Lovecraft, H P & Rimel, Duane - The Tree On The Hill

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The Tree On The Hill

by H. P. Lovecraft

Written 1934

Southeast of Hampden, near the tortuous Salmon River gorge, is a range of steep, rocky

hills which have defied all efforts of sturdy homesteaders. The canyons are too deep and

the slopes too precipitous to encourage anything save seasonal livestock grazing. The last

time I visited Hampden the region - known as Hell's Acres - was part of the Blue

Mountain Forest Reserve. There are no roads linking this inaccessible locality with the

outside world, and the hillfolk will tell you that it is indeed a spot transplanted from his

Satanic Majesty's front yard. There is a local superstition that the area is haunted - but by

what or by whom no one seems to know. Natives will not venture within its mysterious

depths, for they believe the stories handed down to them by the Nez Perce Indians, who

have shunned the region for untold generations, because, according to them, it is a

playground of certain giant devils from the Outside. These suggestive tales made me very

curious.

My first excursion - and my last, thank God! - into those hills occurred while Constantine

Theunis and I were living in Hampden the summer of 1938. He was writing a treatise on

Egyptian mythology, and I found myself alone much of the time, despite the fact that we

shared a modest cabin on Beacon Street, within sight of the infamous Pirate House, built

by Exer Jones over sixty years ago.

The morning of June 23rd found me walking in those oddly shaped hills, which had,

since seven o'clock, seemed very ordinary indeed. I must have been about seven miles

south of Hampden before I noticed anything unusual. I was climbing a grassy ridge

overlooking a particularly deep canyon, when I came upon an area totally devoid of the

usual bunch-grass and greaseweed. It extended southward, over numerous hills and

valleys. At first I thought the spot had been burned over the previous fall, but upon

examining the turf, I found no signs of a blaze. The nearby slopes and ravines looked

terribly scarred and seared, as if some gigantic torch had blasted them, wiping away all

vegetation. And yet there was no evidence of fire...

I moved on over rich, black soil in which no grass flourished. As I headed for the

approximate center of this desolate area, I began to notice a strange silence. There were

no larks, no rabbits, and even the insects seemed to have deserted the place. I gained the

summit of a lofty knoll and tried to guess at the size of that bleak, inexplicable region.

Then I saw the lone tree.

It stood on a hill somewhat higher than its companions, and attracted the eye because it

was so utterly unexpected. I had seen no trees for miles: thorn and hackberry bushes

clustered the shallower ravines, but there had been no mature trees. Strange to find one

standing on the crest of the hill.

The Tree On The Hill

I crossed two steep canyons before I came to it; and a surprise awaited me. It was not a

pine tree, nor a fir tree, nor a hackberry tree. I had never, in all my life, seen one to

compare with it - and I never have to this day, for which I am eternally thankful!

More than anything it resembled an oak. It had a huge, twisted trunk, fully a yard in

diameter, and the large limbs began spreading outward scarcely seven feet from the

ground. The leaves were round, and curiously alike in size and design. It might have been

a tree painted on a canvas, but I will swear that it was real. I shall always know that it was

real, despite what Theunis said later.

I recall that I glanced at the sun and judged the time to be about ten o'clock a.m., although

I did not look at my watch. The day was becoming warm, and I sat for a while in the

welcome shade of the huge tree. Then I regarded the rank grass that flourished beneath it

- another singular phenomenon when I remembered the bleak terrain through which I had

passed. A wild maze of hills, ravines, and bluffs hemmed me in on all sides, although the

rise on which I sat was rather higher than any other within miles. I looked far to the east -

and I jumped to my feet, startled and amazed. Shimmering through a blue haze of

distance were the Bitterroot Mountains! There is no other range of snow-capped peaks

within three hundred miles of Hampden; and I knew - at this altitude - that I shouldn't be

seeing them at all. For several minutes I gazed at the marvel; then I became drowsy. I lay

in the rank grass, beneath the tree. I unstrapped my camera, took off my hat, and relaxed,

staring skyward through the green leaves. I closed my eyes.

Then a curious phenomenon began to assail me - a vague, cloudy sort of vision -

glimpsing or day-dreaming seemingly without relevance to anything familiar. I thought I

saw a great temple by a sea of ooze, where three suns gleamed in a pale red sky. The vast

tomb, or temple, was an anomalous color - a nameless blue-violet shade. Large beasts

flew in the cloudy sky, and I seemed to hear the pounding of their scaly wings. I went

nearer the stone temple, and a huge doorway loomed in front of me. Within that portal

were swirling shadows that seemed to dart and leer and try to snatch me inside that awful

darkness. I thought I saw three flaming eyes in the shifting void of a doorway, and I

screamed with mortal fear. In that noisome depth, I knew, lurked utter destruction - a

living hell even worse than death. I screamed again. The vision faded.

I saw the round leaves and the sane earthly sky. I struggled to rise. I was trembling; cold

perspiration beaded my brow. I had a mad impulse to flee; run insanely from that sinister

tree on the hill - but I checked the absurd intuition and sat down, trying to collect my

senses. Never had I dreamed anything so realistic; so horrifying. What had caused the

vision? I had been reading several of Theunis' tomes on ancient Egypt. ... I mopped my

forehead, and decided that it was time for lunch. But I did not feel like eating.

Then I had an inspiration. I would take a few snapshots of the tree, for Theunis. They

might shock him out of his habitual air of unconcern. Perhaps I would tell him about the

dream. . . . Opening my camera, I took half a dozen shots of the tree, and every aspect of

the landscape as seen from the tree. Also, I included one of the gleaming, snow-crested

peaks. I might want to return, and these photos would help. . . .

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TheTreeOnTheHillTheTreeOnTheHillbyH.P.LovecraftWritten1934SoutheastofHampden,nearthetortuousSalmonRivergorge,isarangeofsteep,rockyhillswhichhavedefiedalleffortsofsturdyhomesteaders.Thecanyonsaretoodeepandtheslopestooprecipitoustoencourageanythingsaveseasonallivestockgrazing.ThelasttimeIvisitedHampde...

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Lovecraft, H P & Rimel, Duane - The Tree On The Hill

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