Abraham squinted up at the maelstrom playing about Sentinel Hill. In the flashes of lightning we beheld a cyclopean mass swaying to a music heard only by itself. Abraham said, “Pluto is opening the gate. His throats form the words that mine could not.”
Helena giggled. The sound, light and musical, seemed ghastly in its inappropriateness. “Dear Abe,” she said, “that gate swings wide. And passage is allowed in both directions.”
With inhuman speed, she began to sprint up the incline.