Bright, stabbing light…cool air…falling backward…sharp pains in fingers, knuckles, wrist, tailbone…hard, damp surface…

Richard was lying on his side when he rematerialized. A chair. I was sitting on a chair. No chair here, though.

He sat up, rubbing his posterior and massaging his left wrist, and discovered that he was on a ship, and that the ship was at sea.

The sudden grip of fear marshaled his senses. He took stock of the vessel: long, narrow, shallow-hulled, wooden. He was cramped behind a waist-high amassment of ropes, chains, and pulleys in the vessel’s stern. He peered over the rigging and spied one of the ship’s crew, standing not five paces in front of him. The crewmember was facing away from Richard and hurrying toward the bow. Richard ducked back behind the rigging (which turned out to be a convenient hiding place—he silently thanked the sphere for its foresight). He surmised that the person he was watching was an adult male. Other than that, he couldn’t be sure. He saw only a cataract of brown, shoulder-length hair and a wide upper body huddled beneath a coat of black fur. Waves lapped the hull as the ship glided briskly over the water. The only other sound was the whisper of the wind.

Richard scanned the cloudless sky and squinted at the white sun directly overhead. As his pupils adjusted to the glare, an obstruction slashed through the clear blue canvas of his vision—a huge spar extended from the stern, tapering into a carved spiral. Richard’s stomach crept upwards and his lungs constricted as if starved for oxygen. Protruding steel rivets dug into his shins and knees from the deck beneath him.

As he gazed upwards at the ornate stern-mast, he was possessed by a certainty that he had seen it, or something like it, before. But where? When? He was still riding the effects of his Red Bull jolt, and within seconds he had it. A History Channel documentary about Vikings. The program had devoted a segment to the Oseberg-ship, an intact ninth-century craft unearthed from a burial mound outside of Oslo in the early 1900s. The Oseberg was sleek and shallow, made of dark wood held together by rivets and ribbed joints, and it had a vertical prow that coiled into a spiral, invoking the image of a mythical sea-serpent. Dark wood. Check. Rivets. Check. Spiral. Check.

He peered over the side. The vessel was moving at a fast clip. He reached over and cupped a handful of white spume that was stuck to the hull. He touched it to his tongue. Warm and salty. Real.

He examined the outer hull and noticed that the ship’s side was decorated with a row of round shields. Looking closer, he saw that the gunwale was covered in intricate woodcarvings. Swords, horns, crescents, chalices, stars, trees, gemstones, helmets, pennants, bears, boars, horses, and faces were interwoven with filigreed lines and lattices into a design that rippled like silk scarves. He moved his hand along the sea-scoured wood, marveling at the workmanship as he tried to remember more of what the History Channel had said about the Oseberg-ship.

Early Middle Ages…great distances in a short time…sleek, double-ended design…large sail tethered to a single mast by hand-woven hemp.

A minute passed. Five. Ten. Richard stayed where he was, crouched behind the rigging, unsure of what to do, though he knew he had to do something. He couldn’t just sit there and wait to be discovered, and he was starting to feel the effects of the stiff boards and constant rocking. Lower back in knots, shoulders on fire, ass numb, knees about to pop. Yes, he was scared, but it was a rational fear, and a rational fear can always be fought with a rational mind, which had always been Richard’s companion (and, at times, burden). Just like that, he decided to move. Slowly, so as not to make a sound that might turn one of the crewman’s heads towards him, he got to his feet, stretched his limbs, climbed over the rigging, and ventured three steps forward.

The first thing to marvel at when the entirety of the ship came into view was its lone mast, a huge, thick bole planted in a keelson that was itself the size of an oak tree. The mast was at least thirty feet tall and topped with a red tri-pronged banner. A square sail of white canvas was tied to the wood pillar by a dozen thick hawsers attached to cleats evenly spaced along the ship’s sides.

There was an anxious creak of ropes followed by a loud snap as the sail elegantly captured a tailwind, billowing out. The gust was so strong that the boat doubled its speed in seconds, and Richard was hurled backward into the rigging.

The ship’s crew was huddled near the bow. Richard counted fifteen very large men. Most wore leather jerkins, stiff leather leggings, and slick and rubbery buckskin boots. Three of the men wore black sleeveless woolen coats that were open in the front. Each had a weapon slung across his back, and broadswords, maces, and axes seemed to be the standard choices. The crew spoke to each other in strenuous huffs that could not be mistaken for actual words. Nine of them were hard at work bailing water as high waves broke over the sides of the boat. The bailers used buckets or helmets, which they plunged like pistons into the shin-deep water and thrust over their shoulders in an equally fast motion, catapulting the water back into the sea’s bosom. They paused at every seventh or eighth dunk to catch their breath and savored long draughts from waterskins hanging from their belts or around their necks. Three other men were slumped along the crossbeams, eyes closed and tongues protruding from parched lips—whether asleep or dead, Richard could not tell. Fourteen rectangular benches were positioned lengthwise along the keelson, separating Richard from the crew, seven portside and seven starboard. A massive oar was propped against each one. Aside from the oars and rigging, Richard could see no supplies on deck—no barrels, anvils, or tools—and from what he could tell, the ship was too shallow for there to be much of a cargo-hold.

To protect his face from the stinging sea spray, Richard covered it with his hands, peeking through his fingers at the coruscating water and sapphire heavens, indistinguishable but for a silver sliver of unbroken horizon that separated one lapis swathe from the other. No land was in sight, no other vessels were in the vicinity, and there were no dolphins, whales, sharks, albatrosses, leviathans, krakens, or giant sea turtles to marvel at. Not even a gull or petrel. The only non-azure sights were the golden sun-spangles atop wave crests and the soapy lather heaved in the ship’s wake. The only sounds were the wind, the gruntings of the crew, and the drum-SLAP drum-SLAP of waves against the hull.

He checked his pocket for his phone, but of course he had left it in the Pontiac. Typical.

He reached over the side and ran his fingers over the woodcarvings, never taking his eyes off the crew, whose backs were still turned to him.

Lines from the History Channel ran through his head as though on ticker tape: Vikings often ornamented their ships with war imagery…emboldened their spirits…sought wealth and prestige…intrepid travelers…serpent prow…drekkar (“dragon-boat”)…as far north as Greenland…Iceland, Britain, Ireland, France, Russia, North Africa, North America…flourished from 800 to 1000 A.D.…enemies of the Saxons…Christianity and the rise of Franco-Norman power…dwindled in numbers and influence.

Something instinctual needled at his animal brain, a portion of knowledge that could not have been gathered from his surroundings, but which he knew to be valid. “I am not a threat,” he whispered. “Not worth the trouble.” His skin puckered; his pores vented steam. He stood to his full height and began to stride across the deck.

The men turned at the sound of his footfalls. Richard saw their faces, and they his. Theirs were gashed and squamous and had dying embers for eyes. His was pink and peach-like in comparison. The bailers went still. Their limbs hung limp, their bowls and helms dribbling water. Waves tumbled in, pummeling them like pylons along a pier. Not a word was spoken; not a gesture was made. Richard continued his walk and returned their gazes, refusing to flinch. He was five feet from the man closest to him, a behemoth with a puffed-out, bulwark-like chest. The man was stroking his braided orange beard with a confused look on his face, obviously surprised by the sudden appearance of a stowaway. He glanced at the men behind him: Stay back. Then he returned his attention to Richard, and his expression turned to one of total bafflement. Richard could guess the reason: He had never in his life seen a man in a collared cotton shirt and cloth breeches, let alone one so clean-shaven and primrose-faced. 

Richard put up his hands in the universal “I come in peace” gesture. “Um, excuse me, I was wondering…” The behemoth shifted his bulk, and the sound of creasing hide and clinking steel caused Richard to cut himself off mid-sentence. He gulped, and the behemoth smiled. Is he smiling because he’s going to enjoy killing me, or because I look completely effing absurd? Let it be the latter.

There was no time to unravel the meaning of the behemoth’s smirk, for at that instant a deafening shout thundered from the bow.

“Bjoth! Bjoth! Sandr! Sandr!”

A crewman was dangling from a hawser looped around the prow’s neck and he had started flailing and whooping with jubilation, pointing straight ahead. Towering black cliffs now loomed where there had been nothing but empty sea moments before. The bailers dropped their implements and hastened toward the wooden benches flanking the keelson, the land-spotter close behind. The behemoth glared at Richard, then at his frantic crewmates, then back at Richard. After a few tense seconds, he turned and kicked awake the three mates who had been dozing in the sun (Richard was relieved that the fellows were not in fact corpses). In seconds, the sail was lowered and bundled and the men were hard at work at their benches, oars in the water, steering the vessel to shore.

I’m an ant to them. They’ll squash me later. Come on, Rich. Keep it together. There’s a reason the sphere sent you this place. Find it.

Richard noticed that two of the men had not moved from where they stood at the prow, keeping watch over the action. Unlike the others, they wore byrnies of chain-mail over their jerkins. Before Richard could creep back behind the rigging, one of them, a stout, black-bearded, fire-eyed seadog a full head shorter than the man beside him, spotted Richard. Shit, here we go. Striding between the rowers with catlike sleekness that belied his squat frame, he hooked Richard around the neck with a gauntleted paw, and slung him onto an unoccupied bench snarling a monosyllabic, phlegm-strained command that Richard could only interpret as “Row!” Heart racing, lungs heaving, Richard fumbled with the oar, which was heavier than a drainage pipe, until he finally managed to guide it through the oarport. Then he did as he was ordered: he rowed, as hard as he could, as if he alone were powering the ship. The taskmaster rejoined the other man, who had not left his post. This fellow was well over six feet tall, broad-shouldered, with muscled arms and long dark hair that lifted in the breeze in tendrils. His boyish, shaven face would have been handsome if not for a deep violet scar that ran from the bottom of his right eye to his upper lip. Aside from his mail, he was arrayed like the rest of the crew, with no distinguishing emblems or insignia. The only attributes that set him apart were his height and his bearing. Our captain, Richard supposed. And that fat one must be the first mate.

They maneuvered toward the shoals at the base of fog-hidden headlands. The shoreline was bordered with stones and boulders polished to roundness by millennia of tidal caresses. In places, these stones sloped up to cliffs, prodigious granite walls scored with clefts and ridges ascending to a cloud-shrouded precipice. The rowers eased up, and Richard was grateful for the respite. The boat drifted sideways until it scraped against the pebbly alluvium, coming to rest near a huge outcrop dotted with brown shrubs, the only indication that this perilous place supported living things. Richard listened for a bird call, but all he could hear was the monotonous murmur of wind and sea.

The oarsmen got to their feet and massaged their inflamed muscles. Richard did the same. The men glowered at him and seemed to remark upon his outlandish, unseaworthy attire. But they were not hostile. They had seen him work an oar, and they appeared to accept him as someone who was not completely worthless, at least for now. Perhaps they’re a ragtag crew, strangers to each other, hard-up sailors pressed into service at the last minute. If that’s the case, they may see me as no more than a funny-looking foreigner who, like them, is here to do job. Am I Queequeg?

Each man knelt beside his bench, which is when Richard learned that the oar-benches doubled as baggage crates. The men undid latches, threw open lids, and removed all manner of equipage: helmets, chain-mail vests, hauberks, shields, belts, gloves, buskins, tunics, breeches, swords, scabbards, small knives, large knives, sheathes, water pouches, blocks of bread, and other essentials.

Richard bent to his own bench, which he now realized was different from the others. It was the trunk from his basement, the trunk he’d had since he was a kid, the trunk he’d lugged for five summers to and from Smoke Mountain Camp near Glens Falls. The thing had even gone with him to college. The cedarwood was the same shade of orangey umber (he remembered how much it had stood out amongst his cabinmates’ blacks and browns), and the rusty black hinges were also spot-on. He checked the front-right corner, and he could have sworn he saw his name written there in his mother’s flawless capitals, right where it should be. “No way,” he whispered, and checked again. Though smudged and faded, it was unmistakable: “R WATERS.” He jiggled the latch. Inside were a sword and a shield, and nothing else. The sword’s blade was about a yard long and marred with nicks and dents. The hilt was of gold, and there was a crossguard, a weighted pommel, and a two-handed hardwood grip. The shield was round, half an inch thick, and made of thin layers of pliant, lightweight, yellowish-white timber. Its rim was sheathed with rawhide and it was fitted with an iron boss in the center. Leather straps were bolted to the back. Holding the items, Richard half-expected that whatever thaumaturgy was at work would grant him the ability to handle the weapons with grace. Not so. He fumbled with the shield and could barely lift the sword because of his sore muscles. He ended up carrying the shield like a platter, the sword stretched diagonally across it. Surely, the crewmen would unleash a pack of taunts and pent-up frustration on this stranger who carried his weapons like a serving girl. But no, they were busy donning their gear and preparing to disembark. Most had exchanged their jerkins and woolens for corselets and cuirasses. Richard was reassured to see that his sword and shield resembled theirs.

The first mate signaled for Richard to follow him. Gripping the shield and raising the sword in answer, he leaped onto the gangplank. What am I doing? Am I insane? Yes, okay, probably. But let’s be honest, Rich, insane or not, this is fucking awesome. His thoughts turned to his father. Ivan would have loved this. Of course, his thrill would have come from griping about the historical inaccuracies.

The patchy ground near the ship was the consistency of marsh mud. Richard’s feet sank into the slop, and he had to pump his legs to keep from getting mired. The crew moored the ship to a boulder and clustered around their massy-haired captain. There was a cacophony of fellowship: stomping, hearty embraces, clanging of steel on steel. Then the captain hushed his men with a raised hand and addressed them in their language. His voice was low, steady, prayerful. When he spoke, the men closed their eyes and craned their heads to the sky. Though he could not understand what was being said, Richard was captivated by the man’s voice. It carried an authority that was indigenous to the words and syntax. Syllables meshed and interlocked, producing an irresistible sonority. So much for grunts and huffs—when spoken loudly enough to be audible, their language was the stuff of songs.

The captain finished his speech and led the men to the outcrop, where they relaxed and murmured amongst themselves. Richard sat on a rotted tree stump, removed from the rest of the group. One of the men offered him a drink from his waterskin, but Richard did not respond. He could not take his eyes off of the captain. There was courage and confidence in him, but melancholy as well, and an incertitude that belied his outward self-possession. The majority of the men huddled around him as if he were a fire that kept them warm, asking him questions, to which he replied with short, emphatic answers. He seemed thirty years older than his true age, which couldn’t have been more than twenty. Just a boy. Richard felt drawn to him.

A not-unfamiliar sensation came upon Richard. He couldn’t put a finger on it, but it felt like…like a really good book. The sensation swelled up within him, and Richard put a word to it: authenticity. It grew stronger, and the word changed with it: actuality. “I’m here,” Richard whispered. “I’m doing this.” At that moment, he was certain that if he were chosen, he would follow this boy captain into the mouth of an inferno without a second thought, if only to experience the sensation of fearlessness for the first time.

A nod from the captain, and the first mate circulated among the crew, barking orders and arranging the men into two lines. The puffy-chested behemoth was enjoying a lump of bread, and Richard had to chuckle when the mate slapped the food out of his enormous hand, grabbed him by the breastplate, and hauled him into position. Richard slipped in behind him as, once again, the captain addressed his crew. This time, his words were insistent and reassuring. Richard chose to believe that he was telling them to be calm, fearless, and, above all, vigilant. Yes, something was afoot.

A noise arose from high up on the cliff, a loud neighing and galloping, faint at first then louder and louder. Someone was charging hard down the slope. The men hardened into statues; not a nostril twitched. A rider on a gaunt gray stallion appeared from behind an outcrop. He wore a tattered brown surcoat over a vest of mail, and his steed was fitted with a bronze chanfron. His cheeks were pale and wrinkled, and his eyes were a deep fiery blue, but the rest of the rider’s face was obscured by his helmet’s wide noseguard. He brandished a spear and in an instant, he had it leveled at the mate, who stood at the head of the company. The captain stood off to the side, taking in the scene.

It was clear that the single horseman, presumably a sentinel from an outpost high on the cliff wall, posed no threat to a company of fourteen warriors (fifteen if you counted Richard). Still, he tried hard to appear dignified and formidable, craning his neck and scrunching up his brutish chin as he scrutinized these battle-ready visitors from across the sea. The point of his spear was now just inches from the mate’s unprotected head. Slowly, the mate raised his sword and took a step forward so that the spear rested on his left shoulder, the point nicking his earlobe. The sentinel grumbled and fidgeted with the reins, and even the steed seemed confused. Though he didn’t lower his weapon, the man backed away. Richard tightened his grip on his sword.

Then Richard spotted it, hovering just above the rotted tree stump where he’d been sitting moments before. It was the sphere, its pale-blue core encased in milky luminescence. He tried to ignore it. He wanted to stay, wanted to see this through. But the sphere beckoned to him, and its message was clear: That’s enough, it said. You’ve seen all you’ve needed to see; you’ve gotten your taste. Time to go. Answers will come, but you must return home to seek them.

Richard found himself sneaking away from the men, silently wishing them, and especially their captain, the best of luck, as he trudged over to the sphere—his sphere. Just before he placed his hand on its swimming surface, he heard the sentinel greet the crew, addressing them in a high-pitched, formal tone that failed to mask his fascination and wonderment. He clearly had no inkling of who these sea-worthies were, or why they had set foot on the shores of his homeland.

Next Chapter: Part Two: The Second Sphere, Chapter III