"I meant how the people come out here with their New Year's noisemakers, but all the noise that they can make is swallowed up. Like all the light we shine out over the brink. It all just disappears. There's not the trace of an echo or a reflection or an answer."
Presently it was time to look in once again on Mrs. Tyrrell and Cathy, in the family house.
A big tearful reunion had taken place between mother and daughter as soon as they were both safely out of the Deep Canyon.
For many years Sarah had been afraid to reveal her identity as Cathy's mother. But in fact the revelation had made the girl very happy.
"Now I have a real live mother."
"A very old one, I'm afraid."
"Mothers are supposed to be old. Experienced. That's what they're supposed to be."
Cathy, who tonight was remembering the day's events much more clearly than Maria, had mixed feelings about the loss of her original stepfather, that male figure of power remembered from her childhood.
"Who was my real father, then?" she asked her mother.
"Long dead, I'm afraid, my dear."
"I'm going to want a complete explanation, you know, of everything that's happened. As complete as you can make it. But that can wait."
With new and old pop music blaring alternately in the background, the survivors of the afternoon, except for Sarah and Cathy, gathered once more in Joe's suite.
It seemed to Joe that Bill Burdon was going somewhat out of his way to look after his young colleague Maria.
Strangeways, having gathered some old and now some new members of his trusted inner circle indoors where they could be comfortable, was explaining some of the afternoon's events.
"Around sixty years ago, Edgar Tyrrell, having used the special powers of the nosferatu to find his way for the first time into what he christened the Deep Canyon, encountered the… what shall we call it? An anomaly in the planet's life, a malformation, an artifact, perhaps, of the deep rock. Whatever it should be called, it had begun, ages before Tyrrell's arrival on the scene, to achieve sentience.
"His curiosity about the thing he had discovered caused him to nurture it, to feed it with new life—at first, no doubt, only with the lives of plants and animals. Service became devotion, and devotion eventually worship—I think that is not too strong a word. But it all began gradually, you must understand, in a spirit of intellectual inquiry. For years, for decades perhaps, he could still convince himself that he was only an investigator. An artist, with all that the word means, seeking to capture the essence of what he had discovered.
"When we began our own investigation I was not sure whether Tyrrell might not have come here as a breather, and been converted to vampirism by the entity he had discovered. But now we know enough to be sure that he had already passed beyond the breathing mode of life before he arrived at the Canyon."
Most of the audience seemed too timid to ask questions. But not Joe. "You don't think it was the thing itself that originally brought him to the Canyon."
"Almost certainly not. Rather he had somehow heard of the scientific possibilities—the first geological studies were made before 1860. The potential of such an incision into the secrets of the earth drew and fascinated him. What the fascinated seeker encountered in the deep rock was, by human standards, an alien kind of consciousness, though undeniably belonging to the earth as much as any human being does.
"A few days ago, in Tyrrell's native land, I spoke to one who gave me wise counsel—and even more than that. To destroy or slay this entity might well have been beyond my powers, and even beyond those of my borrowed magic. But by invoking the power of even deeper time, it became possible to release it—to undo the knot."
The phone rang in Joe's suite, and was duly answered, whereupon it became necessary to send a runner to fetch Cathy over from the phoneless Tyrrell House, and also someone to stay with Mrs. Tyrrell while Cathy came to talk. Her legally adoptive father was on the line, wishing everyone a happy New Year, cheerfully communicating the information that he was already somewhere in Nevada, that his luck had turned for the better. Brainard now seemed to think that his chances of surviving his current troubles were quite good.
When Cathy had finished her phone conversation, and had gone home to her mother again, Drakulya continued his exposition.
"Our friend—my compatriot, if you will, Tyrrell—had been, consciously or not, in a sense creating, defining, or giving substance to his own god—making it in the image of the god he wanted.
"But it was not in the nature of this creation to be benevolent toward its creator, or obedient to its self-proclaimed master."
"What'll happen to Cathy now?"
"I believe her to be what is now called a good survivor. Eventually she will be able to put all of these bizarre events behind her."
"And the rest of us," said Bill Burdon, "are going to have quite a story to tell." He looked hastily at Drakulya. "Someday," the young man amended. "Someday, when we can expect to be believed."