Well Water

A short fiction

Mama said all I have to do is outlive him. I could own this farm and live here all my days. Mama said it's legal now. I only been married awhile. Though he's sometimes rough on me, he's old. I think I can outlast him.

I am fifteen. Old enough to make him a baby. More, if I live, but I ain’t thinkin' on that. My own mama is old and she ain’t but thirty. Her hands are rough, and her clothes are faded, and she raised me to never 'spect nothin’ more. But I do.

Our land is good. Lots o’ rocks, but I follow the plow and pile 'em by the field. We’ll add on the house, make a rock foundation, he says. But he’s now forty and brought a limp home from the War years ago. He lived, and his brothers and daddy died, and all he has is this bit o' land. This house the cold seeps through. But there's few young men. They was et in far lands by a stranger’s bullets .

I clean his clothes and his home. I found some of his mama’s old linens in a cedar chest and made some curtains for the window. I wish she was here for company, but he says she died a long time ago. He don’t like to talk about it none.

We got cows that always seem to need water. Enough to eat and some chickens. He got me some seeds last time he took a bull to town, and I made a good garden this year. He even bought some flower seeds. He ain’t mean, I jus’ got no love for him.  Hell, he talks so little I barely know him.

I was worth a few cows to him, at least. Daddy done good in that trade. Got rid of his useless girl child.  My baby brother will get milk and meat. Maybe my mama won’t be so terrible skinny with butter for her bread.

I haul water ev’ry day. The well is a ways past the barn. I take the hand cart and buckets and I walk out there mornin' and night. I water the animals and us. I’m strong.

I don't mind washin' day. I got a few dresses and aprons. I got a raggedy skirt and blouse for when I work the dirt. Mama made sure I had enough clothes to last awhile. I think some were hers, from when she married Daddy, but I only ever seen her in work clothes. I hate wearin' dirty clothes for no reason, so today I’m goin’ to do our wash. It takes loads of water just for that. I got to heat all the water for the washin’ in a big pot over the fire pit out back, and then I dump that and boil the rest for rinsin'. It takes most of a day to stir and boil the clothes. He’s gone to the town to get a plow handle mended. So I got all day without him needin’ nothin’. He left on the horse when the sun come up. Sun's already bright. It’s goin’ to be a long, hot day.

I had to make three trips to the well to have enough for the animals and washin’. The stones ‘round the well feel cool. He built up the sides with wood and some rocks from the field.  Sometimes I just lean against ‘em to cool off between trips. I ain’t tall, so it hits my waist. I can’t let the rope slide against the rock. It will fray and break. Then what would I do?  My arms get sore after so many buckets. I pull slower and slower. There are some trees, so at least I get to stand in nice shade.

“I can help with that.”  A stranger’s voice is awful loud out here. I almost jumped outta my skin. I turned to see who it was. Mostly I noticed his eyes. So pale. Like green leaves. Or grass when it starts in the Spring. So bright and cool and some ways old. It was so hot out. He was beautiful. Older than me, but still young.

He helped me all day. Raymond. He hauled more water when it boiled down and talked to me. Helped fill the iron pot near big as me and dump it in between.  He speaks proper. He told me things about his life.  He even stirred the wash. He don’t seem to know men don’t do washin'.  Told me about where he come from across the ocean. That it was high in the mountains and cold most times. I told him I ain’t never seen an ocean that wasn’t prairie grass in the wind. He told me I might someday. I don’t see how. The time passed so fast. I just let him talk and talk. He seemed lonely. I know lonely. It made him happy, talkin' to me. He told me I am pretty.

Somehow Raymond heard him comin' and left me as I was hangin' the last of the wash on the line. Just a smile, then gone, right as he come up the road. He was surprised I got so much done. He touched my cheek. Said my color was high and asked me did I have a fever. I told him hangin' the wash is hot work. Asked him about town and if he wanted some cool water from the well.

I smiled and swept the porch while he ate his dinner. He said the biscuits were good. He brought me a pretty blue ribbon. Said it matches my eyes. He does try. I’ll not lay so still tonight. It’s not his fault I don’t love him. I’ll think of Raymond. I should be 'shamed, but I ain’t. I’m just a girl.  I don’t want to be sweepin’ this porch when I’m an old woman. I want to see an ocean. Cold mountains.

For days I didn’t see Raymond. I wondered where he come from. No one lives near. He didn’t have no horse. But, deep down, I knew Raymond would come see me again.

This mornin' it come to me I could send him to town to get flour, salt and lard. We did need it. He asked if he should hook up the wagon. I could go with him. The hope on his face made my insides feel strange.  Told him I needed to work in the garden or we’d have no food before long. All them bugs to pick. Weeds. Told him he wouldn’t be gone more than a few hours. Told him we could visit on the porch when he got back.  He said keep the shotgun close. Said he didn’t want nothin’ happenin’ to me.  

I was sweatin’ over bush beans when a shadow fell over me. I looked up and the sun was behind Raymond’s head. A halo, like in Mama’s big bible, with the colorful pictures all through. He squatted down next to me, took my dirty hand in his clean, pale one and helped me up. Led me through the field to the shade by the well. I felt almost dizzy, but I don’t know why. He pulled up the bucket and grabbed the ladle off the hook for me. The water felt good going down, but I still felt thirsty. He kissed me. When I pulled away, just for a second, his eyes were as black as the mouth of the well at night. Then he blinked. Green. He must have seen the fluster on my face. He patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry. You’ll understand.” One more kiss, then I heard the horse and turned as it came around the bend. Raymond was gone.

He tied the horse and limped over to the well.  Looked at me funny. I musta looked guilty. Like a blur, Raymond came and grabbed him. Tossed him to the ground like a rag and fell on him, pinning his neck with a knee. With two long, long teeth Raymond bit into the big part of his leg, like a snake. He struggled and grabbed at the well wall. Some rocks tumbled down and he grabbed one. Hit at Raymond, but it was no use.

He called my name, but I didn't move. I just stared. He was mussed and muddy from the wet near the well. Then he grew pale and the fight went out of him. His brown eyes seemed to stare up at the sky. I couldn't look away from Raymond. Like a coyote over a kill. All teeth and black eyes. Or like the mountain cat I saw once, far from its home. Somehow fearsome, yet powerful lovely. Then Raymond stood, wiping his red, wet mouth on the back of his hand. Come towards me. Reaching for me.

Raymond was right. I understand. And I’ll outlive everyone now.   

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I love stories told in settings or time periods in which we might not expect something strange to take place. This one is in my collection now, Well Water and other odd tales.

Thanks for stopping by—it’s good to see you,

Lyndsey