The Depth of the Well

Letter 19 of the Book of Forgetting

Miriam Harel met me at the river path, her rangefinder slung over her shoulder. She was a dealer who sold maps of what lay beyond the fog, and she had the quick, clever eyes of someone who had learned not to trust what she was told.

"Good, you're here," she said. "I've got my rangefinder—let's go to the well now, before the light shifts."

"Right, let's do it," I said. "I've got mine too. We'll see if the well gives us the same 212-out, 196-back split as the fog."

"Honestly, I half expect it'll just read the same distance both ways. The fog's got that weird edge, but a well is a well."

"That's the thing—it might not. The splash is late, and I keep wondering if the well's messing with something more than sound."

"You mean like time? That's a stretch, Fernando. A hole in the ground doesn't bend time."

"I don't know, but it's worth seeing if the rangefinder agrees with you or with me. Let's just get the numbers."

We walked to the south edge. The well stood in the grass, a ring of grey stone, quiet. I set my rangefinder on the lip. Miriam did the same.

"Okay, I'm pointing mine at the water," she said. "You do yours at the same time, same spot."

"Ready. On three. One, two, three."

The screens flickered. Miriam read hers first. "214 out, 198 back. Not exactly 212 and 196, but close enough that it's the same pattern."

"Mine says 213 out, 197 back," I said. "So the split holds here too, just a couple meters longer. That's not a fog-only thing."

"So the well and the fog both mess with the rangefinder the same way. But the depth is supposed to be normal, right? Liesl measured it at forty-one feet."

"Forty-one feet is what she got with the line. But if the rangefinder says the water is 213 meters away, that's over six hundred feet. That's not a small error."

"Maybe the rangefinder is just bad at measuring down a narrow hole. It's meant for open ground, not wells."

"Maybe. But it doesn't make mistakes at the fog, not like this. Same reading every time, both directions."

Miriam looked into the dark water. "I'm not ready to say the well is like the fog. But I'll admit it's weird. So what do we do next?"

I pulled a marked line from my bag. "We lower this ourselves, right now, and check Liesl's number. If the depth is really ordinary, then the rangefinder is lying about the well, and maybe about the fog too."

"Alright. If it comes up forty-one feet, I'll buy you coffee. If it doesn't, you owe me a map."

I lowered the line. It went down, the marks passing through my fingers. At forty-one feet, the line went slack.

"Forty-one," I said.

Miriam let out a breath. "So the well's ordinary, and the rangefinder's still wrong about it. That's the same thing the fog does."

"Same thing," I said. "Two different places, same split. Whatever it is, it's not the fog."

We stood there a moment. The grey pressed at the sky. Somewhere a baby would wake and speak again.

"I'll take that coffee," I said.

"You'll take it," Miriam said. "And I'll take the map you owe me when we figure out what's going on."