Richard was surrounded by a darkness no photon could reach. He brought his hand to within millimeters of his face, but there was only a wall of blackness, pure void. He slammed shut his eyes, but no colors played on the insides of his eyelids, not even an afterimage of the glowing sphere. He imagined for an instant that the gloom had suddenly turned to liquid and was streaming into his throat and nostrils, filling his lungs. It was viscous like syrup, and tasted of seawater. Breathe, you idiot. Breathe!

He did, and the darkness returned to its native state. The pain in his arm began to subside, but his stomach was lurching this way and that as tremors of nausea ripped through him. Trying to stay calm (not succeeding), he rummaged his pockets for his phone. Crap, where is it? Then he remembered: he’d left it in the kitchen to recharge.

It then occurred to him that he was freezing. He hugged himself, rubbing his arms to stir up some tingles. Whatever this place was, it wasn’t spacious. It felt enclosed, cramped, like a walk-in freezer. He sensed that there were walls close by. The air was stagnant and odorless, and although the cold was boring into his bones, it had a congested quality that, at the very least, conferred a misapprehension of actual warmth.

Was he alone? Yes, he thought so. Almost certain of it, in fact. He was on intimate terms with that entity, Alone; could distinguish its pressures and dimensions, the weight of it as it alighted on his shoulders, its specific density as it settled in his gut. Still, he needed to know for sure. “Hello?” he whispered. “Hello? … Anyone? … Anyone? … Bueller?” No answer from the gloom. He listened for the rustle of clothing, loose change tinkling, an escape or intake of breath, anything that might betray the presence of a fellow human. He sniffed the air like a hound: fragrance-free. If there were anyone nearby, then he, she, or they did not wish to be detected, which, for the time being at least, was hunky-dory as far as Richard was concerned.

He decided he needed to move, and quickly. Still clutching the headless club shaft, he poked at the ground around his feet. Stable, flat. Then, swinging the shaft back and forth like a cane for the blind, he took two baby-steps forward. Then two more. He extended the shaft as far as he could to the left and felt nothing, but when he extended it to the right, the tip scraped against something solid, confirming his suspicions. The wall’s surface was cool and rough. Ice, he thought.

He followed the course of the ice-wall. It went on straight for about thirty paces, then veered right, left, right, left again, then continued in a wide curve to the right. After what seemed like several minutes of fruitless wall-navigation, he noticed a wrinkle of gray light just up ahead. It was probably nothing, but he sprinted toward it nonetheless, slip-sliding on the icy ground and panting with excitement.

The light was authentic. It streamed in from a man-high gash within the ice. He had come to the mouth of what he now hypothesized to be a cave, or more accurately a giant, winding crack in the roots of a glacier.

He staggered across the threshold and was ambushed by a frigid blast of wind. Jesus Herman Christ, will this winter never end?

He planted one hand over his mouth and the other over his eyes and peered through trembling fingers. Though the freakishly cold weather was spot on, this was not the same winter that was currently laying waste to Massachusetts, Connecticut, and southern New Hampshire. Richard was not in Brookline anymore. Nor Oz. Nor Narnia. Kansas, however, was not out of the question.

A vast snow-covered plain stretched out before him. Thin white curls of powder unfurled like banners from the tops of wind-sculpted snow-dunes. The sun had just risen—or was about to set, Richard couldn’t tell—a pale, solemn disc clipping the horizon, slicked with oily clouds. The sky was a patchwork stitched with every shade of gray that nature could devise. About a quarter mile directly ahead, through the snow-swirls and mists that the persistent flurries kept flinging into his eyes, he could barely make out a row of knobby hills backed by jagged peaks. There was no vegetation or animal life anywhere to be seen.

His first inclination was to retrace his steps to the spot where he had … what, exactly? Emerged? Come through? Fallen in? Been taken? Whatever mechanism, miracle, or cadre of conspirators that had transported him to this awful place must for the moment remain unrevealed. His cortex had more pressing calculations to process: How to stave off frostbite. And, barring that, how not to freeze to death.

He stepped back into the shelter of the cave. Think, Richard. In his mind, the return path went left, right, then right again—no, left—then right, left. Or right. Was that right—er, correct? Even if he were able to make his way back to his starting position, how would he know where he was? The cave was pitch dark, and he had no light.

Another alternative was to continue down the tunnel to see where it led. But what if there are branching passages? I suck at maps. Horrific sense of direction. Couldn’t find my way out of a phone booth. Lucky for me, phone booths no longer exist. Ha!

He sighed, rubbed his moist eyes, disentangled his mind’s cords and wires, and looked, really looked, with animalistic single-mindedness upon the expanse.

The hilly area wasn’t that far off. And those hills might contain valleys, which might support rivers or streams, which may imply edible plants, perhaps even a settlement. He estimated the distance. Quarter-mile, maybe less. He was still wearing his office attire: Merrell hikers, wool socks, corduroy trousers, long-sleeved wool sweater, polyester T-shirt, cotton undershirt. (He commended the sphere’s foresight. Had it waited until August to pop into his basement, more than likely he’d have been sent to this winter wonderland in nothing but shorts and sandals.)

After a few more seconds of surveying, he came to a decision. He could cover the quarter-mile trek if he power-walked, protected his face from the brunt of the wind, and maintained a straight course. The terrain, though. Was it level? Were there—what were those things called?—crevasses? So I reach the hills. What then? What in the bloody blue hell is out there?

Thoughts, Questions, Common Sense: all were banished from the kingdom. His three minions could remain behind in the cave or wander where they would, as far as he cared. It was time: freeze or go. He fit the club shaft through a belt loop and let it hang by his side like a sword. He stepped into the white expanse.

The terrain was rock-solid and coated with packed snow, so his legs stayed relatively dry. Less than halfway there, his feet were numb stumps, and he couldn’t move his fingers. Still, he somehow made it to the first line of foothills, which turned out to be jutting, snow-capped ice formations or mini-glaciers, the largest about fifteen feet high. He maneuvered around one of the larger ones until he was shielded from the worst of the wind, then halted. His breathing was rapid and ragged, and he was shivering, and not only from the cold. Ordering his lungs to take long, even gulps, he took stock. First of all: don’t panic. There’s a way out of this. Probably. Picture a roaring fireplace, double Scotch neat, down comforter, clean sheets, a novel on the nightstand. Ahhh … nice. Now go!

Starting off again, he shuffled between craggy formations, heading for the rocky highlands in the distance. Nothing looked promising. No trickles of water; no signs of life, human or otherwise. Only ice, ice, ice. Wait! What’s that? Is it…? No, just a slab of ice frosted with ice.

The temperature dropped as the wind increased. His heart beat faster, faster. He wasn’t going to make it. Will it be slow agony, or will I go numb first? Will my body be found a thousand years from now, frozen into position? By that time, they will have perfected cryogenics and reanimation, so who knows, it might not be all bad.

The sun had dipped below the earth. Setting, not rising. Which meant he was heading south, and into the maw of night. As the last of the day’s radiance slipped away, he stumbled through a boulder-strewn crevice and caught sight of a tall cleft gouged between a pair of smooth snowbanks at the base of a steep glacial wall. Another cave.

He darted inside and was instantly grateful for the solidity of walls and ground. But there was something else, something that sent him to his knees and brought his hands together in imitation of prayer: heat. He almost refused to believe it. It was as though he’d been wrapped in a fleece comforter. The cold began to ooze from his bones, and his muscles foxtrotted with renewed vigor. He leapt to his feet and set off to find the source of the wondrous warmth, oblivious of danger.

There was no more illumination in the passageways of this cave then there had been in the other—i.e., none—but he could move around in the corridors as long as he followed the walls and used the heat as a beacon. When the air grew cooler, he knew he had taken a wrong turn. Soon, the walls began to feel slippery. The warmth was stronger here. He was close.

He came to a sharp left turn and stopped. A grainy luminescence flickered on the wall directly in front of him. Fire? He raised the club shaft. Don’t be surprised, he told himself, if there’s a dozing dragon sprawled on top of a treasure mound, little flames darting from its nostrils.

Slowly, he rounded the corner. Yes, there was a fire; and no, there was no dragon. But what Richard beheld was no less astonishing.

The tunnel had dead-ended at a studio-apartment-sized, semi-circular chamber in the center of which blazed a fire unlike any Richard had ever seen. Four-foot flames of an intense blue-green were conjoined into a narrow column and writhed like an orgy of snakes. The flames made no crackling sound, nor did they emit any smoke. There was no timber, Sterno can, or kerosene tin beneath the fire-pillar, which appeared to be anchored to the ice-floor. So the fire was self-generating, Richard presumed, consuming an energy all his own. Star-like was the only descriptive term Richard could muster. And then, for the briefest of moments, there in front of him was Ivan Waters slumped at his little desk, scribbling in the red book.

Richard moved further into the chamber. Hovering beside the fire-pillar was a bluish-white sphere identical to the one in his basement.

“Well, that’s something,” he muttered.

He approached the fire and bent down to warm his hands. As he debated whether to touch the sphere to see what would happen, or continue to explore the web of corridors, his eye chanced on something burning in the flames. Carefully, he pried it out with the club shaft. At first he thought it was a scrap of newspaper, but it was too thick and pliable. Though he couldn’t be sure, he would have wagered that what he held was a piece of vellum or parchment.

He brought the scrap closer to the firelight. There was writing on it. Though the page was singed and charred, rendering most of the text unreadable, a few scant words and broken syllables could be made out. They were in English, written in blue ink by a meticulous hand.

[ … … … …]wer arrang[…] has taken as inspirat[…] el[… …] diversified as […]nting, sculpture [… … …]ture. […] Eden’s […] to your grand[…] […]able garden, flowers and p[…] ha[…] embodies ran[…] of sym[… … …] from the rose’s blood-[…]sion [… …] so[…] di[…] an orchid. S[… …] […]yptian times w[…] they first pla[…] […] flowers in a […]filled j[…] over 4[… …][…]go, the ar[…]ment of […]ssoms and […], lea[… …] buds into co[…] and [… …]y va[… … …]ons has flourish[…] amongst […] about every cul[…] planet. There has alwa[…] been [… …]out our botan[…] br[…] that exhilarates us [… …]ls us with awe. […] they are ut[…] as […] […]ugs, [… …]monial […], or [… …]ful dining-room [… …]eces, flowers [… …]ys rep[… …]ed one thing: the [… … … … … …]

He recognized it at once: an excerpt from Bertha Oswalt’s introduction to Arrangements in Color. What was more, he knew it to be from an early draft of the manuscript. The easily reconstructible phrase “taken as inspiration” in the first line was the giveaway. He remembered wrestling with that irritating phrase, one of many in Bertha’s rank prose, when he had taken his turn line-editing the intro. He had changed it to “was inspired by,” then to “was modeled after,” until finally settling on “is continually inspired by.” The solution had been sub-par, but at least it sounded a trifle less hokey than “taken as inspiration.”

As he was working through this bizarre set of facts (Bertha’s essay, on a scrap of parchment, singed by a fuelless fire that seemed to have sprung out of the ground in the middle of an ice-cave, in the Middle of Effing Nowhere…), something applied the brakes to his bullet-train of thought—screeeeech. It was time to head back, he realized at once. He had what he needed. There was nothing left to do. A weary peace settled over him. He slipped the parchment into the pocket of his trousers and placed his hand on top of the sphere.

Had anyone been in Richard’s basement at that moment, they would have fainted. In the center of the room, a man appeared, reverse-dissolving from nothingness into flesh.

Next Chapter: Part One: The First Sphere, Chapter V