The Well

 THE WELL

It’s now my third or fourth hour in the well, and I'm resigned to my fate. It isn't unpleasant down here: cool, dark. Everything seems extraordinarily vivid, as if I'm seeing it through air which is clearer, more transparent, than the air up above: the glossy black wet stones and the opulent green moss, clumped in plump sumptuous cushions around the circular wall. I'm not hurt, not badly, I don't think. I just need someone to find me.

I've been watching a caterpillar on the floor of the well. It's the most extraordinarily virulent green colour. And fat. As long and as fat as my thumb. It undulates along a large pale leaf by my foot until it reaches the edge, where it begins to nibble. Then it ripples back across the same leaf and nibbles from the other side. Although there is no reason to this, it does it repeatedly: ripple and nibble, side to side, ripple and nibble. It becomes rather beguiling, hypnotic. Even if I could move my head, I'm not sure I could tear my eyes away from it.

My reverie is broken by a muted shrieking and odd skittering sound. Leaves and twigs land on my head, and at my feet a starling appears. Its pink legs and yellow beak jar my eyes amid the dark, muted green-brown palette of the well. I can see that the bird's injured: one wing is damaged, possibly broken. It struggles to its feet and inexpertly begins to move around. I wonder if there's anything I should - or could - do. Then the starling sees the caterpillar. Its beak darts forward, almost quicker than the eye, and with a fierce flash of green the caterpillar has gone.

END