Four humans find themselves in a small village of Betaham without knowledge of where they come from or who they are. It is a pleasant little town but disturbing memories of a brutal war and a different life flash spasmodically into their minds. Their dreams seem so real but are quite unrelated to their present lives ... that is until they meet a strange farmer and a violent sandstorm arrives at Betaham. They find the farmer isn't even human. Furthermore, they may not even be human themselves. A bombed out city is on the other side of the hills and can be reached though a railway tunnel. The trouble is that the city was destroyed a millennium before and is an archeological site visited by the farmer's race who arrived from another planet. Only then do the four learn the truth about themselves...

Transmigration Ross Richdale For a moment, he lay with his eyes closed. Everything seemed just right from the warmth of the blankets to the scent of almost new paint. He opened his eyes. It wasn't just right. In fact, everything was wrong! He stared around at a totally strange bedroom. To his left, red curtains glowed as morning sunshine shone through. The cream wallpaper and the plaster ceiling appeared quaint and almost old fashioned. Yet it and all the other fittings appeared to be brand new. "Oh hell," he muttered and sat up. He was on the left of a double bed. The right hand blankets were pulled back and he could see the indentation of another person on the crumpled sheets. He reached out and the sheets there felt warm. So he hadn't been in bed alone. Of course, he could smell body lotion. He could only guess why it was a familiar smell. Other items about the room came to his notice. Beneath the window was an armchair while beside it stood a wardrobe. Crumpled women's clothes were tossed haphazardly across the chair as if they'd been worn the day before. The wardrobe door was ajar and inside were female clothes, skirts, tops and the inevitable denim jeans. He gulped. Why would he think that the jeans were inevitable? Oh well, it didn't matter. On his side of the room was a dressing table that was also covered in woman's things such as combs, make up, lipstick and so forth. A half opened drawer showed frilly lingerie all neatly arranged but with the appearance of being recently ruffled through. Another chest of drawers further along also had an opened drawer. In it were men's clothes, his own he guessed. Should he call out? No, there was more he needed to know. He stepped out onto a soft carpet and glanced down. He was dressed in pajama shorts and nothing else. He ran a hand over a stubble of whiskers on his chin and found some clothes to wear. Yes, there were plenty to chose from ranging from casual t-shirts and shorts to crisp shirts and dark trousers. On a chair in the corner were more of his clothes, these ones wrinkled and discarded, probably the ones he'd worn the night before. As he walked across the room, he saw his reflection in the dresser mirror. He stopped, gulped and his heart raced. At least he recognized the thin angular shaped face and tanned body. He moved his left arm. The reflection followed. He turned and stared at himself. "Oh hell," he muttered for the second time and reached out to the mirror. It was cold and solid and the reflection of the opened palm under his own matched perfectly. He felt hot and saw perspiration above the eyebrows of his reflection. With shaking hands, he wiped his forehead as another question came to his attention. He had no idea what his name was! "So John Doe," he whispered. "The mystery deepens," Now why did he call himself that? He sat back on the bed and tried to create rational rather than just emotional thoughts. He was home in a bed that he shared with a woman. By the look of her clothes and other items, she was someone who lived with him on a permanent basis. Perhaps he had had some sort of medical attack such as a stroke. Now if that was correct, surely there would be pills or medicine nearby. A small drawer beside the bed revealed nothing but a watch, handkerchiefs and some coins... Coins! They were not the normal coins that he knew. He picked up a silver piece and examined it. On one side was a man's head and the words King George VI. King Emperor while the reverse side showed a bird. The words read, One Shilling, 1946. This was wrong! He never used shillings. He used... He shook his head and tears formed in his eyes. What was wrong with himself? He knew the money was wrong but didn't know what it should be; he didn't know his name but recognized his reflection. There was someone living with him, a woman who was part of his life but he couldn't even think what she might look like. His body erupted in an emotion. For several moments, he just sat on the bed and tried to remember but nothing entered his mind. He took a handkerchief from the drawer and blew his nose as he was overcome with remorse. "Oh snap out of it," he whispered. "What will Rachel think?" Rachel! Of course. Her name was Rachel. Thoughts formed but went no further. There was no surname; no mental image of her and his own name was still not there. There was nothing else, just the name Rachel. "Rachel," he whispered over and over, as he dressed. "Rachel, are you there?" he called out. There was no answer. He ran out of the bedroom and yelled her name over and over as he searched through the unfamiliar house. The hallway outside the bedroom led to a kitchen and living space where the sun was shining through the windows. He stopped and grabbed the doorframe. The room was all wrong. Where were his computer, television and cell phone? John, as he called himself, shook his head and wiped his sweaty face with the handkerchief still clutched in his hand. What did those words mean? He had no idea! The kitchen sink had the usual kitchen utensils stacked in a corner. There was a wooden table, chairs, a sofa and two armchairs in the middle of the room while on the opposite side a radio sat in a wooden cabinet. John walked over and saw it was plugged in to a wall socket. The plug! My God, it was a huge round one! He pulled it out. There were three prongs. Surely, they should be... Again, he knew they were not normal but he had no idea what so ever what normal was. More emotions and thoughts surged through his mind. He plugged the radio back in and clicked it on. The dial lit up and after several seconds, crackly classical music filled the air. He found another button, shifted the dial, the station disappeared and an ancient love song from a bygone era came from the one speaker. At least it sounded clearer than the classical music. The song finished and a formal male announcer told him nothing more than the name of the next record. Record? Wasn't that an archaic expression? It was all CDs DVDs and...oh hell, he couldn't grasp what those letters stood for either. John again stopped and attempted to take a grip on his emotions. He walked right though the house. It was quite small with two more bedrooms that looked unused, a bathroom with new looking but old-fashioned fittings, a laundry with an ancient wringer washing machine and frilly red curtains. Of course, Rachel was the arty one in the family. John grabbed the washing machine to steady himself. He could remember her! In his mind's eye, he saw a smiling woman, a beautiful young woman with long hair and gentle eyes. Rachel, he remembered her! But where was she! "Rachel!" he cried out yet again and headed outside. He stepped out onto a wooden floored veranda. Steps led down to a wooden fence and flower garden across a concrete driveway. John glanced to his left and saw the road behind a wooden front fence and small lawn. Other houses across the road were brick like the exterior of the one he stood outside "Rachel," he called in a quieter voice but expected no reply. *

After a teaching career, Ross Richdale now writes full time. He has completed over thirty novels both contemporary and science fiction novels, most of which are on line as ebooks . He lives in the small university city of Palmerston North in the North Island of New Zealand and is married with three children. When he is not writing, Ross enjoys drawing and wandering in the countryside.. Many of his novels reflect his interest in the rural lifestyle as well as the cross section of personalities encountered during his years as a teacher. Ordinary people rather than the super rich, the super powerful or violent, are the main characters in his novels. He is also interested in current events and uses international incidents as a backdrop for many of his novels.