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Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

There was a place in the world where all flotsam eventually drifted to. All the jewel-studded goblets of the royal ships, the colorful plumage of ladies’ hats; the torn flags attached to planks of wood, all the way to spices and tea and the carefully crafted fashion dolls that seemed a bit too real for personal comfort. One way or another, the wind would blow, the waves would dance, and the planet would turn so that all nature’s might would send the floating junk to a cluster of islands in the southern seas.

It was after a terrifying storm had raged in the north; the islands were waiting for their usual haul, and were beginning to see the glints of rum bottles, when a lump of cloth clinging to driftwood washed ashore.

After stirring a few times, the lump stood.

He was a man of advanced years, with eyes shining fiercely like a hawk’s. His hair and scraggly nest of beard carried bits of ocean that forever rid them of their natural color. By his rude demeanor he might have been a sailor, perhaps even the captain, if his ruthlessness in kicking away the other forms of wreckage (except the rum bottles; one always checked what was inside those) was anything to go by.

At last, finding nothing of value, he trekked across the island to a relatively bare patch of beach and stared out to sea.

He survived for a week as the heat rose to unbearable levels, carrying with it the salty stench of rotting things throughout the islands. Sometimes he would simply lie in the shade of trees, unmoving, until hunger or thirst pushed him back on his feet. Nights brought insects that stung and buzzed and crawled all over him; he would spend the entire hour batting them away, fearful of being devoured, as had happened to the other stranded junk.

And as the days passed, growing hotter and drier, the man would often stand at the same spot on the sand, glaring at the sunset and leaning forward, as if seeing something in the distance he couldn’t quite reach.

He stood for days on end; years might have passed, without him knowing.

And quite without his knowledge of when or how—and most importantly, why—the man, one day, turned into a tree.

It leaned toward the lapping waves, as the man had always done, so that it seemed to have grown crookedly and tried to right itself a few years too late. Perhaps that was why a dissatisfied air perpetually hung about it, setting it apart from the others. It was never still. It told its stories of grandeur and adventure through the rustle of its palm fronds and the creak of its wood, convinced that one day the wind might carry them or the gulls might echo them to one another.

But the more the tree spoke, the more aware it became that no one was listening at all.

Its rustling grew violent, its creaking became punctuated by sharp cracks of brittle tree bark. The sea birds migrated to other parts of the island, which only made the tree more desperate. Somebody, somebody had to listen to it. And its voice carried in the roar of the sea, and its hopeless anger raged with the blasts of sea wind, until one day an albatross dropped from the sky.

The tree finally stilled.

“Well, shit,” said the albatross as he sorted out his tangle of wings. “What sort of wind was that?”

He grumbled for a good measure before the tree spoke. “I’ll offer you a place to rest if you listen to my story.”

The albatross looked up warily. “Old tree, not to seem rude, but I really must get going. I have a wife—a future wife—waiting for me, and a future chick to look after. My life right now is teetering on the edge of destruction.”

“You must be exhausted,” insisted the tree. “Come into the shade. It will do you well to rest, and once you have rested, you may leave.”

Finding that he, in fact, was quite sore, the albatross consented.

The tree told how in its past life, it was the captain of a grand merchant ship, delivering exotic goods from the East to the West, from the South to the North, outwitting pirates and battling through the most wretched of storms. They were obviously exaggerated tales, but the albatross noticed how gently the palm fronds danced and how calmly the wood creaked; he knew the tree was happy.

The albatross decided to stay another day.

He became enraptured in the tree’s adventures. Day by day, he listened, even after his injury had healed and he was well-rested.

He never expected the morning he would wake up to silence.

“Old tree?”

The tree didn’t answer for a long time. Then, “Go. I have no more stories to tell.”

“What?”

“I am weary,” sighed the tree. “My days are spent. Go while the sun still shines.”

Promising that he would return to visit the tree, the albatross, with a heavy heart, took to the sky and disappeared.

Perhaps telling its stories had unloaded a burden from its spirit, or perhaps it was simply watching the albatross fly; but that day, the tree seemed to stand taller, as if gazing at the heavens.

It stood there until sunset.

Then with a great creak, the tree leaned toward the sea one last time.

And in the morning, it was gone.

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

There was a place in the world where all flotsam eventually drifted to. All the jewel-studded goblets of the royal ships, the colorful plumage of ladies’ hats; the torn flags attached to planks of wood, all the way to spices and tea and the carefully crafted fashion dolls that seemed a bit too real for personal comfort. One way or another, the wind would blow, the waves would dance, and the planet would turn so that all nature’s might would send the floating junk to a cluster of islands in the southern seas.

It was after a terrifying storm had raged in the north; the islands were waiting for their usual haul, and were beginning to see the glints of rum bottles, when a lump of cloth clinging to driftwood washed ashore.

After stirring a few times, the lump stood.

He was a man of advanced years, with eyes shining fiercely like a hawk’s. His hair and scraggly nest of beard carried bits of ocean that forever rid them of their natural color. By his rude demeanor he might have been a sailor, perhaps even the captain, if his ruthlessness in kicking away the other forms of wreckage (except the rum bottles; one always checked what was inside those) was anything to go by.

At last, finding nothing of value, he trekked across the island to a relatively bare patch of beach and stared out to sea.

He survived for a week as the heat rose to unbearable levels, carrying with it the salty stench of rotting things throughout the islands. Sometimes he would simply lie in the shade of trees, unmoving, until hunger or thirst pushed him back on his feet. Nights brought insects that stung and buzzed and crawled all over him; he would spend the entire hour batting them away, fearful of being devoured, as had happened to the other stranded junk.

And as the days passed, growing hotter and drier, the man would often stand at the same spot on the sand, glaring at the sunset and leaning forward, as if seeing something in the distance he couldn’t quite reach.

He stood for days on end; years might have passed, without him knowing.

And quite without his knowledge of when or how—and most importantly, why—the man, one day, turned into a tree.

It leaned toward the lapping waves, as the man had always done, so that it seemed to have grown crookedly and tried to right itself a few years too late. Perhaps that was why a dissatisfied air perpetually hung about it, setting it apart from the others. It was never still. It told its stories of grandeur and adventure through the rustle of its palm fronds and the creak of its wood, convinced that one day the wind might carry them or the gulls might echo them to one another.

But the more the tree spoke, the more aware it became that no one was listening at all.

Its rustling grew violent, its creaking became punctuated by sharp cracks of brittle tree bark. The sea birds migrated to other parts of the island, which only made the tree more desperate. Somebody, somebody had to listen to it. And its voice carried in the roar of the sea, and its hopeless anger raged with the blasts of sea wind, until one day an albatross dropped from the sky.

The tree finally stilled.

“Well, shit,” said the albatross as he sorted out his tangle of wings. “What sort of wind was that?”

He grumbled for a good measure before the tree spoke. “I’ll offer you a place to rest if you listen to my story.”

The albatross looked up warily. “Old tree, not to seem rude, but I really must get going. I have a wife—a future wife—waiting for me, and a future chick to look after. My life right now is teetering on the edge of destruction.”

“You must be exhausted,” insisted the tree. “Come into the shade. It will do you well to rest, and once you have rested, you may leave.”

Finding that he, in fact, was quite sore, the albatross consented.

The tree told how in its past life, it was the captain of a grand merchant ship, delivering exotic goods from the East to the West, from the South to the North, outwitting pirates and battling through the most wretched of storms. They were obviously exaggerated tales, but the albatross noticed how gently the palm fronds danced and how calmly the wood creaked; he knew the tree was happy.

The albatross decided to stay another day.

He became enraptured in the tree’s adventures. Day by day, he listened, even after his injury had healed and he was well-rested.

He never expected the morning he would wake up to silence.

“Old tree?”

The tree didn’t answer for a long time. Then, “Go. I have no more stories to tell.”

“What?”

“I am weary,” sighed the tree. “My days are spent. Go while the sun still shines.”

Promising that he would return to visit the tree, the albatross, with a heavy heart, took to the sky and disappeared.

Perhaps telling its stories had unloaded a burden from its spirit, or perhaps it was simply watching the albatross fly; but that day, the tree seemed to stand taller, as if gazing at the heavens.

It stood there until sunset.

Then with a great creak, the tree leaned toward the sea one last time.

And in the morning, it was gone.