“You come to us, the twins?” one woman asks.

“You seek passage onwards?”

“So it is done, as we always do when asked.”

The women’s faces contort in pain and the skull of the behemoth twitches and shivers. With a crack, the centre splits open, spraying a mist of bone dust. The skull issues a great, animal breath of acrid vapour. Before it, just across from the other side of the bone, an infinite black ocean stretches forth.

“Go forth,” one of the women hiss. “Claim The Screaming Zahir and think of nothing else until it is done.”

“It is our punishment eternal,” the other interrupts. “That we may think only of The Screaming Zahir and nothing else, yet never leave this skull. Were we to abandon our duty, the way to The Screaming Zahir would be closed, and though our pain is infinite, the only redemption is that we may allow others to see what we may never see.

“To close the way would be unthinkable,” the other says.

“Unthinkable,” the second agrees.

“Perhaps, somewhere, our ghost walks in her own eternal exploration,” the other says.

“Perhaps,” the second considers.