THE FOUNTAIN

By JetNoir

Water shot into the air, almost a geyser, and fell back to earth, a shower of small rain. It was dusty here, dry. The ground was dead, and the inhabitants of the small town were as close to that state as you could get.

The water was the only thing they had left. A few hardy, wilted crops existed here and there: for they never grew. They couldn't.

Dust was getting in Clarice Starling's nose and eyes, and she wondered why she had bothered coming here in the first place. A long drive, to clear her head. Yet, here she was, with the dust filling it up again.

She had driven for hours and hours from Buenos Aires, and it saddened her to remember that she hadn't exactly left on the best of terms.

54 hours earlier

"This hardly a serene existence!"

"And I happen to disagree, Clarice!"

"Don't shout at me!"

"And what the hell do you think you're doing?"

"This is getting us nowhere!"

"Why are you telling me this? Stop," said Hannibal, his voice suddenly lowering, "please, dearest. Stop."

And so that is exactly what Clarice did. She stopped, effectively shut herself down. She didn't talk, or eat or two days - only drinking a little water. Hannibal was beside himself with despair. He may have been one of the greatest psychologists of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, but he couldn't diagnose what was wrong with her.

They had spent five years together, here in peace. 'Serene' would be the perfect word to describe what they shared; but for the last fortnight, Clarice had become disaffected, and withdrawn. For the first time, they had quarrelled - and the Cannibal was losing his patience. Not with Clarice, mind. With himself.

On the afternoon of the second day, Clarice had gone and packed a few brief things. While she was reaching for some toiletries, she noticed Hannibal watching her.

"What is it you want?" said Hannibal.

"Simple," whispered Clarice, "I need some time alone."

"Very well," said Hannibal, simply, "at least I know what might happen. Will you at least stay in contact."

"I'll do my best."

Clarice left that night, and drove north. In twelve hours, via various scenic routes, she arrived in Mexico. It was just past midnight.

There she found a cheap motel, which she booked a room for one night, and settled down. It was clean at least, no insects, and so on.

Curling up in the bed, she poured herself a glass of wine (she had purchased some at the shop), and settled down with the book she'd brought.

It was called The Fountain.

1934, southern california

It was known as The Dustbowl. Every day, enormous sandstorms blotted out the sun. Nothing could grow here, even less than in the town, and all there was, as far as the eye could see, is barren wilderness.

Justin Crowe was an old man, and had lived here for far too long. He was tired, and bored with his life; existing in the dust. This was no life.

All he had left was his final task. The one that had been set when his father had died, a hundred years earlier. He hadn't been young then, and this was all he had left. It was what kept him alive.

The date is the 12th of April, and with no regret, Crowe broke into the floorboards of his small hut, and for the first time in a hundred years, the object saw light.

Setting off, Justin travelled many, many miles - walking steady and true.

And at last, as the sun began to dip below the horizon, Justin fell to his knees, and began to dig with his hands, shovelling the dirt with almost preternatural speed. Soon enough, it had piled up to either side of him, and when Justin deemed the hole big enough, he reverently placed the object into a wrapped piece of thick cloth, and buried it in the ground.

Standing up, in the hot, clear night sky, Justin Crowe, walked a few shaky steps, his age finally caught up to him. He smiled, wearily, and whispered: "It is done."

He fell to the ground never to rise again.

present day

Clarice paid, and left the motel before the sun had risen, and was once again on the road. The hood on her convertible was down, and the wind played with her hair, as she chomped on an apple.

Still heading north, she considered what she was doing. Did this fountain exist? Was this book pure nonsense? She had made a brief trip to Russia, a few years back, and picked it up in an antique bookshop. It had fascinated her since.

So when her serene existence had come to an end - and she couldn't bear to wait any longer, she decided to find out the truth.

A few hours after lunch, she pulled into the town. Apparently it had been here for centuries, and looking at some of the older inhabitants, Clarice didn't find that too hard to believe. Actually, she wondered if some of the inhabitants had been here longer.

She had wandered around slowly, until she reached what she had been searching for. The first marker. The first part of the trail.

The fountain exploded out of the ground, and she walked around it, stray droplets spurted on her. It was a refreshing change to the dust.

"Clarice Starling. Former Agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. You have a debt to pay."

Clarice stopped moving, as the gun was placed to her head, and the safety clicked off.

"Hello, Ardelia," said Clarice.

To Be Concluded

Note: I'm worried that this is too similar to a previous story of mine called: A Hole In The Head, which has a similar structure and story. Hope nobody minds. I just love westerns, and wanted to write something simple and different, before I return to my Revenant stories, and Ardeur Et Neige, which will be coming soon (I hope). And this is the first thing I have written, since becoming a moderator - which I am thrilled about! I hope that you enjoyed this, part two will be along shortly, and please, please review.

Disclaimer: Hannibal is copyright to Thomas Harris; and the story, plus original characters to me. This story has been written on the understanding that you may read it and print it out; but you may not pass it off as your own, hire it out, or sell it for money. You also may not put it on your own or any other web page without my express written permission. Thankyou!

JetNoir