This little story is for Sue Vincent’s photo prompt. When I saw what she had come up with this week, the Cookie Monster and the Groke paled into insignificance. I have inverted the image I first had, and the result is much happier.
For days she had sat by the well and wept. Nothing could stop the outpouring of grief. Her child was dead and cold, the only one she had managed to keep beyond babyhood, and her husband had no words to console her.
“We will have another child,” he said, wrapping her in his arms and kissing her hair where strands of silver were creeping like brambles among the dark.
“There will be no more,” she said. “He was the last one. My blood is slowing and cooling and the source is dry.”
So she took her sorrow to the well, and she whispered all her grief to the one whose presence lingered in such places. She found a stone, smooth and round as a fairy child’s head, a speedwell flower bright as her own child’s eyes had been, and the shell of a blackbird chick that chirruped now beneath the hedge. She dropped them into the well with her tears and she waited.
On the third day, when the first sun struck the still water, he came to her, leaping like a silver salmon from the birthwater of the well and into her waiting arms.
Enchanting!
Thank you!
This is beautiful Jane mythical and gentle all in one . 💜💜
Thank you! I thought this was going to be really gruesome but it turned out sweet 🙂
Yes very cute 💜 due to a little gentle storytelling 💜
🙂
😁
Perfect. (K)
Thank you!
Wow!! So beautiful ❤
Thank you! I’m pleased you like the story.
So beautiful and steeped in mystery.
Like all the best stories. I bet this one really happened 🙂
I hope so. It restores the vision of a world untainted by cynicism and tawdry emotions. ☺
We’ve lost a lot, haven’t we?
We have, but humanity hasn’t lost its true voice and heart. We just need to remember what and who we truly are.
And eject from power those who have forgotten.
Yes, but do so with a strength infused with integrity and focus. We must make a choice about what path to take.
Anything with integrity would make a pleasant change.
That is the hope.
This reminds of a stage play I saw ages ago. A woman, in grief, dug her own well. Her child was called Well-being.
Those kind of names are creepy. Like ‘beloved’…
… so is having to dig your own well, make your own baby – I think?
True. If I had to dig my own well I’d die. The making of babies is a subject that has distressed women since forever.
Since Eve (or Lilith)
Bearing them, burying them and then having your husband take another partner to get more of them.
The ego of such guys is beyond my energy right now … it’s almost bedtime for me and I don’t want to get cross.
Sweet dreams 🙂
This is beautiful, Jane, and lyrical.
I love the way this one came out, almost as though it was a story I knew and was just transcribing.
It reads that way too.
There are so many stories about longing for a child. I’m sure Brigid gave a few of them away herself.
She must have done…
Surely.
I loved the rhythm of your story, through heartache to joy. =)
Thanks Brenda! Stories can be the fulfilling of a dream 🙂
Beautiful and yet eerie. Back from the dead always comes with a price.
That is an eerie interpretation, I agree. I hadn’t thought of it like that, but you’re right, it would have a price.
Lovely piece Jane.
Thanks Michael 🙂
Reblogged this on Die Erste Eslarner Zeitung – Aus und über Eslarn, sowie die bayerisch-tschechische Region!.
Thanks Michael 🙂
The imagery is just magical here 🙂 So beautiful!
I’m pleased you like it! The story seemed to write itself.
Wow, so tgat is ho
Sorry, butterfingers, literally. My actual comment : Wow, so that is how babies are born 🙂 On a more serious note, one of the most revered gods of the Hindus, Ganesha, was sculpted by Goddess Parvati out of clay.
So, that’s how gods are born, is it? Could account for their muddled thinking…
I almost went to Google translate there…
Magical, enchanting and charming Jane.
Thanks Di 🙂
Lovely, Jane. It is like a beautiful folk myth.
Thank you! It wrote itself. Maybe it’s one I’ve read.
Isn’t it wonderful when that happens? Those stories or poems always seem the best.