Midnight at the Well of Souls

“Told ya ya shoulda got a good gal ta help with the farm,” the old man scolded. “If’n I hadn’ta happened along you’d be dead now.”

The man looked around, puzzled. It was a farm, he saw. Some chickens about, a ramshackle barn with a couple of cows, and an old log shack. It looked like corn growing in the fields.

“Somethin’ wrong, Kally?” the old man asked.

“I—uh, who are you?” he asked hesitantly. “And where am I?”

The old man looked concerned. “That bump on the noggin’s scrambled your brains, boy. Better get into town and see a doctor on it.”

“Maybe you’re right,” the other agreed. “But I still don’t know who you are, where I am—or who I am.”

“Must be magnesia or somethin’,” the old man said, concerned. “I’ll be damned. Heard about it, but never seed it afore. Hell, boy, you’re Kally Tonge, and since your pa died last winter you’ve run this farm here alone. You was borned here on Harvich,” he explained pronouncing it Harrige, “and you damned near died here.” He pointed to the ground.

He looked and saw an irrigation pump with compressor. Obviously he had been tightening the top holding nut with the big wrench and had kicked the thing into start. The wrench had whirled around and caught him on the head.

He looked at it strangely, knowing what it must mean.

“Will you be all right?” the old man asked concernedly. “I got to run down the road or the old lady’ll throw a fit, but if ya want I can send somebody back to take ya inta the doc’s.”

“I’ll see him,” Kally replied. “But let me get cleaned up first. How—how far is it into town?”

“Christ, Kally! Ya even talk a little funny!” the old man exclaimed. “But Depot’s a kilometer and a half down the road there.” He pointed in the right direction.

Kally Tonge nodded. “I’ll go in. If you get a head injury, it’s best to walk. Just check back in a little while, just in case. I’ll be all right.”

“Well, okay,” the old man responded dubiously. “But if I don’t hear ya got in town, I’m comin’ lookin’,” he warned, then walked back to the road.

He’s riding a horse! Kally thought wonderingly. And the road’s dirt!

He turned and went into the shack.

It was more modern than he would have guessed, although small. A big bed with natural fur blankets in one corner, a sink, a gas stove—bottled gas underneath, he noted—and the water was probably from a water tank near the barn. A big fireplace, and a crude indoor shower.

There was a small refrigerator, too, running off what would have been a tractor battery if he had had a tractor.

He noted the toilet in one corner, and went over to it. Above it hung a cracked mirror, some scissors, and toiletries.

He looked at himself in the mirror.

His was a strong, muscular, handsome face in a rugged sort of way. The hair was long and tied off in a ponytail almost a meter long, and he had a full but neatly trimmed beard and mustache. The hair was brown, but the beard was reddish.

He turned his head, saw that the knot was almost invisible in the hair. Brushing it back revealed an ugly wound.

He died in that accident, he thought. Kally Tonge died of that wound. And I filled the empty vessel.

He stripped and took the mirror off its nail hanger, looking at himself. He saw a rugged, muscular body, well toned and used to work. There were calluses on the hands, worn in from hard farm labor.

The wound did hurt, and while he was certain it wouldn’t be serious now, it would be better to go into town. It would also help to explain his mental lapses.

He put on a thick wool shirt and work pants, and some well-worn leather boots, and went back outside.

The place was interesting, really. It looked like something out of ancient history, yet had indoor plumbing, electricity, albeit crude, and several other signs of civilization. In the midst of this primitiveness, he noticed with amusement that he wore a fancy wristwatch.

It was not cold, but there was a chill in the wind that made him glad he had picked the thicker shirt. They were short on rain here, he noted; the dirt road was rutted and dug up, yet dry and caked.

He walked briskly down the road toward the town, looking at the scenery. Small farms were the rule, and many looked far more modern than his. There wasn’t much traffic, but occasional people passed on horseback or in buckboards, giving him the impression that modern vehicles were either in short supply or banned.

And yet, despite the lack of recent rain, the land was good. The tilled soil was black and mineral-rich, and where small compressors pumped water from wells or nearby creeks into irrigation ditches, the land bloomed.

He came upon the town much faster than he had anticipated. He didn’t feel the least bit tired or uncomfortable, and he had walked with a speed that astonished him. The town itself was a study in contrasts. Log buildings, some as tall as five stories, mixed with modern, prefabricated structures. The street wasn’t paved, but it went for several blocks, with a block or two on either side of the business district composed of houses, mostly large and comfortable. There was street lighting, and some of the businesses had electric signs, so there was a power plant somewhere, and, from the look of things, running water and indoor plumbing.

He studied some of the women, most of whom were dressed in garb much like his own, sometimes with small cowboy hats or straw broad-brimmed hats on their heads. There weren’t nearly as many women as men, he noted, and those that were here looked tough, muscular, and mannish.

The town was small enough so that he spotted the doctor’s office with no difficulty and headed for it.

The doctor was concerned. He had quite a modern facility, with a minor surgery and some of the latest machines and probes. Clearly medical care was well into the modern era here. The X-rays showed a severe concussion and fracture. The doctor marveled that he was alive at all, as he placed medication and a small bandage on the wound after sewing seven stitches.

“Get somebody to stay with you the next few days, or look in on you regularly,” the doctor advised. “Your loss of memory’s probably only temporary, and not that uncommon in these cases. But a lot of damage was done. The brain was bruised, and I want someone to see that you don’t have a clot in there.”

He thanked the doctor, assuring him that he would take care of himself and be watched and checked.

“Settle the bill at the end of the month,” the doctor told him.

This puzzled him for a minute. The bill? Money? He had never used it himself, and, back on the street, he pulled out a thin leather wallet, which looked like the survivor of a war, and opened it.

Funny-looking pieces of paper, about a dozen of them. They had very realistic pictures, almost three- dimensional, on them, the fronts showing the same man three times, the others two other men and a woman. The backs showed a remarkably realistic set of farm scenes. He wished he could read the bills. He would have to find out what each one was and remember the pictures.

A three-story log building’s lights went on in the coming twilight, and he saw from the symbol on the sign that it was a bar and something else. He didn’t recognize the other symbol, and couldn’t read the words. Curious, he walked over to it.

There was a rumbling of thunder in the distance.

* * *

She awoke, feeling nauseated, and threw up.

The bile spilled on the cheap rug, and in it, as she gagged uncontrollably, she could see bits and pieces and even whole pills of some kind.

The spasms lasted several minutes, until it seemed there was nothing else to give. Feeling weak and exhausted, she lay back on the bed until the room steadied. The stench of the bile permeated her.

Slowly, she looked around. A tiny room, with nothing but a bed much too large for it and a wicker chair. There was barely fifty centimeters’ clearance on either side of it.

The walls and ceiling seemed to be made of logs, but the construction was so solid it might as well have