Chapter Text
Act 1 : Purgatory
The light was awful.
The whole of the sky glowed with it; midday blue, hot and distant as the burning sun, and the man brought up a hand to shield his eyes. How anyone had ever survived this tyranny of light was beyond him.
He was lying on his back, and the grass was needling through his shirt. He coughed, once, and tasted the air; it was fresh and wet and warm, and the warmth felt awful, and living felt awful, like it was not worth the bother. His whole body hurt, like he'd been thrown from a horse, but when he pushed against the ground and got himself mostly upright he saw no hoofprints on the dusty trail, and couldn't remember what horse he was meant to have been riding, or where he was, or where going.
He stood.
The world was spread out in all its natural beauty; the land rose up beside him, and he looked at it for a while, and the name Diablo Ridge formed in his mind like fog rolling off the mountains. Finding one name was good; heartened, he searched inside himself, but just found... emptiness. Like the wide-open sky, like a hollowed-out building where someone used to live.
His clothes were not familiar. His hair, when he ran his hands through it, was not familiar. His hands and limbs were familiar enough, but only in that he knew how to move them, and he knew his reach and his balance. But he looked at his hands, and saw them covered in small scars and callouses, and none of those seemed familiar things, though they ought to have been.
He couldn't picture where he was in relation to anything; he couldn't picture a map in his mind, though he knew what a map was, and knew to wish for one. He didn't know there was a river until he turned and saw the river, and then he had the name for it, Dakota, as clear as if it introduced itself to him.
He looked around.
The air was too quiet. Like the breath before a tornado, out on the plains; not a bird calling, not a blade of grass stirring, not a single living creature in eyeshot, except—
Except that on a low pile of tumbled rocks, a wolf as dark as charred timber was sitting, watching him, its black eyes glinting silver in the light.
The man froze, suddenly aware that he didn't have a weapon to his name — never mind that he didn't have a name. He wanted a revolver at his hip, the comforting weight of a rifle across his shoulders—
The wolf's head quirked to one side, and it stood. The man drew back, bracing himself to fend off an attack, and realized the animal wasn't looking at him; it was looking past him, and he turned to see a magnificent golden stag near the riverbank on his other side, its antlers catching the sun.
He turned back to look at the wolf, and the wolf was gone.
And was the stag.
And sound seeped into the world as though he was waking up, and he could feel a breeze on the skin of his hands, and he expected to be waking from a dream and coming to his senses, but his sense of who he was and what he was doing remained stubbornly absent.
Well.
There was a path, and paths came from somewhere, and they went somewhere. He didn't much like the thought of standing idly by and waiting for fortune to catch up with him.
He picked a direction, knew it for East, and started walking.
He'd walked about a mile and a half, by his reckoning — miles introduced themselves to him by the ache in his feet, by his yearning for a horse — before he saw a person. The traveller was coming along by horse cart — a light, two-wheeled affair pulled by a single sturdy draft horse. Shire, by the looks of it, not that the man looking knew how he knew that. He raised a hand as the traveller came near.
Maybe not necessary. The traveller slowed his horse down as soon as he caught sight of him; leaned on over on the bench. "You lost, mister?"
The man looked at his hands and his feet. "Maybe," he admitted.
"Maybe?" the passer-by asked, voice clear and disbelieving.
"I believe so," the man said, and squinted at him. "I can't... rightly... remember."
The traveler was weedy, fidgety, and wore spectacles and a washed shirt, none of them new. His beard and mustache were neatly groomed, not a hair out of place; he wore a neat but worn bowler hat so firmly on his head it looked like he was concerned a sudden wind would pick up and snatch it. He looked down from the seat with an odd expression. "You take a blow to the head, or something?"
The man's head didn't hurt any more than the rest of him. "Must have," he said, for the sake of being agreeable. "Say, feller, could you give me a ride into town?"
The stranger sized him up. Wondering, undoubtedly, what the chances were of getting robbed. Then he shrugged, said "Can't see as it would hurt nothing. Hop on, mister," and slid over to make space on the seat.
The man climbed up. Wanted, he found, to slide a shotgun from his back, rest it across his lap, make ready. Didn't have a shotgun to ready. Nor did the stranger seem to expect it of him.
"What's your name, mister?"
"Can't remember that either," the man said. Mister, he supposed. That would be good enough for now. He didn't much feel like a Mister, but he didn't much feel like anything. Really, he felt like nothing. Nothing, then, might be better than Mister.
Only a fool or a madman would go about, calling himself Nothing. He abandoned that one, too.
The stranger whistled between his teeth, and snapped the reins, starting his horse moving again. "You're in a fine fix, then, ain't ya?" He looked sidelong at him. "I have to say, I've seen some strange doings along this road, but you'd be a first."
"Strange doings," the man repeated.
"I suppose there's strange doings everywhere," the man hedged. "Just... oh, people, you know. Once, I was riding along this way, and I saw a couple fellers on horseback, and I swear, they had about fifty cats running in front of them. Just normal little barn cats, you know. I swear those fellers were herding them like livestock — of course, cats don't want to herd, none, so—"
Seemed like the driver was happy to chatter on. The man rubbed at the bridge of his nose. So much chatter, so many words, and still, inside his head, the man felt it almost strange he couldn't hear wind whistling through.
Uncanny feeling, to think and think and still recall nothing. Uneasy, like finding a stair missing underfoot, or a missing plank on a bridge. Part of him felt ready to fall through — what? The world? Time? His own mind?
Part of him felt like there was nothing more in the entire world — like the whole of creation was this rocking cart, and the horse in front of him, the chattering driver, the ground, the sky, and the river. Like if he went too far in any direction he'd find the edge of the page it had all been sketched on, and find nothing beyond it.
"—were all over the place, and some of them up in the trees, and one of the men left standing there with his britches in his hand, and — say, feller. Feller?" The driver leaned over, and the man blinked his way back to — reality, he supposed. "Say, feller, you don't look so good."
The words were like a railroad spike to his skull. "Headache," he said, no matter that the pain faded near as fast as it had come up. "Sorry. You was saying?"
"That knock on your head must've been a good one," the driver said.
Still didn't feel right. "Must have."
"Well, there's a doctor in town; he can look you over." The driver looked him over, then. "Well, if you could pay."
The man with no name patted his pockets down, and found them as empty as everything else. "I don't see there's much chance of that," he said.
"Hard luck," the stranger said. After a moment, a few more turns of the wheel, he mentioned "I guess there's that visiting fella. Funny name; German guy. Something-or-other Strauss."
Strauss. The name was like too much water on an empty stomach. The man wondered if he knew this person. "Yeah? What's he like?"
"Well, he's a doctor. Claims to be, at least. Passing through collecting notes on strange diseases. He's lodging in town; I could drop you right at his door."
Maybe the feeling was just hunger, or upset: it faded, a little, with the jouncing of the cart. "I'd be obliged, I guess."
"Not a problem. You just take it easy there, mister," the driver said.
The man nodded, and settled back against the seat. Thought, for a moment about closing his eyes, but the thought of sleep was unfriendly; as though, with nothing to tether him here, the moment he drifted off, he'd also wisp away like an errant puff of smoke. Not remember this moment, or any of the ones since he opened his eyes; not come back to any place, to remember any thing, either.
He hung onto the world as best he knew how, keeping an eye out on the road for any trouble, keeping an eye on the passage of clouds above, watching the sky pass by.
The driver dropped him in front of a house, as promised. Just outside of whatever town this was, up on a little hill, looking down at the single main street that ran through. The house was a modest thing, but neat and tidy; even the little dirt patch it called a yard looked swept.
The man walked to the door and knocked.
Didn't know what he was expecting. Some German man, probably, with a name like Strauss; it wasn't until the door opened and he was surprised that he realized he'd had any expectations at all. The man didn't look like... like something; he was a fresh-faced feller in his thirties, maybe; a bit portly, with a nose that looked like it had been broken several times. He was wearing a neat suit, however, and looked appropriately doctorly. "Good afternoon...?" he greeted.
"Afternoon," the man said, and found himself at a loss as to what to say next. "Ah... feller told me you was a doctor."
The doctor blinked owlishly at him. "Why, yes, I am, by trade; I'm not doing much in the way of practice, at the moment. There's another fellow who lives here — runs a clinic, just down the road—"
"Feller seemed to think you might be inclined to charity," the man said. At the doctor's skeptical look, he added "I just woke up, noonish, maybe about ten miles out. Can't remember who I am." He spread his hands, looked down at his clothing. "Nothing on me."
The doctor brightened, and stepped back from the doorway to let him in. "In that case, that feller brought you to the right place!" he exclaimed. "Come in."
The man stepped in.
For a moment, he expected to be in a doctor's clinic — he could halfway see it, with a single chair and a sink by the wall, a cabinet for — for who knew what — and drawers enough to hold some misery. But the room he stepped into was just a little parlor, maybe one that doubled as a dining room; a couple chairs with well-worn cushions pressed up against a table by a little window; a desk on the other wall. Stove in an alcove, toward the back. Couch against another wall.
"Uve Strauss," the doctor said, and offered his hand.
The name rolled around the man's mind like a pebble, and dropped immediately out. "What?"
"Uve Strauss," the doctor said, and put his hand forward. The nameless man took it by habit — maybe, by habit — and shook. "Oh, just call me Strauss. Everyone does."
"Right," the man said. "Thanks. ...I didn't get the name of this place when we was coming in. Where am I?"
"You're in Purgatory," Strauss said.
Shuddery feeling, that. Like someone had passed over his grave.
He stared at the doctor until some pieces of sense and learning knocked together in the back of his mind. "I'm dead?"
That startled Strauss, evidently. He laughed. "Disorientation — confusion — a supernatural fancy — oh, marvelous. Marvelous. No, sir, no. This is Purgatory, West Elizabeth. The original settlers suffered from an overabundance of humor or a scarcity of faith."
"Oh," he said.
"Though I imagine that from your current vantage, it must seem very similar. Please, have a seat." Strauss pulled a chair from the little dining table, and sank into the other one. "Tell me, how total is this lack of memory?"
The man sat. The table was a neat little thing, polished and pretty; a kind of table that had been sheltered indoors, where the elements couldn't weather it. Delicate wood filigree and legs that wouldn't stand up to hard use. A city-dweller's dining table, for sure; just dining to be done on this one, no work of any sort.
All this, he knew, and didn't know how he knew. He reached back in his mind, hoping to find something. Nothing came by. "I can't remember a damn thing," he said. "Who I am, where I am. What happened."
"Childhood? Profession?"
"Nope." He wondered what part of can't remember a damn thing left room for interpretation.
"What country are we in, sir? Here in West Elizabeth."
"This is America," the man said. "I'm forgetful, not stupid."
"Ah, but that's a kind of memory, too, isn't it?" Strauss asked. "After all, you weren't born knowing your geography. Someone had to teach you civics, yes?"
That made an odd kind of sense, looping around in his brain. But he couldn't remember it. Couldn't remember — what — a schoolhouse, would it have been? Or sitting at someone's knee? How did a person learn these things?
"Your age, sir?"
"I don't know."
"Favorite foods? Favorite color?"
"Don't know."
"If I'm standing facing north, and I turn toward the setting sun, will I have turned toward my right or my left hand?"
"Left—"
"What's sixty-two, divided into ten equal parts?"
"Six dollars and twenty cents," the man said. "Herr Strauss—"
"Oh, there's no need for that. No need for that." Strauss waved off his complaint. "I came to America when I was six. But that's curious; very curious indeed." Strauss went to his desk and retrieved a pen and a pad of paper, and began scribbling notes of some sort. "Forgive me, but you don't speak like an educated man. Though your faculty of reason seems in good repair."
"Huh," he said.
Strauss said something that sounded like words, but clearly weren't. Least, not so much as the man could tell. He stared at Strauss dumbly, waiting for sense to seep in, and Strauss said, "Well, clearly not."
"Huh?"
"You don't speak German," Strauss said, and waved his pen at him. "Fluent in English, if uneducated in dialect. Apparently, your primary exposure to mathematics is the calculation of sums of money. So, there: we've learned something about you already." He gave the man an encouraging smile.
"...right." The man was already feeling a bit like he'd been dropped in a rushing river, and was getting knocked along the banks. "So, can you cure me?"
"I'm not sure," Strauss said. "Memory is a strange beast, and cases like yours are vanishingly rare. But I'm game to try." He added something to his notes, with a flourish. "I'll need a case name, if I'm to publish. What should I call you, what should I call you... a good, American name. For the time being, how does 'John Smith' sound?"
It sounded, again, like too much water on too little food. He winced. "John, no." Couldn't have said why he said that.
"Well, how about—"
"How about just Smith. That's fine." It didn't feel right, as it were, but it didn't feel wrong, either. It didn't feel much like anything.
"Very good." Strauss scribbled something on his document. "Well, Mr. Smith, I think the first thing to do is to make sure we're not wasting time trying to re-discover ground that's adequately covered elsewise. I think you should check around town a little, see if any of the folk here recognize you."
Strauss seemed to be able to say in forty words what should take a reasonable man five or ten. Still, if he was helping, that was welcome. "Okay," Mr. Smith said, rising. Smith. Mr. Smith. Either way, he was certain it was not who he was, so he supposed it mattered very little.
"I would check in the sheriff's office," Strauss said. "Or the saloon. They both have signs — you can read, sir?"
"I think so," Smith said. He went to the desk, and picked up one of the little pamphlets; it read Merchant's Gargling Oil Almanac — A Liniment For Man And Beast. "Looks like I can." He turned the pamphlet over, and set it down, and hesitated before heading out the door. "...what if nobody knows me?"
That empty feeling, that feeling of skies and abandoned places — it lingered in the back of his mind, like the bitterness left in the throat after a night's drinking. Even if he couldn't remember any nights spent drinking, or spent in any other pursuit, at all.
"Then come back here, and we'll begin our experiments," Strauss said. "See if we can't find a cure for this condition of yours."
It sounded a little too good to be true. "I don't think I have any money," Smith said, just to be sure Strauss knew that. He didn't fancy indebting himself to this man, or anyone, particularly.
"No worry; the case will pay for itself. There's a section of my book. The book I'm writing." He waved his hand at his desk, which was littered with papers and notebooks and journals, and a few written books, as well. "It concerns cases of mental impairment — judgment, memory, language, you know the sort. People who have gone funny, or gone idiot. Lost their minds. Lost themselves." He gestured at Smith. "So, as your exclusive physician, I'd be very interested in documenting your case, in service of my research. And if, as it happens, I can find a way to reverse the effects of whatever it is that befell you, well, it would be a boon to the science."
Either Strauss was just blathering, or Smith was meant to get something out of all those words he was saying. "Can you... put it simple, for me?"
"I'll see you provided with lodging, and I'll do my best to treat your condition for free. You only need to agree not to take this fascinating amnesia of yours to any other doctor, and let me experiment with an eye toward writing it all up."
It was that, or wander aimlessly until something happened. "Well, I don't see as I have much choice."
"Nonsense," Strauss said, and clapped him on the shoulder, and steered him toward the door. "We always have choices, Mr. Smith. This just happens to be the right one."