The Well

by JT Therrien

  “Tell me what to do!” she shouted to both men.

  “I love you, chérie. I’ll be all right,” Jean-Marc reassured her. “Just let go.”

  “No!” Sharon shouted, bargaining with Heaven and hell to bring her husband back up on solid ground, to start the day over, even if it meant having another silly argument about how she really didn’t have a fever. To pretend this nightmare would never happen. To never ask her husband to help with the well. But more than anything, to have the chance to reveal the secret she’d been withholding from him for a week.

  Jean-Marc glanced past her toward Stephen. “Do you have her?”

  “I’ve got her.”

  “Jean-Marc!” she screamed as she realized what they were about to do.

  “Don’t jeopardize anyone’s safety to get me out of here, understand?”

  “Yes, son,” Stephen said, his flat voice sounding like broken glass to Sharon. She struggled to breathe as his grip on her waist tightened.

  “Stephen. Jean-Marc! Don’t you dare!”

  Stephen’s strong arms squeezed all the breath out of her, and before she could argue, they both toppled backwards as Jean-Marc released her and dropped out of sight. Love hadn’t been able to save her husband, after all.

  Stephen’s body cushioned her fall. Sobbing, she thrashed violently in his arms to get free, until he handed her over to a group of women who pinned her to the ground, preventing her from leaping into the well after her husband. When she stopped struggling long enough to listen, Sharon heard Stephen calling down the well.

  “Jean-Marc? Are you okay?”

  “Stephen? Is he all right?” she gasped, struggling to draw a breath under the women’s weight.

  “Come on, son, say something. Give us a sign . . . Please, just a word.”

  She fought to stand up but the women restrained her, driving her face into the earth. Sharon kicked and wailed, inhaling Sudanese dirt, the African soil coating her tongue and throat. Now she knew what death tasted like. The women, sweaty and hot, weighed her down while Jean-Marc, her husband—the man who kept her safe day and night, the doctor who these villagers believed could revive the dead and dying—was drowning in five feet of water.

  She gave another throat-wrenching scream and suddenly a ripple of movement swept through the bystanders. The crowd shouted and pointed to the well.

  The women released her and Sharon scrambled to stand. She rushed into Stephen’s arms as the villagers encircled the well.

  “Stop! Listen!” she urged them. When a hush fell, a slosh of water, followed by a faint moan, rose up from the dark hole.

  “Jean-Marc! We’re coming for you,” she shouted.

  She turned to Stephen. “We have to help him!”

  “We need more rope,” he said, already looking around for materials.

  Two hours later, they pulled Jean-Marc out of the well. Bloodied and bruised, he collapsed into her arms. They laid him on the ground, where he shivered and gasped for breath as Sharon cradled his head in her lap.

  “Don’t you ever scare me like that again!” she sobbed.

  He managed a weak smile. “Deal.”

  * * *

  Sharon bandaged her husband’s injuries, wrapping lengths of gauze around a badly sprained wrist and an even worse damaged left hand. Jean-Marc returned the favor, setting her broken wrist and making a cast. He treated her facial cuts; she tended to the numerous gashes on his face, his stomach, legs, and feet.

  They had barely finished administering first aid to each other when Lujayn arrived to present them with a steaming curry and rice dish and a pot of strong tea; gifts of gratitude for saving her son’s life.

  Sharon poured the tea as Jean-Marc watched Lujayn struggle toward her tent. A windstorm had blown in from the desert. The infirm and sick patients scurried for shelter inside the fenced refugee camp. Most would spend the night in a large Quonset hut reserved for such emergencies.

  She sipped the strong brew while listening to the wind buffet the tent’s canvas walls.

  “Do you think we’re okay here?” she asked.

  “There’s no point in worrying about it. What’s the worst that could happen? We’d get blown away and end up down the well?” Jean-Marc replied dryly.

  She shook her head. “Hey, listen. We’re finally alone,” she observed.

  He breathed deeply and grimaced. His hand gingerly rested on his bruised ribs. “It’s been a long time since we were alone, together. It’s kind of nice, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose . . .”

  He noticed the enigmatic expression on her face. “What? Did I say something wrong?”

  She shook her head and bit her lower lip.

  They sipped their tea. Jean-Marc lowered his cup. “You know, growing up in Quebec, we had a tradition of opening our presents on Christmas Eve, after we finished eating supper.”

  “So you’ve told me before,” Sharon replied, hiding her smile behind her cup.

  “You’re the one who mentioned that today was Christmas Eve, sweetheart.”

  They sat on hand-woven straw mats, facing each other. The burning stub of a candle, twisted into the sandy floor between them, cast a buttery light on her husband’s bruised face, darkening the purple shadows under his eyes. She didn’t want to think what her face looked like. She felt the tender skin of her swollen cheek with every blink.

  Sharon smiled. “Okay, since you proved yourself so heroically today, I think I can round up your present, if you insist on opening it tonight. Hold on.” She stood and limped into the back part of the tent. She returned in time to see Jean-Marc sit down, the grin on his face matching the merriment in his eyes.

  “What did you do? Where’d you go?” she grilled him, trying to sneak a peek behind him.

  He shrugged and fixed a look of innocence on his face.

  “Okay, how do you want to do this?” She put the small package she’d been holding beside her mat and sat down.

  Jean-Marc reached behind him and opened a well-worn Bible.

  “You want to continue our tradition, is that it?”

  “I don’t know about you but I, for one, definitely felt God’s presence with us today,” he observed as he flipped through the Bible. “You know,” he noted after listening to a particularly strong gust of wind, “if it’s true that the meek will one day inherit the earth, the Muhajerians are in for quite a payday.”

  “I know, sweetie. They are,” she agreed.

  “Ah, found it,” he declared, pressing his finger on the page, pinning the words in place.

  Sharon closed her eyes.

  “I tell you solemnly, in so far as you did this to one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did it unto me.”

  She nodded.

  Jean-Marc’s words resonated deep within her soul as she meditated on the familiar passage. Her husband often wondered if they were in the Sudan helping the “least of these brothers”, or if the Sudanese saw the bloated, wealthy foreign aid workers as the ones in need of salvation. And especially today, after Jean-Marc had risked his life to rescue Tahoor, an act that had nearly cost him his own life. She could tell that this thought never entered his head as he read the passage.

  “What are you crying for?”

  “Careful,” she cautioned as he wiped away a falling tear.

  She opened her eyes and accepted the Bible. She quickly found her favorite passage in Philippians, “Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility regard others as better than yourself.” This credo, a personal mantra, kept her daily actions humble and her thoughts focused as she went about her activities, as she did her best to navigate through mountains of paperwork in the hopes of directing some international aid to the impoverished region.

  The wind blew stronger and the tent walls flapped wildly. Sharon leaned forward, groaning in pain. They shared a tender kiss.

  “Want your present?”

  “Gimme gimme,” he teased.

  “Here, Merry Christmas,” she hande
d over a leaf-wrapped parcel.

  Jean-Marc carefully pulled on the delicate twine bow tied around the big brown leaf. The leaf opened to reveal a handmade bracelet.

  “It’s made of Kiwano vines,” she explained.

  Jean-Marc examined the intricate workmanship. “It’s beautiful. Thank you, chérie.”

  She laughed. “Thank poor Lujayn. She spent so many hours trying to show me how to interlace the vines into that fancy pattern.”

  “It’s amazing. You did a beautiful job.” Jean-Marc held out his arm and she tied the bracelet around his wrist.

  “My Rolex pales in comparison to this work of art,” he noted.

  She finished the task and sat back on her heels, watching her husband retrieve a box of tongue depressors from behind him. He presented it to her. Sharon opened the box and gasped when she discovered a long scarlet feather ringed with smaller white feathers, the whole piece creating an exotic hair ornament.

  “Did you make this?”

  He shook his head and laughed. “No. Lujayne did.”

  “That Lujayne. She never mentioned a word to me! Oh, this is so beautiful,” she whispered, as if afraid that the sound of her voice would shatter the delicate arrangement.

  “As are you, my Bahdria,” he said, fixing the feathers in her dark hair. “Come, lie down, before you fly away in this storm, my beautiful bird.” They lay down and held each other as gale-force winds threatened to send the tent sailing into the desert night.

  “Best. Christmas Eve. Ever!” Jean-Marc enthused.

  “You know, Christmas Eve isn’t over yet. I still have one more present for you.” Sharon giggled, unable to hide the joy in her voice.

  Jean-Marc wrapped his arms protectively around her. “You’ve already given me so much. I only want your love, everything else is a bonus.”

  “I know, but I think you’ll really like this gift,” she said.

  “What is it?”

  “You’re squeezing it.” She moved Jean-Marc’s hands over her belly.

  “Are you sure?” he whispered.

  She nodded. “I’m so sorry. Because of my stubbornness, demanding you help with the well, your child might never have known you.”

  “Shh . . .” Jean-Marc whispered.

  “I can’t wait to tell your baby how you saved Tahoor,” she said, choking back tears.

  “Our baby, chérie. Merry Christmas.”

  “Merry Christmas sweetheart,” Sharon replied, snuggling deeper into Jean-Marc’s embrace. She closed her eyes and contemplated the future.

  JT Therrien

  I’m a Canadian who writes fiction in a variety of genres: commercial; YA; inspirational; art-themed; paranormal; contemporary romances; and timeless love stories. I ply my craft in novella and novel-length works.

  I also work as a freelance writer and editor, and I give one-on-one computer lessons.

  For fun I read (a lot - I like to average 50+ novels per year), I cycle (a lot - almost 3200 km in 2012), and I write . . . yeah . . . a lot! Some of my favorite authors include Douglas Coupland, Chris Bohjalian, Margaret Atwood, John Irving, Ellen Hopkins, William Styron, William Gibson, Neil Stephenson, DBC Pierre, Anita Shreve.

  In the summer, besides cycling on the Greater Niagara Circle Route, I follow (online) the Giro D’Italia, the Tour de France, and the Vuelta a Espana bike races. My favorite cyclists include Ryder (weight-of-the-nation) Hesjedal, Mark Cavendish, Frank and Andy Schleck. I also follow NFL and NCAA football. I’m sorry CFL, I don’t enjoy your kooky three-down rules.

  I somehow squeeze all these interests into my busy life and still manage to be a terrific husband and father (my words, not theirs).

  I invite you to follow me on my blog, Twitter and to also “Like” me on Facebook.

  https://twitter.com/jttherrien

  https://www.facebook.com/JTTherrienAuthor1

  https://jttherrien.blogspot.ca

  https://sites.google.com/site/jttherrienauthor

  Forthcoming:

  Sprainter, a dystopian, art-themed, inspirational YA novella, by Astraea Press, March 2013

  Complexities, an art-themed novel, by Turquoise Morning Press, September 2013