The Source
© 2018 Bonnie K. Wellensiek
The grotto was deep — so deep Olivia could barely see the glint of silver that was the pool at the bottom. That natural spring, known simply as the Source.
She hesitated and looked over her shoulder. Nearby she could see the white towers of the House of the Spring rising into the early morning sky. Beyond, the sounds of the awakening city called her back from that inescapable climb she was contemplating.
There were so many stalls in the market, offering so many ways to quench the thirst that gnawed at her. Surely they couldn’t all be worthless. Oh, certainly, some of the beverages were weird and repugnant things she wanted no part of. But she’d tasted many with her own lips that were sweet, and cool, and full of flavor. Surely one of them would finally banish forever the horrible dryness that always returned to her. Even more likely, some mixture of several would be the key. Surely it was foolish to consider scrambling down into this mysterious grotto, where she would probably be trapped forever, just to draw from that spring with her own hands.
Then the words came again. They were only words in her mind, yet, somehow, in a voice that was different from her own.
Drink from the Source, Oli.
She stared at that little silver glimmer, just visible past steep rocky walls, and bit her lip. The grotto was shaped like a huge almost perfectly cylindrical well, as broad as a city square and plunging so deep into the ground that the highest spire of the massive House of the Spring could have fit down inside it without quite reaching the surface. And all the way down she could see nothing but the dark, nearly vertical walls of stone. Oli knew that over the years many had tried lowering a torch into the grotto to illuminate its depths. But such attempts had always met with failure as the torch invariably sputtered and went out before revealing anything but a few yards of rocky wall. How could she think of climbing into such an unknowable depth?
There were other ways to get the Water from the Source, she told herself.
More reasonable ways.
Ways that did not involve committing her entire self.
After all, this thriving city was built up around this very grotto and its Water. The majestic House of the Spring had been built in honor of the pure Water. And the Waterbearers who meditated there offered spring Water by the bottle to any wanted it. It was drawn up by buckets along a rather complicated system of rods and pulleys that had been erected above the mouth of the grotto many years ago, so the Water could be obtained without risk of the insane and reputedly deadly climb to the bottom. Granted, a few of the Waterbearers in the House of the Spring claimed they made the climb daily and drew the Water by hand, bringing it up in their little clay bottles. But the truth of their claims was openly challenged, even by other Waterbearers. And, despite the apparent humility and kindness of many who made such claims, they were generally regarded as arrogant and exclusivist. Olivia had always tended to agree.
Yet here she was, staring down into that very depth, her heart pounding.
Drink from the Source.
Weren’t many of the drinks in the marketplace — the cordials, the effervescent drinks, the teas — made from Waters of the Source, with other good things mixed in? And besides that, there were several prominent men in the city who had dug their own wells, with convenient pumps, claiming that those drew upon the same great underground stream that fed the Source. Indeed, she had often heard (and even repeated) the saying that “All waters come from the same Stream.”
On the other hand, there were the Words.
Graven in the stone all around the circular rim of the grotto, the Words were so ancient that no one could say when, or by what hand, they had been carved. Some were so worn by time and impacted with dust that it was difficult to make them out. Some were nice stories that were entertaining but seemed to have little bearing on life in the city now. But among them all, in large, plain letters cut deep into the stone were the words, “Drink only from the Source.” They were repeated again and again among all the other writings. Those people who claimed to have been down to the Source at the bottom called them the “Words of the Architect.” The vendors in the marketplace said they had just been put there by some long-dead merchant who wanted to create a captive market for his product.
Olivia traced the words with her fingers, and pondered.
She remembered the cordial she had drunk that very morning. Bought the day before in the marketplace, it was cool and refreshing, flavored with the juice of ripe lunaberries. Her mother had given her that type of cordial when she was a child and she had always liked its taste. She might even say it was her favorite drink. Yes, it had thoroughly refreshed her. Oli had been kneeling at the very edge of the grotto, and she sat back now, feeling a shiver of relief wash over her.
All this thought of climbing down was insane, and the insanity was passing. Again. For she had knelt here before with such ideas and had always managed to pull herself back before she did anything crazy.
There were other drinks that would do as well. In fact, she had a little of the cordial left at home and she would go there now and finish it.
Olivia.
Why would she suddenly think her own name so forcefully?
But it wasn’t her voice.
And, as she acknowledged that fact, she reluctantly allowed her mind to notice what her tongue could not deny.
The grit.
The feeling everyone was familiar with, though some refused to speak of it. It was still faint, but it was there, despite the cordial. And she knew that soon it would grow more noticeable. Soon, Oli knew, it would feel like fine sand, sticking to the roof of her mouth, her tongue, clinging to the back of her teeth, crawling down her throat until she nearly gagged. A little more cordial would drive it away. Yes, a little more cordial.
No.
In truth, the cordial would only coat it, make it less apparent. For a time, it would make the grit taste less foul. But it would never wash it away.
Drink from the Source, Olivia. Come. Now.
The grit — or maybe just the thought of it — made her feel nauseous.
"I can’t stand it any more!" she thought, and this time the voice of her thoughts was her own.
Tears sprang to Olivia’s eyes and she crawled back to the edge. Trembling, she lowered one foot over the side to a narrow, rocky shelf below.
If I fall, at least I won’t be thirsty anymore, she thought.
As she inched the rest of her body over the rim, she heard the voice one last time.
Come and drink, Oli. Drink from the Source.
At first she craned her neck and looked intently over her shoulder to gauge each move before she made it. But as she made her way deeper and the shadows grew more profound she could only feel with her foot for the most stable surface, then let herself down, hoping it wouldn’t give way. Some of the rocks were jagged, and she drew her hand back now and then with a little gasp of pain.
Strangely, though, having once set out, she gave no thought to turning back, even while she could. Perhaps it was the growing thirst, the foul-tasting grit that was ever more noticeable in her mouth.
Why, she wondered bitterly, were people made with such a defect — one that even the most brilliant healers had been unable to eliminate? Hunger was not so unpleasant, if satisfied with a meal in some reasonable time. And hard work might make the limbs ache for a while, but it would ultimately yield a stronger body, and sleep was a pleasant remedy. But this sickening, debilitating thirst! More than the absence of moisture, it was the presence of the grit. Everyone’s body produced it naturally, and no one could wash it way. She had known those who claimed great cures through this tea, or that herb, or even a certain ritual way of brushing the teeth. But even those gurus, she had noticed, moved their tongues around uncomfortably in the familiar chewing motion when they thought no one was watching.
Suddenly all ponderings were wiped from her mind as her foot slipped and her body dropped, hands losing their grip. Oli’s heart leapt into her throat, but just as suddenly her foot came to rest on something solid only a few inches down. She squinted in the dim light and saw that she was standing on a narrow pathway that wound along the inside of the rocky grotto wall. Heart still pounding, she sighed and began to follow the thin trail.
After some minutes of easier progress, the pathway narrowed until it disappeared into the rocky wall, and her difficult descent began again.
Five more times she slipped and expected to be dashed to pieces. But each time her foot landed at just the right place, and she continued. She found two more trails that eased her progress for a time before disappearing like the first.
Olivia knew — though she couldn’t say just when it had happened — that she had long since passed the point where it would have been possible to retrace her climb; she could not turn back now even if she wanted to. But the thought gave her an odd feeling of peace. She had made her choice when she climbed over the edge, and the struggle of decision — the hardest part, in some ways — was behind her. There was nothing left but to keep climbing down.
And perhaps, at the end, to drink.
One thought, however, harassed her with increasing force: the memory of so many different and delicious drinks that she would never taste again. Even if she found a way out of here, if she chose to take those Words carved in the stone at their plain meaning, she would have to drink only from the Source. Those cordials and teas, those hot and cold drinks of every sort, would be lost to her forever. Their distinctive flavors now played through her memory, competing in her mind with the growing taste of the grit.
“Of course,” Oli reminded herself under her breath, “that’s probably the least of my worries. If what most people say is true, I’ll be stuck down here forever.”
She could almost hear the women talking in the square. “Did you hear what Oli did? Went and climbed down to the Source, that’s what! Oh yes, they’re sure … looked though a spyglass and saw her body down there on the rocks!” Her friend, Cimona, would shake her head sadly. “She never seemed like that type,” she would say. “Always seemed so sensible.” Then she would probably add, “But if it’s what Oli thought was best for her, I wish her peace. Each one must choose her own cup to drink.”
Olivia tried to laugh at the imagined conversation, but her throat was already too dry.
And where was the voice now — she wondered, as she stretched her arm, groped for a handhold, and shifted her weight onto it — the voice that had been calling her in the recesses of her mind for so long now. It had fallen silent since she’d begun her climb. Yet, she didn’t feel exactly alone, either.
Oli picked her way along another narrow path for a time and pondered the forces that had brought her here. Was it the voice? Or the bread merchant? Both of them working together, she supposed.
She pictured the old bread merchant, probably just opening his stall in the marketplace now, and wondered what he would think if he knew what she was doing at this moment.
Oli had bought from his stall every morning for months before she realized what it was that seemed so different — and so pleasant — about him. At last it had occurred to her. She never saw him spitting in vain, or wiping at his lips with the back of his hand the way she, and everyone else she knew, did from time to time. She never saw his jaw moving, chewing slowly at the grit. And she never saw him drink from anything but the little earthenware vessel that hung on a cord from his belt.
One morning, she had gotten up the courage to ask him what was in the bottle.
“Water from the Source,” said the bread seller, smiling. “Would you like some?”
“How much?” Olivia had asked.
“Oh, no, not a cent.” He had held out the clay bottle to Oli as he spoke. “Have all you like. It will refresh you. Though of course it won’t slake your thirst for good. Not from my bottle.”
Oli had laughed at that. “Nothing does, that I’ve found so far. But I keep looking.”
She had taken a drink then and found it cool and very refreshing, though not as sweet or as tangy as many other drinks she knew.
“Oh, the Water from the Source will do it, no mistake,” said the grizzle-headed man, smiling as he accepted the little bottle she handed back to him. “But only when you draw it at the Source with your own hands.”
Oli remembered how she had felt her skin prickle at those words, for she had already been hearing the voice.
But she had only smiled and replied, “I don’t think the Waterbearers in the House of the Spring would like it much if I tried that. They’re pretty particular about who works those ropes and pulleys.”
But the bread merchant shook his head.
“No, no, not that way. No ropes and pulleys and all that nonsense. You must go there yourself. Dip your hands right into the Water and drink. Once you drink from the Source … well, then you’ll know what it is to have your thirst really quenched!”
Olivia blinked at the implications.
But she recovered quickly and grinned. “Since you’re saying you drew the Water in your jug by hand, then surely it would do the trick just as well. And you must be more nimble than I am, if you’ve been down there and back. So I’d better buy from you and save myself a fall.”
The old man returned her smile, but shook his head.
“Water drawn by another will never do. Each one must draw from the Source for himself … or herself. I can share the Water in my bottle with any who wish to taste, but until they have gone down to the Source themselves, it will be for them — for you — nothing more than a pleasant drink. But go to the Source yourself, and you will thirst no more. Don’t worry about falling. You must only be willing to make the climb.”
That conversation had shaken Oli so much that she had made that day’s supply of bread stretch for several days in order to avoid talking with the merchant again. She had even considered getting her bread elsewhere, though his was of very good quality. Eventually, though, she had gone back, and they had spoken again many times.
And the voice had continued to call, as well.
Now it had brought her to this.
She had been inching along a rapidly narrowing pathway as she mulled these things over when, without warning, the path gave way beneath her feet. Oli gasped and reached out desperately with her hands, but they found only smooth stone, and this time there was nothing beneath her feet to catch her. She was sliding feet-first down a steep slope, unable to stop or even slow her progress.
But where she expected to feel the pummeling and tearing of rock against her flesh, there was something soft instead. It was as if the slope were made of soft earth covered in moss. She clenched her eyes shut against the rain of soil that powdered her face.
It seemed as though she fell forever, but it was probably only a few seconds. As abruptly as it had begun, her decent began to slow and finally her feet hit solid ground at the bottom. She tried to catch her balance, but overcorrected, lurched, and fell on her face. Her heart pounding in her ears sounded like little canons echoing off the walls of the grotto.
Oli lay quite still for a moment, her eyes still shut. Then she pushed herself gingerly to hands and knees and opened her eyes to see if she could make out anything around her.
She drew in her breath in wonder.
The grotto was so deep and so dark that the bottom should have been shrouded in almost total darkness. But it was not. All around her, the floor of the grotto was illumined by a silver light, like moonlight reflected off the surface of a lake at evening. And indeed that seemed to be something of the case, for about fifty paces ahead of her the Source sparkled, throwing off rays of pure, cool luminescence. Here at this depth its surface should have been quite still, but it rippled slightly, perhaps from the current of the Stream that fed it.
Moreover, the breath that Olivia drew held nothing of the dank mustiness one might expect at the bottom of a deep, stone grotto. Instead, it was sweet with the fragrance of a flowering meadow after rain. A carpet of thick, short, feather-soft grass covered the broad floor of the grotto all around the Source and the walls were hung with what looked almost like cultivated vines along with tufts of moss and wildflowers of every kind, their colors shimmering in the silver light. She craned her neck and looked up, but the sky was only a disk of blue far above.
“How can it be so bright?” Olivia whispered. “And why couldn’t I see this from the rim?”
Then she ceased all wondering as her eyes fixed on the Water of the Source. She got to her feet and walked without hesitation to its edge, aware once more of the intolerable grit, her lips nearly bleeding with dryness. As Oli knelt at the edge of the broad pool, some trick of the rising sun far above must have affected the light in the grotto, and for a moment the surface of the Water blazed ruby red as blood. Then, in another instant, it was pure clean Water once more.
“Oh, please!” she said aloud through parched lips, “let this truly quench my thirst!”
Leaning over the Source, Oli dipped her cupped hands into the Water, bringing them up to her mouth for a deep, cold drink.
She held the Water in her mouth for a moment, savoring the cleansing freshness, then swallowed.
And her eyes flew open wide in alarm. She began to gag.
Olivia turned from the Water, still on her knees, and braced her hands helplessly against the soft grass, her body retching uncontrollably. Her mouth gaped open, and she watched in horror as dark, clumpy masses of grit spilled out onto the ground in front of hern— more grit than she could ever have imagined was there, even at her most miserable moments.
When at last she had some measure of control, she began to spit, trying frantically to aid the process. More and more grit came out.
Finally Oli sat back, shaking and weak, on the soft grotto floor. She stared at the putrid mound in front of her, and the sight almost her made sick again. She had always hated the grit, but had never imagined it was so hideous, or went so deep. Yet, for the first time in her life, she felt that she was truly rid of it.
She ran her tongue around the inside of her mouth and felt a wonderful cleanness. Her teeth felt smooth, her palate soft and sensitive, her throat open to breathe the fragrant air of the grotto freely.
But she also felt she had polluted this pure and holy place. Without really knowing why, Oli reached out, dipped a handful of Water from the Source, and poured it over the horrid pile of muck.
In amazement, she watched as the whole dark, fetid mass turned powder white, then dissolved into absolute nothingness. Tentatively at first, then with more confidence, Oli touched the ground where it had been, but there was no trace of it left, only soft, green grass.
Sighing then, she turned back to the Source, knelt, and drank again … and again and again. And now the Water went down pure, fresh and wholesome to the very core of her being. Oli closed her eyes in contentment as she swallowed. She no longer cared whether she could ever leave the grotto or not. She felt she would be content to stay here and drink from the Source for the rest of her days.
Drink only from the Source, Olivia.
The Voice, but subtly changed. It was no longer a tone of urging but one of gentle reminder.
Carry the Water with you. Drink nothing else.
Oli felt something brush against her hip and looked down. There, dangling on a slender cord looped around her sash was a small pottery jug.
“Yes,” she said aloud, in answer to the Voice.
She dipped the jug into the Source and filled it with Water. As she lifted it and put the stopper in place, she raised her eyes, and the sight that greeted her took her breath away.
All around her, the light was changing from silver to warm, sparkling gold. It shimmered like the morning sun on every leaf and petal in the grotto and radiated like fine mist from the surface of the Spring. The colors of the wildflowers blazed to life.
Slowly Oli rose to her feet and turned in a circle, drinking in the light with her eyes. Then she saw something that had not been there before.
“Oh!” she breathed.
Circling upward around the circumference of the grotto a broad and easy stairway came sparkling into view, looking for all the world as though it were made of light itself.
Oli wasn’t sure how long she stayed near the Source basking in the golden light, and drinking from time to time. At last, she sensed it was time to return home.
It must have been later in the morning when she finally began to ascend the stairs for she began to pass others making their way downward the same way, all with the small earthenware jugs at their sides. Some wore the uniform of Waterbearers, many more were in regular clothes. Most of them nodded at her and smiled in greeting as they made their way quietly toward the Source. She passed men and women from all walks of life — mothers with young children, old men teetering on canes, even those with broken bodies. But all seemed able to navigate the ethereal stairs with equal ease.
In fact, the stairs proved even shorter and easier than they had appeared when she first saw them. It seemed like only a few paces before she found herself stepping out onto the rim of the grotto. And there, Olivia had another surprise.
The golden light that had illumined the grotto appeared only as a distant glow when she looked back down from this distance. But the writings graven in the stone all about the rim of the grotto blazed with the same golden radiance. Even the most hard-to-decipher words were now all but plain, and most of the words shown with unmistakable clarity, as though lit from within.
Oli paused again for a few moments, walking about the rim and reading the Words. Then she looked toward the city, already busy with the morning’s business. It looked just the same as it always had. Her hand moved to finger the little clay bottle at her belt. And from her supple throat and newly moistened lips, a melody began to rise.
Singing softly, Oli went to meet her old familiar, utterly different, life.
*****
Six weeks had passed since Oli’s first visit to the grotto, and she had returned every day since, except for the day of her accident, three weeks ago. But even her crutch had not hindered visits since then. Oddly, in fact, the steps seemed even easier — as though they had accommodated themselves to her condition.
Now she made her way carefully through the great marketplace, her friend Cimona walking beside her slowly, so as to allow Olivia to keep up. Cimona helped by carrying the small package of cloth and thread Oli had bought at a nearby booth.
Her friend paused as Oli negotiated her way around a rough patch of ground, then continued their conversation.
“Still, you have to admit,” said Cimona, nodding with a good-natured grin toward Olivia’s bandaged ankle, “your new devotion to drinking only Spring Water didn’t protect you from a sprained ankle.”
Oli laughed.
“No, of course not. Having your thirst quenched from the Source doesn’t exempt a person from getting knocked down in the street by a runaway horse. But what it has done for me is to make me stronger, more able to recover from the injury. I think this would have laid me flat if it had happened before I went there. Oh, Cim, I wish you’d go. It doesn’t solve all your problems. But it solves the only one that really matters. And when you don’t have that awful thirst and the grit to cope with, it changes everything.”
“But I already believe in Water from the Source, Oli. I drink it all the time from the House of the Spring. I’ve drunk it since I was young. I just think — at least for me — I need to stay open to other drinks, too. I mean, by turning down everything else, you never know when you might miss something really wonderful.”
“Isn’t the whole point of drinking to quench thirst, though?” said Oli. “To wash away the grit? So when you’ve found the one drink that really does it, why keep on drinking the others?”
The friends had always spoken openly and enjoyed each other’s company. Since Olivia’s surprising news of her trip to the Source, their conversations had been livelier than ever.
“But how do you know drinking from the Source is the one and only thing that will do it,” countered Cimona. “Maybe it’s only one of many.”
“The Words, Cim. They say it plainly.”
“Plainly? Some of the Words you can hardly read. And they might mean different things to different people. Sure, they talk about the Spring Water, but there could be different interpretations about how to get it.”
“Not all the words are hard to make out,” said Oli. “Drink only from the Source is repeated again and again. 'Only,' Cim. What else can that mean? And it’s carved so deep that nothing could obscure it. You just have to believe it…”
“Oli, you know I have great respect for the Words. Don’t you remember?” Cimona reached inside her collar and pulled out a silver chain that hung around her neck. At the end was an ornate little capsule. She opened it and removed a tiny scroll. “I wear this Word Box everywhere I go, with my favorite lines from the grotto writings copied down by a Waterbearer.”
Oli nodded. “And it’s because I know you care about the Words that I’m challenging you to go farther … to act on what they say. Carrying them with you is fine. But doing them is better. And as for the Words that are hard to read, they get clearer after—”
“After you climb down and drink,” said Cimona nodding. “I know, that’s what you’ve said. But that crazy climb is a pretty terrifying idea. I don’t know why you have to commit yourself to such a one-way trip.”
Oli smiled, remembering her pounding heart and the certainty that she was going to wind up broken and bloody on the floor of the grotto. She nodded slowly.
“It is a terrifying idea,” she said. “On that we agree. But it requires the commitment because the Water from the Source is too valuable for a casual drink.”
Cimona glanced at her sideways. “I thought you said it was free.”
Oli nodded. “It is. But you must be willing to go get it. And once you go there, you can go in and out whenever you please.”
“So why don’t you explain how that all works?"
Olivia shook her head, her gaze suddenly distant. “Because there just aren’t words, Cim. Not words that would make any sense until you’ve seen it for yourself. Please … just go, and you’ll see.”
“I’ve seen it lots of times, Oli. I know it’s beautiful — dark and mysterious, with that little sparkly pool down there. I’ve even looked at it through one of those spyglasses they let you use at the House of the Spring.”
“But you haven’t seen it, Cim. Not like it really is. Even with the spyglass you’re still standing up on the surface — on the outside looking in. You have to climb right down in to really see. And really taste. You can never experience what it truly is until you go there yourself.”
Then she turned to her friend. “We have a little time right now, Cim. Why not at least come to the rim and we can look at the writings together?”
Cimona shrugged. “Sure, I’d like that. If you can handle the walk.”
“You bet I can!” said Oli.
They were near the center of the great marketplace that sprawled out over a huge portion of the city; the two friends turned eastward now, and began making their way through the crowded pathways toward the Source. But they had gone only a few paces before their way was blocked by a tall, brown-eyed man dressed in the robes of an academic.
“Learn the secrets of the Words!” he called out, loud enough to be heard not only by Cimona and Olivia, whom he was addressing, but by everyone in the general vicinity. “My years of careful research are all here for you to read.”
He held up a thin volume bound in cloth, stamped with exotic gilded lettering.
“It’s all in here,” he repeated, opening the book and holding it out toward the women. “Haven’t you ever wondered who carved those Words by the rim of the grotto? Well this explains the various primitive tribes who originally carved them. But that’s not all!” He leaned closer and lowered his voice (while somehow managing to remain audible to anyone within twenty paces). “It reveals how the original Words have been altered. That’s right. Even sanded down and re-carved completely in places! And you know who did that? It’s right here.” He tapped the page with his finger.
Clearly intrigued, Cimona leaned closer to read the words, but the merchant abruptly snapped the volume shut.
“Too much to read standing up!” he said cheerfully. “But you can take it home and unearth all the secrets for yourself.” He gestured toward his nearby stall where stacks of the same book were piled high.
“That could be interesting,” said Cimona, turning to Oli. “Especially since we were just going over to have a look at the Words.”
“Later, if you really want to, Cim,” said Oli, tugging gently at her sleeve. “Let’s just go look at the Words themselves now, while we have the time.”
Cimona glanced back over her shoulder at the stall, as she followed Olivia, who was moving away as quickly as she could on her crutch.
“I’ve heard him before, Cim,” said Oli when her friend came up beside her. “His book is a waste of money.”
“How do you know if you haven’t read it?”
“Because of what he just said. He claims the Words were carved by a lot of ancient tribes. Not by the Architect. After I heard him say that the other day I asked my friend the bread merchant about it. And he pointed out something I’d never noticed before. The Words look different at first…I mean, some are in large letters, some small, some fancier than others. But if you get down and look closely at them the chisel marks are all exactly the same kind. If was done by a lot of different carvers the tooling would be different. But it isn’t. It all matches.”
“Hmmm,” said Cimona. “I’ll have to look at that when we get there.”
“That’s what I like about you, Cim,” said Oli, throwing her a smile. “You’re willing to dig into things and consider them. Here’s something else to consider—and another reason I say that guy’s a phony. I’ve been spending a lot of time reading the Words the last few weeks, and I noticed this one for myself. He claims some of the Words have been altered. But the rim where they’re carved it absolutely smooth. If someone had sanded out some of the Words and carved new ones, you’d be able to tell. But there’s no trace of alteration.”
Cimona raised her eyebrows. “You have been spending a lot of time there haven’t you?”
“Every chance I get,” said Oli. “And now that I’m not constantly chasing around trying to find something new to drink, it frees up some time.”
Cimona shook her head. “That’s just too restrictive for me. There are too many good things to drink. I can’t imagine passing them all up and sticking to nothing but plain spring Water. Besides, if the Water from the Source really does get rid of the grit, what’s the harm in drinking the other things, too, just because they taste good?”
“The Words explain that,” said Oli, her voice quick with excitement. “In fact, I just discovered that part the other day. The short answer is that the Words say not to. You know, ‘Drink only from the Source.’ That’s enough reason. But the Words explain why, too. It’s because the other drinks are the cause of the grit in the first place. They’re poison, Cim!”
The other woman shot Olivia a skeptical glance.
“Oh, come on. Poison? So why haven’t we all keeled over dead by now? You drank all sorts of things for years, and you didn’t die.”
“It’s not the instant death kind of poison,” said Oli. “Although you do hear of people choking to death on bad cases of the grit all the time. But it’s the slow kind. The Words say the Architect designed our bodies to take Water from the Source; any other drink is like a…” Oli searched for the right word. “…a contaminant. A foreign substance we weren’t designed for. So when the Demolisher introduced other drinks and got our ancestors to try them, it altered their anatomy. Their bodies started to produce the grit. And they couldn’t stop as long as they kept drinking all those other things. They even passed the defect on to their children, and now we all have it from birth. It can only be fixed by drinking from the Source. And we have to stay away from all the other—”
Oli paused suddenly, and put her fingers to her mouth. Frowning, she plucked what looked like a large grain of sand from her lips, looked at it in disgust, and dusted it from her fingers.
“Excuse me,” she said. She removed the earthenware bottle from her belt, took a long drink, and sighed.
Cimona raised her eyebrows. “I thought you said drinking only from the Source got rid of the grit. So what was that all about?”
Oli blushed, but nodded calmly.
“The Words have quite a bit to say about that, actually. Like I was saying, the problem with the grit got passed down. It’s in our systems and our bodies keep producing it. They always will. And nothing can get rid of it. But when you draw from the Source yourself and drink, it washes it all out—all the grit that’s built up over your whole life. That’s the only thing that can. And, believe me,” she said with a grimace, “it’s not a pretty sight. But the feeling of being rid of it is indescribable!”
Cimona grinned. “You keep trying to describe it anyway…”
Oli laughed. Then she went on. “Now that it’s gone, though, I still have the ‘family trait.’ New grit will keep trying to form as long as I live. But it doesn’t stick; the Water from the Source washes it away as soon as it forms. It can’t accumulate, and I never have that suffocating thirst anymore. The Words say that over time—generally speaking anyway—the longer I drink only from the Source, the less it will form.” Blushing again, Oli added, “If I was lying about this, Cim, I wouldn’t have let you see that.”
Cimona laughed softly and squeezed Oli’s arm as they resumed their walk. “Well, now I really am getting thirsty,” she said.
“Here.” Oli handed her the clay jug. “Until you draw your own, that is,” she said with a wink.
But just as Cimona unstopped the bottle, a beautiful melody sounded from their right, and the women both turned. It came from an attractive booth where a young man sat strumming a dulcimer. Beside him a silver fountain bubbled with a golden liquid that sparkled and effervesced as it tumbled over the shining layers into a large basin surrounded by silver cups waiting to be filled. A soft scent of fresh fruit wafted from the fountain.
“Beautiful!” said Cimona, replacing the stopper in the little bottle without tasting it. “Now there’s a drink!”
She took a step toward the fountain, and turned back to look at Olivia. “Surely you can’t say that’s poison!”
But at the long and sober look her friend gave her, Cimona sighed.
“Oh, alright, Oli. I know what you’re thinking.” She shook her head and joined Olivia, who was already moving away from the booth. “But I’m going to remember where this booth is. I like the music too.” With that she unstopped Oli’s bottle again and took a long drink.
They moved on through the busy marketplace past stalls of produce and roasting meats and pungent spices, past potter’s stalls and craftsmen selling jewelry and tableware and clothing, and every kind of merchandise imaginable. And among them all, countless kinds of beverages were for sale, many of the booths offering free samples to the shoppers.
At one point, an old woman with wild eyes stepped suddenly from a narrow alley crying, “Rid of the grit, get rid of the grit! The only true and tested method! Elixir of baby’s teeth, and sulferflower. Drink it three times daily and vomit it up and the grit will go with it. Rid of the grit, I say! Rid of the grit!”
The friends exchanged glances and they both shuddered.
“Now there’s one drink you don’t have to convince me is poison,” said Cimona, grimacing.
“But one of the least dangerous, I’d guess.” said Oli.
“What in the world do you mean, Oli? Baby’s teeth, for heaven’s sake! That’s just evil!”
“Sure. But which poison is likely to harm more people…the foul smelling one marked with a skull and crossbones or the
sweet smelling one in a china cup?”
Cimona didn’t reply for Olivia had stopped at a booth to buy some buttons.
“Thanks,” she said, when Cimona took the little package and tucked it in with Oli’s other things. They walked on, and Cim stopped a few minutes later to buy some ripe plums. She offered one to her friend, who took it gratefully.
“Delicious,” said Oli, biting into the dark, juicy plum.
“So you can still eat whatever you want?” asked Cim.
Oli nodded, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
“The Architect made all foods to nourish our bodies. It’s just how we use them. I can eat this plum and be thankful for it. In fact I am. But if I squeezed all the juice out and drank it, then I’d have problems.”
“I don’t see how the same juice can harm you one way and not the other,” said Cimona. “How does that work, Oli?”
Oli shrugged. “You give me too much credit, Cim. I don’t understand all the workings behind everything. All I know is to read the Words and do what they say. I’m still figuring some of those out, too.”
At last they neared the edge of the great marketplace, and began to ascend the gentle rise toward the Source. The great House of the Spring rose nearby, its spires glistening in the sunlight. But even as they left the last of the booths behind, merchants pursued them, pushing small carts or carrying trays of goods supported by a strap around their shoulders. As they neared the Source it seemed that nearly all of the merchants were now hawking some kind of drink.
Oli was breathing hard from the effort of walking up the slope on her crutch, when a lovely girl of no more than fourteen fell into step beside her carrying a carved sandalwood tray set with tiny, white porcelain cups. Her hair hung in silky waves over her shoulders with little wisps floating about her face in the gentle breeze.
“I’m so sorry about your leg,” said the girl, her voice soft and musical, and filled with genuine sympathy. “Won’t you have some lunaberry cordial? They’re free samples…take more than one, if you like—you look so tired and thirsty.”
The cordial, deliciously red, glistened enticingly in the little cups as the girl walked.
“Isn’t that the cordial you always liked so well?” asked Cimona.
Oli nodded.
The young girl held out her tray toward Olivia, smiling.
Oli glanced at the little cups. Then she shook her head and, gripping her crutch, she trudged resolutely on, fumbling at her side with her free hand to loose the clay jug. When she had it free she pulled the stopper out with her teeth, then transferred it to her thumb and forefinger and raised the bottle to her lips. She paused only when her mouth filled with the cool Water. She swallowed slowly.
The girl offered her tray again, though with less certainty.
“Have some now? You can keep the cups by the way—aren’t they pretty?”
Olivia smiled and turned to the girl. “No, thank you.” She started on, then paused and turned back.
“Would you like a drink of spring Water?” Oli asked the girl, holding out her rough clay jug. “I drew it from the Source myself.”
The girl’s pretty brows drew down in a frown and she shook her head, turning away and hurrying back toward the marketplace.
“Thanks, Cim,” said Oli.
“For what?”
“I know you would have liked some, but you held back out of respect for me. I noticed.”
Cimona just gave her a smile, and the two continued their walk.
When they reached the broad plaza in front of the House of the Spring, the last of the drink vendors finally fell away, for only Waterbearers were permitted to offer drink in that area, and only Water from the Source. Several of them stood at plain wooden tables that bore stacks of clear glass bottles filled with Water.
“May we offer you refreshment?” one of them asked with a little bow as the friends passed.
“Thank you,” said Cimona accepting a bottle and returning a nod of respect.
“I already have some, but thank you sir,” replied Oli, nodding as well. “We’re going over to the grotto to study the Words of the Architect.”
“Good study, then,” said the Waterbearer. He seemed genuinely pleased. But Oli saw an older Waterbearer nearby glaring at the clay vessel hanging from her belt.
The friends continued across the plaza through the cool shade of the towering House of the Spring, and another short walk brought them at last to the rim of the grotto.
They walked around the rim for some time, reading the Words together and discussing them. Oli helped Cimona make out some of the fainter phrases that were difficult to read, for ever since Oli had drunk from the Source, the Words still glowed for her eyes with an inner light.
A few other people walked or sat about the rim as well, reading the Words or tracing them with their fingers. One woman was taking an impression of one of the phrases by laying a thin paper over the chiseled Words and rubbing over it with a pencil.
Now and then Oli saw a man or woman with a clay bottle like her own step lightly over the edge and disappear into the grotto, but the others seemed not to notice.
While they spoke, Oli noticed her friend clearing her throat more often, and sipping from the bottle of Water the Waterbearer had given her. As the afternoon wore on they sat down together at just about the same spot where Oli had made her own decision six weeks earlier.
They stared down into the depths of the grotto in companionable silence.
To Olivia it was a well of light. She could see the golden mist rising from the pool at the bottom, the wildflowers were a circus of color all around the green interior, and spiraling gently around the grotto walls the translucent golden stairs—the ones she climbed daily now—sparkled like spun light, beckoning her.
Oli knew that the stairs weren’t always so visible. She had discovered that the more hours that passed between her visits, the fainter the stairs appeared. The day after her accident, when she had missed a day altogether, the whole grotto had looked darker, and the steps were so hard to see that she had been tempted to think they were only a trick of light and shadow. But her friend the bread merchant had come with her that day, and when he stepped confidently over the edge, she had taken courage and followed, finding the steps solid and real beneath her crutch and her one good foot. And shorter than she remembered. Then, after one long, cool drink from the Source, the grotto had flared into luminescence again.
But Olivia knew that all of this was as invisible to Cimona, as it had been to her before her first drink. She could see her friend squinting as though into darkness as she leaned over the edge, craning her neck to catch any glimpse of what lay at the depth. She knew that her friend would not see the stairs until she had drunk. And if Oli tried to lead her in that way, Cimona would feel only jagged, crumbling rock beneath her feet.
Cimona sat back and sighed with a sad longing that caused Olivia to look sharply at her in surprise. Oli thought she knew the struggle her friend was fighting and the desperate thirst she felt, for such thirst had been her own not long ago.
“I could never do it, Oli,” said her friend, a note of resignation in her voice. “There are too many drinks to commit myself to only one. That’s just not who I am.”
Oli smiled warmly, as she laid her hand on Cimona’s shoulder.
“Me either, Cim,” she said.
Her friend looked at her, perplexed.
“It’s not who I was, either. Not till I had that drink. It changed me… made me able to do things I couldn’t before. It’s no use resolving to change before you’ve drunk. You have to go down there and let the Water work the change in you.”
She watched as Cimona got to her feet and peered into the grotto again. Pulling herself up on her crutch, Oli stood beside her, looking into the unspeakable beauty below. She could see her friend licking her lips uncomfortably, and Oli knew only too well the horrid taste of grit behind the gesture.
“Go on Cim,” she whispered. “I know how frightening it is, but the Water is so cold and sweet. You have to make the climb yourself, but I’ll meet you at the bottom. I’ll be right there waiting when you get there. I promise it will be all right. The Words promise it too.”
“You say it’s soft, if you fall?” Cimona asked. Oli’s heart beat wildly, filling with hope for her beloved friend.
She nodded. “I fell a good part of the way. It’s softer than you can imagine, once you land.”
Cimona sighed again, and Oli could hear the rasp of her breath over the grit in her throat.
“I’m just so sick of this thirst,” Cim whispered, taking a step closer to the rim.
And at that moment, a man’s voice, supple as satin, spoke from behind them.
“Are you thirsty?”
Both women startled and turned to see a tall blond man with broad shoulders and a face that was breathtakingly handsome. His clothes were entirely white with shining threads that might have been pure silver woven in.
“I know your thirst. But do the Words really say you have to climb down a cliff to drink from the Source?” he asked.
Oli felt a cold chill seize the back of her neck and her skin prickled all over.
But the man’s focus was entirely on her friend, as he looked intently into Cimona’s eyes.
“Don’t all Waters come from the same Stream?”
Oli drew close to Cimona. “No they don’t!” she whispered in her ear. “Don’t listen to him. He’s just another merchant.”
“Not so,” said the beautiful stranger. “I only care about your thirst.”
And the women both noticed for the first time that he held a crystal decanter in his hands. How they could have missed it Oli couldn’t imagine, for it was large and shone like diamonds. Indeed, the crystal facets must have been cut into perfect prisms, for rainbows of light reflected off of it in all directions. And inside was a liquid that was the purest looking substance Oli had ever seen. It made the Spring Water in the glass bottle Cimona held in her hand look somehow plain and dull by comparison.
“Cim, please, don’t listen to him,” Oli begged.
“You’ve never tasted anything so cold,” said the man, still ignoring Olivia.
“What is it?” asked Cimona.
“It is every good and delicious drink ever brewed…all blended together in perfect proportion. Whatever your thirst needs is in this bottle—even Water from the Source. It lacks nothing.”
“Except truth,” said Olivia. “Cimona, remember the Words—‘Drink only from the Source.’ We read them together. You touched the carvings with your finger. It means just what it says. If the Words are false, then all the Water is worthless. But if they’re true, this man is a liar. They can’t tell you two different things, and both be right.”
Cimona ran her tongue over parched lips and glanced over her shoulder at the inscription in the stone behind them.
But she turned back as the stranger spoke again. “Are you going to risk your life based on some voice—not even a voice, just random thoughts—running through your head?”
Oli caught her breath and looked at Cimona, startled by the stranger’s revelation. Could it be that her friend had been hearing the same Voice that had drawn Oli to the grotto? The kind and powerful Voice she heard daily now, each time she read the Words of the Architect?”
“Cim, those aren’t just random thoughts that tell you to drink from the Source. The Voice that’s been calling your name…it’s the Voice of the Architect! If He’s talking to you now, listen to Him instead.”
“My drink won’t cost you anything,” said the stranger. And he was holding the decanter out toward Olivia’s friend. “It’s yours for the taking. If you’re determined to make the climb, at least have a little of this first, to clear your head.”
Olivia took both of Cimona’s hands in hers before she could reach out to accept the decanter. Turning Cimona to face her, she looked into her eyes.
“Climb in now, Cim, before it’s too late. If this man really cared, he could leave the decanter here for you. But he knows that if you draw from the Source and drink, you won’t want it anymore.”
Cimona’s lips were so dry they showed little lines of blood in places. She looked longingly at the liquid in the crystal decanter. Then, almost reluctantly, she turned her head to gaze again into the deep grotto. Finally she looked back at Olivia and tears stood in her eyes.
Oli looked at her friend as tears streamed freely down her own face.
“Please Cim, go to the Source! Just taste, and see…”
