Moving Pictures - Terry Pratchett [128]
Then it was gone.
Victor helped Ginger ashore.
They reached the main street, silent now except for the occasional creak and thud as another plank dropped off the half-collapsed buildings.
They picked their way over fallen scenery and broken picture boxes.
There was a crash behind them as the “Century of the Fruitbat” sign slipped off its moorings and thudded on the sand.
They passed the remains of Borgle’s commissary, whose destruction had increased the average food quality of the entire world by a small but significant amount.
They waded through unreeled clicks, flapping in the wind.
They climbed over broken dreams.
At the edge of what had been Holy Wood, Victor turned and looked back once.
“Well, they were right at last,” he said. “You’ll never work in this town again.”
There was a sob. To his surprise, Ginger was crying.
He put his arm around her.
“Come on,” he said. “I’ll walk you home.”
Holy Wood’s own magic, now rootless and fading, crackled across the landscape, looking for pathways to earth itself:
Click…
It was early evening. The reddened light of the setting sun filled the windows of Harga’s House of Ribs, which was nearly deserted at this time of day.
Detritus and Ruby sat awkwardly on human-size chairs.
The only other person around was Sham Harga himself, smearing the dirt more evenly around the vacant tables with a cloth and whistling vaguely.
“Ur,” Detritus ventured.
“Yes?” said Ruby, expectantly.
“Ur. Nuffin,” said Detritus. He felt out of place here, but Ruby had insisted. He kept feeling she wanted him to say something, but all he could think of was hitting her with a brick.
Harga stopped whistling.
Detritus felt his head twist around. His mouth opened.
“Play it again, Sham,” said Holy Wood.
There was a crashing chord. The back wall of the House of Ribs moved aside into whatever dimension these things go, and an indistinct but unmistakable orchestra occupied the space normally filled by Harga’s kitchen and the noisome alley behind it.
Ruby’s dress became a waterfall of sequins. The other tables whirled away.
Detritus adjusted an unexpected tuxedo, and cleared his throat.
“Dere may being trouble ahead—” he began, the words flowing straight from somewhere else into his vocal chords.
He took Ruby’s hand. A gold-tipped cane hit his left ear. A black silk hat materialized at high speed and bounced off his elbow. He ignored them.
“But while dere moonlight, an’ music—”
He faltered. The golden words were fading. The walls came back. The tables reappeared. The sequins flared and died.
“Um,” said Detritus, suddenly.
She was watching him intently.
“Ur. Sorry,” he said. “Dunno what come over me, there.”
Harga strode up to the table.
“What was all that—” he began. Without shifting her gaze, Ruby shot out a treetrunk arm, spun him around, and pushed him through the wall.
“Kiss me, you mad fool,” she said.
Detritus’ brow wrinkled. “What?” he said.
Ruby sighed. Well, so much for the human way.
She picked up a chair and hit him scientifically over the head with it. A smile spread across his face, and he slumped forward.
She picked him up easily and slung him over her shoulder. If Ruby had learned anything in Holy Wood, it was that there was no use in waiting around for Mr. Right to hit you with a brick. You had to make your own bricks.
Click…
In a dwarf mine miles and miles from the loam of Ankh-Morpork, a very angry overseer banged on his shovel for silence and spoke thusly:
“I want to make this absolutely clear, right? One more, and I really mean it, one more, right? just one more Hiho-hiho out of you bloody lawn ornaments and it’s double-headed axe time, OK? We’re dwarfs, godsdammit. So act like them. And that includes you, Dozy!”
Click…
Make-my-day, Call-me-Mr-Thumpy hopped to the top of the dune and peered over. Then he slid back down again.
“All clear,” he reported. “No humans. Just ruins.”
“A playshe of our own,” said