Under Hill and Over

A halfling and his dog struggle to cope with loss and adjust to a new normal.

Photo by conner bowe on Unsplash

Voices disturb the night. Muffled laughter seeps in through the dirt and wood surrounding the little house under the hill. Two shadows pass over the garden outside; two halflings meandering home from the tavern back to hills of their own.

George’s shadow will soon pass over the garden and across the window to the parlor, too. Then, a soft jangling of metal against wood will cause the little dog sleeping on the sofa to rise, stretch, and sit up.

She’s been waiting for him. He’s been out late again — a new pattern that she’s not yet used to — but he returns just as the soft light of the garden’s firefly pixies begins to fade. Her head lifts first, tilting and wondering: will he be alone again?

Sitting up, her weight shifting from side to side, the dog’s brown eyes pass lazily over the picture-frame-without-a-picture still propped up on the parlor table. The old photo was removed just a few days prior, but it’s the last place in the house she’s seen the smiling visage of her other owner.

Where is he? And why are we removing evidence of him ever being here at all?

The front door opens, and George saunters slowly inside. His green eyes are bloodshot, their natural luster subdued by both drink and darkness. Wearing a wool vest and trousers, but otherwise barefoot as all the other halflings beneath the hills, his stout legs carry him absentmindedly over to a lamp.

Light flicks on. A key is deposited onto the hook. A coat is discarded onto a chair.

He’s alone again, but the dog doesn’t care. She leaps onto the dusty floor, happy to see him regardless.

“Hi, Sophie,” George whispers, stopping to kneel. “Sorry I’m late.”

She gets scratches on her head and her ears before he seems to remember just how long he’s been away.

“Let me get you something to eat.”

On the way to the kitchen, George looses his footing. He stumbles into the cupboard, before reaching for Sophie’s food, but something on the counter makes him freeze.

He stares as if he’s seen a ghost, his cheeks going pale. Then, in one swift motion he scoops the thing up and marches it over to the trash. He holds the letter between his stubby fingers out in front of him, as if he’s going to discard it into the bin. Only he doesn’t. His chest rises and falls, like he exerted great effort to even get this far, but then he just clears his throat, takes a breath, and turns back around.

The letter is returned to the counter, and Sophie’s food is deposited into her bowl.

As she gets to eating, her back to her frowning owner, George slinks over to the sink. He seems aimless, uncertain about what to do next, until he catches his reflection in the window. For a while he just stands there, taking in the details. Then he blinks, and the tears get the better of him.

Sophie doesn’t react. She’s gotten so used to him crying that she doesn’t worry, doesn’t even bother to stop eating. But in between ravenous bites, as she pauses to take a breath, she notices something herself: something on the floor wedged beneath one of the legs of the kitchen table.

Curious, she pads over to investigate. A cautious sniff suggests that it’s a small piece of paper. A hesitant swipe of a paw, however, reveals a smooth texture that suggests it might be something else.

The George in real life — the one trying to coach his reflection through deep breaths and positive affirmations — doesn’t take notice of Sophie and her discovery, at least not at first. The George in the photograph, however — the one whose arms are wrapped around a smiling, red-haired man — is looking right at her.

What is this picture doing here? Could it be the one from the parlor?

Sophie paws at the photograph again, trying to get a better look — or, more importantly, trying to figure out how to get her other owner out of that dimension and back into this one.

“Sophie,” George scolds her, snapping out of his misery. “No.” But then he picks the picture up, he takes a long look, and his expression softens.

George smiles at his pet, then frowns at his past.

“He’s gone,” he tries to explain, kneeling to meet Sophie at her level. But the dog just beams, like the photo is a treat and she’s about to be asked to do something in order to get it. “We have to move on.”

She tilts her head in confusion.

“I’m sure he misses you, too.”

What kind of command is that?

George lets out a sigh, strokes her little forehead, then stands.

Sophie loses interest quickly. She returns to her bowl while her owner carries her discovery over to the sink. But while she gets back to eating, George finds himself staring at his reflection differently.

Suddenly, with picture still in hand, he collects the letter as well, then marches out of the kitchen and into the parlor. Pausing in the doorway, thinking quickly, he dives for the trunk in the corner.

A small box is removed, and its contents emptied; old stamps depicting wizards from the Eastern coast making way for things he needs to leave behind.

Once good and stored, the lid of the trunk closes with a gentle thunk, and George presses his now empty hands onto its surface.

He hangs his head, then gives the new home of the picture and the letter a soft, sad pat.

Slowly, with shoulders slack and heart heavy, George rises and returns to the kitchen. Leaning onto the edge of the sink, he gives himself a stern look. It’s time to get back to the difficult task of moving on, he decides; of figuring out a way forward; of learning through trial and error how to dig his way out from under this hill.

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