'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.