the well of sighs

And one dawn, before she is born, he takes her to a high emerald hill. Scattered across the hilltop are wells of stone, white stones, grey stones, mossy stones. He leads her by the hand, stops to point to one, and says, This. This one is yours.

He motions her to lean in. She does, but sees only darkness.

Listen, he says.

Then she hears them. The sighs. A woman’s sighs. Breathy and full of sorrow.

I don’t understand, she says.

Listen, he repeats.

For a moment, there is only a black silence. Then come the sobs, the shrieks, the wails. She holds her ears against them all.

She is yours, he says simply, and you are hers.

I don’t understand, she says again.

He turns to her and searches her face for a long moment. When he is done, she knows, without knowing how she knows, what he means.

And her heart quakes. Falters.

No, she says in a panic, glancing around at the other wells. I want a different one.

She runs to the next well and leans in, straining. Silence. The next one. Silence. A third. More silence.

But these are quiet. These are still. I want one of these. Please. Please ….

He takes her trembling hand, leads her back to the first well.

You can’t hear them because they’re not for you.

As they stand gazing in, he tells her all the things that have fallen into that well. Dark things and jagged things and cold things. As he speaks she sees each one. Things that make her shiver and weep. Things that make her blood run cold.

He holds her close and says, Can’t you see? She needs you to love her. Can you try to love her?

She nods, face wet in her hands.

Come. It’s her time. She’s ready for you to be born.