A strange and new land

I awoke from a sound sleep refreshed and relaxed. I first noticed the cold I felt, and then the fact that I was not in a bed.

“And no drugs needed for sleep, either,” I thought swiftly, as I glanced at my hands.

Neither hand showed signs of injury beyond a few fine scratches, for some reason, and as I felt the left one with my right, I noted normal sensation and an absence of the many scars it had once had. I then thought to feel my ears.

Both ears felt normal as to shape and sensation, and the feeling under my right hand was so distinctly 'alien' that I shuddered. I had never had anything remotely resembling a normal ear there prior to now – neither normal for appearance nor function. Now both ears functioned better than the left one had before being sucked into that strange purple...

“What was that thing?” I thought. “Was it a bottle, or was it something else?”

A brief look at my body showed a near-complete absence of the scars I had acquired in my life, and their replacement with numbers of fine scratches. For some reason, I had the strong impression this state was more than 'skin deep' – and for a second, I wondered about the medicines I had left behind.

I gently removed the clothing I had used for a blanket, and shook it out gently prior to putting it on. As I did, I found it nearly dry as well as badly torn. Somehow, I didn't recall it being as ripped as it was.

“At least it is in one piece,” I muttered. I felt my pockets, and startled. I had nothing with me beyond my clothing itself.

“Not even that little brass thing with its needle,” I spluttered as I slipped my legs into my pants. “How am I going to fix this stuff?”

The questions about medicine reasserted themselves – and as quickly, vanished.

I found that I needed to 'go' once I had put all of my clothing on, and as I came out of the 'bamboo thicket', I noted not merely the tightness of my boots, but also the thickness of my mostly-dry socks. I suspected lengthy walking would make for sore feet, and by the time I had walked for a minute, I knew the matter wasn't one for suspicion any more. My feet were starting to hurt.

I paused and looked around. While my night vision had always been very good, it seemed to have markedly improved, for I saw clearly all of the trees and grass and the river's water. I then looked up to see a broad bright moon and a myriad of chill white stars of phenomenal brightness. Some of them had red or blue tints.

“Is it the lack of pollution in the air,” I thought, “or is it something else entirely?” I sniffed, and smelled a faint odor of wood smoke. At least that odor was familiar.

I felt an inclination to travel to my left as I came close to the riverbank, and I stopped short of the muddy area of the bank to walk on the long-tufted grass. As I did, I wondered as to the uncanny strength of the 'inclination' I had felt; it made that which drew me to the liquor store seem feeble. I could tell something had changed beyond two good hands and two good ears, and while I suspected it to be spiritual, I was not certain. The aura of mystery was profound.

The brilliant light of the stars, however, was no mystery; it, and the light of the moon, seemed ample for traveling, and I could see what might be a road in the distance as I walked slowly. I stopped now and then to look at where I was. It seemed important beyond merely resting my feet.

The grass underfoot was soft, with fine tufted leaves the length of my hand. It was dense, much like long plush carpet, and as I scanned the ground itself, it seemed fairly level, with vague-seeming shallow depressions here and there.

To my right were trees, and as I stopped to look, they seemed tall to the point of vertigo, with one clump seeming to rise high in the air amid a thick dark forest. A steady row of shorter trees seemed conjoined along the opposite bank of the river. The latter seemed all but silent, even as I recalled its gentle current and large fish.

The road joined the bank of the river near what looked to be an ancient stone bridge. I paused for a moment, then noted the three arched tunnels through which the river passed. I then continued on, and when I came to the road itself, I crossed over to the other side. I felt reminded of a joke, one I had not heard in many years.

“Why did the stranger cross the road?”

“Because he was a stranger, and wanted to see what was on its other side.”

The other side of the road showed the river running more or less straight across a plowed field and then into a forest of some kind. The field had long rows of roughly spherical 'bushes' that seemed the size of basketballs for the most part, with the exceptions being larger.

“Those things look like cabbages,” I thought.

However, the sight of 'cabbages' that large made for wondering until I saw an animal that easily came past my knees running furtively along one row and then hopping into what looked like a ditch. I wasn't precisely sure what the animal was, but the resemblance to a gopher was troubling. I did not wish to run into a gopher that large – for an eight inch gopher was trouble, and a four foot long example promised to be vastly worse.

I turned first to my right, and then my left so as to look at the road itself. The road seemed straight enough, and when I looked down near my feet, I saw well-worn ruts and what might have been coarse gravel in a well-cracked matrix of clay. I tried walking 'left' – a town was that way, I somehow knew – and within a few steps, I knew walking there would have me crawling on hands and knees long before I reached it.

“And bloody feet covered with popped blisters, no doubt,” I thought.

I turned to see faint clouds of dust I had stirred in my walking. Something then grabbed my attention, and caused wonderment.

The road had a definite crowned region, one that I had not seen before, with the most rutted places near the shallow ditches that seemed the road's boundaries. I thought to look closely at one particular pair of ruts.

These ruts were roughly four to five feet apart, with square-shouldered corners and smooth bottoms seething with dust. I knelt down, looking closer yet. The impression I had was too strong to ignore.

“Those are wagon tracks,” I murmured. “I had best get moving, as standing here isn't going to get me closer to that town.”

As I walked, I resolved to rest whenever my feet became too sore, though the rapidly-mounting pain tested my resolve within less than a minute. When a large rock showed on the verge of the left ditch, I thought to sit on it.

Removal of my boots and feeling my feet showed no blisters, thankfully. I knew, however, that walking any real distance was a recipe for blisters until my boots had resumed their normal contours.

“Perhaps barefoot?” I thought.

On second thought, that was nearly as unwise as walking in my boots, for the gravel-trodden clay wasn't much softer than concrete. I looked to my right to see far off in the distance what might have been some kind of a dim and flickering light.

The terror I felt upon seeing it was such that I wanted to hide, and as I looked around, I saw that the nearest 'hiding place' was the canebrake.

“How did I walk here?” I thought. “That has to be at least half a mile away.”

I looked again at the light. It was coming closer. I needed to put my boots on.

As I slid on the socks and then wiggled my feet into the boots, I wondered where I was, and more, how I knew I needed to put my boots on. My thinking on such matters was then interrupted by what might have been speech, and I looked to see where the light was. It had come noticeably closer while I was putting my boots back on.

I strained my hearing, and again, I heard what sounded like two people talking.

Within less than a minute, the speech became clear enough to decipher to a degree. It wasn't totally unfamiliar, even if it wasn't English. It sounded vaguely like German, only it wasn't that language either; I had heard that language, and knew its sound, even if I had but rarely heard it outside of a classroom setting.

In contrast, this language was softer than either of the two I had first considered, with a full rounded sound. I continued listening, and when I heard the word 'Georg', I was stunned; both as to hearing a word I recognized, and also, the pronunciation: a softer 'g' sound, a slightly rolled 'r', more liquid vowels, and a slight but noticeable drawl.

“I wonder if this is Dutch?” I thought. “Is it Afrikaans?”

Those were the two possibilities that came closest to my mind as I distinguished another word, then two more. I understood all that I was hearing, so much so that when I heard the word 'Boer' – a long drawn single syllable word that sounded like 'Boooaeerrr' – I knew that not merely it meant 'farmer', but also those speaking it were likely to be farmers themselves.

“And I hope I don't prove a boor to these people,” I thought.

The blowing and snorting of horses became steadily clearer amid the 'clop-clop' sound of hooves and the faint creaking of what might have been wheels. The light was now but a few hundred feet – or yards, it was hard to tell in the darkness – away. I quickly looked to my rear and saw masses of trees that were not conifers; those seemed absent. I was not that familiar with trees.

I turned again to my front. For some distance to my right and left, the ground was divided up into long plots of what looked to be corn in some apportions and vegetables of other kinds in the others. Each plot was separated by long mounded rows of piled rocks that seemed to vanish in the darkness far away; within the plots, often next to the boundary markers, were narrow paths of some kind.

The wagon – if wagon it was – drew steadily closer. I could tell it would easily go faster than my feet would, given what I had to walk in, and I doubted little that it would hurt less. Most likely, it would hurt a lot less. I could tell I was already sore enough to limp.

When the wagon came within thirty feet, I stood shakily, and then quietly said “hello.”

The horses drew up with an abrupt snort, and the two people began talking. I put my hands in plain sight, and as I slowly walked toward them, strange thoughts went through my mind.

Would they think me a robber? A brigand? Did they have such people here?

I did not know, even if I somehow knew there was a town down the road and it was too far to realistically walk.

Yet as I hobbled closer, I knew – with a surety that amazed me – that brigands seldom traveled in this region at night, and never singly and on foot. Most importantly, they would not be limping.

One of the men in the wagon passed what looked like a jug to the other. I heard a cork being withdrawn, and then what sounded like drinking. The cork went back in, and as I drew closer, I noted the size of the jug. It wasn't particularly small, and it seemed to have an unusual shape.

“Yes, and what do I know about such jugs, beyond I made a few years ago in class,” I thought.

The taller of the two men – he was closer – motioned to me. As I came closer – I was really limping now – he said, “you do not look up to much walking. Where are you going?”

“There is a town down the road,” I said, as I pointed with my hand, “and I hoped to go there.”

“Get up in the hayrick here, then,” he said. “The hay makes a good seat.”

I soon learned why he spoke of the hayrick, for when he got down, I noted how 'crowded' the usual seat was between him, his partner, and the jug. The latter was moved out of the way, and once I was nestled in the hay, I found that it made a tolerably good backrest as well as a cushion, with my feet almost straddling the jug.

“My name is Willem,” said the taller man as he got back in his seat, “and my neighbor here is Paul. This load of hay is for an ornery fellow that lives in that town. He's a blacksmith, and you look sore enough to need a ride.”

“Sore?” I asked.

“Limping, and torn clothing, and looking as if you were dragged backwards through brambles,” said Willem.

I thought to look at their clothing once the wagon got underway again. What they wore seemed similar as to shape, if I compared it to mine. Otherwise, I could tell it was different. It might have been knit.

Clothing was not something I commonly noticed as to appearance. I tended to notice other things, chiefly its discomfort, its itching, the sweating, and sense of strangulation I felt when I was the one wearing the stuff.

The other man felt my boots, then said, “your boots are wet, so that says why you were limping. We don't have tallow to spare, otherwise I would give you some.”

“They will have that in town,” said Willem. “Most of them are hospitable enough.”

From my vantage point, I now saw a great many things. The jug was larger than I had thought – its capacity was at least a gallon – and the source of light was a brass 'box' with glass panes and a single candle flickering steadily. This 'lantern' was hung by a metal hook from the side of the wagon's seat, and when I saw what looked like a leather thong, I suspected the 'hook' was hinged.

Thankfully, neither person seemed drunk, and both were friendly. More, their friendship was genuine – as was my terror and shaking. I wondered why I was so afraid, and as I looked around, first to the right, then left, and then ahead, I felt the darkness of the night. It had become terrifying, even as it had not been so beforehand.

The pace of the horses was 'slow', or so I thought until I watched the road and its many slight irregularities; within a minute, I knew that I would have had trouble going much faster, even if I had dry boots that had not shrunk.

“What is your name?” asked Paul.

“Dennis,” I said. “I know little about farming, less about wagons, and I don't come from around here. Where am I?”

“About ten miles or so north of Roos, in the first kingdom,” said Paul. “How did you get here?”

“I came down this hole,” I said, “and then shot out of it and landed in that stream back there. I hid in a thicket until my clothing dried and I had rested up.”

I paused, then said, “and how I got in that hole is a question for which I have no answer – that, and answers to much else.”

“Now that is an interesting one,” said Paul. “Your clothing isn't common for around here, your name isn't a common one, and I have never heard your voice before. Where did you come from?”

“It wasn't here,” I mumbled. I had but little idea how to speak of a place that I had trouble recalling beyond the fact that I didn't miss it much. I swallowed hard prior to resuming.

“It smelled different, it looked different, and farms were scarce there,” I said. “At least, they were scarce where I lived. I don't remember it that well, and I don't want to recall it all that much. They hunted me like an animal there.”

“Why, were you a thief?” asked Paul.

“No. I, I...” There was no time to think, and the word “marked” tumbled out of my mouth before I could stop it.

“Now that is strange,” said Paul. “How? I wonder about that, as those people are not common here, even if most accept them.”

Paul's use of the word most pricked up my ears, and when he resumed, I was not prepared for the balance of his statement.

“Some chase them, though,” said Paul. “Those that do that often tend to be witches, or act like them more than is good.”

I gulped, then said, “I am not one of those, I hope.”

I flicked my eyes to the sides of the road, now looking again out in the black night, looking for shadows moving darkly with razor-edged blades in their hands and murder in their hearts. Paul speaking the word 'witken' had conjured them in some fashion, and as I looked again, I wondered greatly where such thoughts came from for an instant, then was brought back to the present by Paul's talking:

“No, the witches chase marked people a lot, more than anyone else. How are you so?”

I held out my left hand, for some reason. It seemed to faintly glow in the night, and I wondered why. Paul looked at it as if he were a jeweler looking at a rare gem. I wondered if he saw the glowing. More yet, I wondered how – and if – I myself was seeing it. Finally, I wondered if I were hallucinating.

“Those scratches are from brambles, I see,” said Paul, “and they did not get infected in the slightest. That was said to be common with them. Your hair is dark, and that too is rare for here. Is it your toes?”

“I am not certain,” I said, even as I wondered as to what he meant. “That word came to me, and now, I know why. I was too different where I came from, and most people there came after me. Some of them wanted me dead, even as a child.”

“That sounds like what happens to marked people,” said Paul. He bent his attention to the jug, and as he corked it after drinking, I noticed the cork. It was nearly four inches long, with a bent and twisted aspect to the protruding portion. I then caught the odor of what he was drinking.

The odor – mild, yet somehow still penetrating – was that of an alcohol-based herbal extract. I felt vaguely ill upon smelling it, but the fumes dissipated quickly with the wagon's movement. Once they were gone, I felt better.

“That in the jug is Geneva,” said Paul. “It helps with digestion.”

“And feeling less cold of a night,” said Willem. I could hear a shiver in his voice.

“Is that stuff, uh, gin?” I thought. I had never knowingly smelled gin.

“Does that stuff use little, uh, green berries in its preparation?” I asked.

“It does,” said Paul, “that and some other herbs. Some crush the berries and things up and put them in the second running of the mash and then distill it, but that type tends to be less good.”

Willem made a shuddering noise, and grunted his agreement.

“The better way is to run the mash through the still three times,” said Paul, “and then put the herbs and berries in a jug. I left them to sit for a month, strained the stuff carefully, and then added water before letting it set another month. It tastes better and helps more then. Do you wish some?”

“Th-thank you,” I said. “The smell of alcohol tends to cause trouble for me, and it brings up bad memories. I've had drunken people come after me before, and they wanted to hurt me – that, and the taste. Everything like that I've tried tasted so bad I could not stand it.”

“Some like Geneva more than others,” said Paul. “It helps with a fair number of things, not just indigestion, and at least it tastes good. Most medicine tastes terrible.”

The memory of the taste of Proglycem intruded, and I thought, “the package said it had a chocolate mint flavor! That stuff tasted like fermented battery acid.”

I looked around again, now listening to the talk between the two men. I was quite ignorant of the subject, this being the care and keeping of horses. As I listened, I noted that Paul spoke, while Willem drove, and as I thought about the matter, I knew they had a long slow drive with the wagon. I also knew little about the time beyond 'late at night'.

“What kind of horses are these?” I asked. The conversation seemed to be in a 'lull' state.

“The common kind up here,” said Paul. “These are Willem's team, and he got them as colts.”

“Is that why he is driving?” I asked.

“It will be my turn soon enough,” said Paul. “Even so, they could almost take us and the wagon to Georg's without a driver.”

“Georg?” I asked.

“He's that ornery blacksmith,” said Paul. “He does not go broke, and we do not starve, but he still haggles over the price, even if we agreed on it beforehand.”

“And he does it every time we come with the hay,” said Willem.

“You spoke of distilling,” I said. “What do you use?”

“A distilling copper,” said Paul. “Why, do you know about those?”

“I have seen pictures,” I said, “and they have something that might be like Geneva where I came from, which is why I asked about the berries. I have done copper work before.”

My speaking brought back recollections of those things which I had done – two computer coolers, a dummy load container, a number of small raised pieces, a small copper 'frying pan' – and then a huge and barbaric-looking copper mug. That last had gotten no small amount of comment at school.

“Georg had a person who did that stuff, but he is gone,” said Paul. “The coppers they made there were decent, but their prices were high for what one got, or so people said. Someone to the west of here had one, and he said they didn't last too good.”

“How long do they usually last?” I asked.

“A good one might do a year, or two if you are careful,” said Paul, “but then they go leaky, and your mash puts out your fire.”

“And Georg charged more to fix them when that man was there,” grumbled Willem.

“Do you know about making Geneva?” asked Paul.

“I've never actually done it,” I said. “I have made beer before. Those times I helped with it, it came out good, and my recipes always tasted good. I liked making it and giving it away.”

Willem hawed the horses so hard I almost corked the Geneva jug with my nose.

As the wagon stopped, both of them looked at me, almost as if I had in some fashion babbled a priceless statement of inestimable worth.

“Now is that so?” said Willem. “Your beer comes good always?”

I wondered greatly at the remark, so much so that I said unthinkingly, “I never got a complaint, as long as it was a recipe I came up with, and even I could drink the stuff. If we used another's recipe, like as not it would taste awful, and people would pour it out on their flower beds.”

“Is it your taste?” asked Paul, as Willem resumed driving. “Is that why you could drink what you made?”

“Drink generally tastes horrible,” I said. “If I made up the recipe, it actually tasted decent to me.”

The mention of drink and 'indigestion' brought back a steadily fading recollection of needed medicine, and as I tried to recall what that medicine was and why I needed to take it, I wondered why I was so concerned. I glanced at my left hand, then gently pressed upon my stomach with my left hand.

It normally hurt to do so, and now did not.

“D-did that get fixed too?” I wondered silently. “Is that why I cannot recall what that, uh, stuff was?”

A short time later, Willem stopped the wagon, and the two of them changed seats. Paul seemed a passable driver – at least, from my ignorant viewpoint – and as the horses resumed their steady alarm-clock clopping, I looked around.

From my seated vantage point, I saw far into the depths of the starlit night, the 'ditches' alongside of the road, and past the edge of the ditches, the stands of trees as well as the fields. They alternated on both sides of the road, sometimes on both sides, usually one side of the road or another. The cornfields were tall, thick and dense, yet most of the corn seemed to be gone.

“Is that corn?” I asked.

“Yes, it is,” said Willem. “There still is a fair amount out there, so people go out in the fields every day or so to get the ears as they ripen.”

“That, and to keep the animals out of it,” said Paul.

“Animals?” I asked. “What kind?”

“Deer are more common when the stuff is just starting to get ripe,” said Willem, “but people tend to drive them off, at least during the day. There are other animals, some of which do their business at night, and then other animals that are not as afraid of people. Those are trouble when they show.”

“What are they?” I asked.

“Elk, mostly,” said Willem. “They might not be like some cattle that way, but still, I've heard of them coming after people.”

I continued looking out into the fields, and now noted more of the large spherical plants, as well as some other row crops that I wondered about. I saw two more of the larger animals, along with a number of smaller ones of similar shape. The smaller ones seemed able to dig frantically, for more than once, I saw a tall and frantically straggling geyser of earth shoot several feet into the air as the animal vanished from sight.

“If that is a gopher, I do not wish to encounter it or ones like it,” I thought.

The clop-clop noise of the horses' hooves seemed to add to the comfort of the hay, and I briefly dozed off to awaken abruptly with a jolt. The wagon had just hit something, and as Paul slid out of his seat, I noted his side seemed to be listing slightly. Willem followed him but a second later, and as I struggled to get out of the hay, I wondered what had happened.

When I had reached the ground, I noticed in the faint light of the lantern a square-edged irregular hole about the size of a small kettle – and but feet away from it, an obviously damaged wheel with three broken spokes.

“How is it I know the wood isn't that good in those things?” I thought. “I hope this isn't going to be like it once was, with all those strange things happening all the time.”

I paused in my thinking for a moment. I could tell that it wasn't going to be like it had been. If anything, it was going to be both much more common and far more powerful – and with this knowledge, I recalled what I had called evil spirits long ago.

“Spooks are not fun,” I thought, “and this talk of witches is scary.”

I looked out into the darkness again, straining as if to look for faint reddish glowing dots animated with evil inclination. I wondered why I was so concerned for a second. This seemed a strange distraction, and I returned my attention to the wagon.

I walked slowly around the wagon's periphery, looking carefully at both the wheels and the ground. There was but the one pothole, and the other wheels were intact. I came back to where Paul and Willem were both standing next to the wheel.

They were ahead in the talk department, if not the repair department, and as I looked in the direction of town, I could tell it was still far enough away that neither man was in the mood for walking. In my case – off with the boots and barefoot in the dust to arrive footsore and weary hours later. I turned to my left, and saw a thick stand of trees. All was dark as night. I had done my share of whittling in the past, and at least one of the men had a knife that I could see.

While there were some portions of the repair I had trouble figuring out, I knew that given modest help, I could possibly fix the wheel, with the worst portion being removal of the rim. In comparison, the rest would be easy.

I then noticed the turn in the conversation. Paul seemed to know more about 'wagons' than Willem.

“I never had the wagon break like this before,” said Willem. “I got it from a town up the road from someone who had more money than most I know.”

“Did you test it?” asked Paul.

“He isn't a miser, if that is what you mean,” said Willem. “I had him drive it fast through a plowed field before I paid a guilder on it, and every winter since, I have checked it carefully.”

“When did you last pull the wheels?” asked Paul.

“The week before last,” said Willem. “I put some long-boiled tallow in them then.”

Willem paused, then muttered, “I am very surprised.”

“Do not be,” said Paul, as he reached for the jug and uncorked it. “This is not the first time I have seen wheels go like that. Have a sip here, and we can start on it.”

After putting the jug in the wagon seat, I followed the two of them to the rear of the wagon. I had had my attention on both road and wheels before, and now noticed the length of the wagon. It was nearly twenty feet long.

“What is back here?” I asked.

“The wheel-props,” said Willem. “At least, they are that now.”

As the two of them began untying ropes, I wondered what these 'wheel-props' were, until something hit the ground with a thud and began rolling. Paul caught it with his foot and rolled it backwards, and when he upended it, I thought, “now what are they doing with conga drums on a farm wagon?”

“Are those barrels?” I asked.

“I think so,” said Paul. “I am not sure what they once had in them, though.”

“Fourth kingdom powder,” said Willem. “It was decent stuff, even if it was expensive.”

As the two of them rolled the barrels toward the front of the wagon, I felt a twinge of guilt. I noticed that I was taller than both men, and as they stood them to each side of the wheel in question, I said, “I can do part of the lifting.”

“Good enough,” said Paul. “I will do the other portion.”

“And I can slip those props under the axle,” said Willem. “Now...”

Here, Willem paused, then said, “how tall are you?”

“I'm not certain,” I said. “Why?”

“You're a good handbreadth taller than me, and twice that wider in the shoulders,” spluttered Willem. “How strong are you?”

“I have no idea,” I said. “Sometimes I surprise myself.”

I looked closer at the wagon, and saw that the wheel would be about two inches clear of the ground with the barrels under the axle. Willem moved one of them closer to the axle, such that he could easily push it under when the two of us lifted the frame of the wagon. I looked carefully where I was, as I wondered about splinters, and I gently felt the wood on my side of the wheel. It wasn't as smooth as I liked, and I thought to feel where Paul would be lifting.

As I moved to that side and began feeling, Paul moved to the other, then asked, “what is it you are trying to find?”

“Splinters,” I said. “This side's rougher than the other, so I'll pick it up. I hope you have gloves.”

“Yes, some knit ones at home,” said Paul. “Get ready.”

I did so, and on Willem's count of three, I began lifting. Willem was near my right knee and about to get under, when suddenly Paul dropped his end. The pain I felt was so intense I saw odd flickering colors for a second or two, and then lifted the wagon easily. I then heard a groan to my left and rear. Willem was no longer near my knee; he was using the lantern to look at Paul's hand.

“Willem,” I said quietly, “please, put the kegs under the axle. I am not certain how long I can hold this up.”

I heard a shocked intake of breath, then a faint moan. Again, it was Paul moaning. I knew exactly what had happened.

“Remove the splinter,” I said. “Pull very gently.”

For some reason, I could feel the splinter being withdrawn, and with each sudden jerk I felt a stabbing sensation in the palm of my right hand. Willem was frightfully clumsy for some reason, and when he had jerked the thing out, my right hand burned with such pain I nearly screamed. I could feel trickles of blood on my fingers, and the splinter – it was as if I could see it in front of my tearing eyes – was covered with blood. I could somehow ignore the distraction. Normally, it would be impossible.

“Good, it's out,” I said. “Now, the kegs, please.”

Willem moved to my right knee with alacrity, and as I heard him move first one keg, and then the other in position, I was amazed at how calm and rational I felt. As he crawled out, I set the wagon frame down, and sighed with relief – and then fell to my knees with my right hand in my left. I stifled a scream, for now my right hand felt as if I had grabbed the wrong end of a hot soldering iron.

I turned, still shaking with the pain. I was glad it swiftly faded.

“I had no idea y-you were that strong,” said Willem, “and now you look really strange. I had no idea I was talking to a... What are you?”

For an instant of time I wondered as to why Willem was speaking as he was, at least until my right hand again exploded with pain. It seemed to remind me of what had happened to someone I knew, and I turned to fetch the jug. I then handed it to Willem.

“A friend of mine once cut part of his thumb off,” I said, “and this was the only thing that helped him with the pain. Please, drink some.”

I gasped as Willem uncorked the jug, then held it for Paul while the latter drank from it. Surprisingly, within seconds, the pain in my right hand began to diminish.

“May I see your hand?” I asked.

Paul held out his hand, while continuing to drink. I felt the pain lessening greatly, as well as a feeling of such horror I nearly screamed.

“Not too much,” I said. “Just enough that the pain is bearable. Willem, hold the lantern close, thanks.”

As I looked at the wound, I noted that while the splinter – it wasn't much smaller than a pencil – was indeed out, there were many small pieces of wood still in the wound, and as I looked, I saw vast numbers of small blue dots in the wound. I knew these to be bacteria. I also knew the finger-long wound would need to be opened and cleaned properly.

“I hope there is a doctor in the next town,” I said, “because you are going to have that injury opened and cleaned.”

Paul said, his words slurring slightly, “what will I need to have cleaned?”

Paul handed the jug to Willem, who now began to suck on the jug as well. I sighed with relief, for my hand was barely hurting at all.

“Why are they so afraid?” I thought. I then thought to look at my arms.

Both forearms were easily twice their normal size and covered in soft brown glossy hair, and as I felt my face, I again felt the soft fuzz of hair where I normally had a little stubble.

“Is it my appearance?” I thought. I then pushed the matter out of my mind.

“Willem, this is very important,” I said.

He paused, then turned to me. Both men now seemed trashed, though neither of them was irritable in the slightest. The recollection of how I supposedly looked when under the influence of those stupefying pills intruded: very sleepy, intensely relaxed, and so calm I had no words for how I felt.

“And I fell asleep all the time with no warning,” I thought.

“Is there a doctor in that town?” I asked. “Where we are going with the hay.”

“N-no, no d-doctor,” said Willem. I was wondering why he wasn't hiccuping, even if he had trouble keeping his eyes open. “Anna knows more than any three of them.”

“Three g-g-good ones, you mean,” said Paul. He was more asleep than awake now.

“And 'er husband is the best chemist around,” said Willem. “His m-medicines w-w-work. Most other people's d-don't.”

Willem then set the jug down with exaggerated care, and both he and Paul wobbled toward the rear of the wagon. There I heard them crawling into the hay – and for some reason, they were snoring, even as they were crawling into 'bed'. Their snores soon became regular, and it was obvious they were both deeply asleep.

“They may be drunk,” I thought, “but they're not acting like any drunks I've run into before. They're acting like I did when I was first taking those pills.”

The first thing I did was set the lantern on its hook, and here, I looked at it carefully. It seemed important to do so, and as I held the hook, I saw its construction: thin sheet brass riveted in the corners and soldered elsewhere, three rectangular glass plates about two inches wide and four high, and within, an uncommonly thick and somewhat lopsided long-wicked candle. I smelled the lantern, and noted a faint greasy odor.

“I doubt that is wax,” I thought. “I bet it is tallow.”

I left the lantern and its dim pool of light, and went across the road and into the stand of trees.

I did not miss the lantern, for I could see as if it were broad daylight; more, I could readily tell what I was looking at amid the thick jumbled tangle of sticks that lay beneath my feet. In less than a minute, I found a large branch of 'hickory', one that made a Louisville Slugger look small, and in the minutes that followed, I found several more 'sticks' that looked likely for spokes.

As I came out of the woodlot, I sniffed again, and in the distance, I again smelled what had to be wood smoke. It jarred my thinking.

“I thought I smelled wood smoke,” I muttered, “and given how many sticks there are among the trees, wood heat makes a lot of sense.” I dropped my sticks next to the wheel, and looked at how it was attached to the axle.

The thick wooden hub was 'blocked' by a sizable brass plate, and the plate was held in place by a thick iron pin with a forged loop. The pin came out readily, and once it and the 'washer' were off, a tug had the wheel sliding off of the axle. I lifted it easily, and rolled it to the side.

“Wooden axles?” I thought, as I looked at the worn and blackened wood. “How do they keep them from breaking and wearing in a hurry?”

Removal of the heavy hammered iron rim was another question, and as I looked at it, I thought, “don't they usually put these things on smoking hot, and the shrinking rim binds them together?”

I touched the rim, and wondered more. I thought to roll the wheel and tap the rim off.

I set the wheel to rolling, and as I tapped it gently with my 'club', I could see the rim move with each tap. By the time I had gone ten feet past the rear of the wagon, the rim had moved nearly half an inch to the side.

“Why is that thing so loose?” I thought, as I reversed direction and began tapping the wheel itself. “I thought the rim held such wheels together.”

With each tap, the rim steadily moved further and further off of the wheel, and by the time I had reached the horses, it had moved another half-inch. I turned around, changed hands, and went back toward the rear of the wagon, still slowly rolling the wheel and tapping steadily. It took two more such reverses to get the wheel such that I could lay it down and remove the rim.

With the rim off, I now had another puzzle, which was dismantling the wheel. The thick wooden pieces that the rim went on were held together with strange-looking carved pegs, and upon removing them, I was able to simply pull the two pieces of the wheel out, along with the three broken spokes and another that wasn't broken. I now had an issue: I needed a knife, and I didn't have one.

I twitched my index finger, and its claw came out.

“Will this work?” I thought.

I could not think of anything better to use, and as I began 'whittling' one of the sticks, I was astonished. It worked very well, and as I planed the bark off, I noted the stick I was working on had very close-grained wood. It was almost like maple that way, save less 'contrary'. I used the unbroken spoke as a pattern for both length and diameter, with the ends a trifle larger than for the one spoke. I had the impression a poor fit had contributed to the breakage.

When I tried one of the 'too-thick' spokes, however, the tight fit told me that I had nearly gone too far with my trimming. I would need to remove very little to get them 'right', and as I worked on the second spoke, I wondered if 'individual' fitting was a good idea.

“That sounds about right, given what I see here,” I thought. “The holes probably vary a lot.”

When I fit the second spoke, however, I noted that it needed more trimming, and the same with the third. The holes were most likely made with a brace and bit, and hence were fairly uniform for diameter, if not much else. The length of spokes varied nearly a quarter of an inch from longest to shortest.

The large wooden pieces went in one at a time, and here, I saw the first portion of trickiness. One needed to put the spokes in that portion first, then slide the free ends of the spokes into the hub. I removed first two spokes, then plugged them into the wood – and had to bend the spokes slightly so as to slip them into their holes in the hub.

I needed to trim one of the second pairs of spokes before I put the second wood piece in, and then fit the pegs. Those at least went in readily, and when I put the rim on, it seemed to slip down nearly an inch right away. I began tapping it on with my club as I turned the wheel, and as it went on, it became steadily tighter, until finally, when it was fully on, it seemed 'tight'.

“I thought this would be harder,” I said, as I stood up and shook the shavings out of my clothing. “Now, I need to, uh, put that thing back on – and no lubricant handy, either.”

I thought to feel the axle prior to lifting the wheel back in place, and when I felt the slimy thing, I wiped my hand on the ground as I squawked the single word “yuck!” Willem had been right about the long-boiled tallow, and he had been generous with its application. My hand still felt 'dirty', and the distraction was enough to cause trouble until I had wiped the 'nasty' feeling off.

After mounting the wheel and putting the 'washer' and pin in place, I wondered what next to do. I put the 'club' in the front of the wagon, and as I looked around, I heard rustling. It was coming from the hay, and as I went toward the rear of the wagon, I had an intimation as to the time. It would soon be sunrise. I dare not let myself be seen as I was currently.

I met Willem as I reached the rear of the wagon, and Paul joined him seconds later. Both of them wobbled past me, much as if I was not there, and when I turned to walk closer to the front of the wagon, I noted the jug was being uncorked. Paul first took a sip, then Willem. I was glad they did not take more, and as Willem put the jug back, I recalled the face of the man who had lost part of his thumb. I could not recall his name.

“At least my hand isn't hurting much now,” said Paul. “I am glad for that copper even if it does make a mess. Now, I take it we get the wagon going.”

“I can lift it,” I said. “I need to ask a big favor.”

“Yes, and what would that be?” asked Willem. “Did you get hurt?”

“I am not sure what happened,” I said, “even if I've had things like this happen before to a degree. I didn't get like I am now in the past.”

I paused, then said, “I will need to crawl in the hay and sleep, though.”

Willem pointed at the jug, then said, “a sip?”

I shook my head, then said, “I feel tired enough as it is. Please, remove the kegs when I lift the wagon.”

Once that was done – Willem managed both kegs, and was tying them in the rear – I climbed up in the wagon's seat and began worming my way into the hay feet first. I was surprised at how readily I managed, and once my head was hidden, I abruptly fell asleep. I was far more fatigued than I thought I was, and when I awoke, I could hear the steady clopping of the horses' hooves. I then moved my head, and crawled out a little.

Both men were asleep in the wagon seat, and far in the distance, I could see what might have been a town. I knew then that this road was a familiar one for the horses, and...

The dark black of night was now a deep and mysterious blue. Sunrise would happen fairly soon.

As I thought about the matter, I realized that this location wasn't where I came from. I wondered greatly as to where it was, precisely; it was as if I had set foot in the pages of a history book. This place didn't have a 'story' ambiance, but rather a certainty that spoke of a brimming and cogent reality.

I moved out my right hand, and noted it looked normal as for skin amid a thick coating of what might have been 'chopped' straw. I could hear faint creaking noises amid the clop-clop of hooves, and as I looked ahead again, I noted the town was closer than I thought. It might have been a mile away, if that.

With each minute, the town grew more distinct, and the blue of twilight became less dark. I could see two long rows of houses, one on each side of the main street – the road we were on – and to each side of the houses, wide fields of crops. Most of the vegetation seemed uncommonly tall rows of corn.

“I had no idea that stuff got so tall,” I thought. “It has to be ten feet high.”

A second later, however, I knew another issue: it wasn't a good idea to let Paul and Willem be seen coming into town like this. There was an aura of 'gossip' common to this region, and while 'malice' was uncommon in the majority...

“They'd still get in trouble,” I thought. “I had best wake them soon.”

I then thought to gently nudge Paul. He awoke surprisingly readily, and as I nudged Willem, Paul looked at his hand. He seemed 'numb' in some fashion, and as I looked closer, I noticed the following:

I could still plainly see the splinters. Those were very much present, and needed removal.

The blue dots were both more numerous and more active. They had been 'dormant' before.

His hand now looked inflamed, and I could tell an infection was starting.

The wound was still oozing slightly. It had not closed, thankfully.

This place didn't have antibiotics. They might have something for fever beyond cold washcloths.

“Paul,” I said. “Your hand really needs attention. I can see a bad infection starting.”

My speech seemed to remove his 'numb' seeming, and he moaned. The paroxysm of pain in my hand made me grit my teeth.

“Now what were you last night?” asked Willem. “I have heard those old tales, and I never thought I would see someone out of them.”

“Just me,” I said. “Both of you have hair like straw, and mine...”

“You have a lot of straw in your hair,” said Willem. He began picking the stuff out, then exclaimed, “and your hair is darker than I thought it was. It is strange, too. It is so fine it almost seems a vapor is on your head.”

I wormed my head out a little more, partly as to see what was happening better, and partly because I enjoyed my head being rubbed. It felt intensely pleasurable. It always had.

The town was now but a few hundred feet away, and I began coming out of the hay completely. The amount of the stuff that came out with me was something of a marvel, for I expected to fill up the wagon seat. Instead, I was merely 'dusted' with chopped hay, and I began to pick the stuff out of my clothing. I felt inclined to speak as we came to the first house on the left.

“Anna's house is that one, isn't it?” I said, as I pointed to the house in question.

“Now what else are you?” asked Willem. “She does live there, but we first must drop off this hay. That is just in the middle of town.”

I stifled a moan, and held my right hand in my left. Willem looked at my hand, and said, “what is wrong?”

“P-Paul's hand hurts,” I moaned, “and I can feel it.”

“How?” asked Willem. “I do not see an injury in your hand.”

“Th-this has happened before,” I said between gritted teeth. “If I am given someone to look after, I can often feel what is wrong. It tells me how to pray.”

“I do not believe this,” said Willem. “You feel things when you pray?”

“Y-yes,” I said. “Once I had to pray for a woman and she was dying. I could tell she was in agony, she could not breathe, and the pain...” Tears came to my eyes at the recollection of what had happened with Maria – and my hand now hurt ferociously. I looked down at my left hand, recalling its injury – my right hand was the one hurting, however – and again, saw that the former scars were indeed gone.

“This is strange,” said Willem in a 'befuddled' voice. “Georg's is but a little further. We can drop off the hay there.” Here, Willem paused, then said, “you should be in worse shape than Paul, if I go by your clothing. I see no cuts on you at all, and if you are like that, you should go with him.”

“This won't take long,” I murmured. “Georg will be shocked by that wheel, he will hand you the amount agreed upon without saying anything about the hay, and he will have all three of his, uh, apprentices unload the hay while you follow Paul and I to where Anna, and, uh, Hans live.”

“How is it you know?” asked Willem. He seemed confused, impressed, and most of all 'lost'.

“This has happened before,” I said. “How it works, I am not certain. The only explanation I have is a spiritual one, and this time, I am so certain I might well say words I seldom speak.”

“That is spoken of in the old tales, too,” said Willem. We were near a large building of stone and wood. I thought it resembled a barn of some kind.

“Of what? Witches?” I was curious and fearful at the same time.

“No,” said Willem. “Of those people that saved us all. Some called them seers, but that was but one of the things they did. Nearly all of them were marked.”

Someone was using a hacksaw within the building that resembled a barn, and I looked to see where we actually were.

We were roughly in the middle of the town, and as I looked back the way we came, I guessed we had traveled close to two hundred yards. On each side of the rutted main 'street' of the town, there were two-story houses that were obviously different from one another, yet in some fashion seemed as if made using patterns.

The houses had narrow strips of dirt between them, with wide planked areas underneath their overhanging post-supported second stories. I looked again at where we had now stopped, and noted this location was both much wider than common for 'homes', as well as having but one obvious level. I then saw its roof. That seemed identical for 'style', if not size, and it otherwise seemed the prototype for all of them.

The roof was steeply pitched – easily forty-five degrees – and made of weathered gray-brown shingles. It made for wondering about the weather. Did they have heavy snow in this area?

As my gaze wandered further, I noted the omnipresent watering troughs of gray-brown weathered wood, the small upright pickets and posts that fenced in 'stoops', the red-painted crude-looking water pumps, the wide steps leading up to the stoops, the centered doors...

“Why do these doors have similar colors?” I thought. “Why do all the houses look so similar?”

My inventory resumed: the small many-paned leaded-glass windows, the dark-brown objects hanging near the doors that might have been lanterns...

I looked at what was on the wagon, and thought it especially likely, and I looked yet closer at where we were.

The area we were parked upon had what looked to be a mixture of hard-pounded clay and gravel, and as I looked closer to our right, I noted what might have been a smaller-than-common house back some twenty or thirty feet from the front of the main 'shop'. The 'border' between this 'property' and the next one was formed by an uncommonly long watering trough. I then saw a small window part-hidden by a support-beam on the front of the house.

I did not wonder about my persistent 'tunnel vision', for such had been the rule for much of my life, and as I looked at the window, the face of a large and imposing man showed. The door opened with a faint squeak a second later, and the man himself came out with trudging steps and what might have been a well-suppressed yawn.

The man himself had a bear-like figure, and his now-rapid walk belied the initial impression of clumsiness I had had at first. His clothing seemed ample and roomy, as well as nearly completely hidden by a huge leather apron. I thought to get down, and nearly fell out of the wagon's seat. I needed to help Paul down.

When I reached for him, I knew why I needed to help him; his face was gray with pain, and the edges of the wound had acquired a noticeable reddish tint. The heavy lumbering steps came closer, then a deep voice said, “about the...”

The abrupt halting of his speech was a potent distraction, and I turned to see him looking in stunned shock at the wheel I had repaired. I then saw the spokes and the rest of the wheel.

I felt much as his face indicated he might be feeling, for there was a very noticeable difference as to the spokes: the three I had carved made the rest of them look badly done, even if they were passable for finish and fit otherwise.

“The wagon broke, Paul was hurt badly, and I am a stranger they picked up,” I said. “I am going to get Paul to Anna's house, as his hand is in very bad shape.”

I tried to pick up Paul so as to carry him, and I found him to be much heavier than he looked; he seemed thin, and about five inches shorter than I was, or about five and a half feet tall. I then thought to shoulder him down the road, and with hobbling steps, we began to head in the direction of Anna's house.

As we passed house after house, I realized my guess as to the distance from where we had stopped to where Anna lived was optimistic. I had gotten Paul perhaps half of the way there when I heard rapid steps behind us. I could tell it was Willem, and when he helped Paul on the other side – Paul was barely able to walk – he said, “Georg is speechless over that wheel, and he should be.”

“W-why?” I asked.

“His brother is a wheelwright,” said Willem, “and he made the wheels on that wagon. Your spokes make his look like they came from a manure-pile.”

Here, Willem paused. Anna's house now made me wonder if I had seen a mirage, for while we were continuing to walk, it was not getting closer.

“How much further is Anna's house?” I asked.

“Not much further,” said Willem. “I think it might be another fifty paces, as I can see it from here. I told Georg I would be back as soon as we got Paul to Anna's, and I did not tell him you spoke of the matter.”

“W-why?” I asked weakly.

“It happened just as you said,” said Willem.

We passed another five houses. My feet were beginning to hurt badly. I could see the end of town now, and as we came to the last house on my right, the door opened. Out came a man that I initially placed as Paul's brother – the resemblance was that strong – but unlike Paul, this man was yawning enough that he looked to need another four hours of sleep. He called to us in a friendly voice, “hello, Willem, Paul...”

He abruptly 'woke up', turned in the doorway, and then shouted inside the house, “Anna! Trouble! Paul is hurt!”

The man now bolted out of the door, and as he came closer, a woman appeared at the door. She was about the same height as the man, with a slightly plump figure well-hid by soft-looking clothing of a loose and free-flowing cut. This 'dress' had long sleeves, a tall neckline, and a wide cloth sash around her waist. The sight of her jarred my mind, for she looked familiar, almost as if...

“Why does she look like one of the doctors at school?” I thought.

As we drew closer – now in the place's 'yard' – I sensed this woman was somewhat mischievous, with an independent turn of mind. In her business, it was needed, as some of those she saw were disinclined to listen to her advice.

“I can take him in and lay him where they tell me to,” I said. “Hans is very lucky to be married to Anna.”

“Now how do you know their names?” said Willem. “This is very strange indeed, and you are starting to really remind me of those people in the tales a lot.”

The stairs were ahead, and as I helped Paul up them – I was almost dragging him, now – I noted wide irregular white-painted boards, and then a wide wooden threshold. This last had seen enough traffic to show noticeable wear. Once inside, I saw a low and wide plushly-upholstered 'couch', with a single cushion nearly eight feet long. The slightly uneven color of this cushion made for a moment's pause as I sat Paul down upon it. I then looked around.

The 'decor' of the place made for a desire to see the flagstone floor covered in fur rugs, for it seemed to shout 'old-tyme frontier setting'. I could see the 'couch', a wooden table with some three-legged stools in what might have been a kitchen, a staircase heading upstairs, and perhaps a hidden area where the 'kitchen' itself might be. Otherwise, the house seemed disconcertingly empty.

The room I was in – the term 'parlor' occurred to me – had a ceiling nearly nine feet tall, with numbers of dark brown wooden 'beams' separated by what looked like lumpy and uneven bleached-white plaster. The same treatment 'covered' the walls.

The light within the 'parlor' came from a single window with its bottom about waist high, and its top some two and a half feet higher. It was somewhat wider than it was tall, with a thin gray metal 'lattice' holding small panes of glass.

I heard steps behind me, and I turned to see Hans coming with what looked to be a pile of sheets. I then had an idea as to why the place was so barren-looking: this was the 'consulting room', and clutter made it harder to keep clean.

I thought to help Paul to his feet, and as I did so, Hans laid out a clean off-white sheet on the cushion. He folded it carefully, then said, “put him down there on the couch. It will take us time to make ready.”

After arranging Paul such that his head faced the door and his right hand lay outside, I noticed the cloths were in a carved wooden holder that reminded me of a baby cradle. The smaller cloths were on the top layer, with progressively larger ones below it. I smiled at the organization aspect, then thought, “these people know more than I would expect in a frontier setting.”

I then noticed Hans looking at how I had laid Paul. Willem had vanished by some means I could not decipher, and as I turned to watch, I saw Hans head in the direction of the 'kitchen'. Seconds later, I heard thumping steps going down creaking stairs. The place most likely had a basement.

“How is it I know those steps are going down?” I thought. “Why is it I want to call that place down there 'the laboratory'? Do they make the medicine there?”

It seemed uncommonly likely, for some reason.

I turned my attention to Paul, who appeared asleep. I thought to begin cleaning him up, but as I reached for a rag, I heard Anna's voice behind me.

“We need to get cleaned up,” she said. “Hans went downstairs to get the medicine chest.”

As Anna's steps faded, I began to look carefully at Paul's hand. More steps came from behind, then Willem's voice spoke with Anna. I caught bits of the conversation, and most of it was about me.

“No, he's not crazy,” said Willem. “He came from elsewhere...”

“Where is this elsewhere?” asked Anna. She seemed both curious and somewhat irritated.

“I doubt he knows, actually,” said Willem. “Then, there is his name...”

A brief pause, then Anna said, “I wonder why he has that name. Is he...”

“I wondered myself,” said Willem. “He told us we needed to come here, he said Paul's hand was bad, and I think he's right. I've not seen many people seem to know things that way, other than you and...”

More steps from my rear buried the conversation, and I turned to see Hans bringing a surprisingly large wooden box, which he set down next to me. The brass corners, 'varnish', the latch, the small 'skids', and then the obvious cracks of a complex-looking lid – all of it reminded me of my main filing cabinet – until Hans undid the latch and opened its leaves up. It then showed several partitioned trays filled with small glass and ceramic vials, tools, and many other things of a medical nature.

Hans paused, then looked again at how I laid Paul. I could tell he was thinking, and as Willem came from the kitchen, Hans said, “how is it he knows how to arrange things?”

“I just got done telling Anna what I know,” said Willem. “Now what is this you speak of?”

“This is how he needs to be laid,” said Hans, “and I did not speak of it.”

“That was what I tried telling Anna,” said Willem. “I think he knows about this stuff, and now you tell me he's done right. Then, he says he can see splinters in that wound, he says it's infected, and he got into some brambles worse than anyone I've ever seen.”

“Yes, and he does not look it, either,” said Hans. “Normally he would be deathly ill, and he would have that nasty stuff all over his skin.”

“I saw the scratches,” said Willem. “He got cut, and none of the scratches got infected.”

Hans seemed to think more for a moment, and as he did, I looked at the 'medicine chest'. I wanted a disinfectant, and I wondered as to the hot water on the stove. Somehow, I knew that was for 'washing', and what was usually done for 'wound prep' involved something 'stronger'.

“Is there a disinfectant,” I asked, “perhaps...” I was thinking of 'green soap'.

The word 'aquavit' came to me, and I thought to speak of it.

“Is there aquavit, so I can clean him up properly?” I asked. “That dirt needs to come off of him before Anna starts, as that wound doesn't need more dirt in it.”

Hans wordlessly went to the chest, then removed a small 'jug', saying, “this is what you were asking for. I think I can go wash with Anna now. Willem, this will be a while, I think.”

As Hans left for the kitchen, Willem went to the door. I thought to look at the chest's contents more thoroughly, so as to see what else was in there. Hans and Anna would be some time getting ready.

I quickly looked at the chest's contents, and as I scanned the vials, I noted that not merely could I read their labels, but I knew what most of the various 'drugs' did. The impression I had was that while there weren't any antibiotics, there were a fair number of tinctures that actually 'worked' fairly well. More importantly, while the technology level was close to the Revolutionary War, the ideas behind what was present were closer to the Spanish American war.

“No 'laudable pus'?” I thought. “Now what is this? Is this stuff colchicine? Do they have gout here?”

My eyes then lit upon a small glass flask full of granulated grayish-brown 'stuff'.

“Th-that looks like opium,” I thought. The thought wasn't at all pleasant, and in the back of my mind, I could hear a drawn-out slow ticking mingled with the swish of a razor-edged pendulum. I then turned my attention back to Paul.

He was now awake, and as I uncorked the jug, I said, “I'm going to need to clean you up before Anna starts. I won't get any of this...”

The sharp burning scent of alcohol nearly made me choke, and I gasped, saying, “what is this stuff?”

“I think that is aquavit,” said Paul weakly. “They use it for cleaning.”

“I won't get any of this stuff where it will hurt,” I said.

Dampening a rag with the aquavit made for a nose-burning experience, and after cleaning most of the dirt off of Paul's hand, I removed one of the larger cloths and tucked it into his shirt as if it was a bib. I then resumed cleaning his hand, and here, I began scrubbing carefully: between his fingers, his fingernails, the back of his hand, his palm – blood came off then, and between the sight of blood and the nose-incinerating reek of the aquavit, I nearly gagged.

“This stuff is like Everclear,” I thought. “It must be nearly pure grain alcohol.”

After cleaning Paul's hand, I laid it on top of the cloth I had tucked in his shirt, and then put another cloth of similar size over its top. I corked the aquavit jug, then set it aside. I moved the dirty rags to the end of the couch nearest Paul's feet – and once I had finished with that task, I returned to the medicine chest. I needed to 'explore' it more.

In one of the trays, I found a small copper cup about three inches tall and about the same wide. This received a generous libation of aquavit, as I suspected it was used for 'cleaning' instruments. I soon found some likely looking 'instruments': two pair of finely pointed tweezers, and then a small wood-handled knife that reminded me first of a paring knife, and then of a wax-carving tool I once made. Both pair of tweezers went into the cup, as did the knife. I then continued looking.

In the next section of the same tray, I found first a brown-streaked sharpening stone, and then next to it, a shiny black stone about half the size of the other. I recognized them both immediately, as they looked like the ones I had back home. Touching them spoke of a pressing need for the knife: it needed sharpening. I started with the larger stone first.

I dipped aquavit onto the stone using the tip of the knife, and began to carefully sharpen it, with an especial emphasis on the tip. I thought to look at the edge after a few strokes.

The glinting light I saw from the edge spoke of a degree of dullness that made for shuddering, and I resumed stroking the blade across the stone.

I had had many years of practice sharpening knives, even if 'shaving sharp' had been something I'd seldom achieved. I still routinely managed to get 'close' as a rule, and when I next looked at the knife's edge, I noted the reflection from the edge was nearly gone. I thought to stroke it a few more times, then go to the black stone.

After a few minutes of the latter, I thought to try it on my arm. The sensation was unlike any previous time, and the hair that came off was frightening. I had achieved a true 'razor's edge', and after I cleaned the knife carefully with the last of the small rags, I put it back in the cup.

Steps came from behind me, and I turned to see both Hans and Anna come into the room. Both had their arms such that water dribbled down to fall from their elbows. Anna came close, lifted the cloth that covered Paul's hand, then began muttering.

“Hans, I do not believe this,” she exclaimed. “How could he know?”

“I think Willem was telling us the truth,” said Hans, “and I think he knows more than Willem spoke of, as that is a good job there.”

Anna looked closer at Paul's hand, then said, “I'm going to need to open this up and clean it out. I hope you can get that knife sharp this time, Hans.”

“Anna, I think you had best look here,” said Hans. “He got the cup out, and did it like you usually do, and the knife is in it soaking already.”

I reached for the glass flask of 'opium', and I thought as I picked it up, “what would they call this stuff? Didn't it come from, uh, flowers of some kind?”

“Hans, is this the dried, uh, sap of a certain flower that relieves pain?” I asked. To my surprise, he nodded.

I set the evil stuff to the side, then began looking in the chest. I wanted a scale, a small vial, and perhaps a small spoon of some kind, as well as a tray to put the 'opium' in. I soon found a small scale that looked like what I had once had for reloading. This scale had two sliding brass counters that slid on long narrow beams, and when I took it out, I noted it was mounted on a varnished wooden base.

When I set the scale down, I saw that the base had what looked like a drawer, and I cautiously removed it. Within was a small brass 'spoon', as well as two tin saucers about an inch and a half across. I put one of them on the scale's pan, and then saw a hexagonal brass nut. This last was most likely a tare adjustment, and as I moved it, I noted the scale's sensitivity. It was quite touchy, and the needle wavered at the slightest movement. I was glad I had done so much reloading in the past.

Once I had adjusted the thing, I uncorked the flask. Within seconds, a sickness-inducing nauseating reek seemed to envelope my mind, and as I began spooning the granules into the saucer, I thought to pray silently. I needed to get this right, and as I added more of the granules, I had the impression I needed one 'unit'. I moved the larger brass counter to one, and saw I needed to add but a little more.

Another third of a 'spoon' had the needle wavering around the center, and when it settled, it was just a tiny bit 'low'. I had the impression this was where it needed to be, and I corked the flask. I now needed to make up some 'laudanum'.

“I always wondered why I had bought that old Pharmacopoeia book,” I thought. “Now I know.”

After finding a small ceramic vial, I removed its cork and poured in the contents of the saucer, followed by a dash of aquavit. I then put the cork in, and stood up. I walked toward the kitchen, all the time shaking the vial as hard as I could.

The sense of steam and warmth seemed especially attractive, and when I found a steaming pot on a long blackened cast iron thing, I looked for a spoon. I found what might have been a small 'ladle', and after uncorking the vial, I ladled in a small amount of hot water. I then corked the vial, and returned to the parlor.

As I came closer to the couch, I became aware of a number of things that my 'tunnel-vision' had previously blocked from my awareness. Hans had all he could do to not laugh as if out of his mind, while Paul was moaning between answering Anna's questions. I then noted Anna's tone: one that demanded answers and brooked no nonsense whatsoever.

“I would not want her questioning me like that,” I thought. “I would tell her whatever she wished to hear, no matter what it was.”

I then handed Hans the vial. He looked at it, then shook it a little. His grin, if anything, now resembled that of a Cheshire cat.

As Anna finished her 'inquisitional questioning' – it smacked of a third degree session – Hans said, “Dennis here figured out what you give women when they have babies. He made up some, and I think he made enough of it.”

“I am not certain as to its strength, Anna,” I said. “I would give him some, wait a minute to see how he reacts, and then give him more if he needs to have it.”

Anna now turned toward me, and to my utter and complete surprise, her eyes now resembled saucers. I could not tell if she was shocked, horrified, or baffled, at least until she spoke. I had a better idea then, and I wanted to hide.

“First, you lay Paul out like we would,” she said in a tone I could not place, “then, you clean him up as good as I've ever seen, and you put the dirty cloths where we would put them, and then you clean the instruments we need. Now you not only mix what I would have given him for pain, but you speak of how I would give it. Who are you?”

I was tongue-tied, and as I tried to find words to say, Hans said, “ah, and he makes me look bad for sharpening knives, Anna. This thing has no shine to its edge, not even a little bit.”

Anna's mouth sagged open, then she closed it prior to asking, “can you see inside his hand?”

I nodded faintly.

Anna then muttered more, and reached for the vial, which Hans gave her. How she managed to get some down Paul's throat was a mystery, and his retching spoke of a truly unpleasant flavor. Somehow, I was not surprised at his reaction to the taste. Pain medicine had its own special torment that way.

“I wonder if he will have the other kind of reaction?” I thought.

“Yes, Paul, you need to drink it,” said Anna. “It will relieve the pain, and hopefully make you sleep while we work on your hand. I thought Willem was telling me a story at first, but I know better now.”

Here, Anna paused, then said, “tell me when it hurts less.”

I then felt my hand, and I nearly screamed, both with the pain and the evil taste in my mouth. Proglycem was a primer for what I was tasting, and the taste – intense, bitter, malodorous, and otherwise, too bad for words – was such that I grimaced, even as the pain began diminishing rapidly. I looked at my hand, and noticed it looked somehow swollen hugely, almost as if it were a...

I shook my head abruptly, and all save the dull ache in my hand vanished. I could talk now, and said, “the pain is much less,” I said. “He needs the rest, and he'll sleep then.” I continued silently, “and I hope my hand doesn't feel like a balloon. It was bad enough seeing it swell up like that.”

Anna get the rest of the vial down Paul's throat, and within minutes, Paul was deeply asleep, with regular breathing.

“How would you test the level of consciousness, Anna?” I asked. “I would dunk a sewing needle in that aquavit and gently probe the wound.”

Anna jerked, then in a frightened tone of voice, she squeaked, “can you read minds?”

“N-no, I can't,” I said. “I have had enough work like that done to me to not enjoy hurting.”

Hans then handed her the knife, and as she knelt down with Paul's hand laid out palm up, I said softly, “be careful with that. I don't usually get knives that sharp.”

Anna now gently stroked the tip of the blade down the length of the wound, and the skin seemed to leap apart at the touch. I was glad there wasn't much bleeding, even when Anna opened the wound fully with another stroke.

“This is too much,” she murmured. “Hans, hand me those tweezers. There are splinters in here.”

After Hans handed Anna the cup, she removed one pair and began to carefully tease the splinters out with one hand while using the knife to move the skin to the side. Hans laughed softly, then said, “Anna, we have an able helper here, I think. Only God knows how much he can help us.”

“This is too easy,” said Anna. “I have had dreams of being able to do this, and now, it is no dream. How is it you could see like that?”

“I was given that,” I said, “and I have had things like this happen before, only not quite like this.”

Again, the recollection of how it once had been came to me, and this time, there was no escape from the reality: things had changed, changed drastically, and had changed in ways I could not fathom. This was not like while at that one church long ago; it made that time seem trivial, it would grow, and grow mightily.

My thinking was troubled, and amid questions as to how – and more importantly, why – I recalled the horror and fear of that time, and I said, “I still don't understand how I got here, and...”

“Yes, and what?” asked Hans.

“Willem will be back in five minutes, with the money Georg has given him,” I said shakily, “and he will speak of Georg's attitude and some other things.”

“What is this?” asked Hans. Anna was busily removing splinters. She had accumulated a small pile of them already.

“I've had that happen before,” I said, “but it wasn't nearly this often, nor did it feel like this.”

“I think you are knowing things before they happen,” said Hans. “Willem said that had happened on the way here, and now I know he was right. Here is that vial you mixed that tincture in. You might want to mix up some more of that stuff, as his hand will hurt some for a few days, and he will need to take it now and then.”

I set the scale for half a unit this time, and as I began 'spooning' more of the dried plant product, I had a strong suspicion: this stuff wasn't opium, and it did not come from an annual flower. More importantly, the plant that produced it had an odor of such penetrating and sickening intensity that only truly desperate people made to cultivate the plants. Gathering and processing the product was even worse.

“And full extraction of the active portions takes most of a day,” I thought. “I had best add more alcohol and water to this batch compared to the first one.”

After adding the alcohol, I went into the kitchen to get some hot water. As I returned with the vial in my hand, I thought to ask some questions about this drug.

“Has this stuff been processed some?” I asked.

“Yes, it has,” said Hans. “How is it you knew?”

“I once read of something similar,” I said, “and also, I had some suspicions when I was looking at it. That wound will need to heal from the inside out, and until it's healed, it will hurt...”

“Yes, it will,” said Hans. “That place tends to hurt a lot.”

“While this will help with the pain,” I said, “I put in less than with that first batch, as this gets stronger for the first day once it's mixed – or does it?”

“I think you will want to help me downstairs,” said Hans, “as it does do that. I do a lot of work with tinctures and things, and I saw how careful you were with measuring that stuff.”

Anna was nearing the end of the splinters, and within less than a minute, she began looking in the chest. Her aimless-seeming 'poking' as she looked for something made for wondering, until Hans helped her find what she was after. I noted a slender glass tube, and when she uncorked the vial, she placed a few drops in the wound. I had an impression that this was an anti-infective agent of some kind.

“You were right about these needing to heal from the inside out,” said Anna. “The infections are terrible otherwise.”

“Does that, uh, tincture help prevent those?” I asked.

“It does to a degree,” said Anna. “We don't have anything that works especially well, but this seems to help.”

“Do these infections have, uh, this messy smelly stuff?” I asked.

“The bad ones do,” said Anna. “I've seen people die from them.”

“Is there an infection where the skin turns black and puffy, with gassy accumulations?” I asked.

“I'm glad that one's rare,” said Anna. “Why, have you seen it?”

“I've read of it,” I said. “I've never actually seen it.”

“I have,” said Hans. “All we can do for that one is pray, should it show. Most people die before then, as the injuries that cause it are bad ones.”

As Anna began wrapping Paul's hand, I heard steps outside, then a tap at the door. Willem then walked in. Hans nearly fell off of what he was sitting on as Willem admired Anna's knot-tying skills.

“He didn't haggle,” said Willem. “He just handed me the money.”

Willem began counting out some coins, then as he walked behind me, I could see Hans digging in his trousers for something. A clinking sound indicated money changed hands.

“We can settle up next time we come with the hay,” said Willem.

“Yes, I thought so,” said Hans, as he looked in the chest. “I need to go upstairs to fetch those bandages.”

As Hans left, Anna turned to Willem, then stood.

“He'll need to keep that clean and dry until it heals,” she said. “We have some tincture for pain, but do not let him have any until he speaks of it hurting, and no Geneva while he's taking it. He'll go to sleep and never wake up if he does.”

I could hear Hans coming, and when he came, he had a sizable tin, which he gave to Willem.

“These are bandages,” said Hans. “Bring back the tin, as those are dear. Did Anna tell you about that tincture?”

“Yes, she did,” said Willem. “No Geneva while he takes it, and no more until he speaks of it hurting. I take this is the usual stuff?”

Hans nodded, then said, “he mixed that stuff. I think he knows a lot about this work, as I watched him close, and he did as good a job as I ever saw.”

“Yes, I did too,” said Anna. “Do you have uncorking medicine?”

“Uncorking?” I thought. “What does it do?”

“I think so,” said Willem. “If not, we can get some in town. Is this so he does not get corked?”

“That tincture is bad for corking people,” said Hans. “He will need to drink that stuff every day until he is done.”

“That bandage will need changing daily,” said Anna. “If it starts to get red, or smell badly, or he gets sick, bring him back here right away.”

Paul then made a soft moaning sound, and sat up. Willem helped him up after taking the bandage tin, and as Anna opened the door, Paul moaned again. He was not moaning due to pain, and as I followed the two of them to the door, I nearly stumbled. I looked outside, and as I did, I shuddered.

The doorway framed the wagon, and as I watched, the clear blue sky acquired an ominous aspect, as well as a steady darkening. The two men slowly climbed into the wagon, which seemed 'haunted' in some fashion, much as if it were freighted with a long, tall and morose coffin. I knew the proper name for this spectral freight, and murmured this title in ghostly solitude:

“Tis an oblong box.”

Echoing and booming, I heard ghostly flapping noises fit for a pterodactyl thunder about my head, and their whirling motes of sound seemed to conjure a ghastly black shadow. This shadow grew steadily in size and strength, and the flapping sound grew in intensity. Suddenly, both sound and shadow vanished, and their overwhelming presence was abruptly usurped by a monstrous black bird of night-shaded beak and somber mien that landed on the ground with an audible thud.

The wagon had a hidden cargo which interested this bird, and with a springing trio of hops, the bird landed lightly on the straw-strewn bed of the wagon. It looked intently at Paul, and it trod the boards expectantly toward him. The bird saw something of profound and fascinating nature, and it commented in its mournful way:

“Nevermore... Nevermore... Nevermore...”

The sky was no longer blue, but an awesome no-color, and the wagon was now but a centerpiece for a loathsome gray-toned land, one awash in solitude and permeated with madness, with its territory stretching from here to eternity.

To the right of the wagon and across the road was a dismal lake, its shores overgrown with moss and rock-bound lichen. The vastness of the lake was walled in by tall dead and dying trees, and within its center lay an island-bound manse of haunted gray stone. My eyes seemed drawn past the architecture of this massive dwelling to its singular identification, that being a jagged vertical crack in the wall facing me; and as I watched, transfixed by horror, with shuddering finality the house and its island slowly sank into the endless black depths that had previously forbore its dominating presence.

The wagon and its avian cargo now slowly backed and turned, and as it completed the lengthy task, a dark-haired emaciated woman of pasty complexion walked toward it from the left. She was dressed in a wrinkled and mold-crusted winding sheet, and her bony outstretched arms held two objects, one in each hand: one hand held an ancient and dusty wine glass, and the other, a mortar-encrusted trowel. Behind her, on a clinking and rattling chain, rolled a dusty cask filled