The Landowning Classes

The sea was blustery and gray and battered against the shoreline, which was in itself rather gray and crumbling, almost as subject to the wind and terribly subject to the sea and what was inside it. The shore was soft soil dotted with the roots of small plants or more rarely the longest roots of the nearby treeline jutting out of the exposed slope. In all parts it was plagued with the unceasing, rhythmic pounding of waves which alternated between soft strokes that were a respite and sometimes left debris and things stolen, and rising attempts that broke over the precipice and impatiently claimed land that was not yet theirs.

The corner of a velvet robe dipped into one of these far-reaching waves and although the salt water was in truth an improvement over the dirt and time so imbued into the fabric the owner of the robe pulled it back in disgust. He was walking along the shore, on a trail which was half consumed, and was carrying a large sack which was awkward and sometimes hurt him with its sharp protrusions. The awkwardness of the sack and the slope of the shore made him retreat to a safer distance. This made it harder for him to look for the silverware, and he wished there was some sun so that it might glint and be easier to find.

At length he came upon what he was looking for and was saddened and anxious to see four ornate utensils lying close to the land’s edge. The man sighed and the wind blew. He pulled his velvet robe closer to him, and arranged his fur hat to better cover his ears. All around him was the same and nowhere he looked offered hope, even where the land bent out of sight in the distance and circled around and would end up here and all would be the same and he knew it. Even though the view was different each day he would look and know it.

He reached down. Felt bumps where the salt had licked and stuck to the silver. He let one tarnished utensil lie there on the precipice and gathered the others, then with measured steps he placed a row of two one foot farther inland, then a row of three, and so forth and so on, withdrawing silverware from the sack as needed until seven feet from the shore and very near to the treeline he placed four soup spoons, two cheese knives, and a crab fork. Then realizing the crab fork was priceless and an heirloom he retrieved it and replaced it with a worthless butter spreader. The sack was very light now and nearly empty. Soon another method of measurement would need to be conceptualized.

Amadeus trudged away from the sea and into the forest. The trees were great and old and always the color of aubergine unless they were bathed in sunlight which they never were. Everywhere was thick bark or dense bramble. The wind couldn’t reach farther than a few feet but still the great trunks swayed, always swayed.

Deep in the forest was a clearing. Amadeus stepped into it wearily. He was old now and very tired. A few branches groped for him and lingered among his velvet and furs but these he left dangling in his wake and approached the stake at the center of the clearing. It was an old wooden stake, weathered and rough. The ground under it was caving. Buckling and straining and in pain. The stake was slightly askew and low, bobbing with the ground that writhed and pulsed in sunken misery.

Many years ago the stake had been struck into the Heart of the forest.

Amadeus hovered near the Heart. He bunched his fists and bellowed: “FOUR FEET!”

The metric bounced among the canopy, his yell long and made longer by the echo of the ancient trunks.

“Four feet. That is the amount lost in one night. One night!” he exclaimed, gesticulating madly. “You are eroding, collapsing, disintegrating, disappearing!”

Just stagnant earth in response.

“You act as if nothing is amiss,” Amadeus ranted. “As if I am some madman, some towncrier soliciting you with my premonitions of the end times when I tell you that these are no premonitions but CALCULATIONS!” Amadeus kicked at the earth and the ground came to life, trembling beneath him so that he lost his balance. He fell on his side and rolled towards the stake, the tremors bruising his abdomen as he cascaded inevitably towards the center. Then a thud and the air knocked out of him as his ribs met the wooden stake.

“Must you come to me each day and pretend you know something of loss?”

Amadeus heard the maw that had spoken, heard the words and the opening of the thing itself. He was on his back so he hadn’t seen it but that did not matter in making it real as he had heard it speak before though never this close. He thought that if he reached out he might feel the spot that had spoken but he did not have the courage.

“I know loss.”

“You know deficit and dispossession.”

“So? Have I not suffered both? Is that not my family name on the stake?”

“Is it not myself in the sea?”

“The one who counts has the right to point out the red.”

“And one who takes up no arms has no hand to play.”

Amadeus simmered. He could think of no retort. The land beneath him slowly leveled and when he was ready he worked his way to his feet. Some time was spent gathering silverware which had fallen from his sack. Bruised and uneasy, he left for his estate.

By that time, his estate was at the edge of the sea. It was a large stone dwelling, and the foundation was strong and timeless. There were turrets that reached skywards and had been vacant for years but still their grandeur pleased him. The stairs were built of carved stone and were flanked by statues and the doors were tall and thick, built for footmen to open. There were no footmen so Amadeus leaned against the oak and he fell into the entryway of his home.

Everything mildew and cobwebs and affluence unheeded. He left his sack by the doorway. Only a few candles remained burning, far too few, and they stood out in the darkness like lanterns released into the night sky. Amadeus reached one and used it to guide his way down the steps and into the cellar.

He found a vintage in an uncracked bottle and secreted it into his robe. Then he ambled to the pantry. There was a strong scent of mold, but he found a jar of beets and a wheel of cheese that seemed unscathed. He grabbed the jar and cut a healthy wedge of the poignant cheese. Amadeus bundled his treasures in his robe, tight against his unwounded ribs, and made his way upstairs quickly. It was late and he desperately wanted to reach his suite before it began. Usually he could ignore Them from his suite.

Dusk came and with it the sounds of Them. He was still on the staircase. First a terrible clawing, so many nails on a chalkboard. All around and under him. Moans pierced the stone and hunted in the darkness. The shuffling of dirt, like riverbed through a sieve.

In his suite Amadeus lit more candles and poured the dark wine into a glass. He sampled the cheese and picked at the beets and wiped his fingers on a rancid cloth. They were louder than usual. The echo of them climbed the spiral staircase and up his spine and made him spill his wine. Amadeus cursed himself and his weak nerves. He reached for the rag, and as he did, noticed a crack in the wall.

Amadeus stared. Like a sapling the crack grew on the candlelit stone. Then the first chunks broke off. He fell from his chair and crawled back in fear. Then the unthinkable happened, and a dreadful cacophony took down the wall, Amadeus unable to do anything but gape at the collapse and crawl away from the sections of the floor which fell too and took his bed and wardrobe in an instant. With nowhere to go, the old man closed his eyes and waited.

The floor held.

When he opened his eyes his suite was gone, the adjacent turret crumbling, and beyond that was the shoreline, writhing with pale bodies stacked like worms in a can, each a set of hands crawling over each other for the chance to carry away one grain of sand, one speck of dirt, pruned fingers bleeding salt onto the land they scraped.

Amadeus scrambled to his feet and grabbed a silver candlestick, the first valuable thing he could find. He made for the stairs, still barely accessible. He passed a priceless painting and took it with him. Then, on the landing, a crystal vase full of ashen stems. Near the door he made for a hanging tapestry, but as he did the wall collapsed and the tapestry fluttered into the wind, unveiling the multitudinous hands that were behind it. Amadeus screamed and wheeled backwards, crashing against the towering doors, barely managing to avoid the cascading ceiling, eyes riveted on the sea of desperate fingers. Against his weight, the doors gave in. Amadeus fell backwards, his belongings clutched to his chest. His head struck a pillar. The last thing he remembered was watching the roof fall, and the pale moon take its place.

He awoke sometime the next day. Of his home, only the stairway and doors remained.

Amadeus walked the shore. The candlestick and the painting and the vase were still tight against his chest. All he had left. The trees and the sea were barely separated now, only a measly strip of land between them. He thought he saw claw marks on some of the trunks. He walked every inch of his shore and didn’t see any silverware. They had taken seven feet or more.

He piled his robe around him, once so beautiful, now just more shades of gray, and spoke to the Heart. “They took the house.”

Silence greeted him. He thought he may be being ignored once more until the ground opened up with a sigh.

“Through your iron defenses? I fail to believe it.”

Amadeus hardened. “You mock me?”

“No. You mock me, every night that you drink wine and eat cheese while my soil, my body, is stolen.”

“And what do you expect me to do?” Amadeus asked. “Fight them off? This legion that I am?” He regarded his sallow hands, thin fingers. The Heart chuckled sadly.

“You should do what you can, old man. While you can. It seems They want me more than you, and in the end it is need, and not title, which will prevail.”

“But I do need you!” Amadeus howled. “I do! And I own you.”

“Not for long now, I’m afraid.”

It was late. The clearing, always dark, was nearly pitch-black. Filled with helplessness and indignation Amadeus plucked the candlestick from his meager hoard and ambled to the sea. In the twilight the shore was a living, variable edge to the world, unsteady like watercolor in a turnstile. He waited and watched the waves break upon what was left of his land.

Then the first hand appeared.

Amadeus leapt madly. He brought the candlestick down hard against the waterlogged flesh. There was a whimper. More limbs emerged from the sea. He swung blindly, cracking metal against anything that moved. A torso crumpled under his blow, swept away by the next wave. He spotted one of Them with both hands deep into the earth, pulling and amassing the soil against its chin. He threw the candlestick. The weapon caught the Thing between the shoulderblades and it slithered back into the sea. Amadeus whooped, but he was left defenseless. In his victory he did not notice the wet hands clasping his ankles. They pulled, and Amadeus fell hard, sliding against the slope of the stolen shore. His boots were in the water. He tried to kick but his legs were submerged and had no power. He realized that soon They would take him. He scrambled for land, his nails clawing the dirt, his rings catching the grass. Desperately he reached for a root and caught it. He pulled with all his might but was not strong enough; now there were five or six of Them, he could see their eyes above the surf. The dark, pupil-less holes bore into him with malevolence and envy and desperation. When he was sure he was lost, the root wrapped itself around his wrist and pulled him onto land.

Amadeus coughed up water, his throat and lungs soaked through. Before him, the shore was awash in pale bodies, prone and crawling over themselves, shoveling land and hauling it back into the sea. They reached the treeline, and even the roots and great trunks could not match the starved haunt. Amadeus watched in horror as a towering tree was felled. Its great mass floated for only an instant before it was swarmed by souls from the deep and weighed unto whence they came.

He found his feet. Retreating, he stumbled into the forest. Every branch and bramble was alive with anxiety, curling into themselves, hiding like children in their blankets. Into the clearing he crashed. The ground was lower than ever, the stake completely askew. Amadeus kneeled before the Heart and pleaded:

“Save me!”

The Heart did not answer. He heaved, ignoring the wails of the ever-encroaching shoreline barely hidden now behind the trees.

“Save us old friend…”

There was nothing. Only silence and hollow earth. He prostrated himself, bowing on his knees, the gray grass wiping a tear from his cheek.

“I know you pulled me back,” he said meekly. “Surely you can save us now.”

For a moment the ground stirred. Amadeus’ hope surged as he thought he saw the maw open. The dirt rising as if it was about to speak. Then a pale hand broke through the soil.

On all sides now the forest being felled and the soil stolen and the sounds of it. And Amadeus crying in the dirt. Crawling towards the stake with his family name. The stake stuck into earth that was once strong and rich and now caved and more hands stuck out of it. Closer now to the stake and Amadeus grabbing it, hugging it, wrapping himself around it, stroking his name in the wood and knowing this land belonged to him, would always belong to him, collapsing down and deep and into the sea with the stake and his treasures sinking behind him as They dug the Heart of the forest from underneath and with every handful seized another piece of the land and its master.