Sean Traver - Graves' end

He, apparently, could not have been more wrong about that.

Twice he and Watt met with vehicles like their own as they traversed the Carretera del Rey-noisy bouncing carriages piloted by grinning idiots swaddled in dusters and goggles, and each time such an encounter occurred one car or the other was forced to back some number of yards down the narrow dirt track until it widened out enough for someone to pull off into the weeds and let the other motorist pass by.

Tom didn’t see how the Cahuenga Pass could possibly accommodate too many more of Mr. Ford’s Follies. Practical considerations like geography and the availability of fuels weren’t preventing people from buying the things, however.

There were exponentially more autos on the Hollywood side of the pass, Tom noted, when they rolled down out of the hills. The cars puttered and honked their way past delivery wagons and well-dressed folks perched precariously atop fat-tired bicycles. Watt drove them down Highland and past the Hollywood Hotel: a vast, white, Moorish-style monstrosity hunkered at the northwestern corner of Highland’s intersection with Prospect Avenue.

All of that acreage had been devoted to beans and strawberries the last time Tom had ridden by. There were even rumors in the papers now that old Prospect Avenue itself might soon be renamed ‘Hollywood Boulevard,’ in honor of the ever-expanding hostelry on the corner.

The pace of development around here stunned him. There were still plenty of open fields stretching away to the horizons, but also so many large new homes and broad new streets, as well as all of the stores and schools and other businesses needed to sustain the ever-swelling numbers of brand new residents.

The thought of so many new people living so near to the Hole in the Sky left Tom feeling a little sick.

The old people-the Tongva and the Tataviam and the Chumash-had known how to respect a thing like a Hole in the Sky. Their fathers had known for countless generations, and the traditions they handed down amongst themselves had preserved the necessary balance between the elemental forces involved. Even the rancheros who displaced them had indulged a healthy superstition regarding old heathen magic, and they’d always shown enough good sense to leave the things they didn’t need to know about alone.

These new people, though, Tom was not so sure about. They so often seemed to behave with the mindless rapacity of a swarm of locusts.

What would happen when people like that discovered a thing like the Hole in the Sky? The old deflective hexes that protected it might not be able to keep the blissfully ignorant from stumbling across the secret by accident. Only the great Tree’s relative isolation and the difficulty of reaching the Hole above it had ever really prevented that.

Worse still for Tom was the thought of what might happen if the King who occupied the twin chambers beyond the SkyHole were to become infatuated with the lives these new folks were building for themselves over here, on the far side of existence.

What would become of the worlds if el Rey discovered Time, and the possibilities for growth, change, and increase that only it could offer?

Tom Delgado literally shuddered to think of it, even in the warmth of the relentless California sun.

Watt turned left at Sunset Boulevard, and when they motored through the intersection at Gower Street Tom saw it was true that the Blondeau Tavern had indeed closed down. The establishment had been doing land-office business back when Tom left town, serving Madame Blondeau’s famous pigeon- amp;-rum omelets to oceanbound daytrippers and local farmhands, and now it was gone. Marty Labaig’s older Six Mile House was still open across the street, still advertising light meals and cold drinks, although its sign now read ‘Casa Cahuenga.’

Tomas nudged Watt in the ribs with his elbow to get the man’s attention and then motioned for him to stop in at the old roadhouse. He didn’t believe el Rey would begrudge him a quick glass of beer.

Watt cut across the street and pulled up in front of the faux chateau , which still had grapevines growing over its picket fence and up the sides of the house, exactly as Tom remembered. He felt relieved by the fact that something, at least, had managed to remain almost unchanged for over a decade. It was apparently quite a feat, here in the new Ciudad de los Angeles .

“It true they mean to shoot motion pictures over there?” Tom asked, tipping his head toward Rene Blondeau’s boarded-up building across the street. “The Nestor Film Company?”

“That’s what they say,” Watt said, and sniffed to indicate his contempt for the very idea. “Those Selig-Polyscope people are expanding their operation up in Edendale, too. Just what this city needs: a flood of producers and writers and actors.”

“Oh my,” Tom said, cheered for the very first time that day by a vision of the future. He’d always enjoyed the company of actors. Well, of actresses , anyway. Still, the influx of theatrical types made sense. Tom knew from growing up around here that California’s weather would prove much better suited to the realities of film-making (a subject that had fascinated him for some time now) than anything he’d experienced on the eastern seaboard, or out in the middle west either. He wouldn’t be surprised to see the young city of Hollywood parlay the combination of Mr. Edison’s remarkable new technology and its own climatic assets into recognition as one of the world’s great centers of cultural dissemination, right after London and Paris and New York.

He had to guess that Mr. Watt would respond with a hollow laugh if he tried to advance this theory to him. Tom figured they’d just have to wait and see.

Then he remembered that he wouldn’t be here to see how the experiment panned out. He wouldn’t be here to see how tomorrow panned out, if things went as expected, and his momentarily-kindled spark of interest faded away.

“Well, to hell with it all anyhow,” Tom said abruptly, then turned away from the movie-factory-to-be across the street and shuffled into the Six Mile House’s oasis of cool continuity on his cane. “I’ve been sober all morning, so maybe you wanna hurry up?” he said, back over his shoulder, to a bemused Winston Watt.

Anyone watching would have assumed both Tom and Winston were well besotted by the time they wobbled out of the Six Mile House and made their way down to the grassy curb they’d parked at. Tom clambered back up into Mr. Watt’s gleaming new Tin Lizzie.

He cast a surreptitious eye over at the bleary Englishman, who was pulling on his driving gloves with undue difficulty, as though he’d somehow found himself with more fingers than he remembered having.

He was too skinny to be a good drinker, as Tom had guessed would be the case. Watt seemed aware enough of his limitations; he’d turned down Tom’s first offer to buy him a drink, attempting (Tom supposed) to keep things on a professional footing.

But no one who worked for el Rey de los Muertos could stay away from the sauce for long, and Watt accepted Tom’s second offer. And then his third, and his fourth, and then some undetermined number beyond that. Tom did know that he was out almost five whole dollars, and he’d only bought three glasses of beer for himself. Watt had switched over from disgusting juniper-scented gin mixed with quinine water to bright green French absinthe at some point in the last two hours, and now he was crouching in the gutter to turn the Model T’s handcrank.

A Prohibitionist’s worst nightmare , Tom thought. They could put this on a protest poster .

This time the unpredictable engine did kick back, startling Watt, who leapt away from the thing with a shout, only to land on his ass in the street.