Chapter 51 The Pull

The garden failed. Nora had planted it in the spring, the way she planted every year, the same rows of beans and tomatoes and squash, the same herbs in the same beds, the same sunflowers along the fence line where the fence had stood. She planted with the patience of a woman who has planted for eleven years, who knows the soil, who knows the seeds, who knows the rhythm of the seasons, and she planted the same way she had always planted, with her hands in the dark earth and her mind on the growing. But the seeds did not grow. They did not sprout. They lay in the soil and did nothing, the way stones lie in a river and do nothing, the way sleepers lie in their beds and do nothing, the way the deep lay in its hollow for centuries and did nothing. The soil was dark and rich and warm, warmed by the root's pulse, fed by the deep's expansion, and the soil should have been fertile, should have been the most fertile soil in the county, fed by the deep's substance and the root's growth and the hollow's ancient memory. But the seeds did not grow. They lay in the soil and waited, and the waiting was not the waiting of dormancy. The waiting was the waiting of something that has been told to wait, the way a soldier waits for orders, the way a student waits for a teacher, the way the deep waited for the keeping to open the door. The seeds were waiting for the deep's permission to grow, and the deep was not giving permission, because the deep was using the soil for itself, using the warmth, using the substance, using the energy that should have fed the plants to feed its own expansion, its own growth, its own reach toward the surface. Nora knelt in the garden and held a handful of soil, and the soil was warm, and the warmth was the root's pulse, and the pulse was the deep's heartbeat, and the heartbeat was the sound, and the sound was the deep's voice, and the voice was saying: this soil is mine. This earth is mine. This ground is mine, and I am using it for myself, and the growing that happens here will be my growing, not yours. She dropped the soil. It fell from her fingers in a slow, deliberate stream, and where it landed it packed down, compacting, hardening, and the hardening was the deep's way of saying: this is not a garden anymore. This is the deep's surface. This is the deep's skin. And the deep's skin does not grow beans and tomatoes. The deep's skin grows the deep. The sunflowers were the last to go. They stood along the fence line, tall and straight, their faces turned toward the sun, and they had always leaned, not toward the sun but toward the house, toward the root, toward the deep. Nora had noticed it in the first year of keeping, had noticed the way the sunflowers tracked the root's position, the way their faces followed the root's path through the ground, and she had thought it was the light, the amber glow that bled through the foundation, and she had not said anything, because the keeping had its own silences, its own omissions, the things that were too strange to say aloud. But the sunflowers were not tracking the light. The sunflowers were tracking the deep. They were drawn to the deep the way the water was drawn, the way the mold was drawn, the way the trees were drawn, and the drawing was the deep's pull, the deep's gravity, the deep's slow, steady, irresistible attraction that pulled everything toward the center, toward the root, toward the chamber, toward the hollow, toward the deep itself. The sunflowers died. Not slowly, not the gradual yellowing and wilting of a plant that has reached the end of its season. They died suddenly, their stems collapsing, their faces falling to the ground, and where they fell the soil was dark and warm, and the dark soil was the deep's soil, and the deep's soil did not grow plants. The deep's soil grew the deep, and the deep was growing, and the growing was the deep's way of reaching the surface, and the surface was the deep's destination, and the destination was the house, and the house was the deep's body, and the body was waking. Nora stood in the dead garden and looked at the fallen sunflowers, and she understood, with the slow certainty of a woman who has been keeping the door for eleven years and has only now realized what the door was for, that the garden had never been hers. The garden had been the deep's way of showing itself, the deep's way of saying: I am here, in the soil, in the roots, in the growing things that lean toward me. And the growing things had leaned, and the growing things had fed on the deep's substance, and the substance had been the deep's gift, the deep's way of saying: take this, grow this, eat this, and know that I am here, and that I am waking, and that the waking will change everything. And the waking was changing everything. The garden was gone. The soil was the deep's. The sunflowers had fallen. And the deep was growing, and the growing was the deep's way of reaching the surface, and the surface was the deep's destination, and the destination was the house, and the house was the deep's body, and the body was waking. The sunflowers had been Nora's pride. She had planted them the first spring, following the fence line, setting each seed in a small depression in the dark soil, pressing it down with her thumb, covering it with earth the way you cover a secret, the way you bury something precious and trust that it will grow. The sunflowers had grown tall, taller than the fence, their faces turned not toward the sun but toward the house, toward the root, toward the deep, and Nora had noticed it, had noticed the way the sunflowers tracked the root's position, the way their faces followed the root's path through the ground, and she had thought it was the light, the amber glow that bled through the foundation, and she had not said anything, because the keeping had its own silences. But the sunflowers were not tracking the light. The sunflowers were tracking the deep. They were drawn to the deep the way the water was drawn, the way the mold was drawn, the way the trees were drawn, and the drawing was the deep's pull, the deep's gravity, the deep's slow, steady, irresistible attraction that pulled everything toward the center, toward the root, toward the chamber, toward the hollow, toward the deep itself. The soil beneath the garden was warm. Nora had noticed it in the first year, the way the soil held heat longer than it should have, the way the earth stayed warm well into the evening, long after the sun had gone down and the air had cooled and the frost had settled on the grass. The warmth was the root's warmth, the deep's warmth, the warmth of the earth that was alive, that was waking, that was reaching, and the reaching was the deep's way of saying: I am here, and I am warm, and the warmth is my gift, the warmth is my way of saying: grow, tend, nurture, be alive, and the alive is me. But the warmth was not for the garden anymore. The warmth was for the deep. The deep was using the warmth, using the soil, using the energy that should have fed the plants to feed its own expansion, its own growth, its own reach toward the surface. The deep was taking back what it had given, and the taking was not theft. The taking was the deep's way of saying: this is mine. This earth is mine. This warmth is mine. And I am using it for myself, for my own becoming, for my own reaching, for my own return to the surface. ---