There are things that swim in the chaos.
One of them is Andhaka. Andhaka is a great blind beast. He is white and enormous and shaped like a seal, and a long horn protrudes from his head.
“Sometimes when you dream unfortunate dreams,” says Mrs. Schiff, “they fall into the chaos and are lost. They grow there into strange and twisted things.”
The beast Andhaka is rushing for the tower. It is rushing on a current that reaches from the farthest edge of unmapped existence to the shores of Santa Ynez. It is driven by madness and by blood in the water. It is driven by strange hungers.
There are heralds of Andhaka that swim ahead and followers that swim behind.
The heralds have hooked fins, sharp teeth, strange potencies, and burning eyes.
They have been crashing against the tower’s base all night. Some have crawled up the tower’s side, moving with the swift jerky motions of the fiends of horror. They have reached windows, drawn infallibly to the light, only to have Martin or Mr. Schiff hit them with a lantern and knock them back into the sea. They have pounded at grates and swum through an ancient crack into the Gibbelins’ abandoned emerald-cellar.
“We may have to stop the show,” Martin says. “If the sea’s this agitated.”
“Impossible,” says Sid.
Martin calculates. “Then a one-day intermission.”
The fallen dream of Mrs. Schiff approaches. The seabirds have abandoned the tower.
Broderick has fled. He stands on the shore. He watches the tower and nervously washes his hands.
The sea surges.
“That’s reasonable,” Sid agrees.
Andhaka is coming closer.