The earth turns white,
With snow, a shroud of cold.
Pentalope and her devotees were nearly to the well, when the earth gave out another tremendous groan and a loud cracking sound once again filled the air. Bourg tried to keep his footing beneath Pentalope's suddenly shifting weight, but although he had the brute strength, his lack of coordination became his downfall - and Pentalope’s. For riding high upon his shoulders, Pentalope began to sway back and forth, round and round like a puff pod at the very tip of a reed, when the late winter winds race through the fields.
Fearing, or perhaps, sensing her collapse, her ambassadors, who had been jolted to the ground, scrambled out of the way. Not one was willing to cushion their leader’s fall with their own fragile flesh.
After several dangerous moments of swaying and spinning, Bourg managed to get himself and his human cargo headed in the same direction stomping his thick, muscular legs one step ahead of gravity. Unfortunately, they were heading westward toward the western huts. Struggle as he may, Bourg couldn’t get enough balance to set Pentalope aright on his shoulders, but he did manage to shift her weight to the opposite shoulder so that his forward, off-balanced stumbling now veered eastward, and thus, back toward the well.
"Help! Help! Don't drop me! Don’t you - dare - drop - me! Help me you imbeciles,” she screamed. Immediately, her faithful ambassadors, motivated more by fear than devotion, rushed after her.
"Grab her mantle! Grab her mantle!” everyone was shouting, but no one was attempting.
"Not on your life,” someone cried out in what sounded like a disguised voice.
"More like on your own life,” someone else shouted with similar tone.
"Fools! Don’t just stand there. Grab the hem of the mantle!” Pentalope screamed in desperation. It was all the motivation the others nees and soon one hand, then another caught hold of the mantle’s hem. Digging their heels into the frozen snow, they were dragged along by the momentum of the gentle giant.
Gradually, however, the counterweight tipped Pentalope into a nearly upright position, and Bourg was able to get his weight under her and come to a gradual stop - and not anytime too soon. For a very long moment, Bourg and the mayor hung in suspended animation, leaning forward slightly over the jagged edge of a deep, dark crevice in the earth that stretched from the well to the tips of Bourg's toes. If it weren’t for the counterbalance tugging on Pentalope's mantle, they would certainly have toppled forward into the abyss. In that singular, brief moment the royal rider and her beast of burden shared the experience of staring into eternity. And, to each, it looked far shorter than either had imagined.
Pebbles at the edge of the crack trickled away beneath Bourg's sandals and disappeared into the black depth. Although everyone listened, no one heard them land. With muscles strained, they held fast to the mantle, as the doddering duo teetered on the edge of uncertainty. Everyone held their breaths. More pebbles trickled over the edge, as Bourg’s sandals began to slip over the receding edge. Still, the mantle of many pieces strained against the hands clinging to it. In that moment everyone realized that in this tug-o’-war, gravity was about to win.
Even though they had started their journey from Center House in the north, Bourg’s stumbling had formed a wide arch so that they actually approached the crack from the west. Thus, the pair was teetering west to east.
Lifting his eyes, Bourg could barely believe what he saw. Before him, on the eastern edge of the crack, stood a slightly built hooded figure. He gasped. He was sure he was staring into the hooded cloak of the faceless messenger of Fate called Death. His passenger must have come to the same conclusion for his head felt as though it would implode in the boney vice of Pentalope's thighs, which clamped down even tighter.
If there was doubt, it was dispelled when Pentalope let out a scream that even Mardrith heard far away in The Great Veget Field. Then, she spewed out a stream of the most unnatural curses, interlaced with a deluge of platitudinal pleas and altruistic oaths sworn on the contingency that Fate’s messenger should go away and not visit her again for another hundred years - or more.
However, instead of going away, the hooded figure raised a scepter made of dried veget stalks and pointed it towards Pentalope’s head. Then, almost magically, it began to stretch across the deadly expanse. Closer and closer it came as Pentalope gasped in fear. She had run out of promises that concerned anyone other than herself. Although, her eyes were staring at the approaching instrument of her demise, her mind had escaped into the realm of self-pity. So, she didn’t notice the tip of the scepter lower and come to rest on Bourg's chest.
The big burly beast of burden could feel the scepter’s blunt end pressing hard against his sternum. Unlike the Lord Mayor, whose life’s fluid was surging through her femoral arteries on either side of his head, Bourg remained calm. Not remembering he ever had anything, he could think of nothing to live for, except the Lord Mayor, and, as any fool could see, if he was a goner, so was she.
The pressure against his chest increased to the point of actually causing him some discomfort. However, this was offset by the realization that his balance was gradually being shifted backwards, away from the gaping mouth of the crack. But the shifting movement caused more pebbles to break loose from the crack’s edge beneath his large sandals. Soon, only his heels were planted on solid ground.
"Pull. Pull on the mantle!" ordered the gravelly voice of the Hooded One, but everyone was too stunned by the supposed outcome of events to respond. Fortunately, hearing the voice snapped Pentalope from her paralysis of fear.
"Ha! A voice - a human voice! You’re no specter from the netherworld. Pull! Pull you white, waddling, puff mush munchers, or would you have me indebted to this funny looking faker, who was undoubtedly sent here by that cursed rebel, Loden, to try to destroy me - me, your blessed mayor! Pull!” Pentalope roared, “Or, by Veget, I'll return from the Beyond to haunt your sleeping chamber each full moon and pluck at your tender regions until you'll wish you had fallen into this crack with me."
No one was exactly sure what she meant, but all were sure they never wanted to find out. So, uniting as one, they gave one gigantic tug on the mantle and like a massive tower, Pentalope and her steed tottered back towards them and, to their deepest regret, actually toppled over on top of them.
"Ugh!” Pentalope grunted as she came tumbling down. "Get away. Get away from me!" she squealed as she struggled to roll clear of the bodies that had buffered her fall. "Stop! You’re touching me! Don't touch me! Fleetra, get these wretched creatures away from me!"
"Yes, ma'am,” Fleetra called as she scrambled to dig herself out from under the portion of the mantle which had fallen upon her.
As Pentalope scrambled to regain her dignity, those beneath her scrambled to get out from under her wrath. Bourg scrambled, as well, to get another look at the strange hooded figure who had saved his life. Those who were unfortunate enough to be under Bourg didn't scramble at all - not for awhile, anyway.
When Bourg was finally able to right himself, he didn’t see the hooded person anywhere. However, he did see the long scepter made of tethered veget stalks which the stranger had used to save his life. It was suspended across the gaping mouth of the crack. Bourg crawled to it on his hands and knees ignoring the gasps and groans of those still beneath him.
As he gingerly peeked over the edge into the deep, black crack, he flicked a few loose pebbles and listened for them to hit bottom. It was a long wait, longer than his patience or curiosity endured, as his attention soon turned towards the visible portion of the crack itself which ran for approximately one hundred reeds to the north and south of the well. Its widest point was right at the well where it separated equidistance from it on either side, so that the well now stood alone, as a singular, towering, stone monument, standing straight and tall like a huge male rod protruding out of the loins of the earth.
"By Fate!” Bourg croaked at the sight.
"Fate be fuddled!” Pentalope swore. "
This is the work of that Loden fellow. He'll regret the day he tried to tear apart my little town of Nuttinnew. Fleetra!"
"I'm thirsty,” someone complained.
"How are we going to get our water rations from the well?" someone else groaned. Soon panic swept over the westerners gathered near the well.
Pentalope stretched her face into Bourg's. "Yes, wellkeeper, how shall we get our water rations now?"
It was a question that sounded like an order that demanded an immediate answer. Bourg studied the situation. He was, after all, a wellkeeper. Pentalope had told him so, even though he didn't remember much about what it entailed. It had been the one truth of his past life she hoped to keep intact.
Bourg reached down and picked up the long scepter bridging the abyss, then walked along the crack’s edge to the well. Reaching out, he laid the pole on the rim of the well wall, the other at his feet, thus bridging the gap. As all eyes watched him in awe and expectation, he carefully placed one foot on the narrow pole and tested its strength. It bowed downward, building up such tension that it slipped from beneath Bourg’s foot, sprang high into the air, then fell silently in the deep darkness below.
Every eye which had momentarily been diverted by the flying pole soon turned back toward Bourg, as he solemnly stroked his beard in thoughtful contemplation. Finally, he turned to Pentalope. His eyes stared downward at her feet which she took as a sign of reverence. She waited for him to speak. He didn't. He waited for her to speak. She did.
"So wellkeeper of the west, tell me - tell us all, how are you going to get our daily rations of water now?"
"I - I don't know,” he shrugged.
"What? You don’t know? Why, you ignorant puff brain!” Pentalope roared. "Couldn't Fate have given me a wellkeeper with at least a dimly lit wit?" she groaned in real agony. "Fleetra!" she screamed.
"Yes, ma'am. I'm right here,” Fleetra answered, glad the monstrous wellkeeper had fallen out of favor with the mayor. She knew in her heart she would one day pay the beast back for his heinous crime against her beloved, Mardrith.
Although she spoke to Pentalope, her eyes were fixed on the dejected Bourg, who stood nearby staring at the ground. He felt as if he had lost something, but he had no idea what it was. Pentalope was so put off by the whole affair she marched back to Center House on her own two feet with Fleetra following close behind carrying the hem of the precious mantle of many pieces. The rest of her entourage haphazardly drifted back toward Center House until it was apparent not much else was going to happen there. Then, most retired to their own huts to prepare their evening meals. Meanwhile, Bourg wandered off to the clearing in the field behind Center House. He just wanted to be alone and hoped he wouldn’t find Mardrith there. He didn't. Then, he wished he had.
***** ***** *****
All that night, there was much activity east of the well. Stationary torches formed arches over a collection of various crafters and constructors who busily drew-up, discussed, altered, and argued over designs for a special project conferred upon them by the rebel leader.
Meanwhile, the majority of Nuttinnewians were in their huts, exhausted by the events of the day and fast asleep. Someone had discovered that when warmed, the strange white stuff dissolved into a peculiar liquid, looking and tasting much like rain water. Soon, all thoughts of lost rations melted away into much needed sleep with strange and unusual dreams as people cuddled from the cold under their thin cot covers. The feeling of spring filled their groins, but their bodies were weak and their minds distracted.
Only one hut west of the well still flickered with candle light as the dark cloud overhead broke apart, revealing once more a clear starlit sky.
"It's working!" CB exclaimed with whispered excitement. "It's really working. I'm sure of it!" CB took his hand from Tyter's forehead, jumped to his feet and danced about the small room. Brindle, too, began to dance about with great excitement and without coaxing. Soon, they were dancing together. CB grabbed her by the waist, twirled her around, then flung her high into the air, nearly bumping her head on the ceiling. Skipping and twirling, they spun out of the sleeping room and into the eating room, knocking into furniture and walls, making quite a racket, even though they were unsuccessfully attempting to keep their spontaneous singing and laughter to hushed la, la, la’s and ha, ha, ha’s.
Wudrick had replaced CB at Tyter's side, and placed his hand upon the lad’s forehead. The cold of the snow was gradually cooling down the lad’s body. It truly was a time for celebration.
CB and Brindle danced in and out of Tyter's room, Bourg's room, the privy room and the eating room. They even bounced out the front door and around the hut. Eventually, however, the frailty of the flesh gave way to exhaustion, and supporting themselves with hands on knees, they slumped over panting to catch their breaths. When their hearts finally stopped racing, they noticed the flicker of eastern lights near the well.
"Loo - look, at (pant) what those crazy easterners are (pant) doing,” CB forced out, forgetting that his dance partner was an easterner. "They're trying to get water from the well, when all they have to do is reach down and scoop up...." CB reached to the ground and scooped up a handful of white sand which crumbled in damp clumps between his fingers. "What? It’s gone. It’s all gone. No, wait. There's some under those veget stalks alongside the hut. Oh my! Oh my! We’re losing our cold. Quickly, get the ration bucket - anything. We must gather what we can. Quickly!"
Brindle bolted into the hut and raced into Tyter's room. She grabbed up the bucket and dashed out. Then popped her head back in and reported the situation to Wudrick.
"Ah gong! Knoh, ah gong!" she cried nearly hysterically, then raced back out of the hut.
Wudrick wasn't sure what she had said, so he went to the window and looked out. Across the open area he could see the flicker of torch lights at the well. From what he now knew of Loden, he wasn’t surprised. What did surprise him was the partially clear starlit sky and the reflections of the moon which glistened off the damp white sand. Sand? Not snow? That’s what the young female was trying to tell him.
Wudrick spun around and looked at the young male packed in the remnants of white fluff which was quickly melting against his cooling body. Questions scored deep lines across Wudrick's face. Would there be enough cold snow? If not, would the youth’s fever rise again? Had anything they'd tried to do been of any use or had it all been a futile waste of time - a failed scientific experiment?”
"I'm thirsty,” Tyter coughed in a weak, rough voice.
"Thyda! Yah libe!" Brindle shouted, as she entered the room with a bucket containing some of the last remnants of snow.
"Blessed Veget!" CB rushed in right behind her.
Wudrick knelt down and placed his hand on Tyter's forehead.
"May I please have some water?” Tyter asked rather impatiently.
"Is the fever down?” CB asked as he pushed his way past Brindle who stood frozen in the doorway. The jolt of CB’s passing shook her from her stupor. She raced into the eating room, poured a half cup of water and returned with it to Tyter's room.
"Not only down, but gone, as best I can tell. Here, you’re the caretender, you feel.” Wudrick stood back giving CB room to move in closer. The caretender placed his hand on Tyter’s forehead, placed it onto his own, then back onto Tyter’s. He repeated this several times before a broad smile of surprised satisfaction spread across his face.
Brindle held out the cup of water for Tyter to take, but he was too weak to raise his hand for it.
"Your right. The fever is gone. It worked! The cooling worked!” CB rejoiced.
"Will he be alright? You know, in the head?” Wudrick asked. “Sometimes, in the past, after a miraculous healing, the person isn’t, well, you know - isn't all that they were before the miracle.”
"Water!” Tyter now demanded with a dry cough. Brindle tried to place the goblet in his hand, but his fingers couldn’t get a grip on it. He was still very weak.
CB embraced Tyter's face with his
hands and lowered his own face within a hand span of the boy's own. "Do you know who I am?" he asked.
"I - I hope you're someone who's going to give me some water,” Tyter replied as his eyes rolled about in their sockets.
"Water! Quickly, get some water!” CB ordered.
"Heya,” Brindle ejaculated, a bit perturbed, as she handed the goblet to the caretender.
CB carefully lifted Tyter's head and tipped the cup to his lips. Tyter's tongue felt swollen and uncoordinated, but some of the fluid managed to get to the back of his throat. After several more moderately successful attempts, the recovering patient seemed satisfied.
"Is that better?” CB asked him.
"Better,” Tyter answered simply, as his eyes tried to focus around the room. "But, why are you all here? Where’s my guardian?"
"I'd say he is okay,” Wudrick said, avoiding the question. "Perhaps we should provide him with a warm, dry cot in which to recuperate."
"Yes, yes, we'll put him in Bourg's room, since the wellkeeper hasn’t returned. Strange, that,” CB reflected. "He always seemed so concerned for the well-being of his young charge."
"Tell me what isn’t strange anymore since those unusual objects fell from the sky, and I'll tell you that you are dreaming,” Wudrick mused.
"Hey! I'm naked! Get her out of here!” Tyter squealed as the two males removed the cold, damp, cot cover from Tyter's body and he first caught sight of Brindle who was kneeling on the other side of his cot.
"Better go on home, now, female,” CB said. "Thanks for your help. The young male is going to be just fine now. So, go along home, now, and allow us take care of him."
Brindle couldn't believe how easily she was being dismissed. This was the young male she loved and admired. He was her comrade, her fellow wellwalker. How could they treat her like a stranger who had just stepped in off the path. Angrily, she spun around the cot and stomped out the door. She would leave alright, but she wouldn’t go home. There was nothing to go home to. Instead, she headed south, away from the cruelty of the hut and the activity at the well.
Pieces: Book One, The Rending Page 46