‘Good boy Laddie!’ The barking was louder this time.
Death reached into the mysterious recesses of his robe and produced a small hourglass. There was almost no sand left in the top bulb. The last seconds of Gaspode’s life hissed from the future to the past.
And then there were none at all.
Death stood up.
COME, GASPODE.
There was a faint noise. It sounded like the audible equivalent of a twinkle.
Golden sparks filled the hourglass.
The sand flowed backwards.
Death grinned.
And then, where he had been, there was a triangle of brilliant light.
‘Good boy Laddie!’
‘There he are! Told you I hear barking!’ said the voice of Rock. ‘Good boy! Here, boy!’
‘Cor, am I glad to see you-‘ Gaspode began. The trolls clustering around the opening paid him no attention at all. Rock heaved the pillar aside and gently lifted Laddie up.
‘Nothing wrong that time won’t heal,’ he said.
‘Can we eat it now?’ said a troll above him.
‘You defective or something? This one heroic dog!’
‘-‘scuse me-‘
‘Good boy Laddie!’
Rock handed up the dog and climbed out of the hole.
‘-‘scuse me-‘ Gaspode croaked after him.
He heard a distant cheer.
After a while, since there didn’t seem to be much of an alternative, he crawled painfully up the sloping pillar and managed to drag himself out on to the rubble.
No-one was around.
He had a drink out of a puddle.
He stood up, testing the injured leg.
It’d do.
And finally, he swore.
‘Woof, woof, woof!’
He paused. That wasn’t right.
He tried again.
‘Woof!’
He looked around . . .
. . . and colour drained out of the world, returning it to a state of blessed blacks and whites.
It occurred to Gaspode that Harga would be throwing out the trash around now, and then there was bound to be a warm stable somewhere. And what more did a small dog need?
Somewhere in the distant mountains, wolves were howling. Somewhere in friendly houses, dogs with collars and dishes with their names on were being patted on the head.
Somewhere in between, and feeling oddly cheerful about it, Gaspode the Wonder Dog limped into the gloriously-monochrome sunset.
About thirty miles Turnwise of Ankh-Morpork the surf boomed on the wind-blown, seagrass-waving, sand-dune-covered spit of land where the Circle Sea met the Rim Ocean.
Sea swallows dipped low over the waves. The dried heads of sea�poppies clattered in the perpetual breeze, which scoured the sky of clouds and moved the sand around in curious patterns. ‘
The hill itself was visible for miles. It wasn’t very high, but lay amongst the dunes like an upturned boat or a very unlucky whale, and was covered in scrub trees. No rain fell here, if it could possibly avoid �t.
But the wind blew, and piled the dunes against the dried-out, bleached wood of Holy Wood Town.
It howled its auditions on the deserted backlots.
It tumbled scraps of paper through the crumbling plaster wonders of the world.
It rattled the boards until they fell into the sand and were covered.
Clickaclickaclicka.
The wind sighed around the skeleton of a picturethrowing box, leaning drunkenly on its abandoned tripod.
It caught a trailing scrap of film and wound out the last picture show, snaking the crumbling glistening coils across the sand.
In the picture-thrower’s glass eye tiny figures danced jerkily, alive for just a moment . . .
Clickaclicka.
The film broke free and whirled away over the dunes.
Clicka . . . click . . .
The handle swung backwards and forwards for a moment, and then stopped.
Click.
Holy Wood dreams.
THE END