The Hill of the Ravens

by H. A. Covington

“I’ll come with you,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t, Mr. President,” said Don. “When I am given an assignment I prefer to carry it out to the end. Myself. You’re wrong, by the way. Sarah is still a soldier after all these years, a Volunteer, and she knows this vicious life we have lived inside out. She is also your daughter and a very wise and compassionate woman. You’re wrong about her. She will forgive you. But will Trudy Greiner ever forgive you? Now that’s another story entirely.”

  * * *

  The woman was small and trim, her hair thin and white, and her slight figure on the concrete seemed dwarfed and tiny against the soaring height of Mount Shasta on the northern horizon. She wore a subdued and businesslike skirt and jacket, and sensible shoes. Although she had to rely occasionally on a cane, she walked with calm and deliberate steps across the open bridge at Mountain Gate, California and for the first time in more than thirty years, she stepped onto the soil of the Northwest American Republic. She was calm. She had made her peace with God and composed herself for death.

  It was barely past eight o’clock in the morning when Gertrude Greiner began what she felt would surely be her last walk on earth. As she passed the customs inspection station over which the green, white and blue Tricolor snapped in the wind, a single Civil Guard in full dress khaki uniform stood to attention smartly and gave her the open-palmed National Socialist salute. She stepped off the bridge onto the white side of the border where she saw the long lines of men in SS dress black tunics with silver piping, spit-shined jackboots and coal-scuttle helmets gleaming, white-gloved hands bright on immaculate rifles at parade rest. They were lined up on either side of the ancient highway leading to the Northwest, toward Home. There was total silence. Behind the ranks of the Special Service were vans from the Northwest Broadcasting Authority and a number of the foreign media

  who were authorized to report the news from the Republic. Their cameras were rolling, but no one was saying anything. They all seemed to be watching something.

  Trudy hesitated briefly, dazed, completely uncomprehending,. She had envisioned this moment for years. She had resigned herself to arrest and then God only knew what kind of ordeal before the end. She, of all people, knew what the men who had made this land and raised that green, white and blue banner into the sky were capable of. But whatever she had expected, it was not this. Had she walked into the middle of some kind of 10/22 parade or commemoration? She walked down the center of the road towards whatever awaited her. As she walked an officer somewhere shouted a crisp order, and on both sides of her the SS men snapped the rifles up, bayonets fixed, and hundreds of white-gloved hands presented arms at the military salute. Trudy Greiner suddenly saw a group of people step out in front of her. There were nine of them, and she knew them all, They were older and grayer now, and even at a distance their faces seemed to her to be filled with a portion of the sadness she had known for so many years. Crazy old Bible-thumping Joe with his heavy spectacles. That short fat old guy, could that possibly be the buff and powerful young Frank Palmieri? Drago’s moustache she recognized at once, white as it was. And Brit McCanless, still tall and straight, her braided hair down to her waist, yes, that was her, despite the years. That had to be Ed standing at her side. Big Bill in his camouflage. Lars and Dave in naval dress blue. At their head stood a tall old man with a white beard and a grim face. Him she recognized immediately. She walked forward resolutely and stared up at him. “Hello, John,” she said, ready to die.

  “Hello, Trudy,” he said. Tears were streaming down the old man’s face into his beard. He took a small velvet box from his pocket. His voice quavered. “I believe I have something of yours.” He opened the box and took out the medal of the War of Independence. He leaned over and pinned it onto her bodice. “Welcome, my comrade and sister,” he said, his voice cracking. “Welcome Home!”

  The Foggy Dew

  The Foggy Dew

  When through the glen I drove again, My heart with grief was sore,

  For I’d parted with those valiant men

  Who I never would see more.

  But to and fro in my dreams they go, And I kneel and pray for you.

  For slavery fled! O glorious dead! When you fell in the Foggy Dew!

  XI.

  One key figure in the drama was missing from the dramatic and historic scene at the Mountain Gate border crossing. The man most responsible for bringing it about.

  On that Independence Day morning, Don Redmond stood hundreds of miles away on a hillside, at the wrought iron gate of the Ravenhill National Monument. Most of his family were at home getting ready for the traditional bonfire, barbecue and marksmanship contests. Cindy El was shooting that afternoon in the city of Olympia open competition with an AK-47 Don had restored by hand in his workshop, while Matt Redmond, home on leave, was shooting with his army-issue weapon as a freelance. Don had a twenty-credit side bet with Matt that Cindy El would beat him. Matt had taken the bet, but Don could tell with amusement that Matt was sweating. Cindy was damned good. Eight year-old John was delightedly plinking away at Little Willie with a school-issued .22 on his playground, trying to pop the little pig when he peeped out from behind the armored briefcase of his attorney. Sergeant Hennie Nel had drawn station duty for the day but he and his wife would be joining the Redmond family that night for dinner.

  Sarah had understood why Don wanted to be here today, but she had been a bit surprised by his choice of company. Beside Don stood his teenaged daughter Eva. “I’ve never been here before,” she said.

  “I am ashamed to say that neither have I,” her father told her. “It’s one of those things I always meant to do, and yet somehow or other I just never found the time. I should have found the time, Evie. We all need to find the time. We’ll all come back here one day for a picnic,” promised Don. “I just wanted to see the place on this one day, when this…this terrible thing that happened is going to be righted, insofar as it ever can be righted. I suppose in some way I want to let them know that maybe they can rest a bit easier now. An old comrade of theirs is Coming Home today. Many, many years too late, but she’s Coming Home. Better late than never. Dear God, I hope it’s better late than never!” The front of the monument read:

  To those who shall come after: from the Time of Struggle, we greet you.

  This hallowed ground is dedicated to the glorious and everlasting memory of the 52 heroes of the Northwest Volunteer Army, here fallen in battle against the enemies of all humanity. May their names live forever in the hearts and minds of the Folk.

  Below that was the date of the fatal ambush. On a bronze plaque at the base of the monument was the Roll of Honor. Don walked up to foot of the obelisk hand in hand with his daughter, and quietly read the names of the dead out loud.

  Vol. James G. Armstrong CMDT. Thomas J. Murdock

  Vol. John W. Bell Vol. Patrick C. Murphy Vol. Anne D. Bonnar Vol. Karen J. Martinelli Vol. William F. Books Vol. Donald G. Maxwell Vol. Roelof W. Botha Vol. Maxim F. Menzhinski Vol. Samuel F. Collingwood SGT. Ronald G. Nolan

  Vol. Anthony T. Carlisi Vol. Jennifer C. O’Donnell SGT. Carol B. Dumas Vol. Myles F. X. O’Donnell Vol. Andrew M. Elliot Vol. Craig J. O’Neill

  Vol. Arne Ericsson Vol. Michael L. Osterling

  Vol. John R. Forster SGT. Casimir G. Ostrovski Vol. Marguerite E. Frick Vol. Leigh Anne Pierce Vol. Walter F. Gottschalk Vol. James D. Purdue

  Vol. Alexander V. Ivanoff SGT. Martin A. Quayle Vol. Daniel R. Jardine Vol. Peter C. Randolph Vol. Wayne C. Jones Vol. Susan Y. Randolph Vol. Douglas M. Kaye Vol. Hans G. Reichert Vol. Gina C. LaFrenière Vol. Henri N. Rembert

  Vol. Corrado A. Manfredi Vol. Archibald M. Robertson Vol. Jürgen G. Meiss Vol. Catherine L. Robertson Vol. Wilhelm A. Meiss Vol. Heinrich U. Rotenburg Vol. Donald A. McAlpine Vol. Silva P. Tagliagamba Vol. James D. McCracken Vol. Heather M. Thomas

  Vol. Richard R. McDougall Vol. John C. Williams Vol. Angus S. McGaskill Vol. Johann F. Wortmann Vol. Lewis M. McPherson LT. Melanie A. Young<
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  Slowly the two of them walked around the four-sided obelisk. On each side, there were engraved words of honor and commemoration. “One side for the Christians, one for the Old Believers, and one for the National Socialists,” sighed Don. “It’s as if even in death, we couldn’t leave them to rest, their sacrifice accepted and treasured by all as a common heritage. We had to squabble like jackals over who would get the kudos from their memory.”

  “But I don’t see it like that, Dad,” said Eva. “They are all noble words, no matter what tradition of our race they come from. It’s like everyone wanted to lay a wreath on their graves.” On the left side of the obelisk, the Christians had inscribed:

  Be thou strong and of a good courage: for unto this people shalt thou divide for an inheritance the Land, which I swore unto their fathers to give them.—Joshua 1:6

  On the reverse, words from an ancient saga:

  Here do I see my father and my mother. Here do I see my sisters and my brothers.

  Here do I see the line of my people back to the beginning.

  Lo, they do call to me. They bid me to take my place among them

  In the hall of Valhalla, where the brave may live forever.

  On the right side of the marble pinnacle, beneath a wreathed swastika, the National Socialists had imprinted not a passage from Mein Kampf as might have been expected, but two simple lines from the Anabasis of Xenophon.

  “You will know that strength and weapons alone do not always prevail in battle. When an army is stronger in soul, then their enemies cannot withstand them.”

  “Look, Dad!” said Evie, pointing skyward. Don looked up and saw that a large black feathered form was perched on top of the obelisk, a beaked and beady-eyed face looking down on them imperturbably.

  “Well, I always figured there must be some reason they call this spot Ravenhill.” Don turned to his daughter and spoke. “You know, they say ravens live a long, long time. Wonder if that old black fellow was here back then, when it happened?

  “Evie, one night a few weeks ago you asked me a question. You wanted to know the truth about what happened. Jesus, what can I tell you about that whole time? It’s just something that happened. It happened, Evie. It all happened. It is now something that was, and something that is. It was a war, and like all wars it was a hell that can only be known by those who lived through it. The glory, the terror, the good and the bad, the pride and the disgrace, the fire, the ice, the mud, the steel and the shit, the laughter and the blood, the courage and the nobility, the cowardice and the just plain get-me-through-this-and-I-shall-not-sin-again-O-God. It was terrible beyond belief. But it was all part and parcel of one mighty, irresistible event in the affairs of men, and when such things happen it’s like a volcanic eruption. The lava flows and destroys all in its path, but eventually it cools and then the lava fields grow green with life. What you must always remember is that all in all, that event was a good thing, Evie, a great and wonderful and magical and blessed thing. Like all that is ultimately good, it has an element of tragedy and horror and sadness,

  because those aspects of life are all part of the process whereby good must overcome evil in this world. The time will come, as you grow older, when you learn more about that time. What you learn may horrify and disturb you. War does. But you will learn that sometimes war can uplift and inspire men and women to such things as heroism, idealism, and nobility of the soul. When that time comes, honey, I want you to remember this day and I want you to remember these names here, because what is important is what you will find here, not what anyone in other times and places may speak of us. Whatever you may come to think of me, of Tori and John Corbett and all of us who lived through that terrible epoch, I want you to remember the sacrifice that these people made on this hill on that summer morning. These names, these souls who lived and died so that you and your brothers and sisters might be at all, and so that you could have some kind of meaningful life in this world.”

  “Dad, you know what I feel right now?” she asked. “Mmmm?”

  “I feel blessed,” said Evie. “Eh?”

  “I am coming to understand now how incredibly lucky I’ve been,” said Eva. “Lucky to be born here and not somewhere else, and to be born now instead of fifty years ago. My future is bright and shining and clean, because you and Mom and Tori and Papa John did what had to be done. You fought against the Jews, and you beat the bastards. And the gods have smiled on me. I have a journey to make now, through life. I come here and I find that these people here, people that I never knew and never heard of by name, have already paid my fare. Your name could have been on a plaque like this. Mom’s name could be there. Papa John’s name might have been there. Aunt Tori’s name might have been there. But you’re not there. You have been here with me, all my life. These people here, those names you just read, they died so that you could be here for me and for Allan and Cindy El and all of us…I…I just don’t know what to say to them, to their spirits.” Eva was quietly crying.

  “They don’t want you to say anything, honey,” said her father. “That was always our fault, back in the old days. We said, when we should have done. We were what the Irish called whiskey priests. We knew what was right. We just didn’t do it. But then one day, for

  reasons no one has yet figured out, we decided to do instead of to say. Now these people who lie here, they want you to do, to live, and to be, in whatever strength or weakness or joy or sadness or triumph or failure or just plain life comes to be your lot. For over a century long past, some very evil people conspired to make sure that you would never have that chance, that a white girl like you would never even exist in this year. But like you said, we beat the bastards. We paid a price. You see part of that price before you, but you mustn’t feel bad or sad about it. They gave up their lives so that you could have yours, so that you could walk this earth. After you they want your children and your grandchildren to live and to be. That’s why we did it, Evie. That’s why we did it all. Now, they want us to leave this place and get on with it. They were then, and we have built them this monument, and it is fitting and just that we do so. But they are of the past. This hallowed place is theirs for all time, but all the world from now on is yours. Your day is yet to come. You and your brothers and sisters have got a whole wonderful future ahead of you, and I’m kind of curious to see how it plays out. So let’s go home and start writing one more chapter in the long, long history of this wonderful world we Men of the West have made, eh? You have a clean slate, Evie, thanks to those whose names you see before you. It’s time for you to start writing on it.”

  After Don and Eva got into their car and drove off, the monument grounds were empty, except for the SS sentry on guard at the tourist booth.

  The raven shivered his wings, rising silently into the air from the granite. Then with sudden speed he rose higher and higher, soaring into the cold clear sky. For a time the ancient messenger was visible as a black spot against the blue. Then he was gone.

  Below, the Land remained.

  About the Author

  In this grim and impressive novel, H. A. Covington has created a chilling glimpse into a future America seventy years or so down the road, as the 22nd Century approaches. It is an America torn and riven by violence, fascism, racial and cultural division, and political Balkanization and fragmentation. In short, an America that yet could come to be. Covington has already attained a kind of underground cult status with his ten previous novels. (One of these, Vindictus: A Novel of History’s First Gunfighter, is available from

  1stBooks.) The Hill of the Ravens may yet turn out to be Covington’s foreboding masterpiece of a future gone dark and terrifying.

  Table of Contents

  The Hill of the Ravens

  © 2003 by H. A. Covington. All rights reserved.

  Contents

  A Glossary of Northwest Acronyms and Terms

  The Foggy Dew

  Come All You Northwest Volunteers

  The Boys of the Old Brigade

>   The Foggy Dew

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

  The Hill of the Ravens

  © 2003 by H. A. Covington. All rights reserved.

  Contents

  A Glossary of Northwest Acronyms and Terms

  The Foggy Dew

  Come All You Northwest Volunteers

  The Boys of the Old Brigade

  The Foggy Dew

  About the Author