And frankly, I’m out of shape.
But when I awoke late this morning, the thought was in my head; climb the hill. It was quite insistent.
I’m a creature of whims. I don’t always understand my less rational impulses, but it usually pays to follow them; my brain usually has something in mind.Good afternoon! shouts a cheery voice. I look further up the path and see a tall, slim gent enjoying the view from a small plateau some fifty feet below the top of the hill. Typical. This hill probably has an average of zero visitors per week, and I have the bad luck to run into somebody.
It occurs to me that my social skills need some work.
Hello there! I shout back, waving, as I trudge up toward him, mud and leaves squishing underfoot. My first thought if him as a gent bears some explanation. The man has a distinguished air about him, and is well dressed. But somehow he looks old-fashioned. Out of place. Perhaps it’s the waxed, greying moustache? Or the tweeds?
It takes all sorts, I suppose.
As I reach the plateau, a little out of breath, he takes a few unhurried step towards me, and unexpectedly takes and shakes my hand. He smiles enthusiastically. I’m quite taken aback.
Please excuse me, but it's a pleasure to meet you.
I’m about to reply to this when he introduces himself in a serious tone.
My name is Roth. Abednigo Roth.
He raises an eyebrow, clearly expecting a response. I don’t keep him waiting, though I feel like I’m wading out of my depth.
And my name’s Roth. Indigo Roth. Are we...? waving a finger repeatedly between us. He grins more roguishly than I’d expect of him. Yep, he’s a Roth. I wonder if he’s from Uncle Jericho’s branch of the family. They’re all rather eccentric, and this man’s clothes suggest he may be King Canute on the beach of fashion, angrily facing the approaching waves.
I should say so. You have many questions, no doubt. Perhaps it would be quicker of me to ask you a simple question, and let you catch up on your own. You’re seem a bright enough fella! He slaps me on the arm, and then turns to wave expansively at the landscape below us. He asks his question.
What do you think of my view?
His view? Well, it’s pleasant enough, I start to say, casting my gaze down the hill and towards the horizon, but it’s…
My voice trails off.
The view is wrong.
Is there something wrong, Indigo?
I glance his way; yes, he knows there damned well is. I take a few steps forward and take it all in. I recognise the land, but it’s different. There’s a nearby church that I don't remember. The main road that blights the beauty of the view that I am familiar with is missing. As is a nearby town. Smoke rises from a smattering of cottages. There’s a serenity about it all.
This doesn’t feel like a dream, I mutter uncertainly, wondering if I've conjured Abednigo from the depths of my memory.
Quite so, not a dream! says my companion, giving my thoughts some room to move.
Then... when are we? I ask, convinced I’ve somehow shifted in time.
Oh, it’s definitely today, he chuckles, stepping up beside me. And the ground you stand upon is from the same day you woke into this morning. But this view, he says, pointing vaguely towards the church and cottages, is 1905. My 1905.
Well, that explains his clothes.
So you’re a distant relative. Well, ancestor. I instantly forget this as I theorise, It’s something to do with the hill, right? There’s something special about it, I’ve always thought so.
Abednigo nods, seemingly pleased that I’m putting the pieces together.
Yes, the hill. This lovely, wooded, haunted hill. He pulls his jacket more closely about him. Alberto explained it to me once - that's Alberto Roth, he's a physicist from 1935 - but it was a little beyond me. The gist of it is that the hill is special. To our family. Apparently, to us all this is... Common Ground?
I consider this; it sounds true. He continues.
And today you’re sharing my view. On another day, perhaps I might share yours.
I take in the vista with a touch of envy.
Your view is nicer. Gentler. From a simpler time. Things move along a little too quickly in my time.
Which is when, may I ask? he inquires, patiently.
Excuse me, I should have said. 2009.
He nods, unsurprised, and picks up his train of thought again. He shrugs reflectively.
Progress always seems swift. Technology makes for Change. Change is difficult, uncertain, worrying. We naturally wonder what our futures will bring.
Silence falls over the scene. The sun starts its march to the horizon; the sky has a hint of pink and purple about it. He continues to voice his thoughts.
In my time, we work for companies that constantly demand more for less. We are insignificant cogs in increasingly larger and colder machines. There are more people in the world than ever before, but we inexplicably feel isolated. Governments levy taxes to pay for wars in distant lands we’ve never seen. We cure diseases that would have killed our ancestors, but discover new ones. We travel the globe and yet view visitors to our own land with suspicion, fearing an erosion of our national identity. And both old and new vices and addictions run unchecked.
He gestures in frustration.
Will we ever evolve from this sad state of affairs?
I suppose this is all rhetorical, but I shake my head; I’m genuinely surprised at his view of my past.
It’s the same in my time.
He looks to the horizon, gathering his thoughts. So perhaps Change is not such a dominant and destructive force as we all fear? And with that, he seems to brighten. And perhaps the future is not such a terrifying place?
I laugh. You sound like my blog.
He cocks his head. I don’t understand. Your blog?
I search for the words I need. I write about things and record them in a special log. I write about my experiences, my encounters, the people I know, the adventures I have. Sometimes they are entertaining, sometimes they are serious.
He leans in a little, rumbling, I’d wager there may be more than a hint of fancy about them?
I look at him sideways and admit shiftily, Well, sometimes. We both laugh. Anyway, technology enables me to instantly share my log with people far away. Words, pictures, sounds.
He nods appreciatively, fascinated.
That sounds ingenious. I also write for a living, but I must rely on the technology of my era to carry the message to others. Newspapers. Gazettes. Letters. I have many correspondents. Something of a following, you might say. he adds, blushing. Then, in a mock hushed voice, he confesses, I suspect that I may have written an occasional fanciful piece myself.
I laugh again, and bow slightly. Then I consider myself to be in esteemed company! He waves this faux flattery aside with good nature.
We fall silent and turn back to the sunset. Lights are coming on in the cottages.
After a while, Abednigo marvels quietly to himself, Less than a century from now. Technology to carry one’s writings instantly to the furthest corners of the Empire.
I decide to keep my own counsel about the Empire.
He checks his pocket watch. It's a beauty.
Well, Indigo, it’s been a pleasure. But I must be away. He offers his hand. I hope we’ll meet again on another day?
I accept his hand and ask, Will it still be today?
Oh, I expect so. Suddenly, he points down the track. Look! It seems you have company.
There is a teenage boy heading up the path. His clothes and shoes are made from unfamiliar materials, and there are what I can only describe as gadgets in the air about him. Lights pulse and blink.
I don’t recognise the technology, but it looks cool.
Abednigo slaps me on the back and - suddenly - the scene shifts. My view from the hill has returned; the road, the town, no church. It is sometime in early afternoon. Abednigo is gone.
The lad trudges wearily up the track towards me.
Good afternoon! I shout cheerily. He looks in my direction and a look of disappointment and annoyance passes briefly across his face. But he seems to reach a decision and waves.
Ho there! He shouts back, and plods up to the plateau, mud and leaves squishing under his feet. As he approaches, he looks at me strangely, perhaps trying to get the measure of me. He fiddles with a gadget and after a moment, finds the information he's looking for. He looks surprised.
I step forward and take and shake his hand. I’m about to introduce myself, but he confidently beats me to the punch.
My name’s Roth. Django Roth. He regards me with a mix of suspicion and fascination, adding, And you're Indigo. Which makes no sense whatsoever.
I wave expansively at the landscape below us, and ask the only question that seems appropriate.
What do you think of my view?
Indigo
This entry was inspired by the M. R. James tale A View From A Hill, and almost certainly by listening to The Beatles' Fool On The Hill.
This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2009
