THE ENCHANTED WELL

[IMPORTANT NOTE: This entry is a work of fiction. Any resemblance with actual persons or events is, as is usually the case with fiction, both purely coincidental and entirely intentional.]

On an incredibly bright midwinter day, he ventured out into the Odenwald to see what there was to see. The low sun hung like a necklace jewel above the rounded hills on either side of the Neckartal. Until today, it had rained every day for three weeks, and the paths were muddy, but the deep, limitless blue of the sky and the bracing chill of the air lifted both his steps and his spirit.

It was just two weeks after Candlemas, and most of the trees were barren spindles sticking up out of the earth. Here and there were clusters of evergreens that hid mysterious depths in the dense shadows beneath them. He was the sort who could feel into the fog of the future, and, gazing into these shadowy depths, he could tell that today would one day become a holiday, a very special holiday, a holiday devoted to love.

[Q: WAIT a minute! Two weeks after Candlemas? You're obviously talking about Valentine's Day. What's this nonsense about feeling into the future?
A: I said this was fiction! It's a period piece, OK? Work with me here, will ya!]

Dusk was drawing on when he noticed the nearby gurgle of water. Thirsty after a long climb up out of the valley, he sought it out. He traced the narrow stream to a well a small distance off the path. But that was not the source of the water. Some yards farther there was a low hill, and beneath it there rose a spring, whose water flowed down the slope into the well. Someone had built a stonework into the side of the hill to frame the spring; it was like a fireplace that put forth water instead of heat. That same someone had dug the well to catch the water from the spring so that it would be easier to draw. The empty bucket hanging from the roof of the well-house was full of leaves and grime after years of non-use. On the hill the white trunks of bare trees stood like ghostly columns in the creeping twilight.

He knew some of the story of this place. It was said that once there was a convent here, long since covered by layers of earth, and this spring supplied water for the nuns. "The Well of the Nuns", it was called. But he could tell that this woodwork above the well and the stonework above the spring were far too old to have been built by nuns or their servants or any other Christain soul. These waters flowed from deep within the earth and had nourished all its creatures for thousands of years.

And so he, too, slaked his thirst. He cupped his hands under the flow as it spilled over the lip of the stone frame. The water was crystal clear and cold. He filled his hands, brought it to his mouth, and sipped. He marvelled. What minerals of the earth through which this water flowed, he wondered, gave it such an odd but pleasing taste? It was sweet yet powerful, and the drops seemed to dance in his mouth and throat like the bubbles of sparkling wine. The rich, cold liquid soothed his throat as he swallowed, and he drank his fill.

As he stood again from drinking, he felt a strange glow in his stomach, unsettling yet seductive, and then tendrils of warmth began to rise into his head. He swayed as the whole world seemed to shift around him, and his very body seemed about to melt. His limbs seemed to dissolve beneath him, but before he fell, he managed to turn and sit, and he leaned his back against a barren oak.

The last rays of sunlight faded away, but in the darkness the straight white tree-trunks on the hill in front of him shone with a pale, eery glow. And he saw that they were indeed now columns of marble, striding in rows up the gentle slope. And looming beyond them was a great wall of dark stone. And he thought he heard music, faint and far-away at first, an organ it seemed, playing a long and plaintive plainsong in the night. And were there voices with it, too? High and sweet, coming from the stars? But the sounds grew, closer, louder, and he heard it was not an organ after all, but a choir of pipes and flutes, and a deep and steady drumbeat beneath it all. And still there were those voices, still-soft female voices of ethereal and intoxicating beauty.

The music was all around him now, all but the women's voices coming from beyond the columns, beyond the wall. The drumbeat got faster and louder, the rhythm took flight. The music filled his mind, blotted out all his other senses. A heaviness came upon him. But with his fading vision he saw a door open in the wall, and out came women, all in flowing white robes but with their hair unbound and flowing free behind them. They processed slowly in a line down toward the well, toward him, as he leaned in numbed wonderment against the oak-tree. One of them. a wonderfully beautiful blond maiden, carried a great cup of polished stone, encrusted with bright jewels.

And one of them, an older woman with steely grey eyes and white-streaked golden hair streaming down her back, came to him. She held him for a moment in an all-knowing gaze, then opened her mouth as if to speak. Even his hearing now was overwhelmed, but as if through a fog he seemed to hear her ask, "Stranger, what do you seek?" And at that moment he fell into a deep, deep sleep.

And he dreamed.

He dreamed of spring, and the coming of the leaves and flowers, of great fires on the hilltops overlooking the valley, and people dancing around them. He dreamed of an army of men with swords and golden helmets and red capes, and the dancing people drove them away, drove them out of the land with their pipes and drums. He dreamed of high summer in the valley of the great river, of freely flowing wine and honey, and always the people dancing. And there was a man, young and strong and fearless, and his enemies fled before his bravery and his honesty. And the man bowed to drink at a spring --- a different one, but not far away --- and he was struck down as he drank, stabbed in the back in his only vulnerable spot. His funeral pyre lit up the night sky brighter than any sun. And still the people danced.

And always there was the maiden with the cup. She kept on filling it from the well, over and over. And the people drank from it, and danced.

And he dreamed of the coming of autumn, and the turning and falling of the leaves. He dreamed of the harvest, and the people working and storing their food for the winter. The fires were smaller but brighter. And the people put on masks and danced.

And now he dreamed more and more of the older woman with the steely grey eyes, and every time he dreamed of her she was older still. Her hair turned snowy white, and she walked bowed but firmly through the layers of freshly fallen leaves. And she spoke with him. But it was all a dream, and he did not remember most of what she said. But he knew she spoke to him of love.

And he dreamed of winter snows and icy waters, of roaming wolves and sleeping bears. The land became silent and still. The people retreated into their homes and villages, but there they lit their fires and drank hot wine and danced.

And he dreamed of bright stars and the spirits who dwelt among them. The spirits who embraced all the millions of the people of the world in love. All the dancing people, whether they knew it or not. And when the people danced, they felt the spirits' kiss. And if anyone could not, he would creep weeping out of their midst.

And the winter chill crept into his bones; cold air filled his lungs. He twitched and turned, and then woke up.

The last rays of sunlight were beaming through the rows of barren white trees in front of him. Other than the gurgling of the spring water, there was deep silence. He was alone.

As he looked about and saw that everything was exactly as it had been before he drank from the spring, he realized that not one minute had passed since he had tasted those waters. It was not yet fully dark. He had slept for mere seconds, if at all. But he felt refreshed and renewed, as if a new spirit had been birthed and grew within him.

It had been many long years since wolves had roamed these woods. But he wanted to get back before dark. He started back down the muddy path.

As he walked, he thought he heard music, faint and far away. As he came down out of the hills, it got louder. He seemed to recognize it. Yes, it was dancing music. A polka.

He stopped on a cliff overlooking the river valley, and he looked upon the village below him, the little town tucked in between the river and the hills. The setting sun scraped the hilltops beyond the town, casting long shadows over the narrow valley. But there were lights in the town; fires were burning, and besides the music he heard singing and shouting. Then he remembered. Yes, the people were having another festival. As if the memories of Candlemas had already faded. Fasching, they called this one. One last burst of winter partying to steel themselves for the long wait for spring and resurrection.

He continued down into the village. There had been a parade that afternoon, and the streets were littered with confetti and the remains of fireworks. Now there was no one about except stout hausfraus sweeping up the trash; all the others had retreated indoors in the face of the deepening cold and darkness. But music filled the air. He passed by a large building in the middle of the town; light streamed from its large windows and lit up the square before it; the walls pulsed with the beat of the music. He looked in the windows. It was a great hall, full of people. They were dancing.

His heart went out to them; he embraced them with his spirit. And suddenly he remembered one thing the old woman had said to him in his dream. "Look upon these people," she had said. " They are not your people, and they seem so separate from you, but in a deep way you are connected to them. You have come from far away to be with them. They have much to teach you, and you them. You must love them as you love yourself. Do you love yourself?"

"Yes," he had replied.

"And from this love comes all other loves. Love yourself, and love all these." The woman's image became clear in his mind as this moment of his dream came back to him. "And remember," she went on. "Far, far away there is one who loves you. She waits for you. Be patient. She will come."

And he remembered that in the future this day would become a holiday of love. Love, which contains the meaning of all other holidays, love, which holds within it death, rebirth, forgiveness and redemption. He looked through the window at the dancing people. These people who had danced upon this land for hundreds of years. Whose ancestors had killed and been killed here. Whose blood had soaked into this earth. Whose memory ran deeper than the great river. And still they danced.

Maybe one day he would dance with them. But now he smiled, and turned, and went home. Not his true home, for he knew that his true home was nowhere on this earth. But it was close enough.