The Wishing Test—Raquel Alemán Cruz

Act 1. Weep

I wish, but I do not pray.

So whispers the wind.

There are secrets buried deep in the earth. They hide in the damp soil like seeds waiting to bloom, stained yet stirring, pieces of paper curled around the illicit longings of our souls. Watered by tears, nourished by hunger, the inked words travel down, down underground to the pool below. For water cradles the earth, so closely that the gods cannot but look away. 

Between the folds of their embrace, a woman kneels at the edge of the wishing well. Loose pebbles have dug into her skin, tearing her left stocking, and her nails are a rusty brown from carding her fingers through the dirt. She has already buried her wish, but she keeps her hands clenched in the soil, as if anchoring herself. Summoning tears felt like a relief, rather than a test. The tracks are still fresh on her cheeks, but she does not hasten to wipe them away as she would at home. There is no one to see her here, no one she needs to be strong for.

Around her, fallen jacaranda flowers are strewn on the ground, defeated by gravity and crushed by the soles of seekers too frenzied in their steps. They lie there like unfulfilled dreams, unheeded prayers. Hers had not been much, she had thought, nothing that thousands did not already have. A happy child, a healthy child. Yet here she is: kneeling, begging, wishing. 

She keeps her eyes on the water, hiding from the gaze of the heavens. The blue pool lies still, perversely serene under her scrutiny, a mirror offering only her own reflected judgement back. For a moment, she is so consumed by shame that she almost scurries to unbury her wish, to put it in her mouth, dirt and all, and eat it so that no one will see. But it lasts only a moment. Her sorrow is stronger, as is her will to do her best by her child. She does not matter, nor does her wrongdoing. So she, too, stays still, tasting tears and listening out for hope in the wind. 

She had been warned, already, in hushed whispers tucked between laundering baskets along the riverbed. 

To wish is to weep.

Act 2. Will

What is left, if not a little misery, a little hope?

Dreaming is easy, but not so the fall.

The water does not lie. It offers no false assurances, no empty kindnesses, no imputation of sin. Where the earth holds within herself a seeker’s desire, the water tests the mettle of their wish. It does not deal in favours or adulation, but in pure want. It is said to reward terrible devotion, the kind that the gods punish and fear. As the earth sighs and lets go of the wish, the pool untangles the words from the tears, adding them to her own body. Stray drops sink and drip down into the streams of the netherworld, where none but the dead tread. 

In the shadow of the well, a man sits on a rounded stone, his back against one of its pillars. His face looks tranquil, unhidden, but his hands are fisted in his lap, his nails digging grooves against his palms. His salted bones know water, know its pull and its volatility, and so he does not balk at the idea of owing her his tears. He would give her his blood, too, if she asked. Perhaps he will still. 

Around him, the wind has picked up, scattering leaves and flowers on the ground and the water, causing ripples on the surface of the pool. The water is murky, so that he cannot see into its depths. He wonders what would happen if he went in, if he followed his tears to the source of the well’s power. He imagines himself an anchor, falling in. Could he defy death then?

Brambles have tangled themselves in his hair, but he makes no move to brush them off. He is ready to grow roots, to stay for as long as it takes. He has prayed, and he has wished, and he will not move until he’s sure he’s done his best by his child. He is not ashamed to be courting both the gods and the well, for he needs all the help he can get. He has nothing if not will, and so he sits, harvesting his sorrow into intention that will remake his world.

He had been warned, already, in hoarse shouts across the rigging of the boat and the dancing of the waves.  

The only way to swim is first to drown. 

Act 3. Wish

They say gods can be merciful, but who has ever witnessed it? 

The well lies past the edge of memory. None can remember who built it, or whether it was ever built at all. It lies past the treeline, a little dark, a little lonely, awaiting seekers with yearnings a little too impossible, too ungodly. Its six pillars join at its centre to provide cover from the sky, its pool a mirror to separate seekers from our own lies. The earth receives all, but the water only accepts sacrifice. 

A couple makes their way towards the clearing, hands clasped. The man’s steps are slightly ahead of the woman’s, not because his stride is that much longer, but because she is too absorbed in furtively glancing around them to keep up with him. Between them, between the knots of their knuckles and their wedding bands, curl two pieces of paper, one wish. 

Let my child live.

Let my child die.

Two wishes. 

Few seekers understand that tears are not enough, that the test lies not in weeping, but in doing so selflessly. Thus, the well is cruel in its own way, denying the wretched if they dare ask for anything for themselves. 

By the pool’s edge, the couple bury their wishes. It was the man’s idea to do so separately, reasoning that two wishes, two broken hearts, would be more powerful than one. There has never been a doubt in his mind that they want the same thing, that they’re wishing for their child to live through the sickness, the pain. When they sit on the dirt, the woman rests her head on his shoulder and fiddles with a flower, not wanting to meet his eyes. There has never been a doubt in her mind that she is a mother before she is a wife, despite what it might cost her, despite the pain. 

Help me say goodbye.

Don’t make me say goodbye.

Only one may get their wish. 

photo by Wilson Ye (via unsplash)