DOWN THE WELL
The language of the Chronicles comes from the world down the Well. Your world, perhaps, if you are reading this. I never questioned the use of these words, marks, shapes, runes until almost ringless I rode the sky on my way to plunge in search of Kar.
This is a Chronicle, I thought. When I get back and all is well I’ll write it. I’ll write as I must, using the language runes from the world down the Well. When I get back. IF I get back. Why must the Chronicles be written in the secret language from down the Well? I never asked the Babba Ja Harick that question. When I get back I’ll fly beyond the Blue Hills and ask her. When I get back. If I get back. A protective chant. That’s what I need until I get my rings back. I will get ‘em back. There’s no doubt. I wish Kar was here to say, ‘Of course you’ll get ‘em back. You’re the Harick. Whatever you do is right!’ So such, I’m doing this. I’m going down the Well wearing one ring. There the mystery of the disappearances will be solved. I decree it as Harick!
Oh, a battle raged to boost my confidence without the help of Kar. Though Harick on the outside, I felt yet more than enough timid bendo dreen on the inside. I banished doubts. I sailed along above the Greenwilla River. I noted the neat ordered colors of Sadlar’s Gardens nestled below the green hills of Clover. I noted the monuments, creamy carved, of Lovey and her family on the northern side of the river, and I noted the fields of quietly patient oats stretching off into the distance beyond ‘em. I noted Dragon’s Deep Pool, which was for me a signal to turn from the river and to fly north over the Villcom Wood.
Villcom Wood. Chalky Grays. I wonder if Janellia Spurl is collecting sudplums. I wonder … Oh, you do not! You’re going down the Well! Face it bold forward! The Well of Shells to the dangerous world. Oh, the terrible things! Oh, the … Calm down, Bekka. Sabeek orrun. Practice patience. You are the Harick. I am the Harick. Ringless, though. Not ringless! You have one! And the broom and chants and don’t forget the buckles!
I struggled with my confidence, true to my timid bendo dreen origins. I looked at my lavender hands clutching the broom. They provided for me a wave of comfort. I needed Kar to snort at me and to review all the wonders I’d performed as the new Harick.
“Yoss, she beads … needs to taunt me … with pie … no … my … yoss … successes,” I told myself aloud. Into view beyond the trees of the Villcom Wood appeared the bramble hedge home of my younglinghood. Between hedge and Wood beckoned the meadow, the meadow with the hut where I’d lived as Chronicler, the meadow of the Well of Shells. I plunged with no delay straight down the Well so as not to allow myself time to change my mind. “Taunt me!” I screamed.
With my eyes squeezed tight shut, I awaited the splash. No splash. No splash? I opened one eye. I fell through starry night. Fell, not flew. I felt it so such. Both eyes now wide open, I looked around. With stars distant everywhere, I fell in black. Hush of wind rushing by. Below me a circle of stars thickened white, became a pool. Splash! Now splash. Up I swam clutching my broom. Light above. Surface. I broke through.
Ah, so such like as a beckoning pool.
A great lump of boulder loomed in the center of the pool. I pulled myself up onto it. My eyes darted quickly all around. Trees tall and pointy like as in Danken Wood. No creatures. No Kar. Ah … good.
Why did I think Ah … good? I noticed the crystal of clarity ring on my finger glowed yellow danger. I thought Ah … good because of course the ring linked once again with my crystal ball, and so such being in contact with the crystal ball certainly most truly meant I was on the proper path to find my edible cottage and all its contents. Danger? Of course danger. I was in the world down the Well. Low I clung pressed to the boulder.
“Kar?” I whispered.
Did a tree giggle?