Mirnen

Kelof whistled tunelessly as he headed for the well, his pail slung across his back. Today he would just drop the bucket as fast as the rope would allow. Some days he liked holding the rope just tight enough to feel his hands heated almost to a burn, as the little pulley squealed and the bucket dropped from view.

He balanced the bucket on the parapet, took a step back and pushed it over with his toe, balancing like a fighter he’d seen in a book, arms arched over his head, making the “heeyaaaa” sound his friend had told him was “definitely warrior-like”. The rope immediately jumped in the air, its end uncoiling along the ground, and the pulley squeaked faster and faster.

Kelof waited for the splash, edging a bit closer to the wall.

He had just begun wondering at the lack of sound when the end of the rope whipped past, almost smacking his face. It disappeared down the hole, the pulley spinning freely.

Kelof stepped forward, to look down into the well, when he heard “thunk”. He had expected “sploof”, maybe “plorch”, but “thunk” was new. The pulley slowed, gave a last sad half-squeak and stopped.

Looking over the edge of the small wall he saw a circle of light, way down there. Not the usual reflection in the rivulet below, this was different. And could that be the bucket and rope laying on some hard surface?

He focused, his perspective shifting, and now noticed something else, or rather the absence of that thing. A noise he heard all the time, all day, every day, was missing. Kelof went to the edge of their village, the well forgotten, and stopped.

The rivulet passing under the village branch had run dry.