The Rolling Hills

Do I or do I not cross?

The question echoes in my mind as I watch the rolling hills outside my window. Clumps of green that rise and fall in a feast of color that should be soothing except the rolls are not a trick of the eye. The land around my village truly moves, breaking away from the ground and then swinging back down as if it’s an eternal jump rope. No one knows why the hills roll this way. They just always have.

And I wonder, Do I cross them?           

It’s exciting to think about what I might find beyond the hills. Mother has books describing wonderful lands. There could be castles with towers so high they touch the clouds, and rivers so blue they resemble the feathers of blue jays. Waterfalls that roar like dragons. Valleys that dip low into meadows of yellow daffodils like fallen stars. Then, most of all, there could be people, ones that don’t look like anyone within the rolling hills, who have stories of everywhere they’ve been. I’ve never met anyone outside the village.

But just as the hills have always rolled, it’s always been a mystery what’s on the other side of them. What I discover may not be everything I hope for. It could be a nightmare, and I could wish that I had never left home.

So, I wonder, Do I stay where it’s familiar?

There’s just over a hundred of us surrounded by the rolling hills, so we know everyone by name. There’s a sweetness to this, a sense of comfort that you’ll always be taken care of, no matter what life tosses your way. Not that anything that awful ever happens here. It’s like we’re a pocket in the universe that’s been overlooked by hardship.

But in this village surrounded by the rolling hills, not much occurs that’s interesting either. It’s boring and predictable, and I realized recently that all my paintings look the same: waving, green land stretching infinitely. I worry that I will lose my mind pacing here in this beautiful sanctuary forever. Which is why I wonder:

Do I cross?

Do I stay?

Do I cross?

Always on repeat.

As I go through the never-ending questions in my mind, Mother sits in her rocking chair, knitting me a sweater out of turquoise yarn. I look in my bedroom where the sleeves of a dozen sweaters in different colors peek out like floppy ears from my dresser’s top drawer. Pretty soon I’ll have to stack them on the floorboards, but Mother will keep knitting. She loves knitting, I know, that’s what she asserts every day. Still, her eyes are distant when she says it. I see the rolling hills reflected in them. I can’t be sure if this is the life she dreamed of when she was my age or if she has accepted her fate.

I lean my head on the windowpane, letting my breath fog the glass. There’s handprint stains on the wood from where I have rested my palms over the years, so detailed that you can see my fingerprints. The paint is chipping, and in a couple more years my hand will be riddled with splinters if I touch the same spot. Even this house doesn’t want me to remain.

But how can I leave?

I’m so tired of not knowing what to do.  

“Ouch!” I wince.

“Hannah?” Mother asks, pausing her knitting. For a moment, she is back in our cottage with me, instead of travelling with her hands.

“I’m okay,” I tell her, pulling out the splinter from my thumb. “But this windowsill is falling apart. I should probably sand it down.”

“That will be great,” she agrees before nodding and continuing what she was doing.

Cradling my hand, I look at the rolling hills one more time. They seem to growl as the top of the hill scratches the rocky passage underneath, and there’s no doubt that they are threatening, but still, I am curious. What if the places past the rolling hills are extraordinary, where contentment is replaced by joy? I would like to be happy. I don’t know how happy I’ve ever truly been. Is that what lies beyond the rolling hills? Could there possibly be something better than peace?

I don’t know. I never know! What do I do?

My thumb throbs from where the splinter left it, and I think of the disintegrating windowsill that I’ve started to blend with.

“I’m leaving,” I blurt, watching as Mother purls the yarn without flinching.

She does not reply.     

The hills roll in the window behind Mother like a giant, jade serpent. For an instant, I question my decision. When that moment passes, however, I find that I don’t want to take it back. Instead, I gather my things from my room in the back of the house, leaving several sweaters behind, yet taking as many as I can carry. All the while, Mother knits as she always does like nothing is happening.

The growling of the rolling hills seems to grow louder as I move back into the den, a sanding stone in hand for the windows. I smooth all of them down which takes close to an hour, then, when everything is together, I stand by the doorway, the clacking of Mother’s needles like clock hands in my ear that bring me back to reality.

“Mom,” I whisper.

The clacks of her needles stop, so all I hear are the rumbling, rolling hills.

I’m not sure I can leave without acknowledgement from her. I’m not sure my feet will let me, so I wipe my eyes and wet my lips, prepared to say what I must to get Mother to hear. Yet my words are cut off. Mother is speaking, eyes down.

“So, you’re going?” she says, knitting once more. “About time you got away from here.”

Michelle Koubek is an autistic woman who loves outer space and coin collecting. Her short stories and poems have been published in various venues including Factor Four Magazine, Strange Horizons, and Abyss & Apex. To get to know her better, visit her website at https://www.michellekoubek.com