The Old Well

Letter 9 of the Book of Forgetting

The afternoon came in warm and close, and I was at my bench fitting a new bearing into the rangefinder when Noa came in without knocking, her blue sweater bright, her river stone in her hand.

“Fernando,” she said. “Liesl had another one.”

I set down the bearing. “Another?”

“A boy. Reuben.” She held the stone in both hands. “And he said it. ‘The fog is just fog.’ Clear as a bell.”

I stood and reached for my jacket. “Let’s go see her.”

Liesl’s house was small and neat, the windows open to the warm air. She sat in a chair by the bed, a baby in her arms, her dark hair loose, her forearms bare with the small sparks-burns of her work. She looked at me with the same direct stare she used on a warped rail.

“Fernando,” she said. “You came.”

“I came to see Reuben.”

She looked down at him. “He woke up an hour ago and said it. Then he went back to sleep.” She shifted him, her thumb stroking his cheek. “He’s the fourth one, Fernando. Four babies, same words, same voice. Like they’re all reading from the same page.”

“I heard about Ivo’s son,” I said. “Eli. Same sentence.”

“I heard.” She looked at me a long moment. “And I heard about the old well.”

“What about the old well?”

“Nitzan dropped a stone down it this morning. Timed the splash on her phone.” Liesl’s voice was flat. “A full second late.”

“The well’s dry,” I said.

“I know. The stone should hit bottom in half a second. It takes a full second.” She looked down at Reuben. “Malachi came by this morning. Before I even had him fed. He stood over the bassinet counting his breaths. Then he left. He said he was going to the well.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. I stood by the bed a moment longer, the baby breathing, the warm air holding the smell of milk and sleep.

When I left, Liesl was still sitting in the chair, Reuben in her arms, her eyes closed, her hand moving in a small steady rhythm against his back.

The old well was at the edge of the orchard, dry for as long as anyone remembered. A stone wall circled its mouth, grey and worn, and the dark opening below gave nothing back. Nitzan stood there, her phone in her hand. She was the nurse, a small woman with quick hands and a patient face.

“Fernando,” she said. “You came to see it.”

“I came to see it.”

“I’ve done it three times.” She held up her phone. “Same result. A full second late.” She dropped a stone into the dark. I counted. The splash came a full second after I expected it.

“That’s a measurement,” I said.

“That’s a measurement.” She looked at the well. “And Uzziah measured the fog line this morning. Two different answers. Two hundred twelve meters going out. One hundred ninety-six coming back.”

“The same distance,” I said. “Different answers.”

“The same distance. Different answers.” She put her phone in her pocket. “And the babies are talking, and the old ones are dying in their sleep, and the numbers don’t balance anymore.”

“They balanced this morning,” I said. “Reuben born. Samuel died.”

“Samuel was an instrument maker,” she said. “Like you. He made the first rangefinder. And the day he dies, a baby is born who speaks the sentence, and a stone falls slow, and a rangefinder gives two answers for one distance.” She looked at me. “That’s not balance, Fernando. That’s noise.”

I didn’t speak.

“The guard turned me back at the fog line this morning,” she said. “Ivo’s men. They said the Council prefers people to stay at their work.” She smiled, a small tired smile. “I do stay at my work. The work is measuring.”

She walked off toward the square, and I stood by the well a moment longer. I dropped a stone myself. I counted. The splash came a full second late.

That night I wrote the day in the Book of Forgetting. A son born, speaking the sentence. A stone falling slow. A distance measured two ways. A nurse turned back from the fog.

I did not know what any of it meant. But I had felt the stone leave my hand, and I had counted the seconds, and the well had answered late.