Faithful Pebble
Part Ten
He dropped to a knee dig, dug, digging into the darkness of his bag, the leather pouch he filled before he left the village. With certain steady hands he pulled out a nail, a hammer, a loaf of bread, a basket, cheese, water and some good strong sturdy thrice stranded rope.
"Please!"
To her cries, he hammered the tent peg into the earth, tied the rope around its thick iron stiff neck then hefted the elephant ton weight of it towards the well. He tossed it down, up and over the moss drenched side hoping, praying, wishing mightily that it didn't hit her.
It didn't.
It did worse.
"PLEASE!" Now she was screaming.
For a moment, the wanderer hesitated looking over the edge—hoping, wishing, praying—longing to see a set of wide frightened eyes, the gleam of dirty damp hair. But all he saw was piercing darkness, all he heard was a quivering silence that erupted out of the screaming, choking her voice into muted horror.
Within that silence, his voice was soft, his careful tenor calm before her senseless panic. "Please," he answered. "Please grab hold of the rope and I will pull you out."
Thank you for the reviews, Guest, Mertle, and Rose. I appreciate it. ~ Calla