Chapter 50 The Arrival

The trees reached the house on the first of February. They came at night, as they always came, their roots pulling free of the earth and finding new purchase closer to the house, each movement a fraction of an inch, imperceptible in daylight but visible at night, when the hollow's influence was strongest and the root's pulse was loudest and the ground beneath the house was soft with the hollow's expansion. But this night they came faster. This night they moved not in fractions of inches but in feet, their trunks leaning, their branches reaching, their roots tearing through the soil with a sound like rope being cut. Eli was in the chamber when it happened. He felt the tremor through the packed earth floor, a vibration that was not the root's pulse but something more violent, more urgent, the vibration of wood against stone, of root against root, of earth against earth. The root's branches shuddered, and the mold on the walls trembled, and the dark liquid in the spiral basin splashed and churned, and the sound, the deep's low tone, rose in pitch for the first time since Eli had first heard it, rising from a subsonic drone to a tone he could hear, a tone that filled the chamber, that filled the house, that filled the woods. The trees were arriving. Eli climbed the stairs and went to the front door. The door was stuck, the frame warped by the root's growth, and he had to put his shoulder to it to force it open, and when it opened the cold night air hit his face, and the air smelled of the deep, of wet stone and mineral tang and the green-gold mold, and the smell was stronger outside than it had ever been inside, and the smell was everywhere, in the air, in the ground, in the trees, in the night. The trees stood at the edge of the yard. Not at the property line. Not at the fence. At the edge of the yard, ten feet from the house, their trunks pressed together, their branches intertwined, their roots visible in the disturbed earth, pale and glistening, reaching toward the house the way the root reached toward the deep. They had come from the woods, from the northern property line, from the place where the fence had stood, and they had come in a line, a procession, a procession of trees that had uprooted themselves and walked, slowly, steadily, toward the center of the hollow, toward the house, toward the root, toward the deep. They were not trees anymore. Not entirely. Their bark was covered with the green-gold mold, the same growth that covered the chamber walls, and the mold pulsed with the root's rhythm, and the rhythm was the deep's heartbeat, and the heartbeat was the sound, and the sound was the deep's voice, and the voice was saying: I am here. I am the trees. I am the ground. I am the root. I am the deep. I am everything that is beneath the surface, and I am reaching for the light. The nearest tree, an oak as thick as Eli's torso, leaned toward the house, and its branches touched the wall, and the wall trembled, and the plaster cracked, and from the crack the green-gold mold emerged, spreading along the branches, climbing the trunk, covering the bark, the tree becoming part of the house, the house becoming part of the tree, the two merging, the boundary dissolving, the line between the living and the silent drawn in earth and root and mold and the deep's slow, patient, relentless reach. Eli stood in the doorway and watched the trees arrive. Nora came up behind him and stood beside him, and they watched together, and the watching was the keeping, and the keeping was the threshold, and the threshold was open, and the deep was arriving, and the arriving was the sound, and the sound was the voice, and the voice was the deep, and the deep was here. And the deep spoke, and the speaking was the trees, and the trees were the deep's body, and the body was the house, and the house was the deep's home, and the home was the keeping, and the keeping was the door, and the door was open, and the deep was here. The trees arrived in silence. Their trunks moved through the dark earth without sound, their roots pulling free of the soil and finding new purchase closer to the house, each movement a fraction of an inch, imperceptible in daylight but visible at night, when the hollow's influence was strongest and the root's pulse was loudest and the ground beneath the house was soft with the hollow's expansion. They arrived in a procession, a line of trees that had uprooted themselves and walked, slowly, steadily, toward the center of the hollow, toward the house, toward the root, toward the deep. The trees were not trees anymore. Not entirely. Their bark was covered with the green-gold mold, and the mold pulsed with the root's rhythm, and the rhythm was the deep's heartbeat, and the heartbeat was the sound, and the sound was the deep's voice, and the voice was saying: I am here. I am the trees. I am the ground. I am the root. I am the deep, and the deep is waking. The nearest tree, an oak as thick as Eli's torso, leaned toward the house, and its branches touched the wall, and the wall trembled, and the plaster cracked, and from the crack the green-gold mold emerged, spreading along the branches, climbing the trunk, covering the bark, the tree becoming part of the house, the house becoming part of the tree, the two merging, the boundary dissolving, the line between the living and the silent drawn in earth and root and mold and the deep's slow, patient, relentless reach. Eli stood in the doorway and watched the trees arrive. The air was warm, warmer than it should have been in winter, and the warmth was the deep's warmth, and the warmth was the deep's way of saying: I am here, and I am the air, and the air is the deep's breath, and the breath is the deep's life, and the life is the deep, and the deep is here. The trees reached the house. Their trunks pressed against the walls. Their roots broke through the foundation. Their branches touched the roof. And the house trembled, and the tremble was the deep's way of saying: I am here. I am the house. I am the trees. I am the ground. I am the deep, and the deep is waking, and the waking is the sound, and the sound is me. --- ---