The Well-Wisher

In a large, grassy, golden field all scattered about with radiant, red poppies and delicate blue Columbine, stood an ancient well. It was old, far older than you, my dear reader, and grown all about with ivy and weeds. Its’ wooden roof was rotted and sunken, sun-stained and weather-worn.

What nature had not reclaimed for her own lay in bits of scattered debris about the stone base. In spite of its deterioration however, it was a lovely spot, a place where dreams began and secrets could be shared—a place over-flowing with promise.

Traipsing through the grass, a girl went her way towards the well. Though dressed plainly, she was beautiful. Her hair was a golden to outmatch the field and the flush on her cheeks outshone the poppies. Her thin, somber mouth was accustomed to silence. Her eyes, the soft blue-gray of a trilling little gnatcatcher, were wide and kind.

She reached the edge of the well. Thrusting her hand into the pocket of her pinafore, she drew out a small stone. Almost perfectly white and round, the thin moon-like pebble would have made a splendid skipping-stone. Its’ surface was worn and polished, having been rubbed and carried and caressed. The girl, prize held tightly in her palm, leaned over the stone wall to peer into the well. She had been here before, so its depth caused no thrill. The sun above the treetops illuminated some meters down, before the rest was lost in gloom.

The girl glanced around and sure of being alone, began to whisper a silent prayer half-heavenward, half directed toward the gaping mouth of the well. Her brow furrowed in concentration, her small face earnest as only a child’s can be, she poured her soul into her desire.

Then, with a last longing look at her treasured stone, she tossed it into the well.