The great Gathering seemed to be understanding something too, for it moved and scraped with greater agitation. And then there he was. The old man. The old man but rushing now, a swift walk, ploughing through the rubble. The old man, big old man in his top hat and a great coat. Rushing down the cellar passage, coming forward, and the Gathering made a huge mouth and it spat at him – a great wall of things flew out from the Gathering, nails and glass shards, broken bits, sharp pelting – but he kept on marching towards it, the old man kept on. He walked right on. He walked right into it, throwing bits and pieces of it behind him as he entered. He just walked through it, and anything in his way, he tossed it out. He made a great path through the creature. We could see him, we all just stood there watching. His great old hands were out then, feeling inside the gathering, his whole arms went deep inside it, and the creature seemed to groan and screech in pain, it swung around him, trying to drown him, all its mouths snapping around him, but the old man only carried on searching through all the things, like he had an ash pan, sifting through it, looking for something specific, something he’d lost and needed back. Old man in the thick of that, what have you lost, what are you looking for? Go on, creature, drown him, drown him, bite him! The old man, big old man, ugly old man, his hands scrabbled about under the surface, searching around, feeling through all the objects. It was up to his neck by then, it’ll drown him, it’ll surely drown him. Good then, let him drown. But then the Gathering stopped still, it seized, it shuddered, it didn’t move any more, it stayed so still. Horrible still. So still we could see at last all what it was made of, see all those things that it was, just things, this and that, everyday things, just things, nothing special. It stayed like that a moment and then, and then, all dropped. All found gravity again, all smashed to the ground, a sudden raining of all those things, down upon the flagstones. All dead once more. Just things again. Only one thing upright, just one from all those thousand thousand things. Only one. Him. The old man, big old man, ugly old man, standing, vertical. Holding something. Holding in his hands just one thing, a thing, a teacup it was, with an extra lip, a moustache cup. Florence Balcombe.