And the Hills Opened Up Read Free

back door, pounding away.  “Yes, yes, I’m coming,” the priest called out, setting aside his pipe.  He ran a hand across his hair and glanced around his bedroom, which contained a small writing desk, a chair, a cot, a potbellied stove, and two shelves stocked with food.  A small space, indeed, yet it contained everything Father Lynch needed to live as he administered to the camp’s souls.     
    The priest opened his bedroom door and entered the church proper.  The entire building had been built with volunteer help the summer before, from chopping down the pine trees in the surrounding hills to shaving them into planks to plugging it all together.  Dozens of miners, many of whom hadn’t crossed the church’s threshold since, had shown up on their Sunday off to aid in the church’s construction, working with a quiet ferocity Father Lynch had found surprising.  They might not have all believed in God, but the men of Red Earth definitely believed in having a church in town.  Perhaps they thought having a church would make the town appear softer to women-folk, more welcoming, or maybe they’d donated their time and sweat in hope of banking the universe’s goodwill.  Lord knew they could use it—they hadn’t had a major accident in the mine yet, but when you spent your days with so much rock above you, even sturdy copper-ore, it got you to thinking about what may come next.
    Father Lynch made his way down the sanctuary’s center aisle.  A dozen wooden benches made up the sanctuary’s seating, each one as roughly crafted as the church itself, and on Easter and Christmas there was plenty of standing room behind them.  Four windows, two on the east side and two on the west, let in enough light to see by. 
    Lynch opened the back door, which was heavy and wide.  Four women stood outside on the back porch clad in lacy, tight-fitting dresses the pushed the swell of their breasts forward, as if their bosoms had been placed upon a shelf.  Lynch averted his eyes from the swelling, trying to keep his gaze above their chins.  The afternoon sunlight was dazzling after the dim interior of the church and made the exposed, pale skin of each woman seem to glow doubly.
    “Good afternoon, ladies.  Is it Saturday already?”
    “Afternoon, Father,” the oldest, Madam Petrov, replied.  A stout, fifty-year-old Russian with broad shoulders, she was as devoutly Russian Orthodox as she was adept at minding her girls.  She never missed a Sunday service, despite the difference between her faith and his. 
    “Yes, here is Saturday again.”
    Father Lynch smiled and rubbed his hands.
    “Excellent.  Who would like to go first?”
    The younger women looked to each other, then the madam.  Madam Petrov sighed and clucked her tongue.
    “Can you not even decide something as small as this by yourselves?”
    “We could start with you, Madam—”
    “No, I go last.  It feels good to be away from the saloon and stand here in the sunshine.  Did you hear the blasting, Father?”
    “Yes, I heard some rumblings.  Are they opening a new section today?”
    “Who cares?  What they are going to do is blow us all to pieces.  It is not enough for them to hack underground like madmen, sniffing and hunting for their precious copper.  They must destroy the mountains as well.”
    Father Lynch smiled and folded his hands at his waist. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that, Mrs. Petrov.  Mr. Chambers wouldn’t do anything foolish to endanger his men or the town.”
    Mrs. Petrov snorted.  “You must make joke, Father.  Miners will do anything for extra coin in their pocket.  Even intelligent man like Mr. Chambers has itch for coin—it’s as strong as his men itching for my little sparrows here.  He will blast and blast if he thinks it will bring company more money.”
    Father Lynch shook his head. 
    “You do have a way with words, Madam.”
    “Thank you.  I study—”
    “I’ll go,” one of the young women said,