jonathan powers

The water fountain in the courtyard growls. Not a soft growl, this thing roars. The grounds keeper has been very busy with Spring, so it’s not shutting up anytime soon. Halfway through the topiary maze you can still hear it clearly. Birds, when it first erupted, launched from every branch in the garden. I’ve gotten used to it, I think of it as white noise.

When families come to visit I warn the children, “If you are bad I’ll put you in the fountain. What? You aren’t scared? Oh really, so your parents never told you why it makes that noise? I guess they thought you weren’t old enough.”

I’ve come up with some interesting theories for the kids.

“The fountain is built on an old Indian pet cemetary. The Patel Blackfish tribe, once feared across this region for their ruthless nan attacks, buried their war wolves here. Chief Nine Curries cursed the ground ‘who so ever disturbs this holy place with running water will forever be hounded by the wolves’ At night you can see their eyes glowing around the fountain.”

“Hey kids, you ever heear of the Well of Souls? If you touch the water in it you die.”

“De Soto searched all of Florida for this. He died arm outstretched, like this, only inches away from the spring that pumps water to this fountain. ‘Lord, no, I’ve finally found it and you torture me thus! Uhhhhh!’ Dead. At night you can almost hear him screaming ‘Youth forever lost … the …… thirst.”