The Story of a Skeppsra
/
You’ve probably never lived in a tree. Most humans haven’t. And for most of you, trying to picture a tree-dwelling faerie creature would conjure up images of a lithe dryad, hair of leaves and skin the color of bark, not a grumpy bearded gnome of a height approximating a two-year-old human child. (Don’t you dare bring any of them near me to verify that comparison.) And yet, here I am, defying your expectations. The problem is, my tree is gone now, at least as I always knew it.
I don’t blame the sailors. They don’t know what it’s like for home to be solid, rooted, always in one place. To be a sailor is to have a wandering heart, never lingering for long in any port. No, I don’t blame those sailors. My fury instead falls upon the woodcutters. Those men who wandered into my forest (heavy footfalls scaring away the badgers and foxes, birds exploding from the bracken as they heedlessly passed) to come upon my ancient oak and dare mutter to themselves, “this tree will make a fine ship.”
Now I inhabit the ship they carved my fine oak into. Where I once looked up and saw green verdant leaves, limbs stretching to the sky, I now see masts and billowing sails. Only an anchor can ever root this vessel anywhere, otherwise its only constancy is motion. It is not a life I chose, but one forced upon me. I cannot leave my tree for very long, no more than could the spritely dryad of whom your legends speak.
And so I stay here, watching his bones for signs of rot, feeling him shudder from the touch of salt water. I scrape away each barnacle that clings stubbornly to the curve of his hull. And the sailors know to bless me for it. If I let them see me at all, they whisper “Skeppsra” and bow with respect. They leave me offerings sometimes, fine fabrics and a portion of any gold they might earn or steal. The best cuts from their table. They know fair well to keep in my good graces.
I would give it all back to live in my tree as it was again. His trunk so thick, five men could stretch arms and link hands and still not encircle him. His branches home to bird and squirrel, his roots sheltering the spores of blanketing mushrooms. He was the lord of the forest, and I would rather be his servant again than to have all the gold and fineries these sailors could ever heap at my feet.
So each time the anchor drops, I follow the men to the villages and ports. And as they drink and wench, I walk until I can see the trees again. I remove my boots and sink my feet into the loamy earth, rooted once more. I pull an acorn from my pocket, push a finger deep into the dirt, and whisper to my oak, “may your children grow tall, and may they never know the touch of a man’s saw or blade.”
Because I would sacrifice anything to be back in my forest, but my magic cannot reach that far. And living in the past will serve me nothing. So I will gloss the ship’s rails with oils, and close my eyes at night when, half awake, the creaking of the planks against the water’s depths sounds almost like his branches in a storm. And I will look to the future, and plant acorns until my pockets are empty. And I have many, many acorns left.
**************
