WISHING AT THE WELL

By:   Bob Bearden aka Thon

There was a small village in a quaint little country that had at its center a village commons and a town well. And to this well came many of the inhabitants of the village, even those who had their own wells,for its water was always cool and sweet,for it was very deep,as wells are measured. And also because it served as a meeting place for those who were busy in their lives,yet needed to speak with others at times to remind themselves that the world did not end at their doors.

And to this well there came two who had not met in their own worlds,for they lived on opposite ends of the village, and one was a craftsman who worked with leather and the other a mid-wife who worked with lives, and never would their trades require something from the other. And on a sunny day, the craftsman chanced to smile at the woman as he was drawing water,and she smiled back, in that timid way that women have which always flutters a man's heart. And a few words were spoken, and they went on their way.

A day or so later, they chanced to again be at the well at the same time, and smiles were exchanged and they talked of little things, of weather and water and subjects that would only be of interest to the people of the village, yet had bearing on their lives. And he found her pleasant to talk with, and she felt the same, and they talked longer than the time needed to draw bucket, and still the time went fast.

And there after, the man tried to time his need for water to his need to talk with her. And it seemed that she felt the same, and their talks became much longer, and they talked of more than the little things; they talked of themselves, of who they were and where they were in life. And they became friends.

But there are friends and there are friends, and the word is all together too broad and general to mean the same in every instance. For there are friends who would disavow you at the first hint of trouble, like Peter to Jesus, and there are friends you might not see for a lifetime, yet at the end, still they would be there, to hold your hand and cry at your passing. And so it was with these two, their friendship was not like the shallow stream, that runs a season and then runs dry, but deep it ran in its channel, and true, like a river that would last through the ages, unless diverted by some cruel, uncaring fate.

And the craftsman, who was only a man after all, could not help but think of his friend in deeper terms, even though vows to others existed and their seperate lives gave them only the well as common ground. So, he made for the woman the things at which his hands were skilled, to see her smile and to try to blend something of their lives together. And she did smile, and she did laugh, and that to the man was of more value than any thing he might create with his all too human gifts.

Yet, though life is funny and strange, it is also tradgedy, and often it would seem that some cruel Fates do watch over to see that too much happiness is not dispensed to anyone. For the woman had her troubles within her home and within her life that the craftsman could not mend with all his skills, nor could he abandon his life nor she hers, not at that time, and perhaps at no time. And she began to worry of what others might think of them talking so long at the well, or what tales might follow her home to make worse what was already an ordeal. And she had another friend who talked with her in the market, and he was not restrained as was the craftsman and he too was a friend, though there were those who thought it strange that he would also spend time with those who made rude remarks to the lady when she passed. For it was known at the well that such would not be tolerated by the craftsman, for whatever his faults, he was still a simple man of honor and drew his lines deep and straight.

And for a time this continued unchanged, and the craftsman was actually happy and looked foreward daily to taking his empty bucket and his heart to the well, to refill both. And the mid-wife also seemed happy there, and the shadows of her eyes less pronounced, and the craftsman dared to dream of things as only a fool might, yet they were noble dreams that soared with the eagle that was his soul, and from on high they could not see the imperfections that make up the world.

And he thought, within his heart,there is time. Time that may bring changes as yet unseen, as I do not trim the belt too close, for the customer might grow, and there should always be space for other notches. Yet such thinking was his downfall, as it were. For his honesty demanded that he speak truely to the woman.

And on a day that seemed so full of sunshine and promise,the craftsman met the mid-wife at the well, and too full of his own thoughts to understand hers, he stepped close and whispered into her ear. And for that moment she smiled, and a butterfly lighted upon the stones of the well as if to add a touch of magic. And they both parted smiling, and the man counted himself blessed and felt not the weight of the bucket as he trudged to his shop to cure the leather and make the things he was skilled at, but that were no longer his only delight.

Yet oft times there comes a highwater mark in things, that we do not see until it has passed ,and so it was with them. For the mid-wife had her troubles that bore on her mind, until maybe she doubted all, or maybe felt at times that the words she heard in the market were truer than those she heard at the well, or, God forbid, she might have even had a passing thought that the craftsman would harm her in some way not yet seen. And so when she came to the well thereafter, she smiled and talked, but it was of the little things again, and the craftsman was bewildered by the change, and he was deeply hurt.

But he also thought of what he had done that had wrought the change, what thing dark and terrible had been his doing, that he might curse himself, for it seemed that he had but added to her pain, after all. And to his tortured mind there came always the one thing, the thing he had whispered to her on the last day that the sun had shown upon the well, and the last day he could recall the beauty of a butterfly. And in his simplicity, he had not known it was an evil thing to say, or that it caused pain, or that it would make her treat him as just another water-gatherer , or that it would make her choose the market over the well, or her own end of the village over the common ground they had found.

For the craftsman, despite his skill, was a fool after all, and had uttered a foolish thing, true though it was (and he believed in truth), and indeed a hurtful thing, for it pushed the mid-wife away, and he did curse himself, deeply and eternally. For on that ill chanced day, he had whispered in her ear, "I love you."


'Wishing At The Well' © by Bob Bearden 1998
All Rights Reserved

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