The Rock on The Hill

The Rock On the Hill

The sky flared out endlessly overhead in a brilliant angel eye blue and dangled a few puffy white clouds over Guirmean, but he wasn’t much impressed. He was holding down the east side of Ferguson Hill with the prone weight of his body and that was plenty enough for him to be thinking about. He didn’t have the luxury to fuss about the color of the sky. It was always some shade of blue. The folly of ruminating about some water vapor collecting into a Rorschach overhead escaped his sensibilities. Fools and philosophers could spend their minutes, days and years contemplating the meaning of the miniscule but to Guirmean, time meant something different. In fact, he didn’t think much of time either. Except of course, all the time he had. All the time he had, laying on some little patch of moss on Ferguson Hill.
He had traded in all of his moments for minutes.
He swapped them for immortality.
It all started a month ago last night. Guirmean was at The Falcon’s Head, swapping his weeks wages for a couple of jars. Like always, he kept to himself bent up close to the bar, barely moving except to bring glass to lips. He tried to squeeze himself into the shadows and pretend nobody knew him, but it was just that, pretend.
It was the only pub in town, set a little way over the ridge of Teagan’s Bluff, on the road to Shrewsbury. The old cunts that gossiped on Sunday after worshipping the Lord, always made note of the husbands that walked up that hill and when they staggered back down. Those moldy hags made juicy bits of the chaps that didn’t wander out till after sunrise. It was assumed by those moth ridden busy bodies that the hung over husbands, rehearsing their apology as the stumbled home, had dipped their wanker into one of the sorry whores that plied their trade in that den of sin. In reality, they probably had gotten too drunk to unwrinkle their troublemakers and spent the night snoring in a puddle of piss on the floor.
Guirmean ended yesterday’s work by putting down his shovel and walking over to his boss, Chalmers, and making sure he got his money before the bastard slipped out of town. Chalmers and Guirmen had been mates all back in school, but Chalmers’ dad owned most of the town and Guirmean dad owed most of the town. When they both turned eighteen, Guirmean went to work and Chalmers went to university. Four years later, Chalmers came back with manicured fingernails and Guirmean started digging ditches for him. Guirmean felt bugs squirm under his skin every Friday when he had to humble himself to Chalmers just to get what he earned. Chalmers loved it, having grown men kowtow under him, especially his old schoolmates.
He often disappeared on Fridays afternoons just for sport. He loved the added humiliation he piled on everyone as they scurried around town looking for him, just to get their pay. Guirmean had confronted him early.
“Best you settle up wid' me fair for you wander off.” He demanded, smearing dirt across his forehead as he swiped at the sweat.
“You haven’t worked a full week yet.” Chalmers sneered back “I don’t pay on credit.”
“Fuck it Chalmers! Ye sorry fucking waste of space. You know I’m gonna finish the day. I just want to get what is due me before you wander off.”
“Did ye just swear at me?” Chalmers folded his arms across his chest indignantly. Guirmean tried to pull back a moment that was already gone. His tongue had always been quicker than his brain.
“Dat’s it.” Chalmers said, “Burst the road. You’re as good as sacked. I won’t take dat from da likes ay ye.”
“Aww fur fuck’s sakes. I didn’t pure mean it. I forgot myself fur a moment and thought we were back scuffling around at da yard loch when we were lads. Don’t take me job Chalmers. Me old lady will kill me an' I need da job. There ain’t no other jobs around here but working' fur ye.”
“We'll, right, ye should have thought it’ bit 'at fore yer opened your yap in disrespect. We ain’t lads no more an' yer ain’t me mucker, never were.” Chalmers pulled a roll of bills out of his front pocket and peeled off a few. “Here’s whit I owe ye an' a bit more tae send ye on year way.”
Guirmean kept his hands to his side. He knew once he took the money, it was over. He was out another job. He didn’t even want to look at it.
“Go’an on tik it.” Chalmers shouted “Tik it and piss off.”
Guirmean still didn’t reach out. He didn’t even look up. His skin bubbled pink with heat. Choking on a lifetime of rage, his throat swelled shut. He pushed hard against his emotions and stuffed them back into the empty black.
“Jesus Christ, fuck it.” Guirmean grabbed the bills. He tossed his shovel and spit, turned his back to the job he just lost and walked away. “No sense in worryin' abit it no. what’s dain is dain.” his mind rationalized, “fine for ye ta say, but whit am I gonna tell Da?”
There was no answer to that, at least none that Guirmean wanted to hear. He just followed his stumble all the way past the Campbell’s place at the edge of town and up into the hills. He was up was up near the big rock that’s split down the middle. The one they call Inverclyde Hideout. Up there the air is always damp and milky. The fog hovers thick around the top half of the hill. Generations of locals have speculated about the malicious portents and the ghastly lurkings that emanated from their indigenous Olympus of evil. Dark tales of what goes on up there in the fog made great excuses for things nobody wanted to explain and sparked nightmares in sleeping children. Men could move like shadows and shadows melanized into men betwixt the heavy fog.
Guirmean knew all that was a cart load of shite. He knew the demons weren’t on some soggy hillside, they were in his head.
He was out of breath. He flopped down and lay out on his back. The fog was so thick; it almost felt like rain across his face. Droplets collected on his forehead and trickled down whatever side gravity fancied. Guirmean pulled a rumpled pack of Kensitas Clubs from his front pocket and plucked out one of the lesser bent ciggies. He popped the fag between his lips.
“Fuck!” he thought, “I don have a fucking light.”
He plunged both hands into their respective pocket and fumbled for a lighter he knew wasn’t there. It was just another disappointment in a washout day of total failure. All the air emptied out of his lungs with a giant sigh and all his anger left him, leaving his muscles slack against the damp earth. He felt like a turd, abandoned by its maker to petrify on some mossy slope. Wisps of stream rose from his body, dancing in the air like kelp in the undertow. He just wanted to leave, leave this dead end town, leave his shitty job, leave his wasted life and just fucking forget it all. Life wasn’t worth the struggle.
Guirmean despised all the people that believed in the lie that life was a gift. If life was a gift, it was the worst present he ever got. It was worse than getting a pair of socks for Christmas. It was like God, just like Santa, never read his Christmas list and gave him whatever crappy gift was left in the bottom of his bag after handing out all of the cool shit.
“I never asked for this!” Guirmean shouted up to the stars. “I didn’t choose to be born.”
Guirmean chuckled at himself. Nobody chooses this shit. He thought about those Sunday school lessons that said all of us were up there in Heaven clamoring to be born. We were all just begging God to kick us out of Nirvana and spend a couple of years getting shit on by the other ones lucky enough to be born into privilege and oh yea, fight off Satan while we’re mucking about the entire pile of shit.
“What a fucking lark. A pile a shit I ain’t gonna swallow no more. Yaw hear me yaw bastard? I ain’t buying your shit no more.” German’s voice detonated into the night, “I don’t want what you’re selling. I just want some peace. I want to just lie here and watch time go by, nobody to bother me and nothing to do. I just want the whole world to let me be.”
He went rigid. Every muscle in his body flexed in acrimony then softened as his consciousness blurred under the strain. The world went swirled into a brilliant gray.
Guirmean was startled by the sound of footsteps coming up the hill. He tried to rise but gravity kept him pinned to the earth. He craned his neck, peering down the hill into the fog, but couldn’t see who was approaching. The stranger’s footsteps echoed louder as the got closer. Still, Guirmean could see nothing.
Suddenly, a shadow materialized out of the mist.
It was a man. A giant of a man, his outline stretched across the mist like a house. He was bigger than any man Guirmean had ever seen before. The atmosphere stagnated and putrefied. There was no noise as the shadow floated up to him in a velvety skate. For a second, Guirmean felt panic, then unclipped into calm. Time slowed to a crawl.
The shadow exploded into to a brilliant glare. Guirmean tried to shield his eyes with his left hand.
“Guirmean, I have heard your questions of doubt.” The specter pulsated as it spoke. “I can affirm your beliefs.”
“Piss off!” Guirmean extended his arm and gave the apparition the finger.
The spectacle fluttered rapidly. “I am the Eidelon of Numen. I have come to assuage your fears.”
Guirmen sat up. “Look you sparkling twat of whatever, unless you got £100,000 and a life supply of whiskey, you better just piss the fuck off. I don’t want your bullshit. I just want to be left alone. I just want to sit here forever. I never want to have to lift a finger again. I just want some bloody fucking peace. I want you and the whole fucking world to leave me alone and just let me sit here.”
There was no response. The sparkle just faded into a dot, then disappeared. Guirmean smiled. He was filled with a calm peace. He tried to roll over and go to sleep but couldn’t. He seemed stuck. He tried again but couldn’t move. Exhausted, he gave up and drifted off to sleep.
He woke in the morning with a cool mist splashing on his face. He knew that a good soaking rain was soon to come and that he better get home before it hit. He tried to stand but couldn’t. In fact, he couldn’t move at all, not even a wiggle. There was nothing he could do. He pushed and pushed against the constraint, but to no avail. Frustrated, he screamed for help but no sound came out. He screamed again. Again, there was nothing but silence.
Two weeks went by and still Guirmean found himself stuck in the ground. He had stopped screaming. Sooner or later, he figured somebody would come up here and find him. One day some people did wander up there. Two people, a young couple, went up Ferguson Hill to be alone and have a picnic above the mist.
The walked up and spread out a blanket right next to Guirmean. He tried to scream and get there attention but was frozen. The young lovers frolicked about for a while in the fog then collapsed with silly giggles on the blanket next Guirmean.
“Can’t you see me?” he tried to scream, “I’ right here.”
They heard nothing or ignored him. Without any shame the made love. At one point, the girl was even bent over Guirmean. They were oblivious to his plight. He was just part of the landscape, inanimate and disregarded. When the two were done, they packed up and went on their way. The never gave Guirmean any mind.
After they were gone, Guirmean realized his fate. He screamed that this isn’t what he meant, but nobody heard his pleas.
Everyone left him alone.