#week 80

It had been just after sunset when her mother handed her a pail from beside the fireplace, “Run out to the well and fetch some water for the dishes, Cora.” The woman grinned mischievously as the girl’s tiny shoulders slumped.  “It is not fully dark yet.  If you hurry, you will be back inside before the sky turns.”

“But, ma,” she whined pitifully, “you know I don’t…”

“No arguments.  You must learn to control your fear.  Go, before your father comes back and takes pity on you.”

Cora huffed in defeat and turned for the exit.  Her heart thundered against her ribs as she pulled the wooden door wide and stared out into the darkening yard.  She took a deep breath and eased out onto the steps, unable to swallow the whimper that tore from her throat.  She hugged the pail tightly to her sternum, her little hands trembling and knuckles white from her grip on the handle.

She looked from side to side, then fixed her eyes on the well.  “P-p-papa said to focus on the t-task.  I j-just need to get the water and then I can go back inside.”  She forced her little feet to shuffle forward, then as she left the porch and they met the dirt, she ran for the well.  

Cold stone met her palms as she threw them forward to stop her momentum.  Cora stared at the blocks beneath her hands and let her breathing steady.  She had made it across the yard, now she had to fill the bucket.  “I do this all the time for Papa.  I can do it now.”  She let her eyes slide from the stone and follow the wood up to the crank that would pull the bucket from the water below.  It seemed so much higher in the fading light as if the growing darkness was lifting it out of reach.

She placed her pail on the ground and reached up, expecting the iron handle to dance away from her fingers, but the cold metal waited in its usual place. She spun the crank and let her weight pull it down as her father had taught her, then pushed, allowing the momentum to do the work.  It squeaked with the weight of the bucket at the end of the rope, and Cora concentrated on the familiar sound and the feeling of accomplishment as the wooden rim peaked over the stone lip of the well.

She set the crank carefully, then pulled the bucket over the side a little too quickly.  Water lapped over the side, and she gasped as the cold liquid splashed onto the front of her dress.  “Ugh!”  It was only a little, but her mother would tease her for it.  She filled her pail slowly, threw the empty bucket back over the side, and lifted her pail of water.  She groaned inwardly at the weight.  She wouldn’t be able to hurry across the yard this time.

She sighed as she turned back toward the house, nearly running into her father.  “Papa!”

The relief was apparent in her voice, and he chuckled, “Your mother is being cruel again, I see.”  He took the pail from her and ruffled her hair.  “You did well, though.  I’m very proud of you.”

She threw her arms around his waist and buried her face in his stomach.  “Thank you, Papa,” she mumbled.

A shrieking roar rent the air, and Cora’s body shuddered violently.  She had never heard anything so frightening and clawed at her father, searching for safety.  “What was that, Papa?”  She heard the pail hit the ground, and his strong arms snatched her up.  

He ran toward the house, “Dragons!”  She clung to him, her little body trembling.  She had never heard fear in her father’s voice before, never saw that look in his eyes.  It made her chest tighten all the more, and she buried her face in his shoulder.

A great whoosh and wail from above forced her eyes skyward.  A great funnel of flame lit the night, waves of heat slamming into her.  The hot, angry wind ripped at her hair and clothing and tore at her lungs.  Her father skidded and stumbled in an attempt to change the direction of his run.  He fell to the ground, pulling Cora tight against him to protect her from the fall.

Another whoosh from above and the man rolled and shielded his daughter as he screamed, “Lorna!  No, No!”  Cora felt him shudder around her, then he was gone.  She looked up to see him running toward their flaming home.  The fire burned bright and hot.  Red, yellow, and blue danced into the darkened sky as the silhouette of her father disappeared into the flames.

Cora couldn’t bring herself to say anything.  She couldn’t move.  She sat in the dirt, watching the fire leap higher into the sky.  She felt her skin pull tight around her face and arms as it chapped and blistered.  Her eyes stung, and her lips cracked as the heat dried and burned them.  The heat of the flames baking her skin was all she could feel—no fear of the night or the dark—as she waited hopelessly for her father to return.