A Dryad's Guide to Lumberjack Spotting - SCP Foundation

Winter was the time for dying.

Winter was the time for dying.

Deciduous trees shed their autumnal gowns, perennials curling back into their bulbs, and even the bears take their leave, drowsily meandering into the vestigial warmth of caves and bluffs.

But for us, there's no rest. Across the arbor where we spent our springs and summers dancing in the warm air, my people and I silhouette ourselves against the evergreens. We place down our roots there, just far enough from the saplings which, if left untrampled, would bear their first fruits in the spring, but not close enough to the great oaks, whose rings far surpassed the size of those who would remain.

Oftentimes, the men arrive before the first frost. Those among my people who still believe in the dream of eternal summer, who still heed the words of Husk Prophets, conniving creatures of decay that read the bones of inexperienced fledglings and picked-clean squirrels, they're the first among the fires. A dryad who cannot hide, dies. The perfumed scent of their burning bark is pleasing to humans, some have said. But those who remember the great bonfires at the end of the season know the deeper truth; fear the fires, lest you're stripped of branches and bark and formed into logs to build their mocking camps.

During my younger, more infantile stages, I was rooted in the center of the forest. It was safer this way; young dryad's lacked any of the appealing features that made the adults so lucrative in the market places, and it was easier to spot a growing dryad. A single flower, a gift from the Arbor Maiden, bloomed from all dryads year round. Once you were taught how to hide that flower, to mask it with vines or by twisting yourself in impossible ways, was when you were finally deemed ready to leave the safety of the forest.

I was in my 15th cycle when this happened.

During my first winter, I watched as packs of men in red and black tunics stepped through the blanket of snow. They held silvery talons in their hands, and would occasionally use them to bite into a nearby tree, creating notches to follow back to their camps before the real hunters clawed after them in the night.

Those with grey in their beards, larger figures of muscle and sap, often led mismatched cohorts on these expeditions. It was almost hypnotic watching them work; their shoes barely left tracks in the snow as they slowly circled around each and every tree.

And that's when one found me.

He was an older gentleman with a kind face hidden under a thick layer of frost-tinged facial hair. In his dance, he spotted my flower. I had tried to twist myself, tried to hide it high in my crown of branches. He called his group over and pointed it out to them. One of the men reached towards it, but his hand was slapped away, answered with the disappointing shake of a head.

I waited for the bite of the axe, to be taken from my sisters… but nothing came. The man simply tied a pink ribbon around me before his group slowly peeled away, disappearing into the rest of the forest.

The forest has many stories to offer, and there are those amongst us that weave these stories to keep us safe. They whistle in birdsong, carve fungal omens in fallen logs, unroot themselves upriver so the flow may flood once-dry land years later. The most impressive of these stories, however, was the biggest lie of all: dryads thirst for human blood.

Long ago, as is told, a pack of lumberjacks were making their usual rounds through the forest when one's foot was caught in a bear trap. He wailed when it clamped around his leg, crying out to the others for help as his blood stained the snow red. It is said that one of the most ancient of us, one that survived hundreds of winters before this point, shed its camouflage. When the rest of his party arrived, his body was so thoroughly torn apart that the only intact memory of him was his axe. The lumberjacks spoke of a forest of trees stained with blood, and the seed of doubt would be rooted forever more.

But superstition can only be so much of a shield, and it's hardly enough of a deterrent. For although some of these men, far away travelers who seek a fortune in us, steer clear of the larger trees of the forest, there are those who have reimagined the story as their own.

Dryad's don't feast on blood, but they do seek warmth.

The grey beards' calloused palms bear the soft pink scars of hundreds of slashes. It is said that dryads unfurl when they come into contact with blood. It reminds them of the warmer seasons, of being intertwined with their lovers under the bright sun. They often call out those names as the axe cuts through them, echoing out into the forest as they're carried away forever.

But you're not safe if you hide your flower, nor if you're able to withstand the yearning for warmth.

It's said that the forest breathes, and each tree breathes to its own rhythm. Some dryads spend their lifetime studying this tempo, perfecting it and passing their knowledge onto the saplings. But there's always the question of how the breath escapes; the vapor.

I've watched masters of this craft be cut down for being milliseconds early on their release. I've watched as marauding bands indiscriminately clear sections of woods to strike fear in our hearts. I've felt hands glide over my bark, groping at my branches and knots to search for where I may be hiding my mouth. Some days I wonder how I'm not found. Some days I think it hardly matters at all.

The forests are quiet during these searches. It haunts me more than any howl or screech ever could.

I hope these words can mean something, if they're read at all. I can feel the presence of the Arbor Maiden fading; there are so few left to sing her song. As I write this, the leaves have started to turn. There used to be so much beauty in this. I can feel only dread now.

The saplings crowd around me. For many of them, this will be their first winter. For many, this will be their last. I do what I can to answer their worries, to calm their cries, before finally the question turns to me.

I simply smile and tell them what I would want to hear, covering the pink ribbon that my bark has already grown around.

I've been marked. There won't be another spring for me. As I look now into the forest, my mind is filled with thoughts, wonders of just how hot the fire burns.