THE HILL

Peter Billig
THE HILL

It was a clear summer evening. He was eight, standing on the top of a hill. To the right, the last red afterglow was going out, to the left, the stars were already shining. A black silhouette of a mountain range stood out on the horizon like a paper cutout. As the stars began to spread all over the heavenly ceiling, he had a sensation, frightening at first, then awesome, that he is not standing here and imbibing this view for the first time. Once, he was someone else and this someone – he, as it is he who is remembering this – made an important decision just here, on this very hilltop. What was it now…?
"Where are you, you brat!" called a harsh voice from below.
"I'm coming now, Mom!" he called back and ran downhill, the memory gone.
"You promised to come after sunset! Supper's getting cold!"
As he was eating, he strove to recall the consciousness of having been someone else, but the thought seemed absurd under the low ceiling of the hut.

He had a strong dream that night. He was in a town in some distant century. As he was walking the narrow streets, he recognized houses on both sides and remembered their names and purpose: a city hall, a blacksmith's, a mercer's, a grocer's, a gunsmith's, a bell-founder's, an inn and so on. He came to a broad river, and crossing it on a bridge with fancy towers he remembered that a famous person had been thrown down from here. He went uphill to a huge castle: the gate was open. With sure steps he strolled past a half-finished church to an alley glued to the ramparts. It was "his" and he knew which of the tiny houses was "his". He came to the door and spelt the name on the nameplate – his own. He awoke with a start.

One summer vacation twenty-five years later he was visiting Prague, a city he has never experienced before. First, he participated in an astrology seminar, astrology being his great hobby. Then there was time to play the tourist. And here he was with a guidebook in his hand, standing before the old city hall, a peculiar structure. Suddenly, he had an uncanny feeling of having seen this unique building before. Obviously, he had read illustrated material about Prague before going, but it did not explain the eerie quality of the experience. Then he remembered: it was the city hall from that long, long forgotten dream!
Being inside an evolving dream gave him goose flesh. He decided to follow through. He trod in the footsteps of the dream throughout the Old City, walking in the general direction of the river and recognizing the blacksmith's, the mercer's, the grocer's, the gunsmith's, the bell-founder's, the inn and so on through their now modern trappings.
He reached the river. The bridge was there. In the dream it had not been adorned with the statues of the saints (added by Counterreformation from 1685 on, the guidebook said), but the fancy towers gave it away.
He crossed the bridge (whence St John of Nepomuk had been thrown down, he read) and went up to the Castle. The unfinished church has grown into a consummate cathedral. He went to the alley from the dream, glued to the ramparts. It proved to be Golden Lane where Emperor Rudolph's alchemists lived: they were supposed to find a way of producing gold from base metals. At that time, Prague was the occult capital of Europe, full of astrologers, alchemists and magicians, the guidebook said.
He found "his" house: it was an innocent souvenir shop now, but it gave him a shudder, nevertheless.

Five years later, the first morning of his summer vacation. The exams are over, his students gone. He puts his Latin off his mind, ready to go holidaymaking, as he has been planning all the year. He has packed the car but now he feels like not going to the sea after all. What an unexpected change of heart! Where to, then? At once, the name of the destination enters his mind. He checks the road atlas: only one entry of that name: a village in the Foothills District, so he drives there instead.

Halfway, he stops at a roadside diner. He orders and sees a magazine, left by another customer, opened on a picture of the information plaque from the probe "Pioneer", sent by the U.S. at the end of the 1960's to meet Extraterrestrials. He looks closer. The messenger carried images of man and woman and a diagram of the Solar System. Aliens will be joyous finding it, now knowing that there is life in Space! And where Earth is and what manner of creature we humans are, should they feel like invading, ha, ha!

But what if we had sent the messenger not for the benefit of aliens but of ourselves?
"You all right?" inquires the waitress coming with his soup.
"Fine, I just had a very crazy thought."
She nods and leaves. This short exchange and the enticing smell of the food changes his priorities. He begins to eat, but the thought would not give up. It hits him again and he freezes with the spoon in midair.
If we, who now are Earthlings, are later reborn in another part of the Universe, a plaque from Earth could be, on Sirius or Aldebaran, a welcome reminder of a former incarnation.

He puts the spoon down and lets the thought think itself out: the sojourn on Earth is for gathering experience to carry out an assignment elsewhere. The sojourn elsewhere is for an assignment here. On Earth an exchange takes place: a part of one's soul is invested in Earth and it stays within Earth after one's death. One's body improves Earth by staying behind. It's of a better stuff, having been so close to the soul. Earth reciprocates by enriching the soul via the body, by making new parts of the soul grow. The new parts are the reason why a sojourn on another planet is now feasible. It all makes sense! So it can go on all over the galaxies, with repeated sojourns on the same planets, perhaps as member of a different species whenever on Earth? This traveling between distant worlds might be the meaning of one's existence as an entity…

"You don't like the soup?" the waitress arrives with his main course. "The cook believes himself to be the reincarnation of Brillat-Savarin. Puts his soul into the soup, we hear but praise and acclaim!"
"It's excellent. It's that crazy thought, I'm afraid. Could you explain to the cook…?"

She nods and leaves with the cold soup.

What did she say? The cook puts his dick in the soup?
He visualized the scene and burst out in laughter. The other guests began to stare. He shut up shaking with stifled laughter, tears pouring down his cheeks. Eating was impossible.

"So you left the main course, too. Been crying over it? It's not that bad, some people like it. The cook won't accept apologies this time. He'll go for you with the cleaver!"
He smiled and gave her a bill.
"Keep the change."
"No." She gave him change and pressed her own coins on him. "I'm tipping you for the entertainment."

The name of his destination appeared on a signboard by the road; a moment later he recognized the hut, and the summer vacation with his mother years, years ago came vividly back. It was here – that dream, which led to the curious experience in Prague! This great sensation, top of a hill!

And the hill appeared. He stopped the car and ran up.
To the right the last afterglow was going out and to the left the stars were already shining. Before him there was a black silhouette of a mountain range, like a paper cutout on the horizon. As the stars began to spread over the heavens, he had a sensation, at first frightening then awesome, that he is not standing here for the first time. Once, he was someone else and this someone – but actually he, as it is him who is remembering this – had made an important decision just here, on this very hilltop.
What was it now…? He sat down, closed his eyes, fell down the well of his inner space – and landed in Prague, crossing the bridge. Like in the old dream, the saint-figures were gone, as were the buildings built later than the early 1600's. Now he could fully appreciate it: the monstrous Wallenstein Palace, for example, wasn't there.
He went up to the Castle, entered Golden Lane and walked to his house. The door was locked. As he was searching for the key, he suddenly felt very cold – and found himself back on the hill, shivering.
It was 3 a.m. and dark, except for the stars. He fetched his sleeping bag from the car, found some level ground on the hilltop, crawled into the bag and was fast asleep:

Now he was by the door, turning the key. The room looked like a medieval laboratory: pipes and alembics arranged on long tables, shelves with varicolored jars, flasks and phials, containing chemicals, as he could tell by the smells. The fireplace was ablaze, even though it was summer.
A desk by the window was covered with writings and drawings. A man was scribbling laboriously with a quill. Immediately he knew: he and this man are one and the same person!

The man finished scrawling and fetched a little glass bottle from a shelf. He rolled the paper, he just had written, and placed it inside. He skillfully melted the neck down over the fire. There was no doubt: an important document has been placed in a time capsule.
A man with a whip knocked on the window:
"Your coach is ready, sir."
"I'm coming," the other replied, put the bottle in his breast pocket and reached for his cape and hat…

He awakes with a shudder. It is very cold; the sleeping bag is covered with dew. The sun is rising. The dream has been so vivid that to be back on the hill feels like being in a different universe.
He stands up, urinates, fetches a screwdriver from the car and begins to jab the soil off the level part where he just has been sleeping. The metal scratches against glass, and he digs on with his hands, extracts the little bottle. He rinses it in the dew. Yes, it is intact; the paper is still inside. He breaks the glass and unrolls the paper, actually a parchment.
There is a horoscope of one Adalbertus de Praga, drawn in the antiquated square-based style, and a text in Latin:

When I, Adalbertus of Prague, alchemist and astrologer, was on 15 August 1600 AD bivouacking on this hilltop, I was shaken to the deepest of my soul by an enormous view. As with wondering eyes I was watching the stars being born on the evening sky simultaneously with the black ridge of the mountains and a bloody sunset, a feeling in my heart and a thought in my head were born spontaneously: death is not the end of a human's life, but the beginning of a future life. There is no point in fearing death: when a human dies, the soul leaves the dead body, freed of carnal constraints. At the astrologically proper time, when the mistakes of the previous life best can be straightened by virtue of the favorable configuration of the planets, the very same soul enters a new body. That is why it is called metempsychosis in Greek and reincarnatio in Latin. To me, my doctrine seems to be a pernicious one because it is not in accord with the Scriptures and the Church, but more like a religion of heretics. Whom shall I believe: the heretics or the Fathers? Other people's authority or myself? Is it a deceptive daydream or a true hope? If it is not just a specter, let this be the token and testimony for you – or should I say "me"? Because if you should recall this had been written and find this container and read this report, what more should you require than this testimony, this token and this document? I stretch both my arms out to you (to me) through the chasm of eternity. Get born (let me get born), live (let me live) and stay fit (let me stay fit)![1]

"My private Pioneer has arrived," he thought and heaved a sigh of relief.

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[1] The horoscope is private and will not be published, and the original Latin text reads as follows:

Ego, Adalbertus de Praga, alchemista & astrologus, die XV Aug. A.D. MDC hic in summo colle cum tempus tererem, visu enormi sum percussus usque ad imam animam. Nam cum stellas in caelo vesperino nascentia simul cum nigro derso montium & cruento Solis occasu oculis admirantibus animadverterem, sponte sua sensus in corde & cogitatio huius generis in animo nati: non esse mortem finem vitae humanae, sed initium vitae futurae. Non est timenda mors: moritur homo, dissolutis carnis catenis anima corpus mortuum relinquit, & cum tempus astrologice idoneum obventurum sit, quando peccata pristinae vitae ex constellatione planetarum facillime emendabuntur, ingreditur anima ipsissima in carnem novam; quare Graece metempsychosis, Latine reincarnatio appellatur. Quae doctrina ideo mi perniciosa videtur, quod contra Scripturas & Ecclesiam ad haereticorum paganorumque spectat religionem. Cui credam? haereticisne an Patribus? auctoritati aliorum aut mihimet ipsi? Est phantasma falsum aut spes vera? Si spectrum non est, en tibi – dicamne "mihi”? – signaculum testimoniumque: quod si scriptum recordatus fueris, repositorium inveneris, hunc nuntium legeris, quid hoc testimonio, hoc signo, hoc documento amplius requires? Bracchia ambo tibi (mihi) super abyssum aeternitatis protendo. Nascere (nascar), vive (vivam), vale (valeam)!

Copyright 2007 Peter Billig