Faithful Pebble
Part Thirteen
The basket jerked. The rope tugged. Once. Twice. Thrice. Instantly, he knew she was done with her meal and instantly, he moved to pull it up, the basket. Slowly, surely, steadily, he wound and rewound the length of rope feeling its rough coarse twine bite into the flesh of his palms. "How have they hurt you?" he asked. "Why have they—"
"How is such a bothersome question," was her answer, "and why is dangerous."
In his mind's eye he could see her, a dark figure alone standing basked in black shadows, looking up towards a sky she vaguely remembered. "Why?" he asked again. It was a simple question.
"That's not an easy answer," she said softly.
He leaned his head against a fist, a fist upon a ledge, a ledge lining a well. He retrieved the basket and placed it on the ground. He leaned over the side. "Tell me," he said. "I won't tell. How have the villagers hurt you?"
His answer was: "They toss bread in without baskets or rope. It falls like animal feed into the mud and filth. I am forced to eat it that way, covered that way. They toss rocks and sticks and all manner of garbage at me."
His pity teetered swelling slightly in his heart of hearts, "But they said they came to help."
"They did," she admitted, "but once they realized that I was too weak to climb out and…"
"Fearful. They turned on you. You have become somewhat of a legend in the village."
She'd trailed off taking a breath. He, in turn, continued where her words had faded away. It was clear, her answering snort, erupting like ash from the depths of her gloomy prison.
"I am a laughingstock and worthless…"
She paused, her thoughts shifting topics, a question gearing to rise. He heard it and thought to wait a minute, a moment, a second tick, tick, ticking in his pocket. He thought it would never come. The silence extended, marched on, stretched on, expounding beyond the confines of his patience but then her voice wafted into the air, soaring softly on the wings of uncertain curiosity.
"Why are you here?"
- Calla