The Burnt City

A young girl, her face scorched and lips cracked, dragged her blistered, weary feet across the gravel of the burnt city. She had lost count of the days. She could not remember when or where she had lost her way. She thought not of a destination. What lingered in the back of her mind was water, even though there was no sign of habitation. With sunken, dim eyes, she searched the horizons for life, for a tree, a branch, or a bush with green leaves. She no longer believed in mirages. She recognized the false reflections of the burnt earth in the distance and did not entertain the fanciful notions of springs and lakes. She was in search of water, her mind devoid of illusions. The earth beneath her tired feet cried out, but the girl did not move her lips. She took one step after another without thought and walked on.

The wind carried the scent of death from one place to another, howling in fear. Yet, undeterred, she continued to seek the sound of life. “Where is life?” she asked herself. She did not believe in any sound she was hearing. She did not trust the spring, the river, or the sea. Beyond the sound of the wind, the sad rustling of dry bushes rolling across the earth, and the wailing of light sands torn from the ground, another sound came. It was like the moan of a man hanged but not yielding to death. This sound might be the sound of life. The girl stopped. She narrowed her burned eyes and stared into the distance. The sound came from afar. Not so far that she could not see it, nor so close that it could be easily seen. A wooden bucket hung by a rope above a well, swaying in the wind. The sound of the rope dragging around the bucket's handle was the sound of life she heard. The bucket, the well, water, life.

A smile appeared on the girl's scorched face, and her mind was empty of illusions filled with hope. There was no tree, branch, or bush with green leaves. But a well and a bucket were hanging by a rope calling to her. Maybe a hundred steps, a hundred and fifty, or two hundred steps to the well. Just two hundred steps to life. Her burned, blistered feet began to move again. With each step, the thought of water completely engulfed her mind as if a dry land flourishes with rain. With each step, a fresh sprout took shape in the expanse of her mind. She had taken twelve steps, and her world was full of imaginary forms. Water was there, within two hundred steps, and she was heading towards habitation.

Taking the thirty-eighth step, she no longer dragged her feet. The gravel no longer felt hot. Taking the eighty-eighth step, the wind no longer carried the smell of death, and she sang a childish tune. She had walked a hundred and thirty steps. Only seventy more to go. A white cloud formed in the sky, casting a cool shadow over the well. The girl moved her lips. She wanted to say something, but no sound came from her throat. She had walked one hundred and fifty-eight steps and repeated in a hoarse voice - I knew, I knew! Less than fifteen steps to the well, and she laughed. A laugh filled with hope. Hope for the near future. Closer than a few steps. She took the last step and reached the well. Leaning against the wall of the well, she threw her scorched fingers through her unkempt hair, stared at the sun, and smiled proudly.

The sun was no longer hot, the earth was not hot, and her eyes were open. Across the well in the distance, trees with green leaves smiled at her. Civilization was there. Life was there, just nearby. The girl grabbed the bucket with her right hand and with her other hand, she uncoiled the rope from a large nail firmly hammered into the wooden wall. Just like the moment when an innocent man is brought down from the gallows, stared at with incredulous eyes, and told that he is free. She let the bucket fall into the endless depth of the well. The sound of the rope unfurling on the ground evoked the sound of a crowd gathered to watch a fellow being hanged. A crowd that is happy that innocence has been pardoned and angry that a sentence has not been carried out.

A tremendous sound rose from the bottom of the well. The loud scream that calls the world to silence. The scream of a soul in the moment of separation from the body. The muffled cry of a mother during the execution, the moment the stool is pulled from under her child's feet. The girl's eyes closed. The smile faded from her face. The blisters on her feet burst like an angry volcano. She fell to the ground like a yellow leaf released from a branch. The sun was hot. The earth was hot. The well was dry, and the girl was lifeless. The wind carrying the scent of her death moved from one place to another, howling in fear. Only the man who had been freed from the gallows was alive at the bottom of a dry well, dreaming of a habitation in hopes of rain.