Fiction

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Zion’s Hill


My name is Zion. I’ve never written anything before, I’m not even sure if that last punctuation mark was supposed to be a comma or a semicolon. But my story begins and ends on my hill.



I had just woken up from a restless night of tossing and turning. My wife and I were in the midst of a fight that I was sure would never end. She had gotten up and left in the early hours and taken a walk, but she had not returned since. Our son was sleeping in his crib and his rest was so peaceful that I was sure that even a roaring elephant couldn’t wake him from his slumber. I walked outside our wooden cottage that I had built myself the three weeks before my wife and I were to wed. I was so nervous to finish the dwelling quickly that the foundation tilted upward as to face the sky. I built it on a hilltop to provide tranquility from others and such. I loved the hill and named it my own.

As I emerged from my home my eyes were pierced by the rising son, for my eyes were slower than my body in the waking process. I had a bad feeling about this day already and I told myself right then and there, “Maybe tomorrow will be glad.” O, if I had only known.

It was waxing into the day and my wife had still not come home from her walk. In fact, she was never out this late to walk. So I set afoot to find her and left my son to his crib; he had been playing all day with our young shepherd and was very tired, indeed. I opened the gates to depart on my task when I noticed a small note carved into the top wooden wrung. I smoothed my hand over it and read, “Pearl’s Gates.” She had carved her name into the wood, but I wasn’t completely sure why. I traveled down the path to our usual spot to reminisce and make fond of old memories. I imagined it as I walked through the woods. It was a small waterfall at which my wife and I managed our first kiss. We were so silly over each other then. But now I doubted that she would even think of kissing me.

Making itself clear in the distance, the waterfall trickled just as pleasantly as it did any other time. But as I drew closer, I could see something in the water below it. My heart pounded furiously; I couldn’t think of it. Maybe, I’m not sure; it couldn’t be. It was. My wife lay at the bottom of the pool of water, dead. I hurled myself into the water as if to find some ray of hope in my mind that she was still alive and just only very close to death. I picked her up and gasped for breath. I was soaked in water, but mostly in tears. I held her face close to me; I tried to feel a pulse, but there was nothing. There was nothing. I wept horribly as I streamed my hand across her face. I could not stop crying and yelling. My wife was dead, and I left her with conflict between us. I looked on and around her, and her neck was bruised and disfigured. Who would do such a horrible deed? Who would take a man’s wife from him at this place? Why this place? Why couldn’t I be there? Where was I? I couldn’t think. It was as if a veil of sorrow was lined over me as I was drenched in the water of the falls. I carried her, sobbing awfully. I carried her to the bed she woke from this morning. I cried as I apologized, “I’m so sorry, Pearl, I’m so sorry.”

The night was ending and all seemed well. I had just put my son down, and I was about to fetch some water from the well at the foot of the hill. But before I did, I prayed to God and told Him how much I loved Him. I felt that even though my life had just changed beyond my wildest imagination, my wife was dwelling on the other side with Him now. She was in the best place she could ever be. I gathered my things and went to the well for the last time tonight. The journey to the foot of the hill was a good ten minutes, even going downhill. I couldn’t quite see our cottage, for it was very dark out. I hoisted the water from the bucket in the well, when I heard something in the woods just in the distance. I checked on it with shotgun in hand, making sure it was not a wolf or a bear. I had just confirmed that nothing was there, when I smelled something. It wasn’t close. It was burning. I turned quickly to look, and our once fine, little house was up in flames! I sprinted toward the well to get my bucket, maybe at least to save my child. I ran and ran as fast as I could. My mind buzzed as I was reaching halfway. “It’s not too late; it’s not too late,” I cried.

I reached the top of the hill and thrust myself through the front door. There was smoke and fire everywhere. My eyes were burning, and it felt as if my skin was melting right off of my bones. I darted straight for my son’s room, and kicked the door wide open. I couldn’t see a thing, but I knew exactly where his crib was. My bucket, which was now almost empty from evaporation and the spilling on the way up, was my only hope. I dumped it exactly where I thought his crib was, and by now my eyes were almost melting. I reached in and I could feel the wooden posts, indicating that the crib was in fact there. I felt him, grabbed him, and ran as fast as I could out of his room and out of the house. I lunged myself outside of the doorway and onto the grass with my child in my arms. As I wiped my eyes, black with smoke so I could see my child’s face. I looked directly at him, and there he was. His baby blue eyes were glimmering in the light of the fires on the house. I cried, but crying couldn’t even express the feeling I was having. Tears of joy were bursting from my eyes, and at that instant, I could here the bells of heaven ringing. I could hear the angel’s chorus singing home sweet home. He, God, had spared me and my son.

By this time it was about six or seven in the morning, and the sun had just risen in the east. I looked up at the sky and then looked at the miracle in my arms. He hadn’t shed one tear. And then it came to me, the poem that my life is on at this very moment. And I titled it by the hill I loved the most. And I devoted it to the God that I loved and still love the most. The veil had been lifted, and I cried and wept no more.


There waits for me a glad tomorrow
Where the gates of pearl swing open wide
And when I have passed this veil of sorrow
I will dwell upon the other side.

Some day beyond the reach of mortal ken,
Some day God only knows just where and when
The wheels of mortal life shall all stand still
And I shall go to dwell on Zion's hill.

Some day I'll hear the angels singing,
Beyond the shadows of the tomb;
And all the bells of heaven ringing,
While saints are singing, "Home, sweet home."

Some day my labors will be ended,
And all my wand'rings will be o'er,
And all earth's broken ties be mended,
And I shall sigh and weep no more.

Some day the dark clouds will be rifted,
And all the night of gloom be past;
And all life's burdens will be lifted,
The day of rest shall dawn at last.




So I, and my punctuation, thank you.

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