I looked inside the well and then to Junia, and back again. “Don’t let go, Johnnie, we’re going to get you out. Hang on.” I tethered Junia to my waist and tried to crank up the rope holding the bucket, but the boy was too heavy or stuck. If I pulled any harder, I feared the line would snap or give away, sending him to a watery grave.
Mrs. Gillis moaned and began shrieking. Junia toe-hopped and tried to break free of my grip, almost pulling me down to the ground.
“Halt, halt.” I spun around, and Junia stopped pulling. Memories of Papa rescuing a stray pup from a well, how he’d pulled up the scared dog with a rope and his horse came to me. Daisy had lived a long life with us after that. “Mrs. Gillis, do you have another rope?”
She pressed a shaky fist to her mouth.
“A rope, Mrs. Gillis?”
She pointed toward the shed. “Yes.”
“If you go get it, ma’am, it will help.”
She ran off, stumbling twice, her twisted long, green skirts tripping her.
I rubbed Junia’s muzzle and spoke softly. “We got to get the young’un out, and I need you to do that, ol’ girl.”
The boy whimpered, and I bent over the well’s concrete lip and said, “I’m going to come down for you, Johnnie. You just hold on real tight.” Johnnie, straddling the bucket and holding on with all his might, stared up wild-eyed with fright. I took off my coat and gloves and threw them onto the grass, remembering Papa doing the very same.
Mrs. Gillis came running back with a long rope. I tied it to Junia’s saddle horn, Papa’s hands seeming to guide me, again speaking quiet to the beast, then I wrapped the rope around my chest and under my arms, securing it with a tight granny knot.
“Mrs. Gillis, Junia’s going to lower me into the well so I can get your son out. I need you to tell her when to pull forward and backward.” The woman was trembling now, and her tears came hot and fresh. She kept looking over her shoulder toward the path.
“Hurry. Johnnie can’t hold on much longer. My husband’ll be home any time now.”
“I’ll try, ma’am.”
“Get him out!”
“Mrs. Gillis, ma’am, can you do that for me, help the mule?” Keep me from crashing to the bottom, I thought, the words seeping out in my sweat. I placed her hand on the rope tethered to Junia’s saddle, and she stared over at the well, breathed out a warbled yes.
Then I pulled Junia toward me and slowly climbed atop the well, took a breath and lowered myself over the side. “Forward,” I said, as I inched my way down into the well. “Forward!”
Junia obeyed and allowed me to get closer and closer to the whimpering child. “Hang onto the rope and bucket, Johnnie. Forward, forward, Junia!” I commanded.
“Forward,” Mrs. Gillis parroted.
My hands grew sweaty and weakened, but I’d bound the rope real good to one of them, and it held. I prayed the mule would be able to get us out, prayed the rope would hold, prayed Johnnie could hang on a bit longer—and prayed Mrs. Gillis would get us through this.
It grew darker as I made my way down and my body blocked the sunlight, the mold and dampness tickling my nostrils, seeping through the fabric, wetting my perspiring flesh. Then my foot touched the bucket and I scrunched down closer until my legs were below the bucket. Getting within an arm’s length of the boy, I told him to grab my neck. The soaked boy latched on, nearly strangling me, and I coughed, scooped him up into the crook of my arm, choking, gripping him tight, trying to straighten us up so we’d have a clear passage out.
“Hold on, Johnnie. Back, back!” I called desperately from the bottom to Junia, my words echoing off concrete.
Mrs. Gillis sobbed out my calls to the mule, and I heard her curse the beast, and the muffled strikes and returned brays as she beat on her.