Cook, Glen - SS - Song from a Forgotten Hill

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Glen Cook, when he is not affixing the trim to Chevrolet rear windows, writes horrifying fantasy.

The economy probably cannot stand another General Motors strike; literature would be improved by

it.

This story is a cautionary tale, a view of what can happen here. I hope it is fantasy, but I fear,

I fear....

Song from a Forgotten Hill

by Glen Cook

We were trapped in a world where tomorrow was yesterday. The fire had come three times and gone,

and now we were back where our fathers had been a hundred years ago. There were some—"Toms," I've

heard them called— who went into slavery as if it were their birthright, but there were also those

who fought and died rather than hoe in some redneck's field. Most of those who fought did die. But

free.

"Go tell it on the mountain,

Over the hill and everywhere;

Go tell it on the mountain,

To let my people go...."

The fire came the first time when the good soldier-men in Washington and Moscow decided on mutual

suicide. The Russians thought of victory in terms of population destruction. They shot at cities.

Our people suffered more than Mr. Charley. We lived in the cities that were the targets. But so

did the white liberals who were helping bring change.

The fire came a second time when militants burned the remnants of Whitey's cities. Mr. Charley was

too busy with his war to be bothered then, but the fire came a third time when he finished and

turned his attention inward. There was civil war between whites and blacks. Might may not make

right, but it makes victory. White's Mate.

A Fool's Mate. Black loses, and now tomorrow is yesterday.

The war killed most all the good folks. They lived where the bombs fell. The rednecks and the

militants seem to be the only survivors. And now the rednecks, who waited so long for their

chance, are "puttin' 'em back in their place." There are very few of us out here in the hills.

We're hunted, and running, but free.

My son Al came to me this morning, while I was at the spring getting water for breakfast coffee.

He asked when we could go home. Said he's getting tired of camping in a smelly cave. He misses

Jamey, the son of the white couple who lived next door in St. Louis. At five he's too young to

understand a child killed in war. Nor would he understand if I told him Jamey's father was one of

the vigilantes who drove us south into these hills. He wouldn't understand, and I'm afraid to try

an explanation. Because I don't understand either.

Met a man while I was hunting his morning. Gave me a rabbit he had extra, for which I was

thankful. Said his name was Duncan X and he was trying to round up men for a freedom raid into the

Bootheel. A lot of our people working down there, he said. Have to free them. I told him I'd like

to help, but I have a family. Four kids, the oldest fifteen, and no wife. He looked at me like I

was a monster and traitor, then wandered off through the woods, carrying his rifle with the safety

off. He was wearing old Army camouflage fatigues. I soon lost sight of him, but I heard him

singing for a long time.

"Who's that yonder dressed in black?

Let my people go,

Must be a hypocrite turning back,

Let my people go...."

What could I do? I hate the way things are as much as he, but there are the children to be cared

for. I'm sick of the shooting and burning and dying. We're all Americans. Aren't we? Why do we

have to hate so much? We've got a nation to rebuild.

After the wanderer left, I went up to my secret place to pray. It's a lonely, windy place atop a

hill burned bald by an old fire. I usually feel close to God there, but not today. Lines from a

joke I once heard one white man telling another ran through my mind. A Negro was hanging from a

cliff, unable to save himself. He called for God's help and was told to have faith, to let go, and

he would be saved. As he fell, a voice from the sky said, "Ah hates Nigras." I can't help

thinking, sometimes, that he hates one of the races. He keeps us fighting on and on. Forever, it

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seems.

The hunters came while the kids and I were eating lunch. The hounds could be heard while they were

still far off. I sent the children down the trail we picked when we first came, then took my rifle

and went to see what was happening.

I watched from the underbrush as a dozen men with bloodhounds entered the clearing where I had

spoken with Duncan X. They were hunting the organizer, but, from the hounds' behavior, they knew

there had been two men in that clearing. They were trying to decide which trail to follow. I

sighted on the leader's chest and prayed they wouldn't make me shoot. The Lord must have heard

that one. They set off along Duncan's trail. I sighed with relief, but felt more guilty than ever.

I hoped he could outrun the

pack.

I watched the clearing for a. long time after they left, afraid some would turn back to the second

trail. Their sort didn't appreciate mine running free. In their own way, they were as afraid as I.

Who could blame them? When you treat men the way they do, you have to worry about being hit back.

Then everyone's afraid, and fear breeds hate. And hate leads to bloodshed.

I waited, and after a while I followed their trail. They were moving southeast, toward the

Bootheel. I turned back after being satisfied of our safety. Trotting, I went after the children.

They were waiting quietly in the hiding place we had chosen when we first came into these hills.

Little Al thought it a marvelous game of hide and seek, but the others, who were old enough to

understand what was happening, were frightened.

"Are they gone?" Lois asked, her brown eyes wide with fright. She was the oldest, and could

understand something of our situation. She remembered life before the fire came, and knew the

hatreds hatched in the incubator of war.

"They're gone," I sighed. "I want you to say a prayer for Duncan tonight, before you got to bed.

He's a fool, but he is one of our people. Come on. Let's go have supper." As we were nearing the

cave, far away, we heard the pop-pop-pop of rifles. I winced. Lois looked at me accusingly. The

shooting was in the south. If it was Duncan and his pursuers, then the man was running a circle.

"You kids start supper," I said. "I'm going up the mountain for a while." I looked at Lois. She

stared back, still silently accusing. I turned and left. There was no point in explaining. She was

a militant in her own fashion, and never understood when I did try. As well talk to a stone.

I went up the bald hill, to the little cross I've put there, and prayed. I wondered if God was

listening. He'd been terribly unresponsive the past few years. A preacher, just before the war

broke, told me the millennium was at hand. I was patiently skeptical at the time, but now it

looked as if the man was right. The Lord was unlocking the seven seals and I felt I was living on

the Plain of Armageddon. For all I tried putting my trust in God, I felt reservations. He was no

longer the loving God of the New Testament. He was the fiery deity who wreaked havoc throughout

the Old. Sad.

There were shots again as I came down to the cave. Still far away, but now around to the

southwest. Lois had heard them too. When I reached our home-in-exile, she silently offered the

rifle. I shook my head. She bit her lip viciously and turned away, saying nothing. The silence

hurt more than bitter accusation. We were drifting apart, she and I.

We had a good supper. After a stew made of the rabbit Duncan had given me, I opened a can of

peaches and gave the kids a treat. It was usually a holiday when we opened canned goods. Little Al

wanted to know which one. Before I could reply, Lois said, "It's the day Judas sold a good man for

his own peace."

That hurt, but I didn't pick up the argument. Instead, I took out my old notebook and went

outside. As the sun set, I wrote down the day's events, just as I had done since we had come to

the cave. After a while, Lois came out to apologize. I said I understood, but I didn't, really, no

more than she.

I wrote for an hour, until it was almost too dark to see the paper. The kids came and went, to the

spring and back, to the wood pile and back, getting ready for bed and the night. I did not really

notice them. I was thinking about Lois, about her growing militancy and her words of accusation. I

did not want the kids to sink into the same morass of hatred which had already claimed so many.

Neither did I want them to think me a "Tom." I did not think myself a "Tom," but Duncan X, and

those who believed as he did, said those who went into slavery also denied it. I began to feel a

great sadness. Was there no reasonable alternative to hatred and fighting? There was

slavery, of course, but that was not an alternative. It must all be a cosmic jest, or a chess

game. Would the Ivory and Ebony play to the last piece? Would God, or the gods, then declare a

draw? Sad.

In my preoccupation, I did not see the running man coming up the hill. He was almost on me before

I noticed him. A fall of loose rock warned me when he was about twenty feet away. I jumped up and

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