His pick seemed heavier than a few minutes ago, and his arms were going to fall off. His head was in a whirl. The dark dirt pressed in around him. Looking up, he could see the pale sky so far above him. The mouth of this hole must be a mile above him, he thought. He had dug so far, so long, so consistently. Where was the water? He’d been picking away at this bed of rebellious rock as long as he could stand it, and now his neck and shoulders felt shattered.

When he’d been sent to the wilderness the master had given him a knapsack of provisions, a skin of water, and a shovel and pick tied together with a long rope. “Dig a well,” was the one and only command. By himself? Yes. In the middle of a vast and forgotten country? Yes. No help? No companion? No guarantee of success? He’d been sent, he was to do it. He had been digging for six days.

From the light above him he could tell that it was evening. Another day had passed and the darkness was gathering rapidly, making his hole seem darker and more foreboding than ever. Stifling the rising panic in his chest, he shouldered his pack, which he’d filled with rock and dirt, and grasped the rope dangling above him. He needed to get out. He needed to breathe the air again. Slowly, painfully, he began the ascent. How many time had he climbed this rope to get rid of a few shovelfuls of dirt and stones. Hundreds at least.

As he climbed, he thought he heard a hiss coming from the bottom and he glanced down below him. Nothing. No one. But the sound was there. And then he fancied he saw an eye, and then two eyes. Blinking rapidly, he peered harder into the blackness. No, there was nothing. But the hissing became louder and louder and filled his ears. With a sudden burst of energy, he began climbing faster. His body ached and burned, but the terror below him wouldn’t allow him to slow his pace. He climbed for hours, he felt, chased by some unknown creature or worse. And then he was at the top. With all his remaining strength, he clambered up onto the ground and flung his pack from his shoulders. The hissing stopped, and he fell on the ground beside the pit, panting. Darkness overtook him for a few seconds. When he finally came to himself, he noticed the dryness of his mouth. His tongue was swollen.

Crawling to his water skin, which lay under one of the few leafless trees, he remembered the rope. It was tied to the tree and went straight down the hole, and he quickly pulled it up. What if something came up out of it? Some monster he had disturbed? He had heard nothing besides his own breathing and the thumping of the shovel and pick in all the longs days of his work. The presence of something else unknown and unseen was unsettling. But what could it have been?

He stood up stiffly and walked back to the mouth of the hole. There was no hope of seeing bottom, and it looked grimmer and more deathlike every second. He thought he felt a cold rush of wind come up from the depths, and on the wind a horrid stench. He shuddered. And then he heard the hiss again. Quiet at first, but growing more distinct and loud. He stood rooted to the spot, gazing down into the blackness, straining his ears. He thought he could make out words.

“No water. No water. It’s a lie. Only death. No water.”

Over and over again the chant came. The hissing grew fainter but the horrible voice grew stronger. No water! His mind began to race. He had had one command. Dig the well. But no water? What was the use? And what about his provisions? With a sinking feeling, he turned and stumbled back toward the tree where the remainder of his provisions lay. He picked up the water skin. It held only a few drops. He reached for the bundle of food. Only a crust was left. The words repeated themselves in his head, “No water.”

What betrayal! His master had sent him to his death! Dig a well? Why prolong such a miserable, futile task? No water? Once he finished his supply of bread and water he would die, and quickly too. No one could bear up under such work. To use the last of his waning strength to climb that rope back down into that black hole to chip away at rock… it was unthinkable. No water. If this was truth, then he was living a hopeless lie. He was digging his own grave, not a well.

With a bitter cry, he flung himself down below the lifeless tree, and beat the ground with his fists. And then a resolve came over him, terrible though it was. He would turn for home and kill his master with the pick given to dig the well. The far distance back home didn’t daunt him, for he depended on the sudden hate for his master to sustain him. He swallowed the last bit of water, took up his pick, and set off. He did not eat the bread. He would save the last stale crust to fling at the face of his master. Master? No, not his master; his enemy. The very bread of provision would prove to be evidence of the master’s neglect and brutality. It had given him only enough strength to dig a waterless pit. It had served to lengthen his agony and cruelly delay death.

His thoughts began to run in a perfect torrent of accusation. Everything given to aid him in his task he now saw as a curse. The rope! He had already dug so deep that it had dangled just above his head. If he had continued there would have been no reaching it. There would have been no way up.

The darkness of the night grew deeper as he quickened his pace back toward the city. The tumult of his mind and the darkness of his surroundings together brought such a blindness on him that he did not see his death come upon him. His foot hit an object in his path, and he dropped his pick. Groping about for it, he did not see another pit open before his very feet. He slipped and fell.

                      *  *  *

He had been sent by the master to finish a task. Another man had been sent to dig a well but had not returned. And so now it was his turn. His task was to finish the well. His provision? None. No water, no bread, no shovel or pick. No rope. The path out into the wilderness had been pointed out, and so he went. The dry tree standing tall by the well was in sight when he found a pick lying on the road. He took it in hand, sure that it would be of some benefit.

He arrived at the mouth of the hole, dusty and thirsty, but ready to begin. The rope, still tied to the tree, lay by the hole, and he took it and threw it in. Shouldering his pick, he descended into the well. Down, down, down he went. He reached the bottom of the rope, but his feet couldn’t feel the ground. Oh well, it must be down there somewhere. He let go and dropped onto his feet. This didn’t feel very promising. It was dark and deep, and he was already thirsty. But he one fact kept his spirits up. The command given from his master. Had he not said finish the well? A well implied water. He took a deep breath and swung the pick. One blow and only one, and the water leapt up to his knees.

Love,

Hannah Jo <3