Albert tried to scream, but nothing came out. So he ran. He ran as fast as he could, which in this nightmare world still felt like moving through molasses. Just as the condor was upon him, he lunged over the crest of one of the dunes, tumbled violently down a steep embankment—
—and crashed through a layer of solid ice.
Albert plunged deep into the frigid water beneath. He immediately swam for the surface but could find no opening. Beneath the solid ice, he was trapped. He began to panic again as he pounded on the frozen ceiling with both fists, his lungs aching with pressure as their final reserves of oxygen were depleted.
Then at last, just as the grip of unconsciousness tightened around his body, he found the opening through which he had fallen. With all his remaining strength, he pulled himself up out of the water, finding purchase on the snowy shoreline that rimmed the freezing pool. He stood up, dripping and shivering, and surveyed his surroundings. He was in an Arctic wilderness, and there was a blizzard in full force. Stinging snowflakes bit and snapped at his face at the same time that he became aware this was no ordinary tundra. There were tall palm trees peppering the landscape, so curiously equidistant from one another that they looked almost artificially placed. Each frond was a different color, which gave them a striking rainbow effect. But what drew Albert’s attention more than anything else was the cabin. It was his cabin. Just plopped out here in the middle of this insane, otherworldly panorama. He ran toward it, partly out of curiosity and partly out of fear of death from pneumonia or hypothermia. He reached the cabin door and hurried inside.
It was his house, but empty. No—not completely empty. There was a lone rocking chair next to the cold, unlit fireplace. Because he had nowhere else to go, Albert walked to the chair and sat down.
Almost instantly the walls around him began to ripple. At first, he braced himself for another transition—Jesus, what’s next, the moon?—but it was merely the room itself that was changing. The rippling intensified, turning the walls and floor into liquefied, ocean-like waves of wood and sod. And then, abruptly, it stopped.
The room was no longer empty. There were chairs, tables, paintings, and photographs on the walls. It was still Albert’s cabin, but its personality had been entirely altered. It had been transformed into a cozy, beautifully decorated home. He almost didn’t recognize it.
And there was Anna.
She was seated in a second rocking chair on the other side of the fireplace, which now roared and crackled and gave off a warm, comforting glow. Anna smiled wordlessly at Albert as she stitched some ornately embroidered words into a pillow: Don’t go snackin’ if you been tobaccin’. After a moment, she set down her stitchery and pointed off to his right.
When he turned, he noticed a small table that hadn’t been there a second ago. On it sat a steaming cup of coffee. Albert felt himself smile. Although his clothes and skin were now somehow dry, he still felt an inner chill from the ice and snow. He could certainly use a cup of coffee. He picked it up and prepared to take a sip, but stopped as he looked into the cup. The coffee was spinning like a whirlpool. It was almost hypnotic, and soon he found that he could not take his eyes off it. He could still feel his body placed firmly in the chair, but at the same time he had the distinct sensation that he was being pulled down, down, down into the eye of the whirlpool.
And then he was no longer inside the cabin but rather was sitting on a hard, ribbed surface. He looked down. Wicker. Wicker on the floor, wicker on the walls… no, not walls. I’m in a basket. He scrambled to his feet, and his breath caught in his throat as he took in his latest surroundings.
He was floating in a hot-air balloon surrounded by trees. But these trees were impossibly, fantastically tall. Whether Albert looked up or down, he could not see where they began or ended. The trunks simply receded to infinitesimally small points in the distance.
He felt the balloon quiver slightly. When he gazed up, he saw that the fabric above him now bore a gigantic face. A face he knew all too well. Foy’s face. “Balloon moustache, balloon moustache,” it sang in echoey, dissonant, reverberating tones. Albert grimaced in repulsed confusion, but before he could react further, a dark shadow passed overhead. The black condor swooped down from above, ripping Foy’s face to shreds with its massive talons. Unfortunately, the balloon itself was also in tatters, and Albert began to plummet fast. He let out a scream as he looked down and saw the trunks racing past him at blurring speed. Still, the ground had yet to make an appearance. His fall accelerated, and Albert could feel his face rippling from the force of the descent. His insides pushed angrily at the back of his throat like an invading army with a battering ram at the gate. Then, suddenly, with a hard, skull-rattling jolt, it stopped.
He glanced up and found that the balloon had caught on a branch. He was swaying back and forth pendulously, and the branch looked ill-equipped to hold his weight for long. He looked down again and saw the forest floor at last.
It was a sea of raging fire.
The branch snapped.
Albert braced himself for death as the basket plummeted again and the flames rushed up to meet him—
THUD!
He landed on a patch of soft green grass. The impact had been harder than the others, and he thought for a moment that his nose was broken, or at least bleeding. But when he poked at it gingerly with his index finger, it felt intact. He struggled to his feet and looked around. He was standing in a wide-open field, surrounded at its perimeter by a thick layer of pine trees. It was an oddly silent place, bereft even of birdsong. And then he began to hear the clip-clop of hooves. He turned toward the sound. Approaching from the distance was the most ornate horse-drawn carriage he had ever seen. It was a bright shade of purple, and was pulled by two milk-white mares bedecked entirely in gold-colored tack. The carriage came to a stop directly in front of Albert. The horses did not stir, but Albert got the distinct sense that they were waiting for him to act. He cautiously moved toward the side door and grasped the handle. When he opened it, his head spun.
Beyond the door was the interior of a Gothic church. It was dazzling in design, lusciously opulent in décor—and full. There had to be five hundred people in attendance, all lavishly dressed and all staring expectantly at Albert. Most were strangers, but some folk he recognized from Old Stump: Edward, Ruth, Millie, Doc Harper, Sheriff Arness—and Anna.
She was dressed in a flowing white wedding gown and stood at the altar, attended by Pastor Wilson. Her gaze was warm and welcoming as she beckoned him to approach. The magnetism of the vision was irresistible. Albert stepped through the doorway…