Among Them

Between two bricks

Of the great well

A droplet dashes

To the ground.

A lost phoenix

And its flames swell

From the ashes

Without sound.

The Englishman quickly tore the inked page from his booklet and reduced it to a wad of paper, unworthy of his most pitiful work. A flat tweed cap tightly covered his head. With decisive swiftness, he threw it down the seemingly bottomless well in front of him. Catching one last glimmer of afternoon sunlight, the page vanished into the dark depths enclosed by the cylindrical wall of red bricks, agitating the rusty bucket hanging from its roof on its way.

Thousands of other young poets were soon bound to do the same, albeit with a cheerfulness the Englishman had lost a long time ago. They were all gathered in the gleaming, grassy meadow surrounding the well on the day of Imbolc to worship you, great Brigid. Little did they know, you were among them.

It was a tradition dating back to the most ancient of days. To commemorate the first day of spring, poets galore flocked towards the Source of Thought in search of inspiration from their patron goddess: you, Brigid, with your fiery hair, deity of verse and rebirth. Legend said aspiring writers longing for your gifts could throw their blank, fruitless pages inside the well and be rewarded with the spark of creativity. Many found themselves writing feverishly with great insight the minute their piece of parchment reached the surface of the water down the abyss. All of them, perhaps… except for the Englishman.

Most of them were native citizens of the small, idyllic Irish village nearby. The Englishman was a foreigner, an intruder who forced himself into their lives once a year, seeking an easy remedy to his mediocrity. This was the fifth year he attended the festival, and never did he speak with anyone, other than himself. Yes, at times, he muttered words under his breath, and the Irishmen wondered whether he was at last on the verge of a breakthrough; but more often than not, he just stared at the well, his eyes filled with resentment and bitterness. He thought you had forgotten him, great goddess. Little did he know, you had not.

That day, you walked with bare feet in the meadow, your white linen dress hanging with ethereal weightlessness in the spring air. Your red hair burned with the fire of passion, igniting the hearts of all who looked at you. They were all men, and their eyes yearned for your attention, even though your true identity was concealed. Desire dominated the crowd, but a handful thought you eccentric, peculiar. Women rarely, if ever, came to Imbolc. You were just as much of a stranger as the Englishman was, and so naturally, you went to him first.

“Soon there will be no pages left in that book of yours,” you said, towering over him.

The Englishman stared at his booklet, its binding riddled with torn pieces of paper.

“What can I say?” he answered, oblivious to your power. To the poets’ surprise, his voice was soft and mellow. “The work is no good.”

“No good to you, perhaps. Would you let me read some of it?”

“I doubt it. It’s personal.”

“Then why is it you came here on this day, if not to mingle with like-minded erudites?”

The Englishman stared at the well again, his bitterness more apparent than ever. The Source of Thought only ever brought him pain and frustration.

“You know what they say,” he followed. “About Brigid. That she blessed the well with inspiration.”

“So I have heard,” you replied, not a hint of doubt in your words.

“Every year, I come back. I don’t know why. Nothing ever comes out of it. I don’t belong in this town.”

He glanced at the Irishmen surrounding him and reduced his voice to a whisper, so that only you could hear.

“I can’t explain it. There is no reason for me to be here. Yet, I always make the trip. Always. As though she was pulling me in herself.”

“Who?”

“The goddess! I started having dreams of this well when I was sixteen and first dreamed of being a writer. Back then, my mind flourished with creativity and imagination. Five years ago, I chose to come and find out for myself if there was something for me here, but the effect was quite the opposite. It drained my inspiration instead of enhancing it.”

“Then it must be you came looking for the wrong thing.”

“How could I? There is only one thing people come here for.”

“True. All of them come for inspiration. But you came for acceptance.”

As the rays of the sun began to finish behind the distant hill that shadowed the horizon, the Irishmen began to dissipate. The Imbolc festival was drawing to a close. Most turned their backs on the odd pairing and walked away, cracking jokes at their expense.

“Stand up,” you said. The Englishman did not know who you were, but deep down inside, he knew your command could not be resisted. He sprang to his feet.

“You’re right. I should probably go now.”

“That’s not what I meant. Look down the well.”

“Down the well?” he repeated, riddled with incredulity.

“Do as I say.”

Hesitant, the Englishman peered over the brick wall. To his surprise, the darkness dissipated. For the first time, he was able to see the water at the bottom of the abyss. In it, he gazed at his reflection.

“That’s just… me.”

“No it’s not. Look at the real you.”

Your eyes crossed the Englishman's. He struggled to believe that somehow, you knew. His act had been perfect for the last five years. No one had known. Yet there he was, being read like an open book. The two of them were now alone in front of the well. He looked at his reflection one more time, and in a once again decisive and swift move, took off his flat cap. Long golden hair flowed from underneath. The reflection down the well was no longer that of an Englishman. It was that of an Englishwoman. It was my reflection.

"There it is," you told me. "The woman I came to see."

By the time I turned to look at your face once more, your hair had returned to its burning form, dazzling me like a shimmering jewel. The flames danced around your cheeks, illuminating the delicate traits of a goddess who had to come to give me the strength I needed.

"You don't need to be here," you whispered to me. "I was always with you."

As you vanished in a cloud of smoke, I looked up at the moon profiling itself against the dark evening sky. There I was, a strange woman in a strange town, more confident than ever that I had it in me. One day, the world would know my name. Though I still write under a male pseudonym, I know I don't have to be one of the boys, for these boys would much rather be me.

I walked away from the well and never came back. The inspiration was within me. It had always been. If you hear these words, be sure, great Brigid, that the world now knows my name.

- George Eliot