Then an odd thing happened. She felt as though she was pressed against a soft, imaginary, sleeping mattress. Exhausted beyond will, Brindle allowed herself to sink into it, and came to a slow, gentle stop with her toes barely dangling over the edge of the ledge.
It took Brindle a moment to realize she had actually stopped swinging. Tentatively, she stretched her legs to stand up straight, relieving her weight from her arms and hands. Carefully stepping one step back, she rested her feet firmly on the stone platform beneath her. The mattress of air which had held her from going back over the edge now slowly released her and rushed rapidly upward. It’s absence was replaced by a blast of frigid air from below, sending a chill throughout her body.
Still, she was relieved the ordeal was over, but was surprised to find she was unable to release the swing seat rope from which her fingers were still tightly wound. It was as if they were frozen fast in their coiled grip. As well, her arms were inclined to stay raised into the air. She wondered if this peculiar deformity, like her speech impairment, would last forever. It didn't.
Gradually, she gained control over her arm movements and was able to keep them at her sides. Letting go of the ropes, however, proved more difficult. She had held the ropes so tightly, the muscles in her tiny, but strong hands seemed determined not to give up the struggle. Raising her right arm, she pressed her hand against her chin. Then using the firm bone structure, she wedged it between her fingertips and palms, and literally pried her hands open. Each finger stung severely with the return of normal use. She could feel the fluid of life from the abrasions on her palms, transfer to her face and ooze down her neck, filling her nostrils with its sweet, sickening fragrance.
Hooking the swing seat in the crook of her left arm, she took the emergency rope from between her teeth and looped it into a knot about her left wrist. Then, reaching back, she felt the smooth stones of the well wall at arms length behind her. Carefully, she stepped backwards until she was leaning against it. Its cool dampness soaked through the pullover to her skin. It felt refreshing.
Even though the wellkeepers had stopped lowering the seat, there was enough rope to allow her to sit down with it in hand. Slowly, she leaned back, bent her knees and slid down the well wall until she was in a sitting position. Keeping her knees tight to her chest, she paused for a moment as she contemplated her strange surroundings.
She figured the protrusion she was sitting on must have something to do with the warning wellkeeper Loden had given her. The warning wasn't very specific, only that she was to give a special signal if she encountered anything unusual. This certainly was unusual compared to the initial smooth descent. So was the strange, intermittent gurgling and slurping sounds which came from not far beneath her.
"It must be coming from the water,” she thought. However, in the hollow of the well, she couldn't tell if the source of the sound was near or far. Then she remembered she had lost count of the stone levels. Now, she had a decision to make: should she signal to be drawn from the well and start over from the beginning, or should she get back onto the well seat and let them lower her to the actual water level, and count the stone layers as she was being drawn out?
She placed her palms against the cool, damp surface of the well wall. It helped to soothe the pain from her wounds. No matter what she decided, the ropes would tear her flesh all the more and she wasn't sure how much more pain she could tolerate. She needed something to protect her hands. She thought of the patch of material her mother had stitched on the inside of her pullover to cover the rod long rip in the material.
Normally, on a garment needing mending, a permanent veget patch would have been positioned over the tear and pressed between heated flat-stones forming a perfect, unnoticeable graft. Whole pullovers were rarely made for anyone after they reached puberty. Any wear and tear was simply replaced. Even changes in bodily contours (which were usually gradual after puberty) could be accommodated by the heat pressed patches.
However, since the arrival of the strange pieces from the hole in the sky, no one had much interest in performing the routine chores. Brindle's mother was no different, so that’s why she used the ancient (and all-but-forgotten) art of stitchery to mend the tear. Such a patch wasn't meant to be permanent, which is why it came to mind.
Brindle pulled the hem of her pullover above her knees and felt about the inside of the material. She couldn't remember exactly where the patch was, but she knew it was somewhere in the back, near her buttocks - an area in constant need of repair. She felt the underside of the material, making several passes with her hand, but couldn't feel the patch.
Finally, she braced herself against the slick wall as carefully as she could. Pulling the hem of her pullover above her waist, she twisted it back to the front. Again, she slowly ran her sore fingers over the underside of the material until she felt them run across a row of stitching threads.
Too painful to rip loose with her hands, she arched her head to the seams and snapped the fragile threads with her front teeth, the way she had seen her late grandmother do so many times. The thread snapped. She pulled it through its course, and the patch came loose in her hand.
In the dark she felt its frayed edges which told her the direction of the material’s grain. Again using her sharp teeth, she snipped a notch at the edge and easily, yet painfully, tore the patch into two strips of material, each about a rod long. Using nearly every part of her body, after the manner of a contortionist, she was able to secure a wrap around each hand. Now, she could hang onto the swing rope again. It wouldn't be pleasant, but, at least, possible.
Far above, the wellkeepers looked down at the quivering ropes and wondered why the second part of the signal hadn’t been given. They were still staring intently into the blackness of the well when a rush of lukewarm air shot up the shaft, blasting them each in the face.
"By Veget!” Loden cursed.
"See what I mean?” Bourg responded rather blandly. Loden looked at him strangely. However, before he could put his thoughts in order, they were struck from behind by another rush of slightly warmer air, as it shot downward, past them, into the throat of the well.
"Alright! What's going on, Bourg? You seem to know more about this than you’re saying, my friend,” Loden asked, hardly believing what he was saying, yet silently waited for a reply.
"Wish I did,” Bourg said. "All I know is there's a mischievous little breeze in town that’s been trying to turn my brain into veget mush all night long. Why, I didn't get a wink of sleep.” That wasn’t the truth, for the combination of the caretender’s potion and his own gluttony had marvelously worked its wonder on him, but it emphasized his point. "I hope that little troublemaker isn't causing any problems down there. Summer breezes can be very thoughtless."
"Oh, for Veget's sake! Summers breezes have no thoughts for anything. They have no mind to think with - no heart for caring. A breeze is just - just warm air, moving from one place to another as a result of (what was it the widow Forbal had said?) - temperature variances in the, uh, air - some warmed by the sun - some cooled by the earth. And - and other factors too complicated to explain right now."
"Huh?” Bourg grunted as he looked at Loden with a rather doubtful look on his face. "What’s he talking about?" he thought. "Perhaps, the mayor was right after all. Perhaps, my friend is at his wits end."
"Oh, never mind! I'll explain it to you some other time."
"You don't believe a summer breeze knows its causing all this havoc with its pranks?” Bourg was astonished.
"That's right, I don't!” Loden was emphatic.
"Then why does a summer breeze do it - pull all those pranks?"
Loden took a deep breath and expelled it in slow exasperation.
As Bourg waited for Loden's response, there was a tug on the signal line. This was followed by two short jerks and another hard tug.
"She's at the one hundredth stone level!” Loden shouted.
"She's alive!” Bourg rejoiced.
***** ***
** *****
With their attentions turned deep within the well, the wellkeepers continued to slowly lower the swing seat and didn’t see the lanky, long-legged female in a sparkling mantle and head covering, leave Center House. From the porch Mr. Pulpitt listened to his wife’s final words before she strode off to the west.
"You just go do whatever it is you do while I'm taking care of important matters - and today these matters are most important. Today, I save Nuttinnew from total destruction. Today, I will gather the people unto myself and rid our beloved town of this terrible treason which has raised its ugly head in the person of that operosely obstinate wellkeeper of the east."
Wudrick cringed at his wife's words. He was glad she didn’t want him to be present at whatever it was she was up to. He had no inclination toward his wife's politics, or anybody else's for that matter. He was a scientist and he would spend the day going over the many writings he had recently discovered in the ancient trunk hidden beneath the bell tower staircase.
After Pentalope disappeared beyond the second row of western huts, he turned and entered the house. As he closed the door, he noticed the two wellkeepers bent over the well.
"Well, wellkeeper Loden, I hope you are prepared for the vengeance my wife is planning to bring upon your head this very day,” he mused aloud, as one often does in the face of inevitable disaster.
"He's ready!" a soft spoken voice just behind his left ear proclaimed with a rush of hot breath. "Have you finished translating the manuscript of the Ancients?"
"Sollie!” Wudrick exclaimed. "How did you get in here?"
"Through the secret tunnel under the stairwell."
"I mean, what are you doing here - inside Center House? What if Pentalope would have seen you here?"
"Aw, I saw her strutting off to stir up whatever evil she can in the hearts of the western Nuttinnewians."
"But, what if she would have returned for something? Veget only knows what she would do to you, or to me, if she ever found you here - in Center House,” he scolded her as he carefully scanned the western horizon. Determining it was clear, he quickly closed the door and immediately closed the drapes covering the window just to the right of it.
"Are you trying to tell everyone I'm here?” Sollie asked half humorously. “Only someone with something to hide would pull their curtains on such a hot Nuttinnewian day."
"Huh? Oh, yes, you're right. It would appear most alluring to the more curious minded of our neighbors, wouldn't it? Still, we can't take the chance someone might see you. Accusations are one thing - proof is a horse of quite a different color."
"A what?”
"A horse! A living creature of some sort with four legs and no arms, which eats mainly veget leaves, but has been known to eat humans as well, or at least to take an occasional bite out of one or two, now and again - I think - that is, if I’ve translated the text properly."
"The text of the Ancients? Then you've finished translating the manuscript.” Sollie was most excited.
"Oh, no, not all of it. There are several large, disconnected portions that have proven to be a bit more complicated. Unfortunately, they seem to hold the key to understanding what I’ve already done.”
"Quickly then, up the stairs and into the attic. You must tell me everything you’ve learned so far. Time is running out for Loden and the rebellion. You saw the look on Pentalope's face. Do you think we can hold her off another day?"
No, Wudrick was sure this would be the day for the final showdown. Without a word, he yanked up his pullover nearly to the waist and dashed up the stairs two steps at a time. Sollie watched with a smile at the sight of Wudrick’s exposed buttock’s flex and jiggle with each step. Then, she hiked her own pullover above the waist and dashed up the stairs after him.
When she reached the top, she stopped behind Wudrick who was kneeling down, panting as if there weren’t enough air in the world for him to breathe. Eventually, he removed the secret panel from the hall wall. After he set it inside, he looked back at Sollie. She had not lowered her pullover and the scented vortex of her femalehood filled his nostrils. He could feel his body respond in the most natural way.
"Oh, Veget, how I desire you. It isn't fair how Fate allows us to share each other’s breath, but not each other’s lives. Do you even know how I ache for you? Don't make me play the fool for you. I beg of you, Sollie."
Tears beaded in Sollie's eyes as she dropped the hem of her pullover and knelt in front of Wudrick. Placing her hands on either side of his face, she pressed her forehead against his. "Oh, Wudrick, how I, too, ache for you. I would never hurt you in any way. You know I love you - have loved you - for such a long, long time."
"No, no! Don’t say that! We dare not talk this way,” Wudrick scolded as he looked deeply into Sollie’s eyes. "I am Pentalope's husband. It is an unalterable fact. We both know it!"
"But it's wrong - so very wrong! She only cares about herself - nothing about you. She doesn't even know the real you or care about your phenomenal talents, except where she can use them to glorify herself.”
"Stop! Stop, please. It’s too late! Nothing can be done to change our lives now. Fate has furrowed the earth in which I find myself now planted. It’s our tradition: when a male takes a wife, he leaves his family and he and his wife become one."
“...become one in their children,” Sollie eagerly corrected. "It was you who discovered the original saying recorded in the manuscript of the Ancients. How can you cling to a tradition that you, yourself, have discovered to be in error? The Ancients didn’t mean for us to be bound in relationships with no meaning. This was never meant to be a moral saying, just the observed fact of physical reproduction. The saying only means each parent donates a part of themselves to create a new person. You are not ‘one’ with that female. You don't even have any children. You’ve never even inserted her! You don't love her. You love....”
"Stop! Stop! Don’t say today what you’ll regret tomorrow! I do love Pentalope - in a certain way. I must. It's my duty."
Sollie drew her face back from Wudrick's and stared into his eyes. "Is it, Wudrick, or is it just your noble sense of decency keeping you bound by a tradition which no longer holds substance?"
"Sollie, I'm....”
"Look me in the eyes, Wudrick, and tell me who you love - Pentalope or me?”
Wudrick felt his body tremble in her hands. It was all he could do to keep from abandoning all decency and inserting her there and then on the hallway floor. His feelings, however, were far more intense than mere physical appetite. For while Wudrick adored and admired Sollie Forbal, he also truly....
"Who do you love?” she demanded most tenderly.
"You! By Veget, I do most assuredly love you, Sollie,” he swore. It was the first time she had ever heard the words from his lips. She felt as though she’d just been born into a bright new world full of hope and change and honesty. It frightened her in a very wondrous way.
***** ***** *****
Brindle could feel the seat ropes go slack. The wellkeepers were once again lowering the seat. Quickly, she maneuvered it beneath her and carefully rested her weight upon it. Immediately, her feet slipped off the stone ledge and she swung forward to the center of the abyss. However, this time her naked buttocks were firmly planted on the swing seat.
When she had first passed the bend in the well and lost sight of the opening above, there was still some hint of normal light. Now, however, below the overhanging ledge, natural light was little more than a memory. The dank blackness surrounding her took on the essence of a dream. She could see nothing, but imaginary multi-colored lights bursting all about her, like the one's that explode behind the eyelids after being knocked in the head to near unconsciousness. Her ears were filled with the mysterious gurgling sound which grew louder as she descended.
Down, down, down she went. The further down, the more the south wall in front of her pressed towards her. She was sure the well walls were no longer cylindrical. In the cold darkness, she could f
eel the strange bumps continued to cover her flesh. The swollen nipples of her totes burned as if on fire. She wondered where the warm air had gone. She had no way of knowing Keyshi, who had just saved her life, was perched on the ledge above her, shivering nervously, attempting not to forfeit its own existence.
"Oh, no! Oh, no! The small female human is still falling deeper, deeper into the hole. How can I stop her? How can I help her? It’s so c - cold! I can hardly move. Oh, my! Oh, my! Huh? What's that?" A chilling scream arose from below, filling the hollow chamber of the well and mingling with Keyshi’s very essence. Brindle's feet had unexpectedly dipped into the chilly well water. It was the closest Keyshi had ever come to feeling physical pain.
"What was that?” Bourg asked as he suddenly stopped cranking the handle and bent over the well rim to listen more acutely.
"What was what?” Loden asked anxiously.
"That noise - from the well?” Bourg persisted, while cocking his head from side to side, as if to test which ear had heard the sound.
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“You didn’t hear anything?” Bourg straightened up and asked in disbelief. Then he bent back down, lowering his large stature over the well rim as far it would allow, and listened even more intently, if that were possible.
"No!” Loden insisted. "At least, I don't think so. What exactly did it sound like?"
"What?” Bourg asked as he straightened up again. The blood had rushed to his head and his nose was as red as a winter sunset.
"The noise - you asked me if I heard.” Loden wondered how he ever allowed himself to get into these kinds of conversations with Bourg.
"Eeek,” Bourg answered, rather tentatively.
"What?"
"Eeek!” Bourg put a little more expression into it.
"Ek?"
"Yes, but with more of an ‘ee’. Didn't you hear it?"
"No!"
"Oh.” Bourg went back to the thoughtful silence of worry as he contemplated the dark, mysterious hollow of the well.
Pieces: Book One, The Rending Page 21