"She's alright, Bourg.” Loden felt compelled to assure his friend, who seemed no less concerned than if it were his own child down there.
"Yeah,” Bourg felt compelled to agree. Then the signal rope popped the air as it snapped taut.
"Ha! See there, my friend. She is fine. All’s well in the well. Quick! Let's draw our little, pink chested wellwalker out of the belly of this beast, so her blushing cheeks may once again sparkle in the light of another Nuttinnewian morning,” Loden shouted gleefully, as he hit the crank’s reverse lever.
Chunk! A gear shifted. Both males whole-heartedly cranked their respective handles and the ropes attached to the well seat began to wrap eagerly about the well shaft. Beneath his bush covered face, Bourg grinned from ear to ear, as his joy overwhelmed him.
Chapter 9
"Bourg, Bourg, come quickly! The lad - young Tyter. . . ." CB called from the hut doorway.
"Tyter?” The joy filling Bourg’s heart over the safety of the young female, crystallized as the rest of his emotions froze in terror. "Tyter.” Bourg groaned. He feared the worse, and why shouldn't he? His glazed eyes met Loden’s.
"Go ahead, my friend. Go to your charge, er, son. I can bring this young wellwalker out of the well by myself,” Loden ordered with a gentle firmness.
Not being one to easily shirk his responsibilities, Bourg hesitated for a moment. However, the tone of CB’s voice had sounded so urgent - and Loden was right, he could easily bring Brindle out of the well without his help - as long as there were no problems - and if there were, well, he would only be a few rods away - and. . . .”
"Go on, Bourg! I’ll call you if I need you. Now, go!” Loden commanded with the firm compassion of some one who cares.
So Bourg began what seemed like a very long walk to his nearby hut.
CB stood in the doorway watching Bourg approach. Every nuance of his posture betrayed the painful anxiety which gripped his innards, making each step slow and cumbersome. It was the same paralysis of movement CB had seen so many times before. It was the walk of someone expecting to be informed that Fate had chosen to take their dearly beloved down the enigmatic path of the un-living.
Loden also watched Bourg slowly stagger toward the hut and he too sighed a sigh of solace, grateful he had no children of his own. Symbolically, however, most people who lived east of the well saw him as a father figure of sorts, who honestly cared about them and their well-being. It was true, he did. However, being the father of a people is not same as being the father of a person and Loden was just reminded of this singular truth.
As he slowly cranked the well handle, he was submerged in a feeling of loneliness; a feeling common to persons born to an uncommon destiny.
Gradually, the well rope spooled about the crank shaft. Slowly, the swing seat rose toward the lip of the well. At first it was all Brindle could do to keep count of each stone as the swing seat rose rather swiftly. Then it had stopped just long enough to bring a shudder of fear through her already trembling body. When it’s rise resumed, it moved much more slowly, allowing her to count each level accurately. For this she was quite glad. It meant she wouldn’t have to return into the well - not this morning, anyway.
As Bourg came even nearer, CB studied the wellkeeper's face looking for a readable expression. There was none. At the same time Bourg felt his hairy knees wobble with each step, as his weight shifted from one to the other. He purposely kept his steps slow and steady to keep from collapsing. Meanwhile, his heart and head raced about within him. He felt as though he were trapped between two worlds, each speeding toward collision with the other no matter how he tried to retard his own movements. Eventually, Bourg found himself standing face to face with CB. He opened his mouth to speak, but his breath froze in his lungs. CB anticipated his words.
"No, Fate has not taken the lad. He’s not dead, but I fear, well, I don't know. It's the strangest thing I've ever seen: the lad is burning up with fever. I've never seen such a fever. I'll be honest with you, Bourg, I don't know what keeps him going. I - I. . . .” CB broke the caretender’s code. "I know the lad’s suffering, and I don't know how to stop it. Usually, Fate would have stepped in by now and relieved me of that responsibility.”
CB sensed a cringe behind Bourg's fur covered face when he said the unmentionable word, suffer. He felt terrible for using it. At the very least, a caretender was, supposed to ease the suffering of his patient’s family and friends, even if he could not actually do anything for his patient.
"Oooh!" came a painful groan from Tyter's sleeping room. Bourg's eyes widened as he looked toward the open doorway and then back at CB. Without waiting for approval, Bourg brushed past the caretender and disappeared beyond the door to Tyter’s room. CB didn’t follow, knowing some shared suffering was too intimate for the eyes of strangers. From the room there came another great and painful groan. It was not the voice of a young life lost in among shadows between life and death. It was the lamentations of a gentle spirited giant who, once again, was confronted with the limitations of his own humanity, being helpless to steal back another loved one from the clutches of Fate.
CB pulled a chair back from the eating room table and sat down. Placing his elbows on his knees, he bent forward and with each fist clutched a swatch of hair that decorated the sides of his rapidly balding head. Sweat ran down his temples, intermingling with the sweat on his palms. He wondered why he was born to such a purpose and cursed Fate for it.
At that very moment a cool breeze drifted into the room and evaporated the salty excretions beading up all over his skin. It felt cool and refreshing. It felt like a miracle, for it was the answer he’d been looking for to save his young patient. “That’s it! I need to cool down the heat in his body!” he exclaimed, mentally. But would it work? Could it be done? It had never been done before in the history of caretending - so far as he knew.
CB could feel his heart pump with excitement. The exhilaration of even contemplating something new and untried in the field of caretending was in itself an exhilarating experience. "I'm as aberrant as a double puffed pod” CB exclaimed aloud.
"Aberrant?" The word wasn’t common to most people’s vocabulary. In fact, he had only heard two people ever use it in a conversation - his father and Wudrick Pulpitt.
Springing from his seat, he ran to the sleeping room door. The big, burly, dejected wellkeeper hovered near the wet, young, naked body thrashing about like a leaf crawler floating upside down in a shallow puddle. Without a word, he left them to their agony. Dashing out of the hut, he raced toward Center House.
Hovering, unnoticed in one corner of the sleeping room, Keyshi slowly regained its warmth as it watched the human drama unfold. There was little doubt the young male was dying. Through the window it could see the human called CB racing toward the strange big building just north of the well. Its curiosity piqued, Keyshi dashed out through the window and chased after him.
***** ***** *****
"Fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two....” Brindle diligently counted each stone level as the well seat gently lifted her. Looking up toward the bright, circular opening, she could see only one silhouette occasionally come into view.
"Hello! Hello, down there! Are you alright?” The voice of the muscular, good looking, clean shaven wellkeeper called.
"Ayes gwite!” Brindle shouted upward. Her voice echoed out of the mouth of the well and sounded much like the clamber of the Center House bell.
"What?” Loden shouted back down the well shaft. "I said, 'Are you alright?'"
Again, he was answered by a sound like a clambering bell.
"This is ridiculous!” Loden cursed.
"This is ridiculous!” Brindle cursed in the solitude of her mind. "Oh, why can't I talk like everybody else?" she lamented.
Before he could call down again, Loden was momentarily distracted by movement in his peripheral vision. Turning his head back over his shoulder, he saw the western caretender who had summoned Bourg, racing toward Center House. This surprised hi
m and he wondered if Tyter had taken a turn for the worse - perhaps, even dead? Neither scenario explained why he would be making such a dash toward Center House?
Loden felt the urge to call out to the caretender, but decided he’d better finish the task at hand. After all, how much longer could he leave his new wellwalker hanging in the well’s gullet and still expect her to re-enter it on the morrow? Besides, from her response he wasn't sure if she was alright or not.
***** ***** *****
In the Center House bell tower, Wudrick slowly translated the ancient writings.
"It was then that M§kejo Nes decided to build his beloved Janesmi Theran a house just north of the well of the Ancients."
"Of the Ancients?” Sollie exclaimed. "What does that mean, ‘of the Ancients’? They’re the Ancients - aren’t they? Are you sure you’ve translated that right?"
Wudrick became very defensive. "Well, I have certainly done the best I can under the circumstances.” He ran his fingers along the text, occasionally referring to veget pads upon which he had made copious notes. "Uh, 'built . . . north . . . Ancients' - yes, most definitely the reference is to a people who preceded these builders of Center House. If I understand anything of this language, I'm sure of that fact,” he announced confidently.
"How can that be?” Sollie gasped.
"The words are really quite clear. . . ."
"Oh, my dear Wudrick, I don’t doubt what you say. It's just that we have spent so much time and energy to discover who built the well, and just when we think we have found them, they refer to an even more ancient people.” Her voice was a rich blend of excitement and frustration.
“Why is knowing who built the well so important to Loden?” Wudrick asked, then bit his lip, wishing he’d kept his curiosity to himself. Since it involved the eastern wellkeeper, the answer was bound to be political, and in all such matters Wudrick held himself neutral.
“All the years Loden has been a wellkeeper, he has faithfully held to the tradition handed down from the Ancients to insure that once a day someone is lowered into the well and the level measured.”
“I’ve always considered that a bit of nonsense fostered by the children’s songs.”
“Loden felt the same way at first, but now he’s convinced that many of these songs contain some truth which, over the years, has been lost or hidden in their rhymes and riddles.”
Wudrick wrinkled his nose disapprovingly. Although, as a younger male, he, himself, had come to the same conclusion, he had since given it up as wishful thinking.
“He believes that the Ancients wanted us to learn some secret about the well - a secret which could only be learned if someone was actually in the well on the day it was revealed.”
“And how does he propose to know what day that is?” Wudrick quickly calculated the odds in his mind.
“He doesn’t. That’s why someone has to enter the well every single day.”
“Hm, maybe - but other than his imagination, what evidence does he have?”
“He thinks the wellwalker’s father, Talon, discovered something about the secret of the well on his last descent into it.”
“If he did, it drove him crazy,” Wudrick said, trying not to put any credence in what he was hearing.
“His wife had just died. Besides, you’ve always said that truth has a way of shattering one’s foundations. Are you sure Loden is so wrong?”
Wudrick acted as if he would give a verbal response, but declined with a shake of his head and a wave of his hand.
"I mean, you’ve already discovered that it wasn’t the Ancients who constructed the well."
"That’s true, but apparently, they did build Center House. Listen to the rest of this section. Let's see, where was I? 'Well ... Ancients ...’ Okay, here it is. ‘... decided to build his beloved Janesmi Theran a house near to and just north of the well of the Ancients - a house just like the one they had left behind.'"
"Left behind?” Sollie asked puzzled.
"Well, you didn't think our ancestors just popped into existence out of a veget pod did you?” Wudrick quipped with an unusual display of witty sarcasm.
"I don't know. I mean, I never thought that much about where they came from - only where we came from.” Then, as if she had become suddenly enlightened, "Wudrick!" she exclaimed. "Do you know what this means?"
Knock! Knock! Knock!
"What's that?” Sollie interrupted herself.
"Someone's pounding on the front door, and from the sound of it, the person doing the pounding has a sense of urgency. I'd better see who it is before they wake up the entire town."
"Do you think Pentalope has returned?” Sollie asked hesitantly.
"No, we would have heard her screaming at me by now."
"Who then?"
"I can't imagine. Wait here. Don't come out of this room until I tell you it’s okay. Okay?” Without waiting for an answer, Wudrick pulled his plump, round body through the small opening, leading to the upstairs hall. Again, his flesh was exposed and Sollie had a thought which lingered even after he disappeared behind the replaced panel.
"Yes. Yes. I'm coming,” he called as he bounced down the stairs to the front door, which he abruptly flung open. "CBY?” Wudrick gasped, honestly surprised. As children Wudrick had called him CB the Younger, or CBY for short to distinguish him from his father.
“Er, I mean CB,” Wudrick corrected out of respect.
"Wudrick! Wudrick, I - I, that is, have you - or could you - uh, a little time - uh, to, uh, spare me?” CB’s halting words, nervous expression and general jitteriness signaled to Wudrick that, whatever had brought the caretender to Center House, it was surely a matter of great importance, needing his immediate attention. CB’s head continually bobbed back and forth, and side to side, as he looked past Wudrick, surveying the visible interior of Center House. Then he bent forward and speaking in a whisper murmured, "I - I mean if you and the, uh, the mayor aren’t - uh, otherwise engaged.”
The hems of their pullovers fluttered when a gust of warm air rushed between their legs. However, both men were too engaged to pay it much mind.
"No! I mean, yes, I suppose. A moment, you say? Pentalope is out - for awhile,” he said, but his mind was really on Sollie still hiding in the bell tower. “It's alright. Please, please come in and tell me what has you in such a jittery state this early in the morning. I’ll pour you a cup of veget juice?” (It was a traditional custom of etiquette.)
CB found Wudrick's demure remarkably calming, hardly the bumbler seen daily following along behind his wife. "Yes, yes please. My throat is parched. You would have made an exceptional caretender, Wudrick.” (It was also a tradition to pay your host a compliment as a way of thanking them for their hospitality. In this case, however, CB was quite serious in what he said.)
Wudrick flashed a polite smile and showed CB to the sitting room, where he signaled for him to sit on a large divan which filled most of the small sitting room. Excusing himself, he left the room, returning moments later with two cups of veget juice. Together they took a drink. Even tepid veget juice could give a person the sense of being refreshed on a hot Nuttinnewian morning.
"Now, what is it you think I can do for you?” Wudrick, asked, still somewhat bewildered. He had rarely exchanged a word with CB since his marriage to Pentalope.
CB took another swig of the juice. Wudrick waited patiently for him to collect himself. After considerable length CB still said nothing. He just fidgeted about as if there were so much on his mind, he couldn’t get his thoughts organized enough to determine which would be the first to come out of his mouth. Finally, a few words gushed forth.
"The young male at the well - the wellwalker - you know the one I mean?"
"Talon's son? The one who lives with the wellkeeper of the west?"
"Yes, that's right. Well, you see he’s sick, very sick and....”
"The lad is sick?"
"Yes, the young male, Tyter - and - and I have no idea what has caused his illness. He
’s driven out of his mind with a fever.”
“The Drought Disease?” Wudrick interrupted with alarm.
"No, no, I don't believe so anyway. I've never seen anything like this before - and then there is that strange mark on his right buttock.”
CB fell into a mood of silent frustration - Wudrick into one of silent contemplation. Eventually, it was Wudrick who spoke first. "What do you want of me concerning all this? Wouldn't you be better off discussing this with your fellow caretenders?"
CB felt no obligation to answer the question which he considered more a gibe than inquiry. "I have an idea and I ... oh, it goes against all the caretender traditions. I need to talk it over with someone - someone who can help me figure out how it can be done - someone like you. No - actually, it must be you!”
"I see,” Wudrick replied with cautious concern for he really didn't see.
"Oh, I don't know. I’m not sure what you can do. But I do know that while we were growing up, you and my father spent a lot of time together - alone. I don't know what the two of you discussed, but I know he had an exalted respect for your opinions on such matters."
Wudrick beamed, as he remembered those days. Often, he longed for them to return. CB’s father was the only person who truly understood him and was honestly interested in every far-fetched idea he ever had as a youth, even though some of those ideas were rather unorthodox. Still, the elder CB never dismissed any of them out of hand.
Instead of ridicule, he would present Wudrick with hypothetical scenarios which would challenge the idea’s basic precepts. It would be up to Wudrick to either overcome all the obstacles or to modify the idea until he could. Usually, CB’s father would just sit back and take mental notes as the young Wudrick struggled, over, under, around and through one obstacle after another in pursuit of an adequate solution. The father's favorite phrase was, "But what if" this or that, which would present Wudrick with even more insurmountable obstacles.
Many times, however, the old caretender would become intensely caught up by Wudrick's mental fencing, as he watched the youngster folding his theoretical layers into one neat blanket of conceptual fact. Hurriedly, he would grab up his veget quill pen and feverishly take copious notes. Of course, such facts were only exercises of the mind, for none of them were ever implemented into functional reality. That would have meant change - something new - and there was never anything new in Nuttinnew. That would have been treason.
Pieces: Book One, The Rending Page 22