Victor handed over the money with reluctance, and looked around for Ginger.
‘Over here,’ said Ginger, sitting down at one of the long tables. ‘Hi, Thunderfoot. Hi, Breccia, how’s it goin’? This is Vic. New boy. Hi, Sniddin, didn’t see you there.’
Victor found himself wedged between Ginger and a mountain troll in what looked like chain mail, but it turned out to be just Holy Wood chain mail, which was inexpertly knitted string painted silver.
Ginger started talking animatedly to a four-inch-high gnome and a dwarf in one half of a bear outfit, leaving Victor feeling a little isolated.
The troll nodded at him, and then grimaced at its plate.
‘Dey call dis pumice,’ he said. ‘Dey never even bother to cut der lava off. And you can’t even taste der sand.’
Victor stared at the troll’s plate.
‘I didn’t know trolls ate rock,’ he said, before he could stop himself.
‘Why not?’
‘Aren’t you made of it?’
‘Yeah. But you’re made a meat, an’ what do
Victor looked at his own plate. ‘Good question,’ he said.
‘Vic’s doing a click for Silverfish,’ said Ginger, turning around. ‘It looks like they’re going to make it a three-reeler.’
There was a general murmur of interest.
Victor carefully laid something yellow and wobbly on the side of his plate.
‘Tell me,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘while you’ve been filming, have any of you had a … heard a sort of … felt that you were …’ He hesitated. They were all looking at him. ‘I mean, did you ever feel something was acting through you? I can’t think of any other way to put it.’
His fellow diners relaxed.
‘Dat’s just Holy Wood,’ said the troll. ‘It gets to you. It’s all dis creativity sloshin’ about.’
‘That was a pretty bad attack you had, though,’ said Ginger.
‘Happens all the time,’ said the dwarf reflectively. ‘It’s just Holy Wood. Last week, me and the lads were working on
‘What song?’ said Ginger.
‘Search me. We just call it the “Hiho” song. That’s all it was. Hihohiho. Hihohiho.’{21}
‘Sound like every other dwarf song I ever did hear,’ rumbled the troll.
It was past two o’clock when they got back to the moving-picture-making place. The handleman had the back off the picture box and was scraping at its floor with a small shovel.
Dibbler was asleep in his canvas chair with a handkerchief over his face. But Silverfish was wide awake.
‘Where have you two been?’ he shouted.
‘I was hungry,’ said Victor.
‘And you’ll jolly well
Dibbler lifted the corner of his handkerchief.
‘Let’s get started,’ he muttered.
‘But we can’t have performers telling us—’
‘Finish the click, and
‘Right!’ Silverfish waved a threatening finger at Victor and Ginger. ‘You’ll never work in this town again!’
They got through the afternoon somehow. Dibbler made them bring a horse in, and cursed the handleman because the picture box still couldn’t be moved around. The demons complained. So they put the horse head-on in front of the box and Victor bounced up and down in the saddle. As Dibbler said, it was good enough for moving pictures.
Afterwards, Silverfish very grudgingly paid them two dollars each and dismissed them.
‘He’ll tell all the other alchemists,’ said Ginger dispiritedly. ‘They stick together like glue.’
‘I notice we only get two dollars a day but the trolls get three,’ said Victor. ‘Why’s that?’
‘Because there aren’t so many trolls wanting to make moving pictures,’ said Ginger. ‘And a good handleman can get six or seven dollars a day. Performers aren’t important.’ She turned and glared at him.
‘I was doing OK,’ she said. ‘Nothing special, but OK. I was getting quite a lot of work. People thought I was reliable. I was building a career—’
‘You can’t build a career on Holy Wood,’ said Victor. ‘That’s like building a house on a swamp. Nothing’s real.’
‘I liked it! And now you’ve spoilt it all! And I’ll probably have to go back to a horrible little village you’ve probably never even heard of! Back to bloody milkmaiding! Thanks very much! Every time I see a cow’s arse, I’ll think of you!’
She stormed off in the direction of the town leaving Victor with the trolls. After a while Rock cleared his throat.
‘You got anywhere to stay?’ he said.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Victor, weakly.
‘There’s never enough places to stay,’ said Morry.
‘I thought I might sleep on the beach,’ said Victor. ‘It’s warm enough, after all. I think I really could do with a good rest. Good night.’
He tottered off in that direction.
The sun was setting, and a wind off the sea had cooled things a little. Around the darkening bulk of the hill the lights of Holy Wood were being lit. Holy Wood only relaxed in the darkness. When your raw material is daylight, you don’t waste it.
It was pleasant enough on the beach. No-one much went there. The driftwood, cracked and salt-crusted, was no good for building. It was stacked in a long white row on the tide line.
