Thatcher’s Hill

Updated: 2 days ago

The Lonely Farm, 1892, George Inness (American, 1825–1894), The Art Institute of Chicago

By Molly Murphy-Major

There were two planes in the sky, one of which she covered with her thumb, and

alternated her vision from one eye to the other to make it appear and disappear. Strangely, it

had gotten colder since the sun had come out; the expanse of winter had drenched the air in a

bitterness that couldn’t be permeated by any light. But everything above was a beautiful blue,

and the planes had neatly streaked it with powdery white. Lucille had walked to the park early

that morning to sit on the frosted benches with her thermos. No blanket. She didn’t mind a

damp butt. But she wrapped herself in a thick, draping scarf and wiped her nose on it every so

often. She knew after sitting there for a while that the tip of her nose would be pink, which

delighted her. The park became desolate at this time of year, but slowly, as the morning hours

went on, people drifted in and out, walking along the banks and steering clear of the islands of

deserted picnic tables. People in sunglasses. Dogs. Dogs in little pink booties and knit sweaters. People walking their dogs in white puffers that made them look like marshmallows come to

life.

She enjoyed the silence that blanketed everything, that all she could hear was the

shuffling of feet and the wind through bare tree branches. But today, something was creeping

into the silence she didn’t like. A memory. It was time to leave, quickly, so fast that the heat of

her body would rise and fill her wool coat. Her fast pace drowned out that slow shuffle of other

travellers. One, two, one-two-three-four-five-six—- her feet slid underneath her on an icy

path. She recovered and continued on. But there it was again, that prodding memory, of its

neck and blank eyes. Of the leaking red on the white snow. The return of winter always brought her back there. The cry that sounded like somebody else’s but was in fact hers, the hands that tried to bury it away from her sight. Lucille squeezed her eyes shut and then opened them again. But it was still there. She had made it to the house and fumbled stupidly with her keys until the door finally pushed open, relieved by the warmth, the smell of faded embers in the fireplace. She lay down on the living room floor and stayed there for a while.

She was fifteen and still acted a bit young for her age. It was January, and though the

majority of her friends had convinced themselves they were fully phased out of their sledding

days, she had convinced one of them, Michael, to join her for the day outside in their snow

suits.

“Okay,” he said at lunch, which was chicken pot pie. It was far too hot, and Lucille

hated its contents, so she had carefully picked along the exterior and only ate the pastry. “But

I’m going to bring my tube. It’ll go way faster. Plus I don’t even think I’d fit in the little kiddy

one you’re bringing.” Lucille rolled her eyes and laughed a little too loudly. Some girls at the

table next to her stared.

“Fine. But you have to give me a turn on it.”

Michael’s tube was indeed much faster than any sledding device she’d ever used. They

had walked on the side of the road a mile and a half past her house and finally ventured onto

the golf course, which had the finest hill in the area. It was the best because the drop was quick,

and following the first hill, there were a few bumps that could send you flying from the initial

acceleration. Lucille squealed and tumbled each time; her braids had frozen over, and tiny

crystals formed over her eyelashes. Michael stood at the top of the hill watching her, his stance

wide and his hands on his hips. Lucille struggled up and flopped over dramatically once she got

to the top.

“Do you see that hill over there?” he said, pointing across the golf course. Lucille sat up

and squinted her eyes.

“The one on the Thatcher’s farm?” she said. “That’s private. I don’t think we can go

there.”

“Who’s gonna stop us? I don’t see any signs.”

Lucille sighed. She didn’t like breaking rules. Michael liked to test things.

Following his trail, Lucille carefully stepped into his footprints until they reached the wooden

fence lining the farm. Michael turned around and raised his eyebrows.

“Trespassers beware,” he said, and hopped over the fence swiftly. The farm was stark

and silent, with pine and maple trees edging the property. Once they reached the top, the hill

on the golf course looked quite small in comparison. Lucille almost felt dizzy.

“I think I’ll take the sled,” she said, and tried to hide the shake in her hands as she sat

down and gripped its ropes.

“Need a push?” Michael asked, and before she could say no, he gave her a shove and

sent her flying down.

“Michael!” She felt the ground skipping underneath her as the sled sped up. As her

heart rose into her throat, she noticed that at the bottom of the hill, there was a large, man-

made pile of snow. It was far too high for her to jump over. Tightening her fingers around the

reins, she jerked the sled in an attempt to stop it, but this only threw her sideways, and she

crashed into the bank. Her body was buried deep in the snow. She gasped and pushed herself

up, wiping the wet off her face. Something underneath her gloved hand felt soft; there was a

give that didn’t feel like ground, it felt alive and malleable. Curious, she pressed down harder,

but it was hard to tell what it was exactly, so she took off her glove to feel it better. She recoiled

at the touch of what felt like fur. Pushing the snow away, she unearthed part of a torso, and

then finally its head. It was a horse, and its fur was soaked in blood, spreading from the middle

of its stomach into the snow, a deep, maroonish red. Its mouth was slightly agape, and she

could see the black of its gums and stained yellow teeth. She could hear the quickening

footsteps of Michael behind her. Beyond that, it was completely silent. She could feel Michael

shaking her, trying to speak to her, but all Lucille could see was the red covering her hands and

the horse’s clouded eyes.