Sergey Nedorub - The Virgin Well

Cover designer Tatiana Orlova

© Sergey Nedorub, 2021

© Tatiana Orlova, cover design, 2021

ISBN 978-5-0053-5111-1

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

A short story by Sergey Nedorub

«Whoa, Hokey!»

Pulling the reins, Kolovrat-the-old mumbled to his beard a lot of swearings in the name of horse’s mother, its canine sisters and mule’s granny, just before dray stopped. The crooked wheels creaked, arching habitually with upper spokes. Kolovrat slapped his cheek, killing a gnat, slipped from the dray to the slush, making splashes with his felt boots.

«Go screw your hoofs!» he yelled to Hokey, who turned her mournful snout to him. «I told you halt! The hell you go, there is no oats! You see that crap?!»

An uprooted tree laid across the broken track way, looked like it was pulled out by the bad weather.

Kolovrat-the-old waved his hands, spat out and pulled the sash. He stood for a while then.

«Damn you!» said he finally and began acting. Approaching the trunk covered with the bark chewed by the bugs, the old man grappled it and heaved with grunting.

«Ahh arse!» Kolovrat cried after the first crunch of his loin and dropped the tree. «You rot in hell, you waist of woods!»

Straightening his back he wrinkled at the clouded sky, which kept on grumbling moodily. Cursing everyone, the old man went away to look for a bypass.

The branches poured ladles of water every time he touched them. Forcing his way, the old man scolded the day. After that, suddenly he approached clearing in the woods he never saw before, and stared at the pit looking weird.

«What the hell?» Kolovrat wandered. He stepped closer, tossing heavy lumps of wet ground away with the felt boots. The pit was as wide as the yoke and as round as the scoop. It was filled to the brim with rainwater.

Narrowing his eyes, Kolovrat-the-old noticed some strange stones lying in the grass. They glimmered dimly with the red streams. The old man chewed his tongue and spat thickly at the stone. The spittle bounced away like a coin from a wall. The stones were red-hot.

Shifting his hat on the side, the old man scratched his unwashed head. Coming to the edge of the pit, he crouched and took a handful of water.

Adam’s apple moved up and down – the water flowed inside with fresh purity.

«That’s so good!» the old man quackled and drank more. He could not tell why he was itched to quench his thirst at rainy day and even without a hangover. But the water fit just right.

«Good, good,» he praised, shaking his head with pleasure. Then he thought of the axe in the dray. Rising to his feet, he plodded back.

«Shall build the well,» he boasted to Hokey holding the axe with calloused hands and touching the blade. «Shall do by myself. Hell to yokels, hell to all of them. Stones are so wondrous, will do good borders. And that log on the road, such a nice planks… every cloud has a silver lining. You see that branches? You are my little maredevil!»

* * *

A week later, Kolovrat’s dray stopped by the hut where his breed lived: the eldest daughter, Petunia, who has plumped up to wide doors since foretime, and a lot of grandchildren. The hut was built by Greefungus, bacchanalish son-in-law, who was always wearing an unpeeled shirt and made Petunia wash it only before works at the hayloft. Kolovrat had a son and daughter as well, and they lived at the other end of Forgetswille. A stalwart lad, Cyrith, with door-wide shoulders – and soft, silent Nitha. Old man adored them, so more he was happy because of two upcoming weddings of them both. Two pairs on young blood was about to get married, right after the ingathering, and Forgetswille buzzed waiting for the big feast. The village stored goods, made more hooch than usual, sorted livestock. The olders revised new huts. Wenches led by Malka, a Cyrith’s fiancée, gathered flowers with laughter, weaving garlands in despite of blossoms had never had a chance to reach their high day. Young Sweereed, betrothed to Nitha, kept working on hard at the hayloft under the guidance of Greefungus who kicked him out, every now and again, using the pitchfork to lock the gates from the inside, listening to joyful laughter of another slut. Boyka the blacksmith gave a pledge to roll his sleeves up and confront Cyrith in sparring in the day of feast, just to figure out who’s the strongest brave man of Forgetswille. The loser had to chop a whole larder of woods to the winner.

So the village was excited.

Kolovrat took a spring from the dray to the ground, filled his lungs with air and barked loudly, «Petunia! Come out my tulip!»

A minute after the door opened. Red-faced Petunia came out on the porch.

«What is there, father? My pies are about to broil.»

«Screw your cook you hussy. You do all the burnt cobs all the time. Cheekies home?»

«Tyesse at home, Lyenne at yard. Boys are blowing at bellows.»

«Let them blow. Get the girls and into the dray.»

«Why? Where?»

«Shall show you my stuff.»

«Some shitty cannel again?» Petunia asked in qualm, getting back to the hut.

Kolovrat heard his daughter calling girls and returned to his place, foretasting the show. After a while, two fair little hellions rolled down the porch.

«Grandpa!» They screamed, climbed the dray and hung on the old man’s neck. Kolovrat purred in favor.

Petunia piled herself in somehow.

«Where to?» she asked while her older daughter buried into the hay and younger one was pretending to pull a sister out.

«Not so far, there we go…» Kolovrat murmured holding the reins.

By and by, the dray arrived to the lawn. Old man stopped Hokey next to his «stuff».

«What you say, heh?» he asked dashingly.

Petunia left the dray, watching the well – low, waist-high even. It was decorated with unusual stones, glistening under the sun with orange firebolts.

«Dad, did you dig a well?» she asked while Tyesse and Lyenne took a delight run around the installation.

«Hell yes I did,» old man bragged. «A week of guts.»

He chose not to tell that the pit was ready afore and the stones just laid down here. Let the result look more solid. Let them talk whatever they dare.

Petunia came closer. The well was filled with water. Instantly she became covered with splashes when Lyenne jumped into the well. Petunia had no reason to worry – Lyenne stood at the bottom easily, her head stuck out.

«How are you going to get out?» peasant woman asked strictly.

Tyesse ran closer.

«Mom I’ll pull her out!» she promised and followed her sister.

With huge feeling of the pride, Kolovrat walked around the well.

«Why swim, we’re not fish,» he said. «Petunia, the water as bewitched as your tear. Have a drink.»

Kids lapped greedily. Petunia used her skirt to clean fat hands, lowered with groan and scooped up.

«Tasty,» she said.

Kolovrat used to giggle a little when Petunia trembled hard.

«What?» old man said.

«Something…» Petunia answered but not finished. Her hands reached her underbelly.

«Want to shit?» asked old man carefully. «Shrubs are over there.»

«No,» Petunia shook her head and ran quickly into the bushes.

Kolovrat scratches his head.

«Damn good water,» he said looking at the children raving in the well.

A loud scream from the bushes made him jump like a stung. Petunia rushed hither and thither.

«What are you doing?» Kolovrat tried to rein her up. «You saw some sylvan?»

Petunia held her hands between her legs. Looking at Kolovrat she yelled, «Mom, what a disaster!»

Then she fell on the ground unconscious.