Carrying Water (Part One)

He was going to be late, he just knew it. The waters only turn on for a short time at the crack of dawn, and his tardy pace will surely make this crack into a fissure, leaving no water at all for him. Darting out of the door between immense timbers, his feet hit the cobblestone street with an urgency so pure that it seems to be imbued, and he focuses on the direction he is headed as if it’s the only thing he knows. Despite the obscurity and isolation of his vocation, it is centrally located within the city, making the path out the front door perilous, a risk in and of itself.

Luckily, without water to carry, he is able to be much lighter on his feet, almost floating between steps as he weaves between passersby, making sure not to knock into any knees. Besides the length in the land between himself and his objective and its bustling busyness, the only other issue comes in the form of four-legged thieves, who will make attempts to abscond with his liquid even when he has none in hand, so he has to stay vigilant.

“Not so fast!” he calls, spinning to keep their dirty paws off of him.

With the greatest of ease, he dodges claw, tooth and tongue, then ducks down a nearby alley to make his route a bit quicker, and more importantly, to escape. In front of him are stacks of wooden crates with fishing nets draped across them, cats sitting on top, licking their paws. Luckily, dockside scents are known to stick, so beside the fact that their vantage point provides visibility into his stores, their attention is fully absorbed in grooming. While he passes beneath their perches, searching for the secret passage he saves for these situations, a ramp hidden from sight.

“Where is it again…?” he mutters, turning left and right, eyes wide open as he scans the perimeter until he gets a hit. “There we go!” he exclaims, spotting a breeze rustling the sheet of fabric which conceals the nook.

Running at full speed, he dives through the loose fabric and into the chute, sliding down headfirst, but with an issue: Rather than behaving as a doorway, the tarp has wrapped him up like a baby prepared for swaddling. Without resistance, he zips down the decline; Rolling, tumbling, twisting and turning, what is normally a straight shot towards the light at the end of the tunnel is transformed into a haunted house. He grabs at the shroud which constricts him, attempting to look beyond the veil to afford himself at least a moment, no matter how brief, to adjust for his landing.

With one last snatch, he has it. “Finally!” he triumphantly cheers, excited as he tugs the canvas.

He pulls, but just as he gets the hang of things, he reaches the bottom, unceremoniously rolling on the ground as the sheet unravels. After bouncing off the hard stone ground, he pops up and gets right back on task. Looking left, he sees a loose crowd of people, each of them with a bucket in hand and a smile on their faces as they return home from the spigot, which reorients him instantly, and he books it, moving as fast as his short legs can carry him. He is again faced with the task of dodging between boots and knees, but now, they all carry pails full of sloshing liquid. The swinging kettles provide a fresh obstacle, this much is true, but at least they’re being carried by men, women and children who don the full toothy grins of success rather than hanging their heads in defeat.

This gives him hope, for he knows that the moment their smiles reverse in orientation, his task becomes much more of an ordeal, a further trek, but one with guarantees. It is with this knowledge that he dashes down the well-trafficked route, moving around street merchants who sling their products at flimsy wooden stands while he slips by with the nimble foot of a fleeing rabbit. Passing tables covered in fresh produce, the finest procured meats, and something that he had never seen out in the open previously: a table covered with strange bells and mirrors, pendulums and pentacles. No matter, he scoots right by, sliding under the next station as he bounds down the street.

“Almost there…” he grunts, gritting down and feeling the flow beneath his feet.

The closer he gets, the louder the noise of the crowd surrounding him becomes, as well as the density, the dial slowly turning as he makes his way forward. It’s a perfect situation. Their lack of movement creates a relatively still forest in his path rather than one being blown away by violent winds, and he dashes through the trunks of impatience with expectation of that ease. Though there are occasional yelps between the high-strung and thirsty folks from his bumping and bustling, no one is the wiser.

“Hey! Watch where you’re swinging that thing!” one man orders his fellow citizen, the rage brewing within him at the length of the line shortening his fuse to a bull’s hair.

“Aye, you knocked into me first, pal,” responds the accused, “Let’s not make this into something it doesn’t need to be.”

What happens after, our central character does not know, because by the time the next thing is said, he is long gone, moving towards the front of the line while they keep their mouths busy with casual whines. His is closed, focused forward, his face expressionless and unaccommodating. There are no moments which he has in hand, they slip through his palms like a sieve, escaping his grasp at a steady, unforgiving pace. This is the way it is for him, smiling as his soles take perpendicular steps along the hardened stone walls when he has to make a quick move, dodging obstacles with balletic grace and poise while those who take notice rub their eyes, unsure of their being awake. As he approaches the final turn towards hydration, waves of sound pound his side, the noise of victorious cheering creating enough force to push.

Steadying his legs to keep himself from being knocked to the floor, he skids to the side before gripping the ground once more, resuming his forward course with fire in his soul. And then, he sees it, standing higher than the head of any man who surrounds the shining spigot of life, their eyes all turned towards this small city’s axis mundi, ready to accept what is delivered unto them. With outstretched arms and upturned gazes, their hands reach out, buckets held in their grasp as they try with all of their might to catch what they need.

“Perfect…” he grunts to himself, bearing down and making his way to the front of the line as fast as possible.

Every step he takes, the sounds of flowing liquid grow exponentially, combining with the roar of the rowdy crowd. It’s even more packed than the previous street, so he thought that it would surely be comparatively difficult, but it is anything but. The street is no more than sixteen feet across, with thirteen men squashed shoulder to shoulder between the brick walls holding up the homes and shops along the route, the thirsty masses roiling at a fine boil. It requires evolved tactics, which he knows how to use at an expert level.

“Hey, watch it, pal!” he shouts, mimicking the voice of one of his competitors.

An offended face turns toward the verbal lash, “Oy, what’s tha?” he responds, “Not got it all goin’ on up your staircase, is it then, buddy?”

“Hmm? I didn’t say anything to you?” the confused customer replies, “I don’t know what you’re on about!”

“Pipe down, both of ya! Got a headache and it’s killing me!” an old codger calls abruptly.

As things develop, our central figure cuts through like a knife through water, unable to hear the rest of the conflict he caused. The effect was clear, and to properly take advantage of the flame he stoked, he had to be quick, catching the wave of activity as it crests beneath him. He surfs his way betwixt malleable walls of grabbing hands and shifting stances, his light weight and cat-like feet allowing him to pass by with no further interruptions, but he knows he has to be quick. The sounds of torrential flow are beginning to die down just slightly, turning the dial on the nerves of those present proportionally. As he finally reaches the front of the line, he feels the pressure present itself in the form of physical confrontation, a rumble starting up amongst the thirsty.

“Back away!” the full figure barks, “You had your chance, should not have showed up late!”

Among the flailing appendages, four fists fly like darts in an oscillating rhythm, punctuated by offhands which swing buckets in overhanded arcs. Crashing into his skull, the dense weight of a sealed wooden pail floors one of the men in an instant, causing him to bow forward and stiffen as if he were the crescent moon before the tension releases, sending him careening back like a willow branch being let go after bending it back. The sickening thud of the hollow log is quickly followed by a second sound, a cranium crashing into wet stone tiles, blood spreading into the gushing refreshment which pours from above. As the crowd roars in reaction, our water-carrying hero springs off of a taut sheet, launching his body with intent, and nary a moment to spare as his hip knocks directly into the other fighter’s forehead. A violent fall follows the chopping thump of his axe of a backside, the result of the sturdy wooden bite taken out of the man’s temple.

The man who only moments ago felt himself to be victorious, deserving of praise, now stands stiff, made not more than a life-sized trophy of himself, whose incidental utility is made primary by his unforeseen assailant when our water-seeking champion uses the wound he just caused as a second spring, doubling his jump and boosting his aim to the perfect height. Looking down, he watches with his hands in the air as his marbleized martyr’s mind meets matter, mouth first, eating dirt after falling as a log while the iron-willed vessel overflows with what he set out to receive, a high-powered waterfall precipitating his capacity’s breach.

As the crowd cheers on the liquid encore they immediately get to collecting in a frenzied effort, splashing harvest around as if a deluge of dubloons is pelting their pockets with pretty plunder, the abundance evident around them foregoing their logic. Pleased with his collection, the hero of hydration freezes, sitting on his bottom and allowing the bounty to level out completely before he begins lowering his temperature.

His small, jewel-colored eyes dim for a moment, before they open up completely, “Done!” he calls as he stands up, his weight much greater than before.

Leaping from his perch atop the fountain of essence, he aims for the large stack of bags he spots below. His eyes closed with hope, he blasts through the merchandise without resistance, rice exploding into the air in the shape of a fresh fungus as he free-falls through the traveling trader's cart of neatly organized goods.

“My rice! What happened!” the shocked man shouts as he sees the small, barrel-chested being burst through his wares at terminal velocity.

As he hits the ground, he rolls out on his side, transferring the falling energy into a full speed sprint. Now that he has his haul of hardened hydration, hands grab at his handle, inhabitants mistaking reality for a deception being played by their own heavy eyes. They’ve never seen this kind of purpose-built vessel, that only answers to one, and cannot be lifted by any mere man off the street. Besides, what will they do with solid ice? Regardless, his eyes look forward, his focus more on feet than any thirsty fingers trying to gain purchase on the metal loop attached to his mind.

In his, he knows all that is in front of him now is an easy journey home. The ease he expects comes from the experience his master imbued within him, his steel trap of cognition containing all that is required and more for that which he is made to endure. Cruising through the different groups while they peruse fancy fruits, he knows that he is truly an outsider. It is no wonder that they have no understanding of his function, for they do not know who would have the knowledge of such creation. They’ve never been gifted with knowing his kind of people. The ones they know are aware of the importance of hydration, that much is sure, but they’re only standing waist deep, unaware of the true depths placed before them, or unwilling to allow themselves to experience depth.

He has now bent around the corner where the wind nearly knocked him down only minutes earlier, and he heads back the way he came. Passing the men who fell for his projected voice when he was here last, he sees that they remain empty-handed as he blazes under tables, legs, and Sun-blocking overhangs that keep his ice cool, uncaring of their predicament regardless of his having a hand in it. By his thinking, their situation is theirs to deal with, so regret isn’t found when it is searched for in his head, which is a great boon. It would be a shame for the water to require seven stages of separation since it's a necessary component in the day’s solution. What that is in itself, though, he is unsure.

He does realize, however, that he will not be able to take the same shortcut home that nullified the effect of his tardiness on the way to the fountain. It would be difficult to scramble back up the ramp, no matter his state, with its incline so sharp and surface so slick, so he must locate a second solution.

“I know I prepared for this…” he groggily mutters, his thoughts no longer free-flowing. His focus drags left, then slowly sways to the right, when his eye catches just what he needs to set things right, “How could I have forgotten! The bakery is closed!” he calls, relief breaking through with an exhausted breath’s escape.

Luckily, he has already conceived of one, as he knows both ways home, saving time his previous version lost in thought as he heads down the street, losing less without the cost of processing ad-hoc. This forward-thinking measure leads his percussively placed steps to pounding down an alley, where worn wooden planks lining the path cushion his pace.

Vanishing down the selected slipway, he makes progress faster than he expected, through methods he did not anticipate...

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART TWO...