It wasn’t that the people of Nuttinnew didn’t hold elections for their one political office. In fact they were held every year at the close of the Veget Cooking Festival - right after the winners of the Veget Cooking Contest received their awards. But ever since anyone could remember, Pentalope Pulpitt had won first place for her Veget a la Veget dish. Then, riding upon the crest of this prestigious recognition, she was unanimously elected the Honorable Mayor of Nuttinnew.
As Loden watched the smoke rise from the Center House chimney and drift aimlessly overhead, causing the only blemish in an otherwise clear blue sky, he imagined Mayor Pulpitt was practicing her cooking craft, whipping together her prize dish - the same one she had entered in the contest year after year; the same one that led her to be elected mayor year after year. The very thought of it made him shudder with contempt.
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The official function of the office of Honorable Mayor of Nuttinnew was to make important decisions concerning water rationing, veget planting, crop harvesting, distribution and the other tasks necessary for the survival of the self-sustaining town. Practically, however, it entailed little more than living in and maintaining Center House, which suited Mayor Pulpitt just fine for she paid little attention to such mundane matters.
"Such things simply take care of themselves," she had said so often people had come to think of it as a quote from the Ancients, and so everyone agreed - well, almost everyone.
Loden was one person who believed there had to be a better way to live than just letting things happen. He believed it was possible to conceive and implement a plan which would better manage water and land usage to yield more veget crops with less water, thereby, conserving the latter for use during the dry months. He believed the people of Nuttinnew shouldn't be so dependent upon the erratic seasonal rains, fearing for their lives year after year. He envisioned a method by which water could be stored and distributed throughout the year. It was an idea almost too radical for even his own rebellious mind.
However, since becoming the eastern wellkeeper upon the death of poor old Crock Muddlin, Loden had slowly and cautiously been testing his ideas on other eastern males. It encouraged him to know he was not the only one with rebellious tendencies to have beaten the whip. For he knew his plans were useless unless there were others who believed in them too, and who, through their own diverse talents, would one day be willing to carry them out.
Those willing to take such a risk would need someone to coordinate their efforts. This, he saw as his own calling, which is why he desired to be their mayor, their leader, and their guide. It was a risky course, he knew, fraught with much peril. Still, he was up to the challenge. Or at least he hoped he was.
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Bourg grabbed one end of the crank handle. Loden grabbed the other, then released the safety pin which locked the gears. Slowly, the two wellkeepers turned the crank. Gradually, Tyter disappeared beneath the rim as he sank into the dark, dank hollow of the well. Above Bourg anxiously watched him descend deeper and deeper, and as he did, his thoughts went back to the night Tyter's father, Talon, had summoned him.
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Bourg and Talon had been best of friends since they were toddlers. But they were an odd match. Bourg was a husky, hairy, heavily built fellow. Talon was thin and fair, almost frail. Bourg experienced his world through those things he could put his hands on. Talon’s world was one which could only be experienced via an energetic imagination. Despite these differences - or perhaps because of them - they forged a bond of enduring friendship.
When they reached adulthood Bourg, mostly due to his brutish strength and presumed lack of intellect, was destined to work in the veget fields for the rest of his life. Talon's uncle had been the wellkeeper of the west and had used Talon, because of his slight build, to measure the well's water levels just as Tyter was doing now. When his uncle became too feeble to handle the duties of wellkeeper, he named Talon his successor.
As was the custom, the town’s people assembled and, after little discussion on the matter, unanimously awarded the position to Talon, even though some people suspected the young male was a bit odd in the head. Their suspicions were quickly confirmed in their minds when he continued going back down into the well although technically it was no longer his job. If questioned about this, Talon would respond with a simple question of his own. "You’re concern is greatly appreciated. So by your asking me about this, am I to assume you are volunteering to be the new wellwalker?" The answer was always an emphatic "No!", whether by word or act.
However, the wellkeeper of the east was not keen on the idea of being left alone at the crank handle, especially when it came time to draw Talon from the well. So Talon enlisted his big, burly friend, Bourg, to take his place at the western crank handle and assist the eastern wellkeeper during the measuring process.
It was no surprise to anyone that Bourg was Talon's best male when he married Maadle Rult. Later, when Maadle became ill in the third month of her pregnancy, Bourg took over all of Talon’s wellkeeper’s responsibilities, except entering the well to measure the water level, so he could otherwise stay at home to care for her. Usually a caretender was called to tend such matters, but Talon refused to leave Maadle’s fate in their hands and lovingly tended to her with his own. It was just one example of his oddity about which most people still liked to gossip.
The night Tyter was born, Bourg carried the newborn to the home of another suckling mother, while Talon, unable to do more for her, lovingly cradled Maadle in his arms, until just as the morning sun lit the eastern sky, the last breath of life escaped her lungs. No one knew what caused Maadle’s death. “Sometimes these things just happen,” was the colloquial wisdom. Besides, it was the year of a severe drought, and predictably, people always died during such unpredictable times. Maadle just happened to be one of several who died that year before the long awaited rains finally came.
Since it was the only severe drought to occur in the past twenty years (and therefore, the only one anyone could remember), it was always and ominously referred to as The Great Drought.
Bourg saw how bitterly the loss of Maadle had crushed Talon’s spirit. Still, he had always considered his friend to basically be a level-headed, steady fellow, despite the opinions of those who didn’t really know him. For while others thought it a bit odd that, even while his wife was ill unto death, Talon continued making trips down into the well to check the water level, Bourg understood that Talon considered this act to be his contribution to the survival of the very people who scoffed at him for doing it.
That's why Bourg wasn’t surprised when, immediately upon Maadle's death, Talon insisted on making the usual morning descent into the belly of the well. He was totally surprised though when late that night, Talon summoned him to his hut and related to him the details of a most bizarre experience which he claimed to have experienced in the well that very morning.
Bourg had no doubt it had been an out of the ordinary venture. Talon had stayed in the well for an unusually long time and when he was finally drawn from it, he was soaking wet. At the time, Bourg and the other wellkeeper asked him what had happened. But ignoring their inquiries, Talon jumped from the well seat and scurried off to his hut where he stayed in behind the closed door of his sleeping room, for the rest of the day, until that evening when he attended Maadle’s Rite of Mourning.
This somber event, held in the eating room of Talon and Maadle’s hut, was attended by a small gathering of grieving friends and relatives. But while the others publically grieved over veget salad sandwiches, Talon again retired to the sleeping room where Maadle had passed away and didn’t come out until the last female, Maadle’s older sister who had stayed to tidy up the hut in typical female fashion, was about to leave. To her surprise Loden emerged from his solitude and asked her to take a message to his friend, Bourg, requesting him to come to the hut, post haste. Although the sister found the timing of the request odd, she certainly didn’t find
it out of character. So in honor of her dearly departed sister, she dutifully complied with Loden’s request.
Bourg never revealed to anyone what Talon had told him during that fateful meeting. This was due, largely to the fact he understood so little of what he’d heard. All he could remember with any clarity was Talon telling him the water level had sunk below the hundredth stone, and there, in the black, humid, depth of the well, some creature had reared its hideous head and gashed a three inch cut across his forehead, knocking him unconscious. It was in this stupor that Talon had a strange vision, none of which Bourg understood. All he could remember was some wild tale about something being stolen, resulting in some horrible event which rent the little town of Nuttinnew in two, tearing apart friends and families.
What it all meant, Bourg didn't know. He was pretty sure Talon didn’t either, for his friend’s words eventually dissolved into babbling, as he kept saying over and over that Nuttinnew was in for a horrendous upheaval: some great, earth-shattering, change. About one thing Talon seemed sure. Whatever was about to happen to Nuttinnew, somehow he was to play an important part in it, even if he didn't know what exactly that part was to be. However, for a reason baffling to Bourg, he was convinced he would find the answer to that question somewhere far beyond the barren, rolling hills surrounding Nuttinnew - somewhere in the wastelands far to the north; in the dreaded place commonly called Nocomback.
For nearly thirteen years, Bourg had missed his dearest friend. For nearly thirteen years, he had done his very best to fulfill the promise he had made to him: to rear his son, Tyter, as if he were his very own. Yet at that very moment his son - their son - was somewhere deep in the dark depth of the well, approaching the same one hundredth stone which had driven his father mad. Bourg felt a numbness overcome him which he had felt only once before. The night his friend disappeared.
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With a signal rope clenched tightly between his teeth, Tyter kept a tight grip on a well seat rope with his right hand as he carefully reached out and ran his left down the side of the well, counting each layer of stone level as he descended deeper and deeper into the dank darkness.
One pull on the signal rope meant he had reached the water level, whereupon, the wellkeepers above would stop turning the crank handle. Two pulls meant he was ready to ascend. Three or more tugs meant, "Get me out of here quick!"
"Eighty-seven. Eighty-eight. Eighty-nine." One by one, Tyter counted the stones as the circular opening overhead gradually shrank in diameter. It was at the ninetieth level that Tyter began having difficulty. Here, the well cylinder began to gently curve northward, bringing the southern wall in upon him.
"Ninety-one. Ninety-two...,” Tyter continued counting. Looking up, he could now see only half of the well opening, as the southern wall forced him northward and out of direct line of sight. Kicking out his feet, he managed to keep himself from scraping against the southern wall. Not that this would do him any harm for they were smooth and wet and almost slimy.
Above, the wellkeepers continued lowering Tyter, but at a much reduced rate of descent. Three days earlier, Tyter had become quite unsettled when he first descended past the ninety-fifth stone and watched the well opening completely disappear from view. To make matters worse, the very instant the opening disappeared, his feet dipped into the chilly well waters, It so startled him, he nearly jumped out of the well seat. In his panic he yanked the signal rope over and over again. He was still jerking on it when Bourg and Loden withdrew him from the mouth of the well.
For a several moments the future of the town’s only wellwalker was in jeopardy. Tyter had pretty well been frightened into an early retirement, and to make matters worse he had completely forgotten where he had ended his count. This would truly have been a disastrous turn of events for there was no list of volunteers to take his place, and both Bourg and Loden were much too heavy to be lowered into the well. Either of their weights would have put far too much strain on the well's old cranking system, even if their girth would have allowed either of them to slip through the narrowing passageway caused by the curvature at the ninety-fifth stone.
Loden, whose forte it was to be quite a persuasive talker, did his best to instill in Tyter the personal desire to go right back into the well and recount the stones. But, it took Bourg’s loving firmness to calm him down enough to voluntarily climb back onto the well seat and finish the task.
“Tyter,” Bourg said in a low, firm, tone, “We need to know the water level, so we can determine the day’s rations. Now, you know we can’t do that unless you remember the count or you go back down there and count them all over again. The people are depending on you, son. I’m here at the crank handle. I won’t let anything happen to you. You know that.”
It was all the assurance Tyter needed. So, back down into the gaping mouth of the well he went, still afraid, but no longer too frightened.
Again, the wellkeepers cranked the well handles, but this time even more slowly than before. When the young wellwalker reached the ninetieth stone level, he gave a prearranged signal and Bourg quickly tied a string to the swing seat rope. On future counts, this would indicate to the wellkeepers that Tyter was approaching this unusual bend in the shaft.
Soon, Tyter found himself again moving along in darkness toward the one hundredth stone. And though he was prepared not to be startled, fear quickened within him as his desiccated tongue scraped against the inner walls of from his dry mouth. Other than the sudden submersion of his bare feet into the chilly well waters, he didn’t know what to expect in this strange world of total darkness and absolute aloneness. His contact with the world he knew was now far, far above - somewhere on the other end of the rope which he clenched tightly between his aching teeth.
At the well’s rim, the wellkeepers continued to slowly turn the crank handles. Seeing the beads of sweat dripping from Bourg’s bulbaceous nose as he stared painfully into the black abyss, Loden was compassionately moved to say something reassuring, but was distracted by the slam of a distant door. Looking up towards Center House, he watched the mayor stomp across the wide, shaded, southern porch and march aggressively towards them.
"Oh, Great Veget!" he cursed, turning back to Bourg whose thoughts remained in another world, some ninety-plus stones below.
"I think it’s just terrible - terrible. I tell you," Mayor Pentalope Pulpitt loudly protested as she approached the well. Dashing behind her, as fast as his short legs could move his round, fat body, came her hitherto unnoticed, bumbling husband.
"Yes, dear. Oh, yes, dear. Your absolutely right, dear. Why, I couldn't agree with you more, dear,” came his placid, placating, voice in response to, but not necessarily in correspondence to, anyhing in particular his wife was ranting.
"The idea!” she huffed. "To think, how I have struggled - yes, struggled, working my fingers to the nubs - to the nubs, mind you, in the preparation of my surprise Veget a la Veget dish for this year’s Veget Cooking Contest, and look, look at the sky!" she demanded in a high-pitched squeal, sufficiently loud enough for the wellkeepers to hear even though they were yet several reeds away from her. However, when they remained unresponsive to her ranting, she turned her efforts to a more readily enlisted audience. "What do you see, my little Wuderbutz?" she asked in a demanding tone, as she stopped abruptly and shot her hands high above her head.
Mr. Pulpitt had built up quite a momentum just trying to keep up with the lengthy strides of his long-legged wife and hadn’t anticipated her sudden stop. Fortunately, for him, he managed to slip past her on the right, barely avoiding a rear end collision. Unfortunately, for him, his toe caught the exposed portion of a large stone protruding through the sand, and was abruptly hurled through the air in a most ungraceful somersault, which landed him flat on his back staring at the clear blue sky overhead - just as his wife had commanded.
"Well?" his wife demanded, not used to waiting for his response.
"Why, nothing, dear," Mr. Pulpitt uttered, while gasping for the
air which had been so abruptly jolted from his lungs.
"Exactly!" the mayor snorted, then took off again in her natural, long-legged stride, seemingly never noticing her husband's fallen condition.
As quickly as his short, round, out-of-shape body would permit, Mr. Pulpitt jumped to his feet, emitting subdued, but painful groans. Still covered with sand, he raced to catch up to his wife just as she came to the well.
"Something must be done about this! Something really must be done!” The mayor ranted and raved right up to the rim.
"Just what do you suggest we do, your most honorable mayorship?” Loden asked with no attempt to mask the tone of sarcasm in his voice.
Mr. Pulpitt, who had finally caught up to his wife, recognized the tone as he busied himself with brushing the sand from his pullover, while purposely avoiding making eye contact with the eastern wellkeeper.
"What? What?" the mayor ranted on, either missing or ignoring the sarcasm. "Well, frankly, I don't know what, but something must be done. Veget knows, the Veget Festival is already way past due - and the contest....”
"The Veget Festival? The contest? You pathetic, simple-minded, fake mayor!” The words raced through Loden's head, but he held them at bay when they reached his tongue. "We may be in the midst of the worst drought our little town of Nuttinnew has ever experienced.” His thoughts raced on. "People may soon be dying of the mysterious Drought Death, and all you’re really concerned about is the Veget Cooking Contest, and the frivolous praise you’ll receive when you win again this year? Well, you may win the cooking contest, but you won't be elected mayor again, not this year, or any other year.... ” Loden's thoughts raced even faster now to his eager tongue which he held tightly against the back of his teeth, to keep from speaking the words aloud. "... not if I can help it!"
Pieces: Book One, The Rending Page 2