Vincent van Gogh Houses at Auvers

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kind of dreams?’ said Victor.
‘It’s bloody embarrassing,’ said Gaspode. ‘Like, in one there’s this bridge that’s been washed away and I have to run and bark a warning, right? And there’s another where this house is on fire and I drag these kids out. And there’s one where some kids are lost in these caves and I find ‘em and go and lead the search party to
A little twig fire burned on the slope of Holy Wood Hill. Victor had lit it because - well, because it was reassuring. Because it was the sort of thing humans did.
He found it necessary to remember he was human, and them . . . and I hates kids. Seems I can’t get me ‘ead down these days without rescuin’ people or savin’ people or foilin’ robbers or sunnink. I mean, I’m seven years old, I got hardpad, I got scurf, I got fleas somethin’ dreadful, I don’t need to be a ‘ero every time I go to sleep.’ ‘Gosh. Isn’t life interesting,’ said Victor, ‘when you see it from someone else’s perspective . . . ?’ Gaspode rolled a crusted yellow eye skyward. ‘Er. Where are we going?’ said Victor. ‘We’re goin’ to see a few Holy Wood folk,’ said Gaspode. ‘ ‘Cos there’s something weird goin’ on.’ ‘Up on the hill? I didn’t know there were any people on the hill.’ ‘They ain’t people,’ said Gaspode.