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Nemo reeled. Iceland? He had come from his mysterious island in the South China Sea. Yet he had descended close to the center of the hollow Earth, drifted across a subterranean ocean, and emerged again at a different point on the Earth’s surface.

As Saknusemm led him up a toiling path to the crater rim, the old mountaineer explained that he had studied countless texts in many languages. “There’s not much else to do on this island. The winters are long and hard, and I enjoy sitting by the fireplace.”

Saknusemm had noticed a blast of steam venting from the volcano and had come to investigate. The mountaineer had witnessed any number of geological marvels -- but never a bedraggled young man emerging from under the Earth.

Nemo’s limbs trembled with relief. He was unable to believe he had reached human company in a place which, while not exactly civilized, was at least a recognizable point on a map. From here, he could find passage back to Europe -- back to France.

Back . . . home.

The two climbed to the rim of the tall volcano. Nemo looked across the sparkling glaciers and the white peaks of the great island that had been settled by Vikings so long before. Despite the breathtaking scenery, the wonder that captivated Nemo most was simply the sight of the bright yellow sun in a blue sky -- where it belonged.

#

Saknusemm took Nemo back to his home, where the young man stayed for several months, recuperating and learning what had happened in the world during his absence (though Iceland was by no means privy to the most recent news, either).

It took Saknusemm until late spring to arrange passage for his guest aboard one of the infrequent sailing ships. Over many quiet nights, Nemo repaid his host by recounting his strange adventures on the island and in the fascinating subterranean world. The geologist queried him about the fine points of his story, hearing Nemo’s tale with keen interest. The wise old mountaineer displayed far less skepticism than Nemo had expected.

When at last it came time for Nemo’s ship to depart for Norway, the two made their way to the port of Reykjavik. Nemo embraced the mountaineer and said his farewells, then went aboard. He was a passenger this time, with a little spending money, fresh clothes -- and a burning need to return to France. And Caroline. And Jules.

Nemo waited on deck, facing into the blustery high-latitude winds as the crew prepared the ship for departure. The vessel sailed away from Iceland.

#

Within a week after Nemo had gone, Arne Saknusemm gathered supplies and struck out for the mountains again, climbing the cone of Scartaris and intending to find a passage that would take him to the centre of the Earth. . . .

xiii

With its wooden siding and many narrow windows, the playhouse in Nantes seemed so much smaller and less impressive than even the minor theatres in Paris -- but still, this was his home town. Jules Verne relished the thought of seeing Broken Straws performed for an audience he had known since childhood . . . and terrified as to what his parents would think. He attended every rehearsal, to ensure the best performance possible.

While in Nantes, he stayed at his parents’ home, though Pierre Verne didn’t know what to say about his son’s unexpected literary ambitions. Surely, his parents would relish the fame as much as Verne did. “As long as you don’t get too serious about it, Jules,” Sophie had cautioned in the wake of her husband’s stern admonitions for him to continue his efforts in the legal profession. It meant little to them that he had the unflagging support of the literary master, Alexandre Dumas, but neither of his parents were readers of note.

In high spirits after the successful run at the Theatre Lyrique in Paris, Verne had contacted Caroline Aronnax, back on Ile Feydeau. (He still could not bring himself to think of her as Madame Hatteras.) The date had already been set for the performance in Nantes. Costumes had been made, and dress rehearsals had begun.