I
figure us to hit the real water today,” Hank said as they stepped off the porch. “We'll be ever glad of that, won't we?”
Walter nodded. The last three weeks had been the hardest work in his life. They had labored from early morning to dusk each day and almost all that time he was in the hole's darkness. Pointless work too, though Walter wasn't as convinced of that as he had once been. Hank spoke of a future in the cove so idyllic, for all of them, that Laurel might waver. After all the work the three of them had done, even he felt some attachment to the farm.
Walter was about to get in the barrel when he saw Slidell tethering his horse to the porch rail. The older man set two burlap sacks on the steps.
“Brought some apples besides the horsehair for your batter,” Slidell said as he joined them. “I reckon you about done since you need it.”
“We got some seep two days ago so we'll soon be there,” Hank said, “but it's been some onerous work, especially for Walter. He's the one wallering down in the dark. Thank the Lord that place on Balsam has a good well. I'd rather fight a hellcat than do another.”
“Come hard weather it'll be a blessing though,” Slidell said.
“I told Walter the same.”
Slidell let his gaze sweep over the pasture.
“It's a wonder how much you two have got done since August. You've turned this place into a real farm. It's good to see such a thing after all these years. Anyway, I wanted to tell you I'm going to those big doings for Paul Clayton tomorrow, so if you want to ride with me you're welcome.”
“I may take you up on that,” Hank said. “I ordered my pulley from Neil Lingefelt and it might be in.”
“Just be at my place midmorning,” Slidell said. “If you don't go and it's in, I'll fetch your pulley back.”
“If I go, you mind if Laurel tags along, maybe even this fellow here?” Hank asked, and turned to Walter. “I'm thinking it cause enough to finally get you to town.”
“That's going to be a crowd of folks,” Slidell said. “He might rather go when there's not such a ruckus.”
Walter nodded.
“Okay,” Hank said, “but you need to leave this cove sometime. People can't get to know you if you don't.”
“I need to get on back,” Slidell said. “Looks to be Indian summer's set in, so it's a good day to cut firewood, maybe clean out my spring.”
“If you've not had breakfast, Laurel can fix you some eggs, gravy you some cornbread too.”
“I ate but I'll go in and say howdy,” Slidell said, and went on to the cabin.
“I guess we better get at it,” Hank said. “Standing in that water will be the worst part, but you only got to dig waist deep and we'll be done but for the walling. Warm as it is, at least you won't sprout icicles when you come back up.”
Walter climbed into the barrel and settled his feet on the bottom. He grasped the rope and, as he did every time, studied its twines for fraying. He looked at the ridge above the creek. The trees had shed most of their leaves and the lack of greenery made the mountains starker, more firmly locked to the land. The oldest mountains in the whole world, one of the guards had claimed, and today they looked it, stark and gray-brown as a daguerreotype. As the winch creaked and groaned, Walter watched the farm sink into the ridge and the ridge sink into the wedge of sky and then before him was only the well wall darkening more with each turn of the winch.
When the barrel finally hit bottom, the hole above was no bigger than a button. The air was moldy at this depth, like behind a long-shut cellar door. Walter pulled himself out of the barrel and began digging. The dirt gave easily with each stab of the shovel. He thrust the curved point deeper and it broke through the last damp soil into mud. His boots were soon submerged and he had to crouch instead of kneel. The shovel's lift no longer rasped but made a sucking sound followed by the soil's soggy clap as it fell into the barrel.
It was disconcerting to feel but not see water rising over his ankles and then calves. The water was not the teeth-chilling cold of a brook but it was cold enough. Walter made good time for a while, but by late morning water reached his knees. He immersed his arms deeper with each gouge, trying to balance the mud on the curved steel as he lifted it to the barrel. Water sloshed on him each time he raised the shovel.
When he hauled Walter up for lunch, Hank judged the depth by the waterline on Walter's waist and declared the well deep enough. Hank asked if he wanted to change into dry clothes but Walter shook his head.
“Yeah,” Hank said, “I guess it don't much matter since they'll be soppy soon as you're back in there.”
Laurel brought their lunch and the three of them sat on the grass. The wet clothes clung to him, and though the food was warm, several times he shivered. Hank noticed and offered to go into the well, but Walter shook his head, as he did when Laurel said she'd get him a dry shirt.
“Slidell told me Paul Clayton's homecoming is tomorrow,” Laurel said as they finished.
“You of a mind to go?” Hank asked. “It's a good time for a holiday with this well all but done.”
“No, but I was thinking that if you were Walter and me might have us a picnic.”
Hank shook his head.
“I pondered it, but the thought of Chauncey Feith speechifying in front of Paul has soured me on it. I'll go see Paul once the hubbub is over. He'll need a visit more then than tomorrow. But you all go ahead and do your picnic while you have a nice day. Soon as this warm spell ends the hard weather's coming.”
Laurel started to gather the dishes.
“You mind helping a few minutes before you go back in?” Hank asked. “I'd feel better with your hands on that far winch.”
They filled the barrel and Hank placed his hand on the lip, pushed so the barrel swayed back and forth a few moments, a scraping within as one rock shifted against another.
“You don't need but a foot or so above the waterline, Walter,” Hank said. “Just start at the bottom and press them in the mud good slantways. After that, the water will hold them in place.”
Walter nodded.
“Keep a high grip too, what with the weight of the rocks in it,” Hank added. “That way even if something gives way you'll dangle until I get you back up.”
Laurel set herself in front of the far winch, hands already on the handle. Walter reached for the rope with his right hand.
“This is the last time you'll be in that hole,” Hank said. “Get this done and all that's left is corbelling the well guard and building a scaffold. That's a trifle after all this.”
Walter set his right foot onto the iron lip. The barrel dipped and for a moment his left foot touched only air. A rock tumbled out and he did not hear it hit the well floor. Then both feet were on the lip, his hands holding so tight that Walter felt the twists of the hemp, even individual strands, as the barrel swayed back and forth, finally stilled. Only then did he move his feet inside the barrel, rocks shifting to accommodate his weight.
“You're sure it's safe, Hank?” Laurel asked.
“Safe as it can be,” Hank answered, “especially if you keep your hands on the winch. Ready, Walter?”
He nodded and Hank cranked the winch counterclockwise. Walter heard the extra weight in the rub of the twine, the louder creak of the windlass. He tightened his grip to take as much weight off his feet as possible, because what frightened him most was the barrel's bottom giving way like a trapdoor. Walter closed his eyes, though even open there wasn't light enough to see. He tried to breathe slower, calmer. A rock shifted and he caught his breath.
Finally, the barrel touched water. The rope slackened and Walter gave two quick jerks. He let go of the rope and lowered himself into the seep as the bucket drifted upward to give him room to work. The water felt colder than when he had quit earlier. Deeper too. Not a lot deeper, just a few inches, but enough to notice. He took a stone from the barrel, shifted it to his right hand, and immersed his arm and shoulder while looking upward to keep his face dry. He pressed the rock firmly against the wall. He took another and did the same and after the eleventh he had the first layer. The cold water had not bothered him while shoveling but now chill bumps covered his arms. He began the second tier, not having to immerse himself quite as deep, though that did not lessen the cold.
Walter was halfway through the last tier when the rocks ran out. He swung the barrel back and forth and it rose. As he waited for Hank to refill the barrel, he could not stop shivering. The water felt colder by the second and he wondered what that meant. Finally, the barrel began descending. Walter whispered for it to hurry, but it seemed to be moving through amber. He touched his waist and it appeared the water was higher than just minutes before. He remembered what the guard had said about caves and underwater rivers with trout pale and blind from the lack of light. The guard had said one moment you were on solid footing and then you were in water so dark and deep you would never find your way back to the surface.
Finishing the last tier should have been the easiest part, but his hands shook so much the rocks were slippery as fish. Walter dropped a rock and did not try to find it, just reached for another. He finally finished the last tier and swung the barrel to signal Hank. Five minutes and you will be out, Walter told himself, but as he was getting in the barrel he lost his grip, fell backward and was immersed head to toe. He came up sputtering water as the barrel rocked back and forth and began ascending. Walter grabbed the rim to pull himself in but his hands slipped free and the barrel rose out of his grasp. No face above parsed the button of light.
He shivered harder and each breath brought less air. The earth beneath him felt thinner, mere inches between him and a river that would sweep him into some fathomless pool where no light survived. He did not move because one foot lifted and set back down might plunge the rest of him into water. It's only in your mind, Walter told himself, but now he could not help believing that the earthen floor was about to give way. A deep suck of air opened a space in his upper chest. His chin lifted and he readied a shout. He clamped his chattering teeth at the last moment and what issued forth was a low muffled groan. He took deep quick breaths through his nose and kept his lips pressed tight.
The barrel stopped.
“I'm sending it back,” Hank shouted.
The barrel descended, still moving through amber, but moving. You would hear the water if it were so close, Walter reassured himself. But not if water filled the cavern to the ceiling. There would be no sound now and none when he was immersed. He would be in an inescapable darkness but, even worse, a place of endless silence. Forever. Walter reached out and pressed his splayed hand into the wall's moist dirt. He held it there and watched the barrel sink toward him.
Finally, the barrel was within reach and he grabbed the rope with one hand and the rim with the other. Walter half-pulled and half-toppled his body onto the lip, held the rope with both hands and placed hand over fist until he was completely in. The barrel rose. The hole appeared impossibly far away, and small, so small it could never widen enough to allow him through. The rope creaked and the barrel swayed with each crank, the hole still no larger than a silver dollar. Walter shifted his grip as he imagined threads of hemp unraveling with each turn of the winch. He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against his clenched hands as if to buttress them. The air became less dank, and then he could feel light settling on his eyelids. He opened his eyes and looked up and the well mouth had rounded to the size of a cymbal. The muscles in his hands and forearms burned, but he was afraid to loosen them for a single moment.
His head broke through and the earth bobbled and then leveled around him. Hank pulled the barrel away from the well and Walter spilled out. He steadied himself on his knees, leaning so one palm lay flat against the ground. Laurel came out of the cabin, running toward him arms outstretched, already reaching to hold him. She fell before him, her hands on his shoulders.
Hank kneeled beside him too.
“You okay?” Hank asked.
Walter nodded and started to rise but Hank's hand pressed firm against his shoulder.
“Rest a minute. I'm a damn fool for not spelling you. I should of known better than to leave you down there that long.”
Walter tried to rise again and Hank shifted his grip to Walter's bicep. Laurel took the other arm and he stood.
“I'll go back down,” Hank said.
Walter waved his hand dismissively at the remaining rocks.
“You mean it's done?”
He nodded.
“Okay then,” Hank said. “I'll go to the barn and batter us up some chinking, but you need to get out of them soggy clothes and warm up.”
“Come on,” Laurel said, and took Walter's hand.
They walked around the cabin to the old well. Laurel drew a bucket of water and brought fresh clothes, a towel and washcloth. He stripped and washed, put on the new clothes. Laurel had started a fire so he sat by the hearth. She leaned over the back of his chair until her face pressed against his.
“Tell me you're okay, with words. Please, I need to hear you say it.”
“I'm fine,” Walter said, his voice low though the door was shut.
Laurel kissed him, let her cheek resettle against his. The fire began to warm him. He shivered less and then not at all. He raised his hand and let his fingertips slowly trace the fall of Laurel's hair from ear to shoulder. There was a joyousness in just the touching, the lithe way the strands separated and regathered, and the wonder was that he had not noticed before. So much more to know, he thought. So much.
“I've a surprise for you,” Laurel said, “what I've been working on in my room. I was going to save it for the day we left, but I don't want to wait. Since it's not muddy, I'll wear it tomorrow for our picnic.”