Between Wind And Fire

The Frog In The Well

The Village of Greyhill awoke slowly, the mist of dawn curling through streets like tendrils of soft ivy. Light flowed across the rooftops, throwing an ethereal glow over the thatched cottages. Here and there, the low calls of farmers to their cattle mingled with the distant clang of a blacksmith's hammer in symphony to simple and enduring living.

Uriel went by with practiced ease of habit through that scene, his hands at morning chores, wandering far away from the borders of the village. To the others in the village, he was a shadow an awkward one, meriting no more than indifference, or at worst, contempt. He was used to whispers, to the tittering that followed in his wake, but today they weighed heavier than usual.

The golden light bathed the mist as the first rays of the sun peeked over the horizon, Uriel pausing for a moment by the well. To a sense of rare beauty that washed over this village like a warm blanket on this morning, it did nothing to lift the spirit of Uriel. Muscles straining with the effort, he drew the heavy bucket of water and started the long walk back to his small home.

Uriel was up before the sun had even completely risen. He made his way first to the well, trying to avoid the stares and whispers of those who walked by him. Being heavy, the bucket felt as if it were weighing down his arms. Yet, it was the chilling glares and muttered insults that really seemed to press down on him. "Look, here he comes ," someone said loud enough for him to hear. Uriel kept his head down. He'd learned a long time ago that the only thing confrontation brought was more pain.

The familiarity of the taunt made Uriel's steps falter. He clenched his teeth and tried to turn his ears away from the jeers. He had never belonged in Greyhill. Orphaned as a child, he had always been an outsider. His aunt, who had been unwilling to take him in, had no need of him and his problems. So Uriel had learned to fend for himself.

He meandered in his thoughts as he carried the water back to his small home. Perhaps this was how life was always going to be, he wondered, a continual toiling in silence and suffering. He did have dreams, of course, about leaving Greyhill and finding a place where he belonged. Yet those dreams were so far away and so unattainable, like some distant star in the black sky. The weight of the bucket was nothing matched to the weight of his thoughts. This he did, longing for something more, something better than the everyday chaff and dreariness that defined so much of his life in Greyhill. However, every day was a struggle, a fight against bitterness, which would consume him. And it was at such times that Uriel found a fragment of peace within the loneliness. Other times, he could escape from the village, to sit at the fringe of the village on a hillock that would offer clear scenery of the forest. Then he would look at the sun, on the rise, and dream himself a different life. If today, however, the beauty of the dawn itself, free from the haunting fear which at present filled all his waking hours, could chase away depression, the hill appeared more distant than it had ever seemed before, and its benediction of isolation seemed dimmed in the heavy air of the village. He sighed deeply, and the tears he would not let fall stung his eyelids.

Uriel would often cross paths with an old man named Jirad, who lived on the edge of the village. Jirad was one of those old men people respected but hardly knew. They spoke about him in whispers, acknowledging his wisdom but curious of his past. Today, Uriel was coming back from the well when he saw Jirad waiting near his home. The old man's presence was a soother to Uriel; it was a face of friendliness in a land of hostility. The old sharp eyes of Jirad watched as Uriel's steps approached. He nodded in greeting, a wrinkle-faced smile growing across his time-worn face. "Morning, Uriel," he said, his voice was a welcomed sound.

"Need a hand with that?" It was a question, gentle in its bearing and firm in the way the voice asked. With some hesitation turned up in his eyes, Uriel nodded, and together they bore the weight of the heavy bucket inside. "You're working too hard for your age," he noted, his eyes twinkling with some sort of hidden knowledge. "Come now, sit with me for a while." As they let the pail slide to the ground, Uriel felt a pang of gratitude. The old man waved one hand.