Before I met you, Pinebark, my only dream was to gaze at the sea. My dreams are gone, but I’m not complaining; I’ve got your statue carved of wood, and I’ve got your whisper.

Back then, just behind my yard stretched a gorge full of lithe aspens, with foliage that strained to the edge of the cliff to reach the sun. A generation ago, this gorge was a beach. When the sea dried up, it took away the sand and carried it deep down, leaving only a stream at the bottom. I only went down to the yews to cut wood, but sometimes, at dusk, I stood by the oldest pine, a huge tree rooted at the edge of the cliff. And, if the wind decided to stay still, I could hear the ripple and imagine it was the splash of the sea.

The sea was gone before my time. First, we lost our Prince; they say he drowned on his way back from a victorious naval battle, in a storm that swallowed up our entire fleet. The Queen, broken by her loss, climbed up to the terrace of the palace and threw herself down on the rocks. We had no King, so, after the sea, we lost our country too. Those who were sailors emigrated and barbarians crossed our borders, stomped on our fields, and trampled our forests. The ports and the ships they ignored; what would they do with our ships anyway, abandoned as they lay on dry land like nutshells, their oaken carcasses useless, rotting—such good lumber, wasted. Who cursed us, I know not. Some say it was the gods whom we forgot to thank for our trade routes, others say it was that witch of a Queen, and yet others say it was nature’s wish, for we defiled the sea by fighting on its waves. Well, I say that’s just how it was meant to be.

The sea dried up, and a barren desert was born beyond the aspens. I came into this world by a father who became a carpenter in his old age and a mother who died early, of sorrow. It was she who spoke to me of a wild sea, with waves as high as castles, filled with horrible monsters, a sea at times calm and at times a drowner of men.

I wanted to see it, but it was gone, and to hear the wash I would have to travel to the edge of the world, to cross barbarian land until I could reach a north and foreign sea. So, I stayed; maybe because I feared the trip, maybe because I fell in love with the pinewood, dry and hollow when cut, grey, pale like a dead man’s skin, cold like stone and smooth like marble. I carved idols and statues, but I didn’t make a living out of it. I made bows out of dogwood and arrows out of linden, staves out of aspen, poles out of spruce, cypress clubs and oaken withes.

I didn’t complain; I could get by. Woodworm was my only enemy. The chieftains that ravaged the mountains appreciated my weapons and wanted them so they could kill each other on the eve of summer, and their men preferred to pay rather than steal. I treated them to quince and figs from my yard, and they protected me against those with no need for my craft. The locals in the nearby villages accepted my money and thus I could fill the pantry with barley, olives, and wine.

I cut, hacked, and carved, fed the livestock, took care of the quince and fig trees, opened my door to whomever had enough to pay and hoped that one day I would gather enough gold to travel to the edge of the world to gaze upon the frigid sea.

Until I found you at my doorstep.

*     *     *
Before I met you, Pinebark, I had never smelled a woman’s bosom other than my mother’s. No complaint though; in the years alone I grew used to solitude, and now your remembrance is enough.

Naked, with bones shattered and hands broken and knees crooked; with a body full of wounds, and between the legs, the worst of them. I knew no human to live so injured, but still, you were breathing. Briars were tangled in your hair, your nails filthy, black, ripped off. Dirt and blood had turned to mud on your skin; maybe that’s why I didn’t recognize you.

Because I’d heard of you, Pinebark, with a thousand names, in stories and vulgar jokes. Don’t sweat being all alone; sooner or later Parchedskin will come along. It doesn’t matter whether she likes your craft or not; the Sandwoman will grant you the favor. So she does to all.

I picked you up; you were light as if you were hollow. I washed you in the earthen basin with water from the well and laid you down in bed; that’s when I suspected it was you.

I touched your forehead and perhaps your body a bit as I covered you up. The linen sheet caught on you, as if I was covering soil, neither smooth nor rough. Your skin, like autumn dry plane-tree leaves, like the bark of pine; and that’s how I named you.

Women; I had only seen a few, and when I first saw you, you were injured, not for me; and when I washed you, a little goddess, not for me. But once the thought came into my mind that it was you, the one they talk about in the stories, then, were you for me perhaps? I fell for you, even if you had your dark eyes firmly shut.

I took care of you and took your sight in. I fell asleep on the dirt near you, to know your body’s roughness. I longed for you to wake up, to speak. I longed to enjoy you. I even sent to the village for a doctor. I shut the door and, while waiting outside, I peeled a piece of wood with my favorite knife, the dolphin-shaped one—which I had carved according to my mother’s descriptions—until I heard a screech. I dropped the wood and ran inside and found him on top of you, naked, blood everywhere. I would have gutted him, but you turned and looked at me and, while you said nothing, your eyes told me to go.

The doctor left and I found you sitting, calm, already washed. Your body healed, with only a few fresh cuts. I asked if you were all right; what about the cuts? What about the blood? Your voice hoarse, like flints that spark fire, you said no tear wells up in your eyes, no sweat runs down your skin, no nothing. And that’s how you triumph over yourself: with the blood that seeps through the cuts. That’s how you make love.

I stood petrified. How’s it possible? Come, and I’ll show you how.

*     *     *
Before I met you, Pinebark, I knew no man who shared. I have no complaint, though; many hear your whisper, but your words are just for me.

You showed me. The stories spoke of a weird sensation, skin dry, tongue rough like a cat’s, scentless breath and blood you wasted only for the deed to be done. Truth or lies, I had never taken another, so I knew not; but with you, it was exquisite.

I caressed you, I kissed your drought, my skin got scratched on you and red cuts bloomed on it, worth it; I saw you dig your nails in your skin to make it bleed; wait, I want in too; I brought the dolphin-shaped knife and cut my skin, and in the end I drank your blood and it was like mine, salty.

And when I had my fill, I asked for your name. You said you have many, so then, I will call you Pinebark; call me what you like, just give me clothes so I can leave. Where should I find them? My mother’s garments had turned to dust along with her—back then we didn’t bury the dead in the cursed soil; we burnt them.

And as I was gazing at you getting in my wretched old clothes, I said, stay. Why, only to chisel a wood carving of you, to do what with it, to remember you. All right, for you bled and you drank my blood, for this I will stay.

I said I will cut the biggest pine tree, the one rooted by the cliff; I will steal its branches for arms and legs, I will hammer them, I will glue them, I will do this and that, but, when in the woods, I stood before another. The tree was small and lithe. It would give me you but three times less, but there; there’s your neck, there are two twigs, your arms, there are your legs. I saw you in the wood and didn’t think more.

I pruned it for three days, to relieve it of foliage, so it wouldn’t break when it fell. I cut bushes and laid them on the dirt, to softly welcome it. I sawed your piece and carried it home.

Two horses tied up in the yard, the workshop firmly bolted, the front door ajar. Inside, the bed sang. Two of the most powerful chieftain’s men got out of the bedroom and got dressed right before my eyes. They bought arrows and a sword hilt and told me to expect more of them; with you here, they said, I would become rich.

You found me looking at their footprints. You said that’s who you are and that’s what you do. Don’t look at me like that. What, you named me and you thought I belong to you now? No, Pinebark, I ... Drop the nos and the buts, if you want me to, I’m leaving now, you will be neither the first nor the last. No, I touched you, I tried to kiss you, to hold you in my arms. You cursed me, you slapped me, you scratched me with your sharp nails. No, I want you to stay.

Why?

To sculpt you. A lie.

*     *     *
Before I met you, Pinebark, I thought I had loved; my parents, the sea, the wood. A sham, but I’m not complaining; now I know what it’s like.

I peeled the wood and hacked it off. I had you stand there, naked, so I could give it life. I carved it for days, slowly, to make it perfect, slowly, so you wouldn’t go. We coupled, first with your blood, then with mine. Your wounds healed, leaving no marks; me, my skin was traced with scars by the dolphin-shaped knife, but it was worth it. I talked to you and you listened, and you talked too, from time to time. I let my wish to see the sea slip, why?

I do not know. Because it’s beautiful—what a facile reply. No, it’s not. It never was. How did you know? How many winters had you witnessed? I didn’t ask.

I finished the woodcarving, and it was the best I had ever made. You traced it with your fingers; is this really how I look? I smiled; no, you’re prettier still.

Time to go. Μy clothes on your back, my fingers slipped under them, your skin rough, like your statue. Please.

You smiled for the first time. Do you wish to suffer? I am barren; you will see no child from me, and even if you did, you would lose us both. Don’t ask me how I know; I just do. I am cursed.

Who isn’t cursed in this sealess land? Stay.

Your smile grew dim. This thing I do, I will keep doing it. Stay. Don’t you mind? I would mind it more if you left.

You stayed.

It wasn’t bliss, not every single day. At times you desired me, at times you slept, at times you picked quinces and figs so the sparrows didn’t peck them, at times you disappeared in the woods; and, when you were blue, you garnished my every word with a swear word. At times you admired my wood art and at times you looked at me and yawned. At times you chattered and at times you didn’t breathe a word.

You stayed.

One morning, you were gazing at the cloudless sky, brooding. I’d never ask you anything when you were blue, but you spoke anyway. You sighed, where are the clouds, why don’t they ever gather above this land?

It’s summer, Pinebark. What do you want with the clouds? You left for the woods without an answer. My heart raced until you came back, but when you returned, your eyes glistened; then, it was bliss.

But also, pain. They came; supposedly for arrows and tools and weapons. I was waiting out of the room; every creak equaled a stab. At times I left, so you couldn’t hammer words in my wounds when you came out.

They bade me goodbye, at first hunched. Then they took liberties; they thanked, they laughed, they helped themselves to quinces and figs. They left copper coins on the table; she had earned them, they said. They learned your name and they said that a carpenter is meant to hack at Pinebark. I took the coins; I kept silent. I was afraid that, if I pushed them away, you would leave too. Would it be for the best, perhaps?

It was not bliss, for you neither, but you came to know me over time. You swore at me and I bowed out; you got angry and I backed off. You were in a foul mood and I left you alone; you were indolent and I let you be. From time to time you ran away; I never admitted it, but it was when the visits were scarce. You came back, and it all began anew.

Until you left for good.

*     *     *
Before I met you, Pinebark, I didn’t know what for good meant. But I am not complaining; I will be in your arms again.

I looked for you. I threw your wood carving over my shoulder—supposedly to show it around, such a lie, everyone knew you—to keep me company. In the desert I saw remnants of sea creatures; I walked past them. I spoke with nomads who wore fishbone trinkets; they told me they were sailors once, they had seen you and it was better not to seek you. They said the one I’m looking for comes and goes as she pleases and as her curse dictates, unable to resist any man she desires.

Tell me something good.

Nobody ever loved her.

I found you after months, beyond the desert. You had been crucified, wood on top of wood, blood clotted like pine tar, arms spread open, motionless like a statue. I ran to you; what did she ever do to you? Only women did not avert their eyes; they said you stole the hearts of their men. I pulled out the nails, I took you down, I promised them you would never come back; mercy, I begged, and I showed them your swollen belly.

We stayed at an inn and I waited for you to come round, making odds and sods for the innkeeper, always by your side, always in your room. You opened your dark eyes; I welcomed you but you pounced on me. You scratched me with your nails, you stole my dolphin-shaped knife, you stuck its blade to my neck; it smelled of willow bark from the day before, when I was peeling birches. You should have left me, you fool; I was gone for a reason, you had to leave me there!

I am sorry. But I want you to come back. With the child. I don’t care whose it is; I didn’t say that, but my eyes betrayed me.

I know about your curse, Pinebark—you turned pale—yes, I know about it, to give yourself to whomever you desire, I will not stop you. Chilling laughter, like flintspark, you fool, you have no idea.

The child is my curse and the child is yours, I know that. I don’t know why, but it’s the truth. Maybe because you’re the only one who bled, maybe because you’re the only one who drank my blood.

Just tales, all of them. Once you named your body barren, now you name the child a curse. Well, come with me or get done with it.

The blade felt cold. You took it from my neck and brought it to my chest. You carved me and we became one with my blood.

After a long time, we found the house in ruins. The stable was empty of animals, the storage full with spiders; whatever was not missing had rotted away. The workshop empty, the tools gone; axes, adzes, moils, cutters, drills, mattocks and rasps and an ancient naval saw—my father’s legacy, useless. Everything I had carved, gone, too; arrows, bows, shafts, shields—some broken figureheads were the only things left. But there was me and you, and we would have our child. A new tribe chief wanted weapons. He lent me the tools; we had quince and fig trees in our yard, we had the forest on our back, so I started working for him. The news spread. We were back, they said, and there came the first one; tall, young and handsome. He said he wanted arrows and a taste of you. You came out and you rejected him. Get lost, never again; now you belonged to me. He saw the belly and he laughed, and he told me to name the child a thousand men’s bastard and tried to take you. I slaughtered him with the dolphin-shaped knife.

Knowledge of the murder spread, and the chief said that, until I finished my work for him, no one would hurt us. Two tried. I killed them and no one else came after that.

A few days later, you asked me to stab you. Otherwise, the child wouldn’t come out.

*     *     *
Before I met you, Pinebark, I had never dreamt of a woman’s eyes on a child. Dreams fade away, but I have no complaint; your whisper is eternal.

I did it. I cleaned the dolphin-shaped knife and dug up the child from your loins. Days later, you recovered. I was afraid you would die; don’t be scared, I can take it. Our daughter?

She is well. You touched the soft baby skin. Your rough fingers made her cry, and when your index caught her tear I thought you would cry too, only you didn’t.

Winter, spring, you were raising her and I was working. Summer found the chief victorious, and his gratitude filled our stable, our storeroom, our bellies; but not our hearts.

This was not happiness. You neither parted with our daughter nor smiled. Your lullabies were all sad, your words scanty. With trembling caresses you fed her goat’s milk without shedding a tear, and I thought I glimpsed emotion, foolish me.

One morning I heard hoarse screaming, like iron on iron. I left the workshop and ran home. I found you with her little body, her arms flailing lifeless, the milk pot in pieces, you, mad; you were cursed, you mumbled, you shouldn’t have and now, alas! I’d lost our daughter; now I would lose you too.

The baby had drowned on her milk. I held her and wept; she hadn’t seen a second winter. My tears on her, yours on my shoulders—your tears on my shoulders, are you crying? Your arms held us both; you were crying. Your fingers touched me and they weren’t rough, but warm and damp, human. Yes, you were crying because now you were free of your curse.

And now I would lose you too.

*     *     *
Before I met you, Pinebark, I thought curses to be just tales. Now, I know, alas.

You told me, but I didn’t believe you. Leave this talk now, we should burn her little body first; no, not fire, the land is no more cursed. I accepted; we buried her by the cliff, to keep us company forever, you said. And, under the huge tree, we wept.

On our way home, the clouds got heavy. Bitterness overwhelmed me; here, I sneered, the clouds you’ve been asking for—yes; my friends have come for me.

You bid me goodbye and I got angry this once; you’re bored of me and you want to fiddle around, you cannot bear the guilt for our daughter; I expected wrath, I expected claws, but I only got peace. The tears like diamonds in your eyes; I wish to drink the pain away together in each other’s arms, I would live and die with you. I will be by your side, even if I’m not here; I will whisper to you.

Coward, leave then, go.

It is not cowardice. It’s just that with you, with our daughter, I understood. As your Queen cursed me to understand.

Before throwing herself from the cliff, she spoke to me. Unless I bleed, I should not flow again, she said, unless I taste a child’s loss. And after I taste it, then we’ll see if my waves will be as ferocious. I walked the world looking for someone to plant a child inside me. But you can’t fool a curse, you can’t be free of it whenever it suits you. Maybe that’s why I never was with child, because our daughter was the only child I wanted.

Now that I’ve lost her, I’ve tasted pain, and my roughness has waned. And now that I don’t desire it any more, I have to become the sea again.

You kissed me and left, a kiss wet and salty. I didn’t believe, not even in your footsteps on the soil, damp as they were.

In the morning the heavens broke with rain, and I might not have believed you, but I believed that you were gone. I got rope; I crossed the yard with the quince and fig trees and the well, and walked to the huge pine, the one rooted at the edge of the cliff. Torrents plowed the earth, pine cones and needles floated, lightning carved the sky like wounds on your body, thunder shook the earth and thick drops of rain scourged me, but I climbed up, I tied the rope, I put the noose around my throat and jumped.

And then I saw you again. You bloated and foamed through the aspens, dark and ardent and tempestuous. You crashed and raised a huge wave, taller than the cliff, taller than the trees, tall as in my mother’s words, taller than a castle. Your long tongue refreshed my body, and, as it withdrew, left the pine broken in half, with the rope cut. And I was left with this salty taste on my lips, this taste I knew so well, the taste of your blood.

*     *     *
Before I met you, Pinebark, I had never smelt the sea breeze. You see, right across my yard stretched a gorge, full of lithe aspens, with foliage that strained to the edge of the cliff so they could see the sun. A stream flowed at its bottom, and at twilight, when the wind remained silent, I stood by the huge pine tree and I could hear the ripple and imagine it was the splash of the sea.

Now there is neither a pine tree, nor a gorge, nor aspens. A lonely log marks our daughter’s grave and, beyond it, only you lie. Only you are not the sea from my mother’s tales. You are not wild; you granted your last wave to me as a kiss and now you lie serene.

Before I met you, sea, my only dream was to gaze upon you. But I have no complaints. I caress your woodcarving, I listen to your whisper, and I know I will be in your arms again one day.