Fire in the Well
In Ireland, nestled among fields of endless green, there stood an isolated well.
Moss clung to its stones with hues of tortoise brown and conifer green, soft to the touch, like the earth had been cradling it for centuries. The rocks that made up the well had smoothed edges from hundreds of years withstanding the winds caresses, molding them to their perfect shape. Just a mile away, the cliffs dropped into the angry, cerulean blue ocean, a place where the horizon swallowed secrets whole.
Every day, the sun would rise and cast golden light over the tall grass that surrounded the well. And every evening, the birds would fly overhead toward their distant homes, leaving the stars to spill across the sky like diamonds. Outsiders passed through from time to time, but never close enough to see the well. The well hid itself, cloaked in solitude, wary of being seen… or studied.
But far away, villagers told tales.
Tales of the fire that lived inside the well.
They spoke of how, on nights of the full moon, you could hear a song.
A woman’s voice, low, haunting, and humming with sorrow and yearning.
They whispered that if you looked toward the cliffs at witching hour, you might catch a glimpse of a glow, bright, orange, flickering. But no one dared get too close. Because if the glow saw you, it would reach out… and pull you in.
At least, that’s what the tales said.
No one really knew the fire in the well.
But the truth?
The truth was that when the clock struck midnight, a single flame, no larger than a woman’s hand, would reach out from the well. Then another.
And slowly, a silhouette would rise.
A woman with bountiful hair made of flame, cascading down her back like a burning river. She would sit on the edge of the well, eyes tilted toward the stars, and sing. Softly. Longingly. She was cursed, trapped for eternity behind the damp stone walls, her flame flickering in the shallow water, just enough to keep her alive but never free.
Each night, she would crawl up the slick sides to taste the air, to see the night sky, to feel the wind dance with her fire. She could burn there, safely, wildly, gloriously, until dawn. But she could never compete with the sun.
When morning came, her legs would extinguish first. Then her body, until only her fingers clung to the rocks. She’d rest there in the wet dark, waiting.
Always waiting.
They called her a force, one to be feared.
She was too curious, too ambitious.
Her voice was too proud.
Her fearlessness?
Too much for men to conquer.
So they did what they always do.
They locked her away.
Banished her.
Tried to drown her fire in the place no one would look.
And now, she remains.
Barely surviving.
Fighting, always, to stay lit.
She sings not for attention, but in hopes someone might truly listen.
Someone who isn’t afraid to come close.
Who won’t flinch at her flame.
Who might set her free.
So the fire in the well waits…
balanced between water and flame,
between life and legend…
longing to run through the fields without burning them down.
But for now, she remains…
just the fire in the well.
For those who listen between the lines.
Elaine Degro
