If nobody’s built a shrine anywhere they probably should, because I’m pretty sure people would come and kneel, take a drink and then, like humans all over the globe, make a wish and throw coins in to seal the deal. If somebody did decide to erect a monument, maybe it would resemble the old wooden tower that had once provided sustenance to Wirdilling. Though a new metal one had been erected within sight of the original, it seemed almost sacrilegious that true Aussies had let the old girl go to waste. Which might’ve been why the gnomes had latched on to her. Outside she looked like your typical nineteenth-century above- ground town well. Except the section created to hold the juice was square, built on a platform that jutted out slightly farther than the container to give maintenance workers room to walk the perimeter. Nine sturdy posts held the tower a good thirty feet aboveground, their crosspieces stained an even darker brown than the rest of the structure, as if to emphasize the fact that they provided stability and helped ensure that the pressure stayed nice and high.
