We slip into the trees, letting our feet lead the way. Of course, we’re lost. Estelle’s visits never take her out of town and Clem hasn’t gone to market in years, why would he need to now? the Council declared. They denied Romulus’s monthly petitions to sell wares at the castle even if it meant more money to take care of the children he and Margaret wouldn’t be permitted to have. All he’s ever wanted was a family.
We run along the tree lines. No matter how far we go, the torchlight isn’t far behind. We slip on pebbles, slide on leaves and scramble down banks. The procession marches on. Snatches of song reach us every so often, making them sound closer then farther away. The wind plays tricks like the moon does. Sometimes it feels like they’re in front of us, leading us toward them.
“Just keep running!” Romulus says. His breath comes out ragged like a squeeze-box. “I’m slowing you down.”
I’m faster than he is. Always have been. I can run ahead, scout the way to be sure we aren’t running straight into the arms of another town with more sin than it can carry on its own. As soon as I find the well, I can come back for him. Leave him, leave him, a little voice in my head says. I try to ignore it. Find the well, jump in to test it, then come back and get him, it continues. I stop. Make the sign of the bell right then and there. Romulus is bent over, breathing from his mouth. The voice isn’t even mine. It’s Mother’s. She’d leave him behind even if there was another way. You can take the woman out of Curdle Creek but you can’t take Curdle Creek out of the woman.
Romulus’s hand is sweaty but I grab hold anyway. We run. Although they aren’t walking fast, jogging or running behind us, the music is even closer now, the boom, boom, boom beating in time to my breathing, the rhythm in time to our footsteps. As soon as it ends, there’s a sharp trill, a drum roll, followed by a chorus of chants, then song. If nothing else, the mob is in tune. I don’t know the song they’re playing but its familiar chords tell me that the band will march all night if they have to. In an uplifting baritone with jazz undertones, the soloist’s smooth voice croons that we can run to the next well and the one after that, because they’ve already sent word. The wells are nailed shut all over England. The choir repeats the chorus, From sea to sea and knoll to knoll, not one well will save your soul.
Romulus presses a pebble into my hand. Another Well Walker stone.
“Keep it, I already have one.”
“You’re a Well Walker too?”
I say a quick prayer that we’ll find a well and that it will work some magic of its very own. A pebble thumps against my back. It’s followed by another one and another one and soon we are running even faster, sprinting, legs cramping, sides sore. Romulus huffs and wheezes beside me. Please, Lord, give me the strength to not leave him, I pray as his legs slow and his arms seem to sag. If he says it again—“Go on without me”—I will hate to do it, will hesitate slightly, and I will leave him behind. I’m sure of it.
At the top of the hill, just at the slope, there’s a well, a tiny almost child-sized one. I hate hills, I hate hills, I hate hills, I think as I puff my way up it. I nearly drag Romulus gasping for air along with me. We’re in rhythm, his haggard tssszz matching my whistled whizzzz. Near the top, there’s a welcome wagon of bricks. They are scattered around the mouth like tombstones. Someone must have tried to blow it up. All that water, wasted. Leaves and grass crunch behind us, rocks and sticks, words hurl around us. It’s not much more than a hole with some water in it. It will have to do. There’s a hand on my shoulder, another near my calf. I kick, lunge forward, and jump.