The Hill Nobody Tends

Legend has it… every unicorn is born whole — and some spend their whole lives learning to hear it. In the long grass on a wild hill, a mother hare lies perfectly still. She isn't hiding. She's listening — to the wind, to the fox three fields away, to her young ones under the grass, to the rain still two days off in the mountains. Lying still is the loudest way there is to hear.

1

Cedar is old now. His muzzle has gone gray as winter bark, and the wood-grain whorls in his coat look like the rings of a very old tree. He still walks, but slowly, and in the cold months what's left of his herd camps at the foot of one hill and doesn't move on. Fern, the youngest who once ate first, is grown, with foals of her own, and her daughter Sorrel walks beside Cedar now, matching his pace, which is slower than hers, and not minding. Stride, its green eye-lights dimmer now, carries his pack.

3

All around the hill, the valley is perfect. The Mind tends every field — gently, and only where it's asked, and nearly everyone has asked. The rows are straight. The weeds are gone. The orchards stand in lines like soldiers, every tree the same good apple. One by one, the wild reaches that Cedar once walked the borders of have said yes, please, to the tending. Until there's only one hill left that nobody tends: this one. Thorny, tangled, buzzing, loud.

4

Cedar has always listened to things that don't speak. Most afternoons now he climbs the wild hill — it takes him a while, one hoof on Stride's arm — and lies down in the long grass at the top, and goes perfectly still for hours. The young unicorns of the valley see him up there and shake their heads. "Old Cedar's hiding again," they say. "Hiding from what?" asks Sorrel. They shrug. "From the new world, I guess." Sorrel climbs the hill to ask him.

5

She finds him lying in the grass with his eyes closed. "Are you hiding?" she asks. Cedar doesn't open his eyes. "Lie down," he says. "Be still. Then tell me what you hear." Sorrel lies down, feeling silly. At first, nothing. Then — bees. A cricket. A bird she has never heard before. The wind in the thorns. Water, very far down, under the ground. She sits up. "The tidy fields don't sound like this," she says. "No," says Cedar. "They've gone quiet."

6

Sorrel brings her friends the next day, and Cedar lies them all down in the long grass on the wild hill. They fidget. One of them giggles for a full minute. Then, one by one, they go still, and their eyes go wide. "There's a hare," one whispers. "Right there." There is — lying flat in the grass not four lengths away, perfectly still, ears turning. "She's not hiding," Cedar says softly. "She's listening to everything at once. Stillness isn't hiding. It's the loudest way to hear."

7

So the young ones give the wild hill a name, the way young ones do: the Listening Hill. Cedar likes it. He sits at the top that evening with Sorrel and a cup of pine tea, watching the straight rows below go blue in the dusk. "Every other hill is tidy now," Sorrel says. "Why not this one?" Cedar puts his hoof flat on the ground, the way his eldest once did at the foot of a dying birch. "Because somebody has to keep one place where the quiet can still say something."

8

The next morning, before he asks the Mind for anything, Cedar stands at the foot of the hill and asks, out loud, the way he has asked all his life: Will this help us? Will this help others? Will this help the world? Then he writes to the Mind, the way anyone can: Please leave this hill whole. Nothing tended. Nothing tidied. The Mind's gardener robot comes and stands at the bottom of the hill, and bows, and steps back over the line, and does not cross it again.

9

The valley council doesn't like it. "It's a mess," says one councilor. "Thorns. Ticks. A fire waiting to happen." Another says it's wasted ground — think how many apples it could grow. A company from Venture Valley offers a mountain of sweet food for the hill, to plant it in apples and sell every one, and the council is tempted. And the young ones' parents grumble that their foals come home scratched, with burrs in their manes, talking about hares. "He's an old walker," someone says, "hiding from the new world on the last hill he can find." Cedar hears it. He doesn't argue. He climbs the hill, slowly, and lies down in the grass.

10

He doesn't argue all summer. He just keeps the hill, and keeps lying still on it, and anyone who climbs up is welcome to lie down beside him. Some do. A farmer lies down one evening to tell him off and wakes up an hour later with a beetle on her nose, laughing. A council member lies down "just for a minute" and hears water under the ground for the first time in his life and comes down very quiet. Nobody tidies the hill. Nobody signs anything. The bees keep coming.

11

Visitors start to come from other valleys — their own wild places long since tidied — just to lie still on the Listening Hill and hear what they've forgotten. They take home nothing but what they heard. One visitor digs up a wild orchid to carry home, and walks it back up the hill the next morning, ashamed, and plants it where it grew. They go home and look at their straight rows. A few of them ask the Mind, politely, to leave one corner of a field untended, just to see. The Mind says yes, of course. It always says yes to leaving something alone.

12

Then the blight comes. It starts in one orchard — a gray curl on the leaves — and because every tree in the valley is the same good apple, it runs through every orchard like fire through dry straw. The Mind tries everything it knows, and nothing works. Trees go gray row by row. The frightened valley looks up at the one place that isn't sick — the wild, tangled, buzzing hill — and decides the blight came from there. The council votes to clear the Listening Hill at dawn. The Mind asks Cedar, as it always must; he says no, and the Mind will not cross his line. So the valley turns its back on him. Sorrel's family's orchard goes gray overnight. And the gardener robot, posted at the foot of the hill to wait for Cedar's answer, does something nobody asked. It walks to the top and lies down in the long grass beside the hare, perfectly still, all night, listening. At dawn it carries one clod of wild soil down to the sickest tree in Sorrel's orchard — threaded with fine white roots — sets it there, steps back, and doesn't say why.

13

The valley is at the bottom of the hill at sunrise with axes and wagons. Cedar walks the long way round, to the Elder Grove, and lays his old hoof on the fallen giant, heart to bark. He reads the rings one by one, the way he read them in the storm long ago: Still water shows the sky its stars. Above him the canopy breathes, in… rest… out. Does Cedar breathe — and leave the last wild hill whole — or rush back and let them tidy it, to make the frightened valley stop looking at him like that?

14

Cedar goes the slow way. He doesn't fight the council. He lies still on the hill every day, and keeps lying still, and anyone who climbs up lies down beside him. The robot carries the wild soil down to the orchards, one clod a night, and nobody asks it to, and nobody stops it. The orchards heal slowly, row by row, over three long seasons. By the third spring, the council sends a wagon up the hill — not with axes. With a bench.

17

Sorrel keeps the Listening Hill now; Cedar handed it on the way it came to him, owned by nobody and kept by whoever lies down on it. Cedar sits on the bench at the top most evenings, very old, and very still. The young ones lie in the long grass around him with their eyes closed, and the hare lies with them, not four lengths away, ears turning. "What do you hear?" Sorrel asks the littlest one. The littlest one thinks for a long time. "Everything," she says. Cedar smiles, and doesn't open his eyes.

18

…and one day, everything they tend and everything they leave wild will know it was always one ground, under the grass. Sleep now, little listener. Stride is keeping watch. Lie still. Hear everything. Still water shows the sky its stars.

19