by Donald Tyson
“Why is it called the Well of the Seraph?”
This made me pause. It was a question I had never bothered to consider.
“The name was not explained in the gloss. Perhaps it is a title of honor bestowed on the well because it holds the sacred object.”
While I puzzled over this question, she drew my attention to the north. My heart, so recently lightened with song, became heavy. On the horizon gleamed a star of light. It glittered and went out, then returned. It could only be the slanting sunlight reflected from polished metal, such as the dome of a breastplate, or the point of a spear. We no longer walked alone through this desolate land.
“Whoever it is, they are too far away to see us. They are following our tracks.”
“It must be a search party sent out from the monastery.”
I nodded agreement, but continued to watch the flashing star. There was only a single point of light. After a short while it went out and did not return.
We made camp for the night without building a fire. The girl offered no complaint. She realized the necessity to remain unseen. A fire, even if concealed by the ledge at our backs, would have been too great a risk. The final dying of the sun was marked by a long howl that sounded almost human. It carried across the plain from a great distance through the still air, and fell to a soft gibbering. As I lay down beside the girl, I wondered what djinn haunted this land, and on a whim put the question to Sashi.
Many spirits, my darling. They are all around us, but they keep their distance.
She was potent enough to guard us from lesser djinn who might otherwise have sought to trouble our sleep, thanks to the vitality she drew from my living flesh. I closed my eyes and settled myself on the warm slope, reflecting that at least it was one less foe to trouble my dreams.
The following day, we moved quickly and did our best to remain concealed from the north behind whatever scant cover we could find. I took care to walk on rock where it offered a path. I had a new reason to curse the soft soil of the hollows. Our footprints might as well have been our signatures, so clearly did they identify our passage. Many times we stopped and cast our gaze behind us, to the northern horizon, but without the rays of the setting sun to highlight the armor of our pursuer, we saw nothing to confirm our unease. I had become certain in my own mind that we were followed by a single rider, and that I would recognize his face when we saw it. I sensed that the girl held the same opinion, but neither of us voiced his name, as though to speak it would be to call its possessor upon us.
In the afternoon, a hill rose on the southern horizon to the east of our direction of travel. I did not bend our feet toward it, as it appeared uninteresting in every respect, but as we walked, its rounded crest divided itself into two domes that gradually drew apart, the further we went forward. I realized that these must be the hills called in the gloss the Breasts of the Goddess, although if these were her breasts, the rest of her body would be of little interest to anyone. They were barely high enough to distinguish themselves from the general landscape.
It was twilight before we reached the shallow valley that nestled between the hills. Everywhere were piles of stones and solitary boulders, thousands of them. I slapped a fly dead on my cheek and brushed away its twitching corpse, surveying the mounds of stones over the rim of the valley.
“How are we to find this well?” the girl asked, voicing aloud my own thoughts.
“There,” I said, pointing at a stone that stood upright, like a rough pillar.
“Is that the well?” she asked doubtfully.
“No, but it will lead us to the well in the morning.”
I did not trouble to explain myself. I was tired and my feet ached. The leather shoes of the brotherhood were fine for shuffling along the halls of the library, but poor things for walking over sharp stones or through patches of wet mud. When the monks traveled across the land on their secret missions, they wore more sturdy boots better suited to walking or riding. What I hated most about the apparel of the order was the lack of pockets in the robes. We had to carry everything in our travel wallets or at our belts. It was fortunate that the girl’s wallet had not been taken from us, since one alone would not have held all our possessions.
I took off my turban, belt and shoes, but left on my robe for protection against biting flies. Sleep was difficult to find. The hills sheltered us from the wind, giving the unseen insects ample opportunity to feast on my blood. As usual, they did not trouble the girl. I began to believe her superstition that her goddess shielded her. Protection from things that bite in darkness is not the worst reason to worship a deity, I reflected, as I lay listening to the night sounds of the valley.
A stone tumbled, ticking other stones as it rolled. I came fully awake before the noise ceased, and strained with every nerve for the fall of a horse’s hoof or the brush of a boot against the dust. The moon had risen to bathe the valley in silver, and I realized that I must have dozed for several hours. The girl slept on, her slow lengthened breaths unvaried. I stood quietly to avoid waking her, drew my sword from its scabbard, and with its naked blade in my hand, picked my careful steps up the side of the nearest of the two hills.
When I had climbed midway to its crest, I turned and dropped to one knee, searching the moonlit stony hollow with both my eyes and my ears. For a long time I crouched motionless in this uncomfortable posture, breathing through my parted lips to avoid any whisper that would betray my location. If someone lurked at the edge of the valley, there was a chance he would choose to approach, thinking me no more than another of the numerous boulders on the hillside.
The noises of small animals came clearly through the night air. I heard a rat digging in the sand. The rustle of wings overhead marked the passage of some night hawk. From time to time the drone of a flying beetle reached my ears. None of these noises was out of place. It was my usual practice to ignore them all, but this night my alarm made my ears sensitive to even the slightest tick or rustle in the dark. I became like a piece of stone, cold and stiff. Only my thumb moved, as I stroked the rounded dome of bone that was Gor’s skull in an habitual gesture that had become for me a kind of meditation.
Does anyone watch us, Sashi?
She remained silent for a moment.
If he was near, he has withdrawn himself. I see or hear no one.
Perhaps an hour passed, or even longer. When my knee and back were afire with stiffness, I finally pushed myself to my feet and returned to the sleeping place, one of my legs so numb I could barely use it. I returned my sword to its sheath and lay beside the girl, a thousand needles pricking my leg as blood started to flow once again through it. I ignored the unpleasant sensation while continuing to listen to the night. If anyone prowled outside the valley, he moved with so great a skill that I could not detect him. At last fatigue began to lull my mind into sleep.
Wake me before the dawn, Sashi.
I will, beloved.
If you detect the approach of a man, wake me at once.
That I would do without being told. Sleep deep, Alhazred. I will watch over you.
The hours left no sense of their passage. Sashi’s loving face dispelled my vague dreams like drifting mist. She smiled at me, and I kissed her tenderly on the lips, then opened my eyes. The dawn was well advanced. Already the first rays of the rising sun splashed blood across the crests of the hills. Sashi had let me sleep longer than I would have wished, but I voiced no complaint. Martala nodded to me. She sat on a flat stone, chewing a piece of bread. I pushed myself erect. The leg I had abused the previous night still ached as I tied on the laces of my shoes and my linen belt.
“Now we will find the well, if the gloss in the scroll is accurate.”
She followed me across the valley and up its eastern slope to the standing stone. As I approached it, I saw that its top was indeed cleft, as described in the text. The crack was no wider than
the flat of my hand. I looked across the boulder-strewn hollow and traced the shadow of the pillar, elongated hundreds of strides by the slanting sunlight.
“What are we looking for?” the girl asked.
“When the sun shines through this narrow cleft in the pillar, it will mark the place of the well.”
We watched the shadow of the pillar shorten and move across the valley as the disk of the sun ascended above the horizon.
“Suppose it is the wrong time of year, and the sun is not at the right angle?” she asked, still chewing on the tough crust of the bread.
This was something I had not considered. I mulled the idea, and found myself displeased by it, and irritated with the girl for having voiced it.
“If the locator of the well was dependent upon the time of year, don’t you think that would have been mentioned in the gloss?”
“I don’t know,” she said mildly. “Would it?”
“We will stay in this cursed valley until we find the well, even if it means staying here all year.”
Whatever remark she might have made was distracted from her mind by the appearance of a narrow splinter of sunlight, resembling the blade of a crooked sword, in the upper part of the shadow of the pillar. Its point touched the middle region of the valley, nearly an equal distance from both hills. The tip did not lie upon a pile of stones, but there was one of no impressive size midway along the length of the blade.
“Quickly, run over there and stand by that pile of stones.”
She hurried across the valley floor, following the shadow of the pillar, and positioned herself beside the low pile of sand and rock, which rose no higher than the middle of her shins. I continued to watch the shadow as it moved slowly to the right, the morning sun warm against my back. My own shadow stretched almost to the feet of the girl, for the pillar was of no great height. As the shadow moved, the blade of sunlight began to narrow, and in a brief time vanished utterly. I saw no other pile of stones marked by the moving blade, although similar piles lay scattered all around.
Squinting over my shoulder at the brightness of the morning, and alert for any sign of movement, I walked slowly down to the girl.
“Either the well is here, or the pillar does not mark it.”
We began to dig with our fingers into the wind-blown dust and small pebbles that had sifted between the cracks of the flat stones, covering their edges. When we cleared away the loose earth, we drew the stones aside one by one. They were heavy, but not so large that four strong hands failed to shift them. This gave me hope. If the well mouth had been covered, I reasoned that those who concealed it had used stones they could drag without too much difficulty. No laborer makes unnecessary work for himself.
The stones continued beneath the level of the valley floor, and I realized as I brushed sweat from my forehead with the back of my wrist that the wind had drifted the dust over them for centuries. It was a wonder that the entire mound had not been covered up. It became more difficult to shift the slabs, now that their edges were below the surface of the ground. Our fingers were not strong enough to force between the tight cracks between them, so that we could pry them apart. I looked around for something to use. I did not wish to blunt or bend the points of my dagger or sword on such work.
Telling Martala to rest, I went across to where our wallets lay and got from mine several of the white pieces of wood that I had collected from the base of the skeleton tree in the valley of the wisdom seat. These were as hard as ivory, and their jagged ends made them ideal as wedges. I used a small rock as a hammer and pounded the points of several white shards into the crack between the flat stones. This forced them apart, as I had hoped, far enough for me to insert my entire hand. I was able to reach deep and get a good grip on the lower edge of one of the slabs. When I had it raised partway, I nodded to the girl to help me. Her added strength was enough to fold the stone over, exposing a black hole.
Eagerly, I fell to my knees and put my face near the opening. The air that touched my cheeks was moist and cool. I pressed my face lower. As my head and shoulders obscured the opening, I saw a dull light far below that shifted and brightened as I looked at it. I sat up, blinking at the brightness of the blue sky, and met the eager gaze of the girl.
“It is the Well of the Seraph.”
She let out a cry of delight and began to dance, waving her arms in the air like a child. I felt enthusiasm well up in my own heart as I watched her, but restrained myself from jumping to my feet and capering about. I had played the fool enough at the monastery to fulfill my ambition in that regard for a lifetime. I scanned the rim of the valley. No movement apart from the girl caught my eye. Even so, I had the uneasy sensation of being watched.
We labored like slaves the rest of the morning to clear the remainder of the overlapping stones from the well mouth. It was of no great size, being under four cubits across and circular. Two of the largest stone slabs had been slid together to touch at their edges over the center of the opening, and these had provided the support for the others. Though not broad, it was as deep as any well of my desert homeland. I dropped a pebble into the darkness, and waited several heartbeats before hearing the faint sound of the splash. The glow of the water was invisible now that the entire opening lay exposed to the light of the sky.
She approached me with a stricken look, as though she had swallowed a spider.
“Alhazred, how are we to get water from the well?”
I smiled. The same question had formed part of my meditations for the past three days, and I had arrived at only one possible solution.
“If we cannot draw the water up to us, I will have to descend down to the water,” I told her.
She quickly fell to her belly and extended her head and shoulders over the edge of the dark hole, leaning downward until I could not resist putting the toe of my foot on her buttocks, it looked so likely that she would overbalance and fall in. In her excitement, she did not even protest.
“I see notches in the stones, cut into the side.” Her voice had a hollow echo. “They descend in a spiral course.”
“Naturally. All wells need to be cleaned at intervals. The builders often make a way to descend to their depths.”
She sat up, shrugging aside my foot.
“I’ll come with you.”
“No. I don’t want the both of us in that hole at the same time. In case of some mishap.”
She glanced quickly around the rim of the valley. She knew what kind of misfortune worried my mind, and made no protest. Were a man who wished us harm to come upon the well with both of us in its depths, it would be an easy matter to pick up stones and simply drop them into the hole until we were both dead. We would be utterly helpless.
There was no reason to delay my descent, with the well mouth gaping, yet as I sat on its rim and lowered my heels to the level of the first hollowed stone, I felt a sense of unease press on my chest like an invisible hand, making it difficult for me to breathe. If Martala noticed my hesitation, she said nothing. Turning my body and supporting myself by my arms on the rim of the well, I let the hollow step receive my full weight. It was wide enough to accept both feet, and seemed firm. I stepped down to the next hollow, and continued in this way into darkness. It required care to ensure that the smooth leather soles of my shoes did not slide off the rounded edges of the stone slots, but the notches had been cut at such a pitch that my hands were able to grip the upper track of the spiral while my toes felt blindly for the lower steps.
I came to a place where a notched stone had fallen out, leaving only a hole. The air had grown cooler, and the side of the well beneath my curled fingers felt damp. I looked up and realized how far I had come. The mouth of the well was no more than a small circle that resembled a startled eye. In the deep blue of the heavens I saw a star twinkle, even though the hour was near midday. When I turned my gaze downward the golden light shone
brightly, illuminating the lowermost depths of the shaft. It shifted and flared almost like a living thing. Perhaps a spring bubbled at the bottom of the water, giving it movement, I speculated while testing the toe of my shoe in the hole left by the missing block.
At last I reached the water. Its brightness dazzled my eyes and made me shield them with my arm. Not one lamp, but a dozen or more seemed to flash and dim in its depths, shifting their places with liquid grace. The glow was oddly fatiguing to the sight. I felt reluctant to put my feet into the water. The spiral of the stair continued beneath its surface, but how deep it might be, I could not judge, as the dancing lights made it impossible to see the bottom. It would have been difficult to bend over double to reach the water with my hands without tumbling in head first.
With the philosophical reflection that the girl could always fish out my corpse, at last I slid my feet beneath the rippling surface. It felt warmer against my ankles than I anticipated. Shivering in spite of this heat, I lowered myself and probed for the next step with my toe. I should have known it would be slick. My foot slipped off the rounded edge, and I found myself up to my neck, coughing out the drops from the splash that had gone between my open lips.
“Alhazred, are you hurt?”
Martala’s voice echoing from the stones sounded far away.
“I fell in, but I am not hurt,” I shouted with what little breath I retained.
Cursing with surprise, I began to spit the water from my mouth. So much for the accuracy of the legend. Whether or not the water in the well was poison, it had an uncommonly foul taste. I floated, clinging to the notches of the stair with my hands, my chin up and my head tilted back, and wondered if I should risk drinking any of it. I had tasted water from many bad wells, brackish pools, and polluted springs, and was not particular about the savor on my tongue, but this well had an unwholesome thickness at the back of my throat.