LITERATURE
Fiction & Poetry
The Well By Luke Reid
Listen. Listen very closely. Can you hear it? No? I can. I’ve heard it since I was twenty-nine years old. That marvellous echo from an endless chamber of nothing. Little men tossing their coins on her, drowning her in gold. I’ve heard it for forty years. Walk around the hill with me. Draw pictures in the grass and pick at cotton clouds, pluck at the litter in the gravel, embedded there from the steps of the many travellers that pass through. They call up my cottage and ask me questions of the locale, I guide them to the local pub and shop and I don’t question where they got the number from. There’s a lovely barman there who’ll sort you out with a discount if you tell him I sent you. I always tell them that. Come down to the well, I always say. Bask in its magnificence.
I t’s just up here now. The well’s not too far. Always asking how to get to it and I point and wag my old finger up the hill. Follow the steps of Jack or Jill, they’ll guide the way! Always gets a chuckle. Nobody ever stays for a chat. Never a nice chat with the locals. Just a question and they’re on their way. God bless them. God bless us all. It’s a tough old walk now. There are old rotten wooden poles lining these broken steps guiding our path. Useless crap. Better off walking the grass. Not in the rain though. Wouldn’t want you tripping. Falling down. Down, down, down the hill. Down the well and down the hill. What a shame. Wouldn’t want that, now. Thunder cracking in the distance, do you hear that? Can you hear it rumbling down, across the rural hills of beautiful countryside? You can hear that at least. S he’s still louder. Giggling away. Finished her weeping for the day. That’s always a good sign. Why can’t you hear it? You’re not trying! You people never try.
Down in the meadow, you can hear the cows slobbering on shaven grass. Keeps me up at night sometimes. So far from my cottage and I hear them still. Just as I hear her showering in her pennies, trying to glue them together with her blood and her tears into a ladder to lift her back.
Always flowers at the well. Lilacs and lavender bundles, roses and dahlias, so pretty. Plenty and plenty of flowers all year round. Never-ending, really. Stop killing the flowers. It’s not very nice. Not at all. They wouldn’t like it if I killed their young. Poor flowers.
When the sun sets tonight, listen for her. I’m telling you she’ll call out your name. Enchanting you from across this plain. Take my word for it, don’t listen to the others, they’ll only tell lies, steer you away. That’s what they do. So small, she was. Just a little girl. How can they ignore it. They know all too well.
Pristine cobbles, aren’t they? Crafted only yesterday, by the looks of it. But no, so old now. Wrinkled as I am, yet so intact on the surface. Humanity is wonderful!
ind yourself in the flutter of the rain, supposed to be a storm M tonight. That’s what they’re saying, isn’t it? Another storm, another storm. Always so bad out here in the west! Couldn’t ask for any better. I better go check the roof and the cobblestones around her. Habit now when the rain settles in. Wouldn’t want it overflowing and flooding our land. Such a blessed possession in our hands, why let it waste away? The well is cracked and brimming with moss all over. Can’t watch the farms go down too. Can’t let that happen now, can we? No, no. I won’t let it. Not until her voice rings out in her absence.
o, don’t look down there. Down into that pit. Who knows N where it goes? ey do. They did forty years ago. They all knew what was Th down there. Ah, such a long time ago now. No point in reminiscing. The past is in the past is in the past. That’s what I always say. Every time I’m here at the well, I tell them all that. S o kind of you to stay for a chat. Not often an old man like me gets to chat. h, listen. Do you hear her now? I think she knows I’m here. O Listen carefully, closely. She’s calling for me.
