You’re snacking on In Different Color, a fairy tale.
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Mr. Grey loomed at the granite brim of a wide, circular well. His eyes descended the bucket chain, rusty-link by rusty-link, until it vanished into hollow darkness. Mr. Grey held supernaturally still, balancing with a slight bend, his arms crossed before his chest, face sober; like some crestfallen statue, resigned to eternally watch over the entrance of the Bottomworld.
Unlike most statues, Mr. grey moved. He leaned back from the edge and stepped from the shadow of the well’s roof. He walked over to Tom, among a glebe of scattered foundation stones. Mr. Grey scanned these stones. “Should we drop a loose rock down?” he asked Tom.
Tom’s steel eyes snapped to Mr. Grey. His brow furrowed with incredulity. “Of course we shouldn’t! What a rude thing to suggest; dropping rocks on homes.”
Mr. Grey raised his palms. “I meant no offense. But how will we be announced? I see no doorbell.”
As if replying, a peal of bellbugs churred from the surrounding field of wavy grass. A ring of five standing-stones separated the field from the well’s zone. Within the ring, the grass gave way to a patchwork of packed turf and the loose stones.
The sun sank. Into the west today Mr. Grey noted. No stars yet pinholed the plum sky, which was ripe with clouds. Smaller cousins to the parchmentwork mine glow-beetles started and snuffed their lantern shells; matchstick flares on the dark, scattered stones. One fluttered through the air and bonked into Tom’s bristly cheek. Tom ignored it, maintaining a glare at Mr. Grey.
“‘Should we drop a stone.’” Tom tried imitating Mr. Grey’s monotone. “That’s your noble idea… Unbelievable.”
“I am sorry, Tom. I proposed without thinking.”
“You don’t drop stones in Oh Wells...”
“You mean in old wells.”
“I mean what I say. This one’s a royal Oh Well. Very wise with age.”
“How are Oh Wells different? Do they draw water?”
Tom shook his head. “They’re much more potent. First you leave a memory; a thing of your past. Then you say, ‘Oh Well’. Then you take a memory; a drink from the well.” Tom waited for a reaction from Mr. Grey. He gave that up eventually, but added, “Oh Wells are sacred.”
Neither Mr. Grey’s face nor his tone expressed the least emotion, but he chose his words with care. “My sincere regrets. I spoke discourteous words. I won’t repeat them.” Tom nodded once. The tightness in his brow loosened. He squatted and patted one of the patchwork fragments of foundation, like the head of a beloved pet.
The maturing plum clouds growled with an oncoming storm. Mr. Grey looked dubiously at the oversized, creaky bucket. It swayed on its looped chain, running through a mechanism in the well roof. Mr. Grey didn’t believe anyone could live down in that clammy hole. It was why he’d suggested dropping the stone.
Mr. Grey asked, “What lies at the well’s bottom?”
“Water probably,” said Tom.
“It must be quite damp and cramped.” Tom shrugged in reply. “Should we wait outside? Until she exits?” Even as he asked the question, Mr. Grey swiveled a grey eye to the approaching storm.
“That’s just like spying. And I doubt she often leaves.”
“Surely she needs groceries? How else would she eat?”
“We’ll know when we see.”
Mr. Grey stepped back to the margin and peered over. The walls vanished into the abyss before revealing any bottom. Some baser urge tempted Mr. Grey to drop the rock. He banished the thought.
Mr. Grey watched a brave glowbug drop into the hole and plinked off a granite wall. When it did, he suddenly realized that no echo reverberated in the well’s damp throat.
Mr. Grey glanced back at Tom. The man stood complacently, enjoying deep, refreshing breaths of brisk twilight. Mr. Grey asked, “Why’s there no sound in the well?”
“It’s rude to shout into homes,” Tom answered. His face again turned sour.
“I didn’t… Oh, never mind,” Mr. Grey’s eyes roved the chain links. He dreaded the answer to his next question. “How will we descend?”
“We'll take the bucket.”
“Is that why it’s oversized?”
Tom nodded. “So people can take it down.”
Mr. Grey contemplated the swaying bucket from behind a doubtful brow. He shivered. The Wind threw her first misting of rain against his neck. Mr. Grey tightened his shawl, and said, “We might as well attempt it.”
The grey face tried to bring the joke home with a coaxing, cheerful expression. Mr. Grey didn’t quite pull the look off, but Tom’s sour face melted. His sudden, thunderous belly-laughter silenced the chirring bellbugs.
Together, they climbed into the bucket.
This has been In Different Color, a fairy tale.
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I love the way these stories are fed to us. Great work, Sam.