‘It’s painful to think that someone down the line felt the need to insinuate a rhyme into the name ‘The Tall Drain of Central Maine’ but that is its common title. Speaking literally, it seems to be the mostly-intact plumbing system of a three-story building that has since fallen away. It is unlikely that this configuration occurred naturally, but nobody has yet explained how the pipes could be extracted so wholly and with so little notice. Or why.
Rainwater enters the system through sinks and toilets held aloft in the network. It funnels downward and exits through a dribbling faucet at the base. That’s the theory, anyway. The truth is that water seems to be available at the tap at all times, even after months of little or no precipitation. What aren’t up for debate, but should be, are the supposed boons granted by the water and the means by which it is changed in the drain.
There are those who believe a chemical change has taken place, that the water is imbued by the metal of ‘The Tall Drain of Central Maine’ or steeped in something biological that grows there. There is some overlap between those who recognize occult signs in the arrangement of pipes and those who suspect magnetism may be involved. A handful believe that the ‘The Tall Drain of Central Maine’ was designed to filter mana from the clouds but they are far and wide the black sheep of these speculators.’
The entry fails to mention the creaking of the ramshackle pipes, shrill and unpredictable. It can be heard a long ways off and rumor suggests that it’s responsible for ‘The Tall Drain of Central Maine’s’ overall lack of birds. Birds exist in noisier climates, sure, but not here. Something about the sound of it is off, even to my ears.
It energizes Hector. For the first time in our relatively short acquaintance, he’s pulling me by the leash. He leads me to the faucet at the base, or as close as I let him get. There’s a small line of sickly people, there, each taking swigs of the gray slurry leaking from the base. I tug Hector back but he manages a sip of the liquid from where it’s puddled on the ground. He keels over so quickly I wonder if he hasn’t been concealing a penchant for slapstick under that world-worn exterior.
But the moment passes and Hector is still and heavy and when I give the leash an encouraging tug he drags a few dead inches and moves no more.
It isn’t until I’ve taken his body past the line and far away from ‘The Tall Drain of Central Maine’ that his heart spasms under his leather and he kicks himself back to life and stares, wide-eyed and frightened at the world around him.
Hector takes fitfully to his renewed sight, thrashing in the kennel for nearly a week before settling into a few brief and uneasy public forays.
I keep a sample flask of the slurry sealed up in my pouch in my bag, unwilling to try it myself. Who knows what it would restore in me?
-traveler
