I'm slightly out of breath by the time I reach the top of the Changing
Hill. Somehow, I don't remember the climb being so steep. I must be
getting old.
Hah.
From on top of the hill I can see for miles around. All the farmlands,
homesteads and rivers of this almost-forgotten corner of Tennessee are
laid out before my eyes. The sun sets, I sit as I take in the view. I
watch the sky turn colors as my breathing slows. Relaxation creeps over
me as night settles in for a while. It's almost meditation in an odd
way.
As always, I find I'm back on my feet after a while, standing on the
Changing Hill with my eyes closed. My arms are outstretched, Christ-like.
After a moment, the memories begin welling up inside me, and I relive
Phineas' life again. He was born in 1918 on this very hill, and he was
dying on the Hill this very week, at these very moments. In my mind.
The memories pick up right where I had left off the day before.
"You bastard!"
"Nice girls don't use that kind of language."
"I can't believe you went out with my sister."
"I can't believe it either. She's just like you, what a waste of time!"
"I'm leaving you."
"Bye."
"Phineas, you're getting a promotion to district sales rep."
"Oh, Phineas, your draft papers came in today!"
"Lieutenant, we've kraut on our flanks!"
"Please be seated, Captain. This Board of Inquiry is now in session."
"Oh my god, how many?"
I wake up, head pounding. I can taste blood in my mouth. Memories of the
years just after the war, my life during the 1950's, are still fresh in my
mind, painfully fresh. I don't know what year it is right now, but I know
I'm on the Hill.
Think, think. Where did I start, where did I finish?
There's a gap in my memories -- I can't remember anything clearly before
1948. I had covered almost eight years this night, and now those memories
were safely locked away in my head without emotion, without pain. If I
think about them, I can remember everything, remember it all as if it had
happened to someone else. And soon I would be someone else. I will be a
fresh slate.
Henry Goddard. My name is Henry Goddard.
I stumble down the hill to the house I knew was there. I knock at the
door, but no one answers. The house is dark.
Someone takes me by the arm. "You're at the wrong house again. Don't you
remember?"
"I remember lots of things." The teenaged girl leading me towards the
larger, brightly lit house nearby seems vaguely familiar. "Do I know
you?"
"You asked me that last night!"
"Did you answer me then?"
She laughs. "Yes, I'm Samantha."
"You're a Thorded," I say, looking at the narrow bones of her face.
"Yeah. What do you do up there on the hill anyway?"
"Didn't you ask me that last night?"
"I was guessing. I probably told you the same thing I will now:
remembering and forgetting."
She nods with a sigh and opens the house's door for us. I follow her,
half stumbling with sudden exhaustion, as she leads me through the house.
Many strange people stare at me and I feel self-conscious. An old, old
man smiles at me but I don't know why. I don't smile back.
We step into a bedroom. "Can I sleep here?" I ask.
"This is your bedroom while you're staying with us."
"Thank you, um." I stop, lost for her name again.
"Samantha."
"Samantha," I finish.
"Go to sleep. You look like you need it."
"I think I do."
A knock on the door wakes me up the next morning and Samantha is there,
looking bright and cheery. She lays a tray on my lap and takes off the
cover to reveal breakfast. "I made it myself!" she exclaims proudly as I
blink away sleep and the vestiges of my confusion from last night.
Eggs, Toast, Bacon, Grits. I thank her and fall to eating while she sits
on the end of the bed, watching me. I ravenously finish the meal, no
doubt pleasing her to no end from the smile on her face. Not only do I
like her food, but it's time for her to ask questions again and she's
happy.
"Did you ever meet George Washington?"
"No. I spotted him across a battlefield once, though. I was fighting on
the British side that time."
"How about Abraham Lincoln?"
"I was in Germany during America's Civil War."
She sighs in exasperation. "Albert Einstein then?"
"Sorry."
"King Arthur?"
"Interesting choice."
"Did you ever meet him?"
I think, I remember. She waits patiently as I rifle through several
lifetime's experiences.
"Yes, I met him. You'll be disappointed if I tell you that story,
though."
"Tell me anyway."
I close my eyes.
"King Arthur was king of a smallish province in Britain, that much is
true. I fought against him; I was a knight for a rival King whose name
has been lost to history: Roland the Just. We clashed arms with the
forces of King Arthur's many times, and sometimes we won and sometimes we
lost. It was a battle for land, true, but war was also a big game for the
kings.
"I was captured during one battle by King Arthur's knight Persival. There
really was a Persival, a man immensely strong but not too bright. He
dragged me back in chains to Arthur's castle, where I was thrown into the
dungeons for two long years. At times I would despair and think that I'd
never see the sun again. It was a very bad time in my life.
"During those years, William's troops had gradually overwhelmed Arthur's.
Arthur had me and three of my fellow captive knights brought before him
one day, and he gave us only two choices: death or loyalty to him. Three
of us chose to swear fealty to Arthur, and the fourth knight, kin of King
Roland himself, decided to choose death. He was beheaded on the spot for
the amusement of the court. I remember Arthur's Queen, Sarah, turning her
head away in disgust. I remember the knight staring at me with horror and
disgust right before his head was removed.
"Queen Sarah was King Arthur's second wife; I heard he had killed the first
after she had been accused of infidelity with one of the knights. Sarah
was a beautiful and kind woman. She was also a sad and lonely woman;
everyone liked her so much that they avoided her, afraid that Arthur would
have her killed too if she was seen talking too much to any one man.
"I fought on Arthur's side for another year and gradually came to be
accepted into the fold, trusted. I wasn't treated as an outsider any
longer and the meals in the Great Hall became very enjoyable for me.
Arthur was a blustering, loud man with a love of crude humor at the dinner
table. The people loved him for it.
"One night we had a huge victory celebration -- we had bested William's
armies on the field again and were following up the accomplishment with a
great feast. Everyone at the table was drunk on wine and ale except for
me.
"I stood, drew my sword, rammed my blade into Arthur's heart. I took no
less than three mortal blows from the castle guards and six arrows in my
back as I fled into the forest to my waiting horse. It confounded them
that I wouldn't die. I heard them cursing at me, calling me traitor,
demon, and worse as I rode away. By the time I had reached Roland's
castle my wounds were all healed, and I was lauded as a great hero of the
crown by Roland himself. Roland's knights went on to take most of
Arthur's lands, but I left the isles seeking peace for a while."
"Why did you kill King Arthur?"
"Roland was my son. I was helping him out."
"Was he...immortal too?"
"No. None of my children have turned out like me."
She thinks on this, then says, "So you really can't die, even if people
stab you and stuff?"
"Nope. No matter how much damage is done to my body, I keep living.
I heal very quickly too."
"Like Rasputin!"
"I was Rasputin."
"Really? Tell me that story too!"
I close my eyes.
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