Meanwhile in the Mid-Atlantic…
The boulder had shifted after a steady effort, revealing a burrow that delved not only beneath the islet – it seemed to Gordnauld – but also out of the realms of normality. Taking his cue from Rentwich, he had begun to regularly note the diminishing sunset. The darkness of the hole seems to issue forth, latching onto all surfaces, devouring each and every distinguishing feature.
Rentwich: “You have to go alone.”
Somehow Gordnauld had known those words would come next. He could protest, or ask for an explanation, but the light is dwindling and with it the power of Reason over that primeval, marrow-deep knowledge that nightmares have always walked amongst us.
From his jacket he removes a short stump of jagged driftwood. His earlier idea that it, and others like it, could be used to build a fire now seems hopelessly irrelevant. The stake, now in hand, has only one inescapable purpose – It must be driven through the heart of the thing called Flandly Overture.
On the yacht, the two observers are silent. They seem to know the deepest thoughts of the hunters on the islet – and perhaps they do for, in the dim light of the ship’s electronic displays, we see that the pair look identical to Rentwich and Gordnauld!