The Old Man and The Hill
by Robert McCammon
(with great respect to Ernest Hemingway’s The Old Man and The Sea)
There was an old man who lived in a small town. It was not so much a small town now, but it had been a small town in the old man’s youth and in his memory it remained so.
The old man enjoyed many things. He liked the sounds of the summer night, the gold of the sunrise on a spring morning, the smell of autumn leaves and a fireplace in the winter because he did not so much like the cold.
He enjoyed walking. Many places he walked around this town which used to be small. Sometimes he took a cigar and lit it against the wind just to see if he could and then he walked.
In this town there stood a very high hill. It was the one place the old man had never walked because it was so high and hard to get up and so many told him it was a hard walk and he did not know if he could walk up all the way but he tried.
He feared this hill because it reminded him of his youth and how he could walk up any hill not breathing hard and down again refreshed and knowing there was no place he could not walk if he chose to. But this hill made him afraid because he tried to walk it and got breathless not even halfway up and his heart beat hard not like in his youth when he felt he could stride the world.
He heard the stories about this hill. They said it was a long hard walk up and it took your breath and sometimes for a long time did not give it back, but if you got to the top you could see the entire town at your feet and up there was the aroma of roses and honeysuckle and flowers that no one had even named yet. They said up there was perfume in the air and when you breathed it all the age fled from you and you felt again the strength and purpose of youth. But they said an old man could not make it up that hill, it was only for the young and the strong and it was right for him to fear it.
The old man thought about this for a long time. He thought he would try again, and if he did not reach the top he could say he tried which is what an old man says when he fails at something.
On a summer morning when it was not so warm as it sometimes was in this town he started off and he was strong maybe not in his legs and in his heart but in his mind which did count for something. He followed the road that went up this hill, and you could see way up there the beautiful houses of the rich people who did not ever have to walk the hill because they already lived there and their lives were spent looking down upon the town. He followed the road and only partway up the hill became mean to an old man’s legs and the hill spoke to him and said go back, old man. Go back because I can kill you if I want to.
But he went on and he was sweating under his shirt and on his face and suddenly the summer sun was hot and the blue sky looked like flame but he went on.
And step after step his legs were heavier and heavier and his heart beat harder and his lungs were pained. And he heard the hill laughing at him in the breeze that felt in his face like the kiss from an oven, and the hill said old man you are the worst fool I have ever seen.
And the old man answered back in his mind because he had lost the breath to speak, and in his mind he said you won’t beat me you hill you won’t make me stop you won’t kill me because today this day I am going to conquer you and stand atop you. This day I shall look down upon all the town and I shall smell the roses and the honeysuckle and the flowers that no one had even named yet and I will know that I have done something good.
And the hill was silent but the old man felt it watching him.
He knew it was counting his steps. Such a long way to the top, on this road that seemed to go on forever into the burning sky. He knew this hill was listening to him and hearing his heartbeat, and when he stopped to get a breath he heard it laugh and still he went on higher and higher as it got steeper and it laughed and laughed because he was thinking he could not continue on he was so tired and it was true the hill could kill him if it chose.
He went on.
Sometimes, he thought, a man must push himself beyond all limits. It was true. Sometimes a man must do something because it has to be done. And this was also true.
He went on.
Steeper and steeper this hill became, and its laughter more harsh in the old man’s ears. Where was the top? Way up there, a hundred miles it seemed, where the trees stood bent by the wind that came over the hill like a thousand hands shaping the world.
He went on.
His heart was hurting and his legs ached and his lungs were furnaces in his chest, but he went on. And the hill screamed at him go back you old man you fool it was right to fear me go back go back but the old man saw the top and he thought just a little more pain a little more work and I will be there to smell the perfume of youth.
Up and up and up and up, past the beautiful houses of the rich and up and up toward the trees at the very top and the hill dragged at his feet as if it had become quicksand but he shook free of it and with sweat running from his face and his shirt wet and his heart hurting he suddenly found himself at the very top of the hill with the whole town spread out before him and the hill let out a cry of despair because it had not won this battle with the old man.
And when the old man wiped his face and looked down upon the town he drew a breath of the perfumed air but smelled only rankness because at that moment a garbage truck rumbled by on its way down the hill, taking with it what the rich people had thrown away.
There was no aroma of roses, neither of honeysuckle nor of flowers that no one had ever named yet. There was only the mean heat of the summer sun and the smell of his own sweat but it was honest sweat and the old man smiled when he heard the hill give a small conquered mutter meant just for him.
It was not so hard going down.
In his house the old man thought about this very much. It was not the perfumed air that counted. It was not the promise of regained youth and strength, because that was always a fantasy. It was not looking down upon the town, or even standing up at the very top of that long road and steep hill.
It was that he had trusted himself to get there, and he had done the work. He had pushed through the aching legs, the grieved lungs and the hurting heart. He had done the work the best he could and he had satisfied himself with the labor, and he thought that was a very good thing. It made him smile again.
The old man thought about this for a long time, and then he turned off the lamp and went to sleep.