Outside in the garden and high up in the tallest tree, a crow bobbed on an evergreen branch. The bird spotted a grub clinging to an enormous pinecone. The crow pecked at the cone and set it spinning on its slender stem. After a second round of pecking the grub fell and landed on the ledge of a short wall far below.
The ledge formed the lip of an old well long overgrown by vines and branches. The crow cocked its head and began to shift from foot to foot, weighing what to do next. When the grub squirmed tantalizingly from the ledge, the crow made up its mind. It flew down with a raucous cry and landed on the well top.
Just as it stretched out its beak to snatch the grub, a blast of cold air suddenly shot up from the well mouth and set the crow's feathers blowing. The bird flinched and waited for the wind to stop. Several seconds passed and the wind suddenly blew itself out like a breath. There was a pause, and then, from the deepest depths, there came a low moan. The lament echoed ominously and rose upward, vibrating and shaking the foundations of the well.
The crow froze. It cocked its head first one way, then turned the other way to listen. When the next blast struck, the crow flinched and prepared to fly. The grub was bounced by the shaking stones to the edge of the well mouth and then hurled skyward the moment it hit the wind. Just as the crow made to follow, the moan transformed into an unearthly intake of breath. The wind changed direction and fled down the well.
The crow felt the pull immediately and found itself caught in the grip of a vortex at the center of the well mouth. The bird flapped its wings with all its strength. Its tail stuck out earthward, straight as a poker, as if some unseen hand had taken hold of it.
The crow began to tire. In another moment its wings would cease to beat and it would be sucked down into darkness and to calamity. With Herculean effort the crow leaned to one side and found the wind not quite so strong as in the center. It leaned farther still and found a last burst of energy. With a final stroke the crow pulled free of the well and shot out into the brightness and safety of the garden. The ground trembled and then fell still. The moaning turned to an unhappy murmur and finally died away.
High up on a branch the crow preened itself soothingly. It hunted no more grubs for the rest of the day and settled down for a nap to sleep off the recent horror. The garden fell quiet.
Near the well was a set of tiles leading up to the remains of a fountain. Water had long since stopped flowing and all that could be seen of the basin was a single corner, peeking out from a thicket of grass. The earth around the tiles was loose and cracked. One of the tiles was broken and dislodged from the others and shook from time to time, as if something was pushing up against it from below.
There was a scraping sound, like a metal tool working against pottery. Soon, there came a series of chipping noises, like a pickax attacking a ceramic surface. From time to time the well would shake and moan and the sounds beneath the tile would stop. As soon as the moaning ended the scraping and chipping would begin again.
High in the tree the crow raised a wary eye from beneath its wing. The tile began to rock a little on its edge. Seconds later an object—sharp, metallic, and no longer than a sewing needle—burst through a growing crack in the tile and into the garden light. It was a sword.
