh, come on!'
'Walk a mile on these paws and call me a liar.'
Victor kicked sand over his little fire and strolled down the slope.
The light stopped moving as he approached it. For a moment he got a glimpse of a female figure clasping a shawl around her with one hand holding the torch high above her head. Then the light vanished so quickly it left blue and purple after-images dancing across his vision. Behind them, a small figure made a blacker shadow against the dusk.
It said, 'What are you doing in my . . . what am I . . . why are you in . . . where . . . ,' and then, as if it had finally got to grips with the situation, changed gear and in a much more familiar voice demanded, 'What are you doing here?'
'Ginger?' said Victor.
'Yes?'
Victor paused. What were you supposed to say in circumstances like this?
'Er . . . ' he said. 'It's nice up here in the evenings, don't you think?'
She glared at Gaspode.
'That's that horrible dog who's been hanging round the studio, isn't it?' she said. 'I can't stand small dogs.'
'Bark, bark,' said Gaspode. Ginger stared at him. Victor could almost read her thoughts: he said Bark, bark. And he's a dog, and that's the kind of noise dogs make, isn't it?
'I'm a cat person, myself,' she said, vaguely.
A low-level voice said: 'Yeah? Yeah? Wash in your own spit, do you?'
'What was that?'
Victor backed away, waving his hands frantically. 'Don't look at me!' he said. 'I didn't say it!'
'Oh? I suppose it was the dog, was it?' she demanded.
'Who, me?' said Gaspode.
Ginger froze. Her eyes swivelled around and down, to where Gaspode was icily scratching an ear.
'Woof?' he said.
'That dog spoke-' Ginger began, pointing a shaking finger at him.
'I know,' said Victor. 'That means he likes you.' He looked past her. Another light was coming up the hill.
'Did you bring someone with you?' he said.
'Me?' Ginger turned round.
Now the light was accompanied by the cracking of dry twigs, and Dibbler stepped out of the dusk with Detritus trailing behind like a particularly scary shadow.
'Ah-ha!' he said. 'The lovebirds surprised, eh?'
Victor gaped at him. 'The what?' he said.
'The what?' said Ginger.
'Been looking all over for you two,' said Dibbler. 'Someone said he'd seen you come up here. Very romantic. Could do something with that. Look good on the posters. Right.' He draped his arms around them. 'Come on,' he said.
'What for?' said Victor.
'We're shooting first thing in the morning,' said Dibbler.
'But Mr Silverfish said I wasn't going to work in this town again-' Victor began.
Dibbler opened his mouth, and hesitated just for a moment. 'Ah. Yes. But I'm going to give you another chance,' he said, speaking quite slowly for once. 'Yeah. A chance. Like, you're young people. Headstrong. Young once myself. Dibbler, I thought, even if it means cutting your own throat, give 'em a chance. Lower wages, of course. A dollar a day, how about that?'
Victor saw the look of sudden hope on Ginger's face.
He opened his mouth.
'Fifteen dollars,' said a voice. It wasn't his.
He shut his mouth.
'What?' said Dibbler.
Victor opened his mouth.
'Fifteen dollars. Renegot'ble after a week. Fifteen dollars or nuffin'.'
Victor shut his mouth, his eyes rolling.
Dibbler waved a finger under his nose, and then hesitated.
'I like it!' he said eventually. 'Tough bargainer! OK. Three dollars.'
'Fifteen.'
'Five's my last offer, kid. There's thousands of people down there who'd jump at it, right?'
'Name two, Mr Dibbler.'
Dibbler glanced at Detritus, who was lost in a reverie concerning Ruby, and then stared at Ginger.
'OK,' he said. 'Ten. Because I like you. But it's cutting my own throat.'
'Done.'
Throat held out a hand. Victor stared at his own as if he was seeing it for the first time, and then shook.
'And now let's get back down,' said Dibbler. 'Lot to organize.'
He strode off through the trees. Victor and Ginger followed meekly behind him, in a state of shock.
'Are you crazy?' Ginger hissed. 'Holding out like that! We could have lost our chance!'
'I didn't say anything! I thought it was you!' said Victor.
'It was you!' said Ginger.
Their eyes met.
They looked down.
'Bark, bark,' said Gaspode the Wonder Dog.
Dibbler turned round.
'What's that noise?' he said.
'Oh, it's it's just this dog we found,' said Victor hurriedly. 'He's called Gaspode. After the famous Gaspode, you know.'
'He does tricks,' said Ginger, malevolently.
'A performing dog?' Dibbler reached down and patted Gaspode's bullet head.
'Growl, growl.'
'You'd be amazed, the things he can do,' said Victor.
'Amazed,' echoed Ginger.
'Ugly devil, though,' said Dibbler. He gave Gaspode a long, slow stare, which was like challenging a centipede to an arse-kicking contest. Gaspode could outstare a mirror.
Dibbler seemed to be turning an idea over in his mind. 'Mind you . . . bring him along in the morning. People like a good laugh,' said Dibbler.
'Oh, he's a laugh all right,' said Victor. 'A scream.'
As they walked off Victor heard a quiet voice behind him say, 'I'll get you for that. Anyway, you owe me a dollar.'
'What for?'
'Agent's fee,' said Gaspode the Wonder Dog.
Over Holy Wood, the stars were out. They were huge balls of hydrogen heated to millions of degrees, so hot they could not even burn. Many of them would swell enormously before they died, and then shrink to tiny, resentful dwarfs remembered only by sentimental astronomers. In the meantime, they glowed because of metamorphoses beyond the reach of alchemists, and turned mere boring elements into pure light.
Over Ankh-Morpork, it just rained.
The senior wizards crowded around the elephant vase. It had been put back in the corridor on Ridcully's strict orders.
'I remember Riktor,' said the Dean. 'Skinny man. Bit of a one-track mind. But clever.'
'Heh, heh. I remember his mouse counter,' said Windle Poons, from his ancient wheelchair. 'Used to count mice.'
'The pot itself is quite-' the Bursar began, and then said, 'What d'you mean, count mice? They were fed into it on a little belt or something?'
'Oh, no. You just wound it up, y'see, and it sat there whirring away, counting all the mice in the building, mm, and these little wheels with numbers on them came up.' 'Why?'
'Mm? I s'pose he just wanted to count mice.'
The Bursar shr
ugged. 'This pot', he said, peering closely, 'is actually quite an old Ming vase.'
He waited expectantly.
'Why's it called Ming?' said the Archchancellor, on cue.
The Bursar tapped the pot. It went ming.
'And they spit lead balls at people, do they?' said Ridcully.
'No, Master. He just used it to put the . . . the machinery in. Whatever it is. Whatever it's doing.'
. . .whumm . . .
'Hold on. It wobbled,' said the Dean .
. . .whumm . . . whumm . . .
The wizards stared at one another in sudden panic . . .
'What's happening? What's happening?' said Windle Poons. 'Why won't anyone, mm, tell me what's happening?'
. . . whumm . . . whumm . . .
'Run!' suggested the Dean.
'Which way?' quavered the Bursar.
. . . whummWHUMM . . .
'I'm an old man and I demand someone tell me what's-'
Silence.
'Duck!' shouted the Archchancellor.
Plib.
A splinter of stone was knocked off the pillar behind him.
He raised his head. 'Bigods, that was a damn lucky es-'
Plib.
The second pellet knocked the tip off his hat.
The wizards lay trembling on the flagstones for several minutes. After a while the Dean's muffled voice, 'Was that all, do you think?'
The Archchancellor raised his head. His face, always red, was now incandescent.
'Bursaar!'
'Master?'
'That's what I call shootin'!'
Victor turned over.
'Wzstf,' he said.
'It's six aye-emm, rise and shine, Mr Dibbler says,' said Detritus, grasping the bedclothes in one hand and dragging them on to the floor.
'Six o'clock? That's night-time!' groaned Victor.
'It's going to be a long day, Mr Dibbler says,' said the troll. 'Mr Dibbler says you got to be on set by half past six. This is goin' to happen.'
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