Although they are called the Mountains of Darkness, and no man alive had ever mapped them, the Stranger realised that he could see, in some fashion, when he emerged at last out of the tunnel.

He had travelled the full twelve hours of the night.

A soft silvery glow emanated from the earth itself, and from the curious things that grew there. He saw small, delicate rocks, like fine jeweller’s eggs, and shrubs that grew down the rock face like spun sugar. A cool breeze caressed his face. Tiny grey birds chittered overhead.

The Stranger came to a great big tree growing out of the fertile ground by a shallow brook. Small fruit hung from the branches of the tree, but try as he might he could not reach to pluck them. He did not know the name of the tree, though had Jefferson & Norvell, Medici, of Asclepius Gardens been there, they might have been able to furnish him with the scientific name of that genus, which is the Arbor vitae.

Flowers grew all about the Mountains of Darkness. They grew on the slopes and in the nooks and crannies of the mountain face and under rocks and trees and by the silent, silver streams, and some were the deep dark of space, and some were white as clay, and some were grey, and all were very pretty: but none was the Ur-shanabi. Their perfume scented the clear air and would have lifted the weariest traveller’s heart, but not the Stranger’s, for the clock on the wall tick-tocked, tick-tocked. He began searching, in quiet desperation.

A black bird startled him, erupting suddenly over his head, cawing and beating its wings, but then it, too, flew away, and the Stranger was alone.

In the room the doctors came and went. On the wall clock the minute hand ticked slowly. Sir? Sir? somebody said.

Then: Give him a moment.

It was when he had lost all hope that he saw it. Far away, on the tallest peak! There grew the Ur-shanabi. It alone had colour in that silver-grey world. Red and yellow it burned, like a tiny flame, struggling against great winds. The Stranger hurried. He traversed steep mountain paths and narrow valleys, crossed rivers where tiny silver fish leaped into the air as he swam. He held on to roots protruding out of the ground, found footholds in the smallest faults of rocks. At last he reached the last and tallest mountain and he began to climb. Time lost all meaning. The tiny flame called out to him. Slowly and alone he struggled, climbing. A tiny figure crawling like an ant upon that great dark slope.

When he came to the top, the plant wasn’t there.