Moving Pictures (Discworld 10)

'OK, look at it another way . . . it's going to take a couple of minutes for them to get out. We might as well have a clear run at it, eh?'

They could hear shouts in the ante-chamber as the former audience piled into the tunnel.

Victor walked up the suddenly-deserted aisle to the back row and sat down in a vacated seat.

'I hope old Detritus is bright enough not to be left holding up the ceiling again,' he said.

Ginger sighed, and sat down next to him.

Victor put his feet up on the seat in front of him and fumbled in his pockets.

'Would you like', he said, 'some banged grains?'

The golden man was just visible under the screen. His head was bowed.

'You know, he does look like my Uncle Oswald,' said Ginger.

The screen went dark with such suddenness the inrushing blackness almost made a noise.

This must have happened many times before, Victor thought. In dozens of universes. The wild idea arrives, and somehow the golden man, the Oswald or whatever, arises. To control it. Or something. Maybe wherever Holy Wood goes, Osric follows.

A point of purple light appeared, and grew faster very quickly. Victor felt that he was dropping down a tunnel.

The golden figure raised its head.

The light twisted, and took on random features. The screen wasn't there any more. This was something entering the world. It wasn't an image at the other end of the hall, but something frantically trying to exist.

The golden man drew back his sword.

Victor shook Ginger's shoulder.

'I think this is where we leave,' he said.

.The sword connected. Golden light filled the cave.

Victor and Ginger were already racing down the steps of the antechamber when the first shock hit. They stared at the tunnel's empty mouth.

'Not on your life,' said Ginger. 'I'm not going to be trapped in there again.'

The flooded stairs lay in front of them. Of course, they must connect to the sea, and really it was only a few yards away, but the water was inky black and, in Gaspode's word, boding.

'Can you swim?' said Victor. One of the cavern's rotting pillars crashed down behind them. From the pit itself came a terrible wailing.

'Not very well,' said Ginger.

'Me neither,' he said. The commotion behind them was getting worse.

'Still,' he said, taking her hand. 'We could look on this as a great opportunity to improve really quickly.'

They jumped.

Victor surfaced fifty yards offshore, lungs bursting. Ginger erupted a few feet away. They trod water, and watched.

The earth trembled.

Holy Wood Town, built of unseasoned wood and short nails, was shaking apart. Houses folded down on themselves slowly, like packs of cards. Here and there small explosions indicated that stores of octo-cellulose were involved. Canvas cities and plaster mountains slid into ruin.

And between it all, dodging the falling timber but letting nothing else stand in their way, the people of Holy Wood ran for their lives. Handlemen, actors, alchemists, imps, trolls, dwarfs - they ran like ants whose heap is ablaze, heads down, legs pumping, eyes fixed furiously on the horizon.