20201125 The Cryptic Well
Merlin wakes on a high hill of a forest and starts down again, here he finds the hillsides in the sunlights and shades, in the morning shadows of the high hollers with the millions of rays of light between the dark undersides of the wide leaves of oaks, thin drainage paths more narrow than feet leading down between the trunks and twigs and dusty slopen earthen mount where branches pushed aside lead the way out.
At the most of hillside meadow clearing into valley and greener pasture are the lost forgotten mossy midland meadows crawling over forgotten mountains, hopefully the randomized fallen rain worn stones like raindrops lead to civilization, in the blurry limelight of horizon and sunrise where vents of summer and shadows of night beyond land and sky mettle with the vision of oncoming foot-born roads.
From these senses of nature perceived and expectations deceived the past becomes the present at an unnamed trail, beyond his toes a grassland that narrows and vanishes into the endless, to each side a great forest dark of trees with caramel summer leaves and black bark from time and shadows and the humid weather of the summer winds, to his left a road that winds right, to his right a road that winds left, connected beneath his boots in stark and motionless wooden heels, with his feet hart and heard barking in each direction, a quick turn in the direction worth going and far from longing for the other direction not worth knowing slowing towing growing sewing questions intrigued of quests believed to have similar echoes of forgotten realms the passer’s way does go.
Somewhere there is a well the way that water gives as gave in the summer with the wind in the face of those who’d drink with those wooden things to sides standing where the reel would wrest the winding binding hemp-given strands in plans of time pulling bucket on the line to quench your thirst, but for this there was a roof the length of an arm with peak turned bottom up to catch perhaps the rain where the bucket is in it, where the rope is wound in it, behind in taunting shadows of each swaying grass as high as an ass that might have cool whispers between each blade or the remnant dew of dusky dawn’s shade a small hill rises to a fencing corral that boundaries the nearby forest with the sounds of owls and taurus making farmland the only echo in the way.
Merlin approaches from the eastern rail with this story sails and sees the well’s demeanor, for the piled bricks of stone make home like wall masoned into a circle less higher than a knee and more widely than a tree, into its maw a darkness without shine of water made for imagination of lightless color and lifeless cool much deep with the very silence of wanton questions and unwanted answers dour and ominous with the shadow so ominous that echoes fearfully escape, and he notices the broken affects of the opening are the rotten roof and pale to scoop what water isn’t there, when this moment a pang and muddy echo from the drain of ground well and water table were the feasting soon never able at the world beneath the land beneath the sun.
Merlin: Who is in the well we drink at once tell me! I am wise and soon unable enough to know where monsters sleep!
At this moment nothing happened and the heartbeat of the well gives no beat beneath his feet, with the wind in trees the silence of the farm was unlike any other, a farmhouse some ways many steps farther than the already far barn, the awnings over posts to keep leather straps from drying and special metal plows from rain and rust, and in the dust he walks to the well and hears another noise and remembers the thirst of his tongue, but before done a sword flies out of the muddy deep dark well and simply falls into the daylight and onto the simple earth, this question interrupts for origins of the blade dappled with aged black pox polished over by hasty need or wastrel deed, engraved by lines like rivers of the silver lake that never frozen, coupled by the dozens of coins of archaic tales from destinies lost hammered into the handle, each coin ripples years of warrior’s grasp and hand lines and fingerprints into the plain old wooden handle guarded by golden collar, stirring emotional sensations and conventional intimations decided at last he take the old sword and drop it back into the well as if the watering hold had only lost it, bowing in the duty of his service to the surface and below, with some clanging was its landing not to know.
Watching the well for what comes next a cursing sound became the well, and quite well were cussings and condemnations that old boys and young women learn from knowing the other, and from this point of view another motion makes commotion and the sword before the same is launched even higher onto the surface world, looking round for farmers or hands lurking or learning or leaving Merlin stands there alone, as the cursing continues without ending or beginning, lending question inquisitively deeper from below, so he walks to ten steps closer until new things like a bone and a shield and a stone and a ring make their way onto the ground above the cursing one below, with Merlin laughing at the profanity that he should know.
Bring me one back, I tell you, give to me and I will rain on you - the voice beckoned in the first words formal and well-known - there is more I have to give you where the grass is overgrown, for this is all I know.
Merlin: None of me will throw none to you, until you let me know.
Merlin looks into the well a second time this time with his nose up and his eyes down afraid to see too close, and at the bottom of the well the big green ears of a goblin stood and looked up at the sky with shiny yellow eyes - who hell you are in true, should I get the best of you?
Merlin looks into the well at the yellow marbles and moldy leather man, the goblin reaches to the walls of the well also climbing very goodly as he is and often shoudly to the daylight seeing below, shocking heartbeat breaks fresh blood in Merlin’s retreat, leading his caution with his back forever turned at each claw on scurrying hands and hurrying plans to near the leads and plows or the dagger on the ground, thru the air without sound the goblin flies toward the sword, and runs faster than wolves from bears and swiping up the embroidered sword, wiping the dust from it on his clothes and licking the handle.
The goblin says to Merlin - I have to tell if sword from well, I play with things I know - and makes a crouching crawl of standing and a stand before the point of Merlin’s toes. Merlin says to the goblin, I want no wishes, so you’ll surely let me go, looking narrow at the goblin’s pockets.
I wish you wouldn’t now you shouldn’t guess what is to know, that is a question - the smiling goblin losing interest coyly astute, there is a pause before Merlin asks - you have three questions, don’t you?
I do - the goblin looks to him in crawling fashion to his left without standing soon demanding - what inside is without it, what outside is with it, for twins that never meet?
And for this Merlin paces slightly at the corner of his feet mostly judging how the goblin acts when his heels relax or grind into the dry yellow earth, a patient breath and breathless answer Merlin asks - Is it a bridge?
The goblin smiles and lets air fill lungs - you are correct for one, is the game begun - he speaks unsurely candid and plainly climbs the well, as if caught the goblin takes dirt from his pockets as handfuls pour into the well again, smiling and almost bowing with forlorn look and once dapper clothes, Merlin paces to his left away from the hillside unnoticed steps each shorter than the last and when he stops the goblin asks - i ask again, make sure my friend, what is long with branches but never grows?
For this goblin stares at Merlin with the pain of longing on its face, and for this Merlin looks with his face and not his eyes, and this thought the goblin’s face grows with surprise of anticipation at the inclinations of the surface stranger, with his arms in a manger for his heart Merlin pensive makes thought an art until it paints the obvious picture so deep in contemplation he walks toward the green goblin with the yellowy eyes, and for a dagger behind them both they both reach, Melin’s answer is - Is it winter?
The goblin in disappointment gives answer - yes you are right, you are always right, the hardest question has been given, you’re the only one who knows - and he walks on hands and then feet pausing on all four, now stands like a man with crippled feet and broken back like twisted dark oak of the forest beyond or from peeking around the bark and leaves for so many times so long - if smart are thou, like sacred cows and cullions, listen now the better guess is now - and he pulls his dagger and throws it at Merlin’s feet - pick it up, and fight if will, stick it up, and right to kill, for in the best of whispered winds new stories are to know, and from the worst of worsened kinds, the winner gets to go - the goblin relaxes and even rests into the farmhands’ wagon in a nest of crooked tendons and the en-patterned sword spinning it over the back of his hand as if made for himself to throw, with Merlin cautiously walking toward the dagger the goblin senses Merlin’s hesitation and leans the sword against the wagon and rests with position perfectly allotted contortion and stance quite gentlemanly in disposition, with Merlin replying - can I do both?
The goblin slowly smiles and quickly bellows of laughter unlike the joyless contention so, replying - of course you can if cursed, you’d have to beat me first - and laffs with contention of arrogant confidence, late to move Merlin’s foot turns and the goblin quick with sunshine energy stands before the pointed foot - I will take the final question if there’s nowhere else to go.
The goblin clears his throat to walk and stretches leg to laff, walking with the short sword as long as a goblin’s leg like a cane in a way most imbalanced and straightened with the riddle now awakened in the forefront of the known - just as well, the dagger is bone, with two are done and lost is one, the truth will else today, a dusty shell, tongue wagger is gone, and you are none such come undone, will you die today?
Merlin risks nothing to dreaming and only thinks when he blinks staring without whisper his heart filled with fire to blister at the foe of wrath, only blind to the past and waiting guarded at his future without fear for his next step may be his last, with the lifeblood of the goblin swelling and also getting taller in the sun and smiling wider than could lesser and making jest leaning into planet step in the charted moments before he runs, the goblin flies off of goblin feet at Merlin who stretches out his arm, in Merlin’s hand his once backside dagger as if stretching out for fun - I will not - Merlin replies.
The goblin in movement collides with Merlin standing braced for breaking speed his heels pushed into the dry soil of the sun, where Merlin reaches around the goblin and his hand in the goblin’s pocket in the old plain vest with fancy embroidered flowers, Merlin pouring dirt into the goblin’s pockets, removing an opened hand with rising dust, saying - I have only just begun.
Looking at the hillside, the goblin asks - was there a later? to which Merlin answers with cold wind in his voice - It will be done. Without the permission of the trees, without the whispers in the breeze, he puts it in a bag to trade with the alchemists as the farmers unhide from their coves.
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