by JT Therrien
Before she could answer, a frantic shriek echoed eerily from deep inside the well. Jean-Marc worked his way through the crowd and squinted into the depths where some thirty feet below someone flailed in the water. When his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he made out the form of a skinny boy in a soaked red and white-checkered shirt, bobbing up and down to keep his head above the water, the broken end of a rope dangling just out of the boy’s outstretched hand. Tahoor.
Jean-Marc silently cursed. Why was it that for every life he tried to save, another one was senselessly endangered?
“Whose idea was this?” he growled.
“I assure you, son, it wasn’t mine.”
Jean-Marc whirled around at the familiar voice. Stephen was quickly unfurling coils of rope from the Jeep; his forehead glistening with perspiration, the khaki shirt soaked with the effort.
Jean-Marc assessed the group of villagers: mostly women, mostly mothers, and what few men there were seemed too weak or infirm to support their own weight at the end of a rope. His decision made, he tore the stethoscope from around his neck and passed it to Sharon. “When did Stephen get back?” he asked, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his cargo shorts.
“About half an hour ago,” she answered. “We were heading over to the well so he could take a look at it when we saw the crowd. It seems that Tahoor wanted to atone for his earlier mistake and thought he’d go down to get the rope.”
Jean-Marc pulled latex gloves and bits of paper from his pockets. He stuffed them in Sharon’s cupped hands. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“What do you think I’m doing?”
“Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head. “No, no, no.”
“Hand me that rope,” he said, and straddled the top of the well.
A hail of curses erupted from Stephen as he ran an end to Jean-Marc’s outstretched hand. “Most of it is frayed. I’m afraid we have no choice but to chance it. I’m sorry, son.”
“Oh, no,” Sharon whispered.
Jean-Marc unclasped his Rolex, her wedding present to him, and handed it to her.
She dropped everything into a skirt pocket. “Jean-Marc, can’t someone else—”
“Who, chérie?” He wove the rope twice through the belt loops of his shorts, and finished by tying a quick-release knot in the front.
Stephen and two scrawny men twisted the lengths around their forearms and anchored their feet on the baked hardpan. When Stephen nodded their readiness, Jean-Marc kissed Sharon. She hugged him.
“Jean-Marc—”
“Let me go, before the boy drowns,” he said.
Sharon released him and grabbed the lifeline. “Don’t be long.”
He winked at her. “I love you.”
She mouthed I love you, too.
* * *
The hand-dug well measured only ten feet in diameter, and Jean-Marc quickly felt the dirt and stones close in around him. The jump into the abyss, along with the possibility of a three-story drop, slicked his hands with sweat. Air chilled his body with every inch he descended—a welcome relief from the oppressive heat above ground— but in the confined space there seemed to be less of it to breathe. Ghostly voices filled the void: from above, men and women shouted encouragement and instructions, and from below, the child frantically cried for help with screeches that raised goose bumps on Jean-Marc’s arms.
“More rope, more rope,” he shouted toward Sharon and the blue sky above her head.
“More rope!” he heard Sharon relay to the men counterbalancing his weight.
He tightened his grip on the hemp rope and let his feet glide along the walls. When the cord snagged he jerked to a stop and listened to his raspy breath and the pinging noise the line made as the tension increased. With a suddenness that took his breath away, he fell a few inches, jerked to a stop, and broke into a cold sweat.
“Hey! Pay the rope out slowly,” he shouted. His descent immediately evened out.
Before his heart had slowed to a steady beat, Jean-Marc plummeted ten feet in the blink of an eye. Shared terror mixed Sharon’s scream with his own. As suddenly as he fell, the rope snapped taut, digging into his waist as he came to an abrupt halt. He bounced hard against the wall and his ears rang from the impact. Dirt and stones fell, pelting his head. Dazed and out of breath, Jean-Marc twirled helplessly until he could once again brace his feet against the slick walls.
“What’s going on up there?”
“The wall is crumbling!” Sharon shouted down.
Jean-Marc uttered the curse that sat on his lips, just as the tension on the rope loosened once again and he resumed his freefall. He recalled high school physics: objects fall at an acceleration of 32 feet per second squared. At that rate he would make quite a splash when he landed some twenty feet below in a few seconds. And given the limited space he would, ironically, crush the child he’d hoped to save from drowning.
Jean-Marc screamed as he plummeted. He released his grip on the rope and left a trail of flesh and blood as the palm of his left hand dragged against the rough-hewn wall. Roots and stones jabbed the soft soles of his bare feet when he spread his legs in an effort to create more friction and slow himself down.
* * *
Sharon had been standing a few feet away from the well, holding onto the rope and leaning back, when the loose-bricked wall crumbled . Caught unawares, the full force of Jean-Marc’s plummeting weight catapulted her forward, scraping her arms and knees as her body was dragged along the ground like a rag doll pulled behind a car. She winced as the fast-approaching pile of rubble that had once been the well’s wall loomed before her.
“Sharon!” Stephen shouted from far away.
“I’m okay!” she lied, her hands flayed raw and burning. She fought through the searing pain and tightened her grip on the rope. Unable to hold the weight back and unwilling to let go of the rope, she closed her eyes before crashing face first into the rocks. A galaxy of stars exploded behind her eyelids. A bolt of pain shot out from her right wrist and lodged itself in her chest, squeezing her heart in a vice of pain. She grunted, surprised she had somehow maintained her grip on the cord. Looking at the egg-sized bump, she didn’t need her husband’s medical degrees to realize that her wrist was broken.
A primal growl escaped her throat as she doubled her efforts and scrambled back to her feet, digging into the dirt to pull her husband back up. She rewound the taut rope around her bleeding forearms, her exertions drowned out when a roar exploded from Stephen and the men beside him as they, too, threw their weight backwards in concert with Sharon. The team’s efforts brought Jean-Marc’s fall to a standstill.
“You okay?” Stephen called.
She shook her head to clear the stars and the nausea. “Yeah . . . What do we do now?”
“What happened?”
“The rope sliced through the old mortar like floss going through cheese.”
“That’s not good,” he replied. “Let me think.”
“Well, hurry up!” She cautiously leaned over the edge, the smell of mud and water thick in her nose.
Suspended a dozen feet above the crying boy, her husband slowly spun around.
“Are you okay, Jean-Marc?”
“I’ll survive. Look, I’m pretty close to the water. If you guys can keep this tension on the rope I’ll just unwind it and drop down.”
“You’re still too high. You’ll get hurt!” Sharon exclaimed. She felt queasy and thought she might throw up. A big gulp of air settled her stomach.
“No, I won’t. You guys will have to be careful, though, because once I let go there won’t be any counterweight.” He braced himself against the wall and stopped circling.
“I don’t like this, Jean-Marc.”
“Just tell the others. We don’t have much time. My hands are getting pretty badly chewed up.”
“Wait,” she told her husband. “Stephen, Jean-Marc’s going to drop down.”
“How high is he?”
“He says he’s about a dozen feet from
the water. Do you think it’s safe?”
“If there’s enough water to cushion his fall, he should be okay. I can’t think of anything else, except avoid crushing the boy.”
“Jean-Marc says for us to be careful, since we won’t have his weight to pull against.”
“Right. Just say when.”
“Okay, we’re good up here Jean-Marc. Are you ready?”
* * *
Using every ounce of strength he could muster, Jean-Marc hoisted himself up with one hand while he yanked on the end of the rope and exploded the knot. Sweat soaked through his hair, streamed down his forehead, and stung his eyes. Once he untied the knot he worked quickly to unwind the lengths of rope from around his waist. His arm shook from the exertion. When he had unwound the entire length, he gripped the rope once more with both hands and lowered himself down another four feet, until he neared the end.
“I’m gonna drop now!” he warned Sharon.
“Be careful!”
He motioned the boy aside, waiting for Tahoor to flatten himself against the wall. He took a deep bracing breath, and released his grip. He didn’t cleanly release the rope and bounced off the wall, scraping a shoulder and bruising a hip. Yet he managed to drop feet first, splashing into the water without touching the lad.
Jean-Marc sliced through the coldness until his feet met the gravel floor. He bent his knees to absorb his weight. His head dunked below the water surface. He closed his eyes and held his breath. After a second he pushed with his legs, springing up and spitting out a mouthful of water. When he stood up the frigid water lapped around his chest, the amount deeper than he’d initially thought. No wonder Tahoor had been panicking, soaked, alone, and in the dark. “Hey, mon petit. It’s over. You’re okay,” he said, extending a bloodied hand toward the crying boy.
The frightened child scrambled into his arms and Jean-Marc examined him the best he could, looking for any obvious injuries. Given the limited light, he saw none. The youngster clung to him like a drowning cat; his cold, bony arms locked tightly around Jean-Marc’s neck as tears and whimpers fell against his shoulders. The boy’s teeth chattered noisily in his ear.
“Okay, Tahoor, you’re okay.” He wiped away a runnel of blood that trickled into the boy’s eyes, leaking from a small gash on his forehead, a minor miracle, given the amount of rocks that had fallen from the collapsing wall. “Well,” Jean-Marc said as he held the child close to share some of his body heat, “I think we’ve had just about enough excitement for one day, n’est-ce pas? Let’s rest for a minute as we try to figure this out.”
“Jean-Marc?”
He looked up at the sound of Sharon’s strained voice. Her head appeared as a dark silhouette set against the dime-sized opening, the sun reflecting brilliantly off a silver pendant around her neck.
“I’m here, chérie. Safe and sound.” He raised a hand out of the water to shield his eyes from the brightness and marveled that the same fingers that had been burning moments before were already beginning to feel cold and numb. He would have to get out of there soon, before the cold water sapped all his energy and core heat, and he found himself shivering as uncontrollably as Tahoor.
Another dark circle appeared next to Sharon, blotting out more of the light. Jean-Marc recognized the shape of Stephen’s head. “Sorry about the expedited trip, son,” he yelled down, “but this bloody wall completely disintegrated. How are we doing down there?”
“We? We are okay. I’m holding onto one very tired well repairman. He’s beginning to suffer from hypothermia. I’m sure he can’t climb back up the rope by himself. If I hold on to him, can you pull both of us up?”
“I think so! Just give us a minute to catch our breath while I check out the other side of the well. At this point, I think we’ll be bringing you up over there. There’s nothing left to this side.”
“Just say when,” Jean-Marc replied tiredly.
Stephen disappeared. Repositioning the child on his back he reached up and loosely coiled the rope around his hands. “Sharon?”
“Yes, baby?”
“Are you all right?”
“Am I all right? Of course I’m all right. You’re the one who was swinging on a rope at the bottom of a well! Don’t worry about me!”
More light came down when Sharon left the opening.
Jean-Marc smiled at her scolding. He gently rubbed the shivering boy’s back and confided words he knew wouldn’t be understood. He pointed up toward the sky. “What do you think, my friend? She’s beautiful, isn’t she? Madame Lalonde pretends she doesn’t know why I worry about her, but that’s what love does to a man. It takes all the selfishness out of him and turns it into compassion for someone else. And some day, Tahoor, you too will know the pleasures and the agonies that come with worrying about the woman you love.” He looked up when the boy raised his arm and pointed.
Sharon had returned. “Jean-Marc?” she yelled.
“Oui, madame?”
“This part of the wall is good! Stephen’s anchored our end of the rope up here but there aren’t enough people to help pull you up. He says you can start climbing whenever you’re ready! Think you can do it?”
Climb up? He gauged the distance. That would be quite an achievement in soaking wet clothes and chewed up hands, carrying a drenched and shivering boy on his back. “Not a problem!” he bellowed. He turned to Tahoor. “Now, hang on tight, but not too tight,” he loosened the boy’s death grip around his neck.
After taking a deep breath and saying a quick prayer to St. Christopher, the patron saint of travelers—since this journey down the well and back up qualified as a trip of sorts in his books—Jean-Marc tugged on the rope to test its sturdiness. It seemed strong enough. Thinking of the campy Batman television shows he’d loved to watch as a kid, he ignored the burning in his hands as the rope bit into the fleshy part of his palms and he began the dangerous climb back up.
“You’re doing great!” Sharon cheered him on.
Her words, a beacon of hope shining down from above, gave him the strength he needed to continue putting one hand over the other and pull himself up the slippery surface. Sweat rolled down his face, tickling him, but the agonizing pain in his hands acted as a distraction from the torture of the devilish beads that dangled forever at the tip of his nose.
After almost twenty minutes of slipping, sliding, grabbing, and moving Tahoor’s hands away from his throat so he could breathe, Jean-Marc finally reached the top of the wall. He draped a pair of heavy, trembling arms over the rocky ledge as his legs dangled in the cool darkness. He gasped from the accomplishment, a spent mountaineer having conquered his own Mount Kilimanjaro.
Sharon gripped her husband’s arms as Tahoor clambered over Jean-Marc’s shoulders and threw himself into his mother’s embrace. The rest of the villagers gathered around the rescued boy as Lujayn carried him far away from the well. Sounds of joy alternating with stern reprimands issued from the worried mother.
Sharon peppered Jean-Marc with kisses. She ran a shaky hand through his hair. “Don’t ever scare me like that again.”
She looked as if she had been hit by a truck: her lower lip swollen and bleeding; her right eye, also swollen and already half-closed, reminded him of Dahab’s.
“What happened to your face?” he asked, straining to pull himself up over the edge but unable to gather the necessary strength.
Sharon grimaced as she grabbed his arms and tugged. “I’m sure it looks worse than it feels. Somebody give me a hand!” she shouted over her shoulder.
Two village men jostled her as they reached for Jean-Marc. But before he could reply to his wife’s silliness, the wall section collapsed beneath his weight and he slid backwards, sharp rocks scoring the sensitive skin on his stomach and chest. The air squeezed out of his lungs as his legs peddled for purchase, but his bare feet only slapped against the smooth walls.
“Sharon!” he cried out, reaching for her outstretched hands.
* * *
Just as easily as he
had appeared at the top, Jean-Marc slid away from her, back down into the darkness as if something evil at the bottom of the well refused to release him into her comfort and care.
Sharon stubbornly held on to Jean-Marc’s thick wrists, his weight pulling her toward the precipice. Unwilling to let go, she dug her fingernails into his forearms. She screamed when he gripped her broken wrist.
Panicking, drowning in pain, she discovered she couldn’t draw a single breath. Just when she envisioned a silent fall through the darkness with Jean-Marc at her side, the two of them perishing together at the bottom of the well, Stephen wrapped an arm around her waist, preventing her from sliding any further.
“Stephen, let go of me and help Jean-Marc!” she hissed, struggling to get closer to her husband. Her sweaty grip on his arm began to slip.
“Sharon, there’s no way you can pull him up by yourself,” Stephen pointed out. He grunted with the effort of holding back two people.
“Jean-Marc, you have to hold on to me, my grip is slipping!”
“I’ve got you, but I can’t hold on forever,” he replied.
“Try to pull yourself up, use me as a ladder,” she cried, leaning her body against the remnants of the wall for support. Stones tumbled into the well as her feet slid and pushed them in.
“No. I’m not gonna pull you down with me. You’ve got to let go and . . . just let go, chérie,” he said.
“What? And let you fall? Are you crazy?”
“Let go!” he commanded. “I won’t take you down with me.”
She felt his grip on her broken wrist loosen but she dug her nails deeper into his flesh. For a second she thought they might actually rescue him. Love, that unconquerable power, must surely be a stronger force than gravity.
But gravity re-asserted itself. Jean-Marc’s weight, pulled her down, slamming her body against the mortared rocks, wedging her so tightly she couldn’t breathe. She stared past his shoulder into the black chasm. Saying a quick prayer, she readied herself for the plunge.
“Let go! It’s all we can do,” he implored her.
“No, it’s not! Stephen, help!” She shrieked.
Stephen held her tighter. “I can’t do anything, Sharon. If I let go of you, you’ll both fall!”