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Hilltown (1)
Apr. 20th, 2004 08:45 pm"Another year has passed already?"
"You know it has, Brother. It's the equinox. You knew I was coming."
He sighed and slumped deeper into his soft leather armchair, staring at the fire inside his woodstove. "I don't want to go."
"You must."
"Why? What would happen if I didn't?" Finally he turned to look at her.
Val stood with the dawn-lit sky behind her, one hand on her hip, wearing jeans, hiking boots, and a gray-green short-sleeved sweatshirt. She had a worn russet-colored leather utility case slung at her right hip, hanging by a strap over her left shoulder. She grinned at him. "You always have all the questions."
"And you never have any answers."
"Answers are not my nature, only endings. Perhaps you seek an ending now? But you won't find it. You'll go. You can't refuse."
"Because going there is my nature?"
She smiled, and for a moment it dazzled him. "One answer at least you have, Brother. Shall we go?"
He sighed and tossed the blanket aside. Together, they walked into the chill autumn air and out to her car. It was in perfect condition, that car, even though it was so old that the average citizen wouldn't be able to tell what make it was, unless they could recognize a Ford by its vaguely unnatural not-quite-turquoise metallic blue.
His cottage, the door still open, slumped casually beneath the dark firs. His dock and boat lay ahead. Most mornings he'd motor the hundred feet across the mouth of Sackport; he parked his truck in a shed on the other side. But he'd kept the boat on this side last night, so Val had been forced to drive in around Sackport on the truck trail, nearly a mile of rough, nearly-abandoned two-track. It would have been polite to send the boat across to the other side so Val could have used it, but he didn't feel like making things easy for her.
They jounced down the two-track, running counter-clockwise around the eighty-acre lake, or bay, or whatever it was; Sackport's mouth was so narrow that all people agreed on was it made a heck of a small-boat harbor.
"It wasn't like you to rebel, once upon a time," Val commented, steering around a boulder in the path. "You've been living with them for too long."
"Or not long enough. I should have rebelled long ago. But that's not important."
They bumped on ahead. The trail met Sackport Road, with the Sea and the distant curving shoreline vanishing away to the west. Val turned right and headed toward Hilltown. You couldn't see it from here, because of the trees, except for the Hillcrest Manor apartment house which, despite its name, was only a bit more than halfway up The Hill. Or Odin's Peak, as it was called on the old maps. Not much of a peak, a weathered rocky hill less than two hundred feet high, but since it marked the very end of the narrow peninsula at the southeastern end of the Continent, people tended to notice it.
"I don't know why you like them, Dean. They're silly."
He smiled, looking at the sun. It showed behind the black pines of the Isle of Ographa, across the passage from Hilltown. Now that they were coming into town he could see everything, the crescent of white wood and red brick buildings huddled around the base of the Hill, facing Hilltown Cove and points east. In the cove three fine new ships floated at anchor. Most people would favor the square-rigger, but he liked the looks of the schooner better. She wouldn't be fast, but she was built tough, and her smaller size should let her turn quickly if something unexpected should appear dead ahead. "They're gallant," he told her.
She took a hand from the steering wheel and waved it at the ships in the harbor. "They keep building those. That proves my point."
"And mine."
Val snorted, and turned to the right just past the drug store, heading for the ferry. The lighted clock in the pharmacy window glowed, but its hands had stopped at 6:04:22.
Val stopped the car. "Doesn't look like he's awake."
"He will be," Dean growled, getting out. He walked over to a shack's door and kicked it. "Come on, you lazy old.."
The man who came to the door was rather horrible; gray-haired, with a skin color that was vaguely disturbing, and only one eye. "What the hell do you want?"
Dean waved his hand toward the Isle of Ographa, across the black water of the Passage. "What do you think I want?"
"Oh, aye, keep your pants on. Come on. Why do you want to go across so early on a Sunday?"
"Personal business. My personal business." He pulled a silver coin out of his pocket and gave it to the ferryman. "This, on the other hand, is yours."
"Aye. All I ask. Get your car on." But Val had already driven the ancient Ford onto the ferry.
The ferryman switched the motors on. Val and Dean stood at the bow, watching Ographa get closer, each silent and alone in private thought and memory.
The road up from the shore was broad and smooth, but saw so little traffic that the grass had grown across all but its center. "Why don't they live here?" Val asked. "It's the best agricultural land within a hundred miles."
"A few do. Only a few though, and you know why."
"But that doesn't have anything to do with them. What's past is past."
Dean laughed, bitterly. "If only that were true! No, the past is now. The past is what the present is made of. And the past... marks things. Yes. Some places are marked forever by what happened there."
"Nonsense."
Dean shrugged.
An even more overgrown road branched off, heading north. Val followed it for five miles, until it vanished beneath the underbrush of a dark forest. "We walk from here."
"You think I don't know that?" He got out and headed north. The smooth strip which had once been a road continued beneath the bushes. Once they were through, under the shadows of the tall trees, they were in a vast gloomy cavern of pine woods, and he could see that the ancient road went on, a mighty pine growing through it here and there. As they walked ahead other level traces came in from the sides at right angles, at regular intervals, marking out a gridwork. Between the lines of the grid the earth rose up in irregular mounds. Here or there a bit of stone protruded, or brick.
Three miles in a flat-topped stone, perfectly circular, a foot high, rose from the forest floor. "This is the place," Val said.
"You have a profound grasp of the obvious. Let's get this over with."
Val nodded. Dean knelt in the center of the stone, facing the sun, which rested on the horizon to the east. She walked to him then, blocking the sunlight, opening her utility case, pulling out a silver dagger. She presented it to him with both hands. He bowed and took it, and she stepped aside.
Staring into the face of the sun, Dean took the dagger and slit his left wrist. He held his hands toward the sun, left one pouring his blood upon the stone, right hand offering the dagger.
Tears rose in his eyes, but not tears of pain. They dropped on the stone like his blood.
"I'm sorry," he whispered to the sun. "I'm so sorry."
#
They drove the Ford back through Hilltown. The clock in the pharmacy window glowed, hands frozen at 6:04:22.
"Let me out here," he asked Val, where Sackport Road met the truck trail to his cottage.
She looked at him, concerned. "You'll be all right?"
He smiled and glanced at the bandage on his wrist. "Am I not always?"
"I guess." She smiled and suddenly leaned across the car to hug him. "We should see each other more often, Brother. Not just on these.. formal occasions."
Dean smiled. "I will, Sister. I'll come see you. I promise."
He got out of the Ford and stood by the road, watching her drive away. Soon she'd be down the highway to the west, to the great cities, to her own life, and her own purpose.
Smiling a little to himself, he walked the two tenths of a mile to the end of Sackport Road, past the shed where his truck slept, and down to the public dock on this side. He reached into his pocket for the remote and pushed the button to summon his boat across.
Not long after, he stepped into his cottage, closed the door which had stood open while he was out, and sat down in his chair again. He picked up the blanket, wrapped it around his shoulders, and sat there for a long time, listening to his clock ticking in the quiet room.
The sun rose over the horizon to the east, a stray beam reaching all the way from the Passage side of the point, through the firs, to shine into one of his windows. He sat in his chair and looked into his stove, watching empires rise to glory and crumble away again in its flames.
"You know it has, Brother. It's the equinox. You knew I was coming."
He sighed and slumped deeper into his soft leather armchair, staring at the fire inside his woodstove. "I don't want to go."
"You must."
"Why? What would happen if I didn't?" Finally he turned to look at her.
Val stood with the dawn-lit sky behind her, one hand on her hip, wearing jeans, hiking boots, and a gray-green short-sleeved sweatshirt. She had a worn russet-colored leather utility case slung at her right hip, hanging by a strap over her left shoulder. She grinned at him. "You always have all the questions."
"And you never have any answers."
"Answers are not my nature, only endings. Perhaps you seek an ending now? But you won't find it. You'll go. You can't refuse."
"Because going there is my nature?"
She smiled, and for a moment it dazzled him. "One answer at least you have, Brother. Shall we go?"
He sighed and tossed the blanket aside. Together, they walked into the chill autumn air and out to her car. It was in perfect condition, that car, even though it was so old that the average citizen wouldn't be able to tell what make it was, unless they could recognize a Ford by its vaguely unnatural not-quite-turquoise metallic blue.
His cottage, the door still open, slumped casually beneath the dark firs. His dock and boat lay ahead. Most mornings he'd motor the hundred feet across the mouth of Sackport; he parked his truck in a shed on the other side. But he'd kept the boat on this side last night, so Val had been forced to drive in around Sackport on the truck trail, nearly a mile of rough, nearly-abandoned two-track. It would have been polite to send the boat across to the other side so Val could have used it, but he didn't feel like making things easy for her.
They jounced down the two-track, running counter-clockwise around the eighty-acre lake, or bay, or whatever it was; Sackport's mouth was so narrow that all people agreed on was it made a heck of a small-boat harbor.
"It wasn't like you to rebel, once upon a time," Val commented, steering around a boulder in the path. "You've been living with them for too long."
"Or not long enough. I should have rebelled long ago. But that's not important."
They bumped on ahead. The trail met Sackport Road, with the Sea and the distant curving shoreline vanishing away to the west. Val turned right and headed toward Hilltown. You couldn't see it from here, because of the trees, except for the Hillcrest Manor apartment house which, despite its name, was only a bit more than halfway up The Hill. Or Odin's Peak, as it was called on the old maps. Not much of a peak, a weathered rocky hill less than two hundred feet high, but since it marked the very end of the narrow peninsula at the southeastern end of the Continent, people tended to notice it.
"I don't know why you like them, Dean. They're silly."
He smiled, looking at the sun. It showed behind the black pines of the Isle of Ographa, across the passage from Hilltown. Now that they were coming into town he could see everything, the crescent of white wood and red brick buildings huddled around the base of the Hill, facing Hilltown Cove and points east. In the cove three fine new ships floated at anchor. Most people would favor the square-rigger, but he liked the looks of the schooner better. She wouldn't be fast, but she was built tough, and her smaller size should let her turn quickly if something unexpected should appear dead ahead. "They're gallant," he told her.
She took a hand from the steering wheel and waved it at the ships in the harbor. "They keep building those. That proves my point."
"And mine."
Val snorted, and turned to the right just past the drug store, heading for the ferry. The lighted clock in the pharmacy window glowed, but its hands had stopped at 6:04:22.
Val stopped the car. "Doesn't look like he's awake."
"He will be," Dean growled, getting out. He walked over to a shack's door and kicked it. "Come on, you lazy old.."
The man who came to the door was rather horrible; gray-haired, with a skin color that was vaguely disturbing, and only one eye. "What the hell do you want?"
Dean waved his hand toward the Isle of Ographa, across the black water of the Passage. "What do you think I want?"
"Oh, aye, keep your pants on. Come on. Why do you want to go across so early on a Sunday?"
"Personal business. My personal business." He pulled a silver coin out of his pocket and gave it to the ferryman. "This, on the other hand, is yours."
"Aye. All I ask. Get your car on." But Val had already driven the ancient Ford onto the ferry.
The ferryman switched the motors on. Val and Dean stood at the bow, watching Ographa get closer, each silent and alone in private thought and memory.
The road up from the shore was broad and smooth, but saw so little traffic that the grass had grown across all but its center. "Why don't they live here?" Val asked. "It's the best agricultural land within a hundred miles."
"A few do. Only a few though, and you know why."
"But that doesn't have anything to do with them. What's past is past."
Dean laughed, bitterly. "If only that were true! No, the past is now. The past is what the present is made of. And the past... marks things. Yes. Some places are marked forever by what happened there."
"Nonsense."
Dean shrugged.
An even more overgrown road branched off, heading north. Val followed it for five miles, until it vanished beneath the underbrush of a dark forest. "We walk from here."
"You think I don't know that?" He got out and headed north. The smooth strip which had once been a road continued beneath the bushes. Once they were through, under the shadows of the tall trees, they were in a vast gloomy cavern of pine woods, and he could see that the ancient road went on, a mighty pine growing through it here and there. As they walked ahead other level traces came in from the sides at right angles, at regular intervals, marking out a gridwork. Between the lines of the grid the earth rose up in irregular mounds. Here or there a bit of stone protruded, or brick.
Three miles in a flat-topped stone, perfectly circular, a foot high, rose from the forest floor. "This is the place," Val said.
"You have a profound grasp of the obvious. Let's get this over with."
Val nodded. Dean knelt in the center of the stone, facing the sun, which rested on the horizon to the east. She walked to him then, blocking the sunlight, opening her utility case, pulling out a silver dagger. She presented it to him with both hands. He bowed and took it, and she stepped aside.
Staring into the face of the sun, Dean took the dagger and slit his left wrist. He held his hands toward the sun, left one pouring his blood upon the stone, right hand offering the dagger.
Tears rose in his eyes, but not tears of pain. They dropped on the stone like his blood.
"I'm sorry," he whispered to the sun. "I'm so sorry."
#
They drove the Ford back through Hilltown. The clock in the pharmacy window glowed, hands frozen at 6:04:22.
"Let me out here," he asked Val, where Sackport Road met the truck trail to his cottage.
She looked at him, concerned. "You'll be all right?"
He smiled and glanced at the bandage on his wrist. "Am I not always?"
"I guess." She smiled and suddenly leaned across the car to hug him. "We should see each other more often, Brother. Not just on these.. formal occasions."
Dean smiled. "I will, Sister. I'll come see you. I promise."
He got out of the Ford and stood by the road, watching her drive away. Soon she'd be down the highway to the west, to the great cities, to her own life, and her own purpose.
Smiling a little to himself, he walked the two tenths of a mile to the end of Sackport Road, past the shed where his truck slept, and down to the public dock on this side. He reached into his pocket for the remote and pushed the button to summon his boat across.
Not long after, he stepped into his cottage, closed the door which had stood open while he was out, and sat down in his chair again. He picked up the blanket, wrapped it around his shoulders, and sat there for a long time, listening to his clock ticking in the quiet room.
The sun rose over the horizon to the east, a stray beam reaching all the way from the Passage side of the point, through the firs, to shine into one of his windows. He sat in his chair and looked into his stove, watching empires rise to glory and crumble away again in its flames.
