so far down it goes through a vein of ironstone that lies under the smithy yard. the water comes up clear, but it tastes — there is no other word — of iron, a tin-cup taste, the inside of a kettle that has boiled too long. in the bucket, the surface darkens within an hour.
the smith drinks it daily. the rest of the village uses it for washing horses, soaking horseshoes, rinsing things that ought to be rinsed but not consumed. it stains every white cloth a pale tea-brown by the third wash. the parapet itself is darker on the south side than the north.
old wisdom: a glass given to a man who has lost his nerve will return it to him within a day. there is no record of this failing, and no record of it working. the smith's apprentices drink it before unpleasant tasks.
field-note · the spout-rust grows back inside a fortnight if scrubbed off. the well consents to be wiped, not to be cleaned.
chalk-water · kitchen-yard · seven cures · water · for indecision