Faithful Pebble
Part Twenty-One
The thud cut her off. The sound of the fallen slab echoed thickly up the well's vine drenched shaft causing her voice to hiccup, to halt breathlessly like a crack in a sidewalk making her words trip and stumble. "Wh-what are you doing?" she asked.
Her tone had changed. He noticed it, heard its stutter choke its muffled murmur into an uneasy silence, one that instantly crumpled his brow. The wanderer dropped further then paused considering her as he stared down into the darkness, her darkness, the world in which she was thrown and left to wither. He gritted his teeth. "I'm-I'm coming to get you," he confirmed.
Exhaling,
Inhaling,
Continuing on through his exertion, he tightened his grip on the rope then adjusted his footing.
"Coming to get me?"
That's what he expected her to say.
But then,
Nothing came.
Not a breath,
Or a huff,
Or even a please.
The wanderer dropped a few more feet then paused waiting silently, impatiently, anxiously for an answer that didn't come. The seconds dragged on. He dropped further.
"Pebble," he whispered.
"I—Iris?"
He plunged,
Delved,
Dove further,
And further,
And further,
Again,
And again,
And again,
Until the light faded
And the darkness settled
Becoming tangible,
Impenetrable enough
To engulf him,
Consume him
Whole.
It was so all-consuming that he nearly stumbled as he came in contact with the ground.
Letting go of the rope, the man silently turned and turned and wandered and pondered, his hands outstretched looking for a body. Bending, he felt earth, dirt clumping and shifting easily beneath rug burned olive brown fingers. Standing, he felt air where he expected walls to form, a stale air that reeked of sweat and decay. It was overwhelming—too overwhelming. "Iris?" he whispered looking about blindly. He wiped his nose then tried to hold his breath. Of course he failed. His answer was silence. He put his hands on his hips and sighed. In his frustration, he just happened to looked up but then-he gaped. The wanderer smiled softly.
He could see the hole but instead of day, he saw night. The stars above twinkled dully, glinting quietly in a deep velvet black sky that danced like the fairies did in the summer, fireflies to the more untrained, highly skeptical gazes that now plagued most children and adults alike. His eyebrows furrowed. How far had he fallen? 50, 60, 100 feet? Absently, he reached to steady the slightly swaying rope. He purchased 50 feet and tied it to the 80 he already possessed. It just barely touched the floor.
He swallowed then made a decision. The man, the wanderer, the nameless stranger just randomly passing by began to dig through his pockets. Patting some, fishing through others, his fingers deftly filtered until they felt something warm and rough tangle and slither teasingly between them. His lips pulled further, stretched wider as his hands grappled pulling out a light, a chain, a pocket watch brilliantly made, brilliantly carved, brilliantly dazzling as it emerged from the secret folds of his tunic. Lifting it out, its chain dangled lazily between his hands. He popped the lid, looked down upon it while its light simply bloomed. Raising bright smoke like fingers, its silver essence blossomed caressing his face, his lips, his brow and eyes until they glimmered blue, the pigment of his irises. They blinked, his eyes, taking in the clear white face, the black curly numbers that circled its outer perimeter. Two black hands ticked, ticked, ticked left about its face, the slight, nearly nonexistent second hand tock, tock, tocking right past them counting backwards, marching silently counterclockwise to a day, a time, an hour in the far distant future.
The wanderer took a breath as he closed the watch, his gaze blinking as he tucked it away, his gaze glittering still as the light faded but his sight simply—
Cleared.
He could see, though it was dark, though in the background his mind subtracted days, subtracted hours. To what, he'd never tell.
A little longer this week, hope you don't mind. - Calla