He sucked at the air, his lungs burning with each breath. The well held the thinnest layer of water, enough to soak the bottom of his clothes but not enough to prevent the fall from bruising his ribs. A cursory check showed no other major injuries other than a sprained wrist when his arm struck the wall on the way down. His head still pounded from the blow he took on the street. He blinked twice as though that would clear his vision.
Sunlight appeared as a ring above his head, trickling through the hole as though it too had to be rationed. Jeremiah pried a loose chunk of concrete from the wall and tossed it upwards with all his strength. It bounced near the top, clattering and echoing as it tumbled back towards him. A plea for help fell short as well, absorbed by the cold, callous cement.
Thick mud lay beneath the thin layer of water. After a couple hours in the well, his legs had sunk into the muck until only the top part of his thighs showed. He strained as hard as he could, arms pulling and pushing against the wall at the same time, legs fighting to free themselves. The mud pulled back even harder. A few more tries buried him even deeper. His chest rose and fell with labored gasps.
“Help me, Lord.”
The wind rushed over the surface of the well, a harsh whistle crying its contempt. Jeremiah wrapped his coat tighter around his shoulders. Damp, muddy, the coat provided little protection from the cold which soaked into his skin. Memories of the day he went fishing on the Chesapeake with his uncle flooded over him. The cold of the seat. The puttering of the outboard motor as it chugged through the chop. Between the two, they had caught one fish, a bluegill which received a watery reprieve.
The promised storm hovered over the east. His uncle, frustrated at the wasted day, waited a few minutes too long to begin his return to shore. The wind picked up as the rains fell. The choppy water turned to angry waves, slamming the hull of the boat. With the safety of the beach still a distant hope, a large wave hit the side and sent Jeremiah into the water. He spent an eternity beneath the surface before he felt his uncle’s hand lift him by the collar.
His body shuddered and he wrapped his arms tighter.
He sat close enough to the wall so that his shoulder blades would touch when he leaned back. The water lapped at his legs and made small circles around his fingers. How much he wanted to scoop the water in his palms and lift it to his mouth. To dip his head into the coolness and drink his fill. But the smell, that awful odor of decay and filth and sewage and disease, kept his tongue dry. If he could only get over the smell. Then, his thirst would disappear, at least for a moment, and his death would hasten. Nearly sixty years old. His life had served its purpose. Time to leave his body in this muddy tomb so his spirit could return to its maker. He raised a handful of water to his lips. His stomach heaved and retched out the foul liquid.
“God, where are you? Have you left me to die in here? Send your angels to carry me out.”
The wind whistled its response. A low screech of the dying and the damned. Jeremiah covered his ears and sang a song of praise.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The ring over his head grew dark too early for night to have arrived. Thick, muddy clouds passed between him and the sun, leaving a glimmer to stream down into the tomb. He rolled his neck, arched his back, and flexed his tired thighs. Muscle fibers stretched and burned but felt good. One by one, he went through each body part, flexing and releasing to alleviate the soreness. Back and chest. Stomach, thighs, and calves. All the way to the end of the toes before rising up the body again.
He straightened his ankle, like a ballerina might do, and pulled beneath his knee. His foot lifted upwards a couple inches. Surprised, he pulled up quickly. The mud awoke and gripped his leg, dragging it downwards to where it was a moment before.
Again, he tried. A straightened ankle. Pulling beneath the knee. His foot rose slowly, twice as far this time before it became trapped. He tugged but not with much force. The foot froze in place. Leaning back, he placed his palms against the cement walls and shifted his hips. The attempt resumed. The leg lifted higher, so much so that his knee came out of the mud. He let go of the wall with one hand and dug into the muck. His fingers found the back of the shoe. They edged around the sides, prying and pushing until his heel came free. He wriggled his toes as he continued to push, all the while flexing and pulling his leg upwards. His foot slipped out of the shoe moments before his entire leg cleared the mud.
His hands returned to the walls. Rotating his body, he lay back and stretched out his free leg towards the opposite side of the wall. It didn’t reach. He shifted his hips until the leg could reach some point on the wall. A spray of water splashed over his chest and into his mouth. He sat up and spit the water out to take a deep breath. Returning to the prone position, he planted the three anchor points into the wall and pointed his trapped ankle. The foot rose as the other one had. A quick break to shift his hips, the effort straining him to his limits. Once more to plant and point and lift. Another time. And another. The decay sinking into his nose. Snorting, blowing, heaving, praying.
The seventh effort freed the second leg. He sat back and rested on the surface of the mud, a stick floating on the surface of the muck of an abandoned well, a skeleton unaware of either death or life.
Water moistened his stomach. A layer of mud covered his upper body, spread on as insulation against the cold. His head rested on his arms so the water couldn’t enter his mouth. Exhaustion rocked him to sleep. The cold woke him up every chance it could.
The idea for the mud blanket came to him well after night settled over the world. It provided a modicum of relief, enough to allow him to reach the dream stage. In the first one, a ram had caught a horn between two large branches of a tree. It shook its head in rage until the horn fell off. A man with one arm picked it up and blew through the end as he might blow into a trumpet. The blast pierced the air and exploded over the top of the Presidential Palace.
He woke up to find the final notes of an air raid siren drifting into the night. His gaze drifted heavenward, splitting the ring above. As he watched, the opening to the well spread apart, wider and wider until he could see from one end of the horizon to the next. Thunder descended from a patch of clouds in the east. Soon, the rumble of hoofbeats burst through the clouds and arced across the sky. Men dressed in white rode on white horses, swords held high in their hands as they swooped down towards the earth. A shout, an oath to obey the king, spilled from their lips.
A dark cloud appeared out of the space between earth and sky. Profane shouts burst out of the cloud moments before another army swelled forward in defense of their realm. The two armies collided with a crash. Lightning fell from the sky as swords clashed against each other in a fury of fire. A dozen riders in white broke loose and charged towards the well. A dozen of the enemy intercepted them before they reached the ground. The leader of the dozen in white pointed his sword at Jeremiah and mouthed a word.
The water’s icy embrace woke him up. He rubbed his eyes and stared at the thin, dark ring above. From beneath the stained coat, his stomach growled at him. He tried to ignore the pain of the hunger which gnawed at his flesh, but the more he tried, the more the pain burrowed into his mind. His thoughts drifted to old friends, distant memories, anything to distract him, only to return a moment later to the ache in his stomach.
His only comfort came from the fact that he had grown used to the odor of decay which permeated the bottom of the well. Still, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, teased by the fetid water inches away. He dipped his head and cried out.
I am the man who has seen affliction
under the rod of his wrath;
he has driven and brought me
into darkness without any light;
surely against me he turns his hand
again and again the whole day long.
He has made my flesh and my skin waste away;
he has broken my bones;
he has besieged and enveloped me
with bitterness and tribulation;
he has made me dwell in darkness
like the dead of long ago.
He has walled me about so that I cannot escape;
he has made my chains heavy;
though I call and cry for help,
he shuts out my prayer;
he has blocked my ways with blocks of stones.
I called on your name, O Lord,
from the depths of the pit;
you heard my plea, ‘Do not close
your ear to my cry for help!’
You came near when I called on you;
you said, ‘Do not fear!’
You have taken up my cause, O Lord;
you have redeemed my life.
You have seen the wrong done to me, O Lord;
judge my cause.
You have seen all their vengeance,
all their plots against me.
You will repay them, O Lord,
according to the work of their hands.
You will give them dullness of heart;
your curse will be on them.
You will pursue them in anger and destroy them
from under your heavens, O Lord.
The black of his world turned to gray and then to the dull yellow of the weakened sun. Even though weights pulled at Jeremiah’s eyelids, sleep had deserted him. The empty pleas of the previous night continued to reverberate against the cement of the well walls, his lament receiving no audible reply, his heart no mercy or hope.
Dawn became morning. Morning, noon. Jeremiah’s body lay listless, shaking occasionally as hypothermia began to take its toll. Jumbled thoughts ruled his mind now. False memories played with real ones in a mixture of delusion and clarity. His parents, alive, celebrating his seventh birthday. The aroma of extinguished candles enticing him with the promise of chocolate cake. Ben and Victoria at their son’s dedication in the halls of a rundown church. Angels and demons battling to a standstill in the region between heaven and earth.
As the sun finished its descent, the hallucinations grew stronger and more frequent. Just before the red rays turned to gray, an eagle floated above his head, reaching out with a loaf of bread in its talons. Jeremiah stretched his hand to receive the gift from the eagle. A thin smile spread across his face and disappeared as the bread turned to mist in his fingers.
He collapsed into the mud. A sense of peace engulfed him, a notion that he wouldn’t have to wait much longer until he saw the Lord face to face. He had fought the good fight, not that he pinned his hopes on his own righteousness. Jesus was enough for him. Always had been, always would be. He was covered in the blood of his precious Lord and longed to share in his resurrection. How glorious the day would be when the only light he needed would shine from the face of his savior.
The final rays of the sun fled from the night. Darkness plunged the world into a perverse celebration, shadows dancing around the ring, mocking, accusing, gloating. In the distance, a fireworks display of reds and oranges and whites appeared one last time to color the night.
The wind blew and whistled; a pebble dropped over the edge of the ring and fell by his side. Jeremiah shut his eyes and waited for the end.