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A young girl witnesses a moment of magic.

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There was a boat in the woods, this much she knew.

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Beneath the canopy of trees, she laid on her side, anchored to the roots of a great elm on the rare chance she was to float away. The elm presided over the boat with great care; sheltering the vessel from the worst of the wind and rain.

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It was old and small, a dinghy more than anything. Blue paint had peeled away from her body, revealing a dark green skin beneath. Moss and lichen had grown across the bow, replacing the barnacles and limpets that once claimed the boat home. On the stern, painted in white, was the vessel’s name: FREYA-MAE. The oars laid hidden beneath the piles of dead leaves that had fallen into the boat over the years; rotten and decayed for the woodlouse to eat. Clumps of mushrooms had begun to grow on her underside. In a way, she had taken on a new life beneath the trees and held a distinctive charm. So out of place; yet not. It was like the forest was reclaiming her; taking the wooden vessel back for itself.

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Lowenna remembers as a child, perhaps she was three or four, discovering the boat. Her grandfather was carrying her upon his shoulders, and she was reaching up into the branches of every tree they walked beneath. Autumn was approaching, the sun low in the sky making the leaves shine colours of gold and burnt ember. She plucked a leaf from one; she remembers this as it was the colour of blood. “Ah, here she is.” Her grandfather said, she couldn’t see his face upon his shoulders, but she knew he was smiling. When they got back home, all she did was talk to her grandmother about the boat in the woods.

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When she visited the boat, she invented games – most of them involved her pretending to be Captain Lowenna of the Seven Seas. She and her crew of stuffed teddies went on all manner of adventures looking for lost treasure, discovering islands and fending off evil pirate crews. Her imagination ran wild and she told of all her great victories to anyone who would listen; even the butterflies that would land upon the bow of Freya-Mae. Over time, she brought over blankets, books, small packets of biscuits, pencils and blank paper to draw out maps of unchartered islands. These she kept hidden in the small storage cupboard at the stern. All she deemed essential for her many expeditions across the vast seas.

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That day started like any other – summer was once more melting into autumn, the emerald greens fading and the days growing shorter. She was sat down in the rowers seat, the oars either side of her. Perhaps if she was older she would had noticed the birds quieten, the hushed whisper of the trees as they chatted excitedly to themselves. But Lowenna was reading, her nose buried deep in the pages of a book about the ocean her grandfather had bought her. It was a curious case of coincidence, to be immersed in pages of that book at that time, Lowenna would later think.  

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She was running her finger along the outline of a humpback whale, tracing its shape, unable to comprehend its great size. She made a note in her mind of asking her grandfather to look for one when he was next at sea. She turned to the next page.

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The boat lurched forward, sending the book flying onto the deck and Lowenna with it. She let out a huff of breath, blinking. What was that? Slowly, she begun to push herself upright.

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Freya-Mae shuddered violently once more, sending Lowenna sprawling back onto the decking. She shook her head and shot up, expecting to see her grandfather there rocking the boat with a mischievous grin on his face.

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But there was nothing.

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She looked out across the trees and bushes; but nothing was stirring.

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Her skin prickled, unsure. What was that?

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As if in answer to her question, a low, rustling noise begun - beneath the boat.

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Lowenna shot back onto the deck, pulling a blanket over her head, curling up as small as possible. She gnawed at her bottom lip, squeezing her eyes shut, whole body trembling.

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Freya-Mae begun to rock again; but this time there was no lull. She shook side to side, back and forth, the wood creaking, and Lowenna prayed for the old boat to hold and not splinter. She whimpered and clutched the blanket tighter to herself.

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As suddenly as it begun, the rocking stopped. Freya-Mae…swayed. Bobbing, almost. Tentatively, she emerged from her refuge and peeked over the gunwale. She was still in the woods…but the forest floor had…risen. She was on a sea of leaves, the sunlight turning them golden. They rose and fell like waves, lapping against the boat, a sound not dissimilar to water. She reached over, cautiously dipping her hand into the sea of gold. The sensation was bizarre – it felt wet, yet as if nothing were there. When she pulled her hand back, it was dry.

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A booming rustle – no, or is splash the better word?

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Lowenna spun round, catching a glimpse of leaves falling like salt spray and rippling across the sea. The disturbance made Freya-Mae bob up and over the waves.

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Then…it happened.

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A whale leapt out from the golden sea.

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Lowenna blinked. Then repeated that sentence to herself. A whale leapt out from the golden sea.

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For a moment, the forest froze – holding its breathe, waiting, anticipating the fall. The crash. The boom. Lowenna held her breathe too; and she could hear the thrum of the woods, or was that her own heartbeat? The whale landed with a mighty crash, sending leaves flying. They caught in the sun, glimmering. The whale’s tail disappeared beneath the waves.

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Freya-Mae creaked and bobbed. Lowenna blinked, she had unknowingly been gripping the gunwale, her knuckles whitening and nails digging into the wood. Now, with a small gasp, she let go and fell back onto the decking. She was shaking; she didn’t quite know whether from fear or from delight.

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Yet the whale had looked both familiar and different; it resembled the humpback in her book, yet there was an oddness to it. Much like the leaf sea she currently found herself upon. Was she dreaming? She couldn’t tell.

The whale breached, closer now, the leaves parting. A plume of mist shoots from its blowhole as it takes a breath. Lowenna could see now what made this whale so bizarre. It was a humpback – for it was everything that makes a humpback beautiful and mesmerising. But its body was that of the forest.

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The whale was not made of flesh; of muscle and bone. But branches woven together, both rotten and young, and ivy vines. Of brambles laden with blackberries and the last of the late summer blooms. Of oak leaf, of beech and of ash and elm. A shimmering array of autumnal colours.

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The whale breached again; so close it made her jump. Hesitantly, she came closer to the gunwale once more. If she had wanted too, she could had leaned across and touched it. But something held her back; a sense of knowing not to touch the creature. Its large eye was watching her; dark with a thousand stories and secrets. The sights it has seen, the tales it must have lived.

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The whale floated besides the boat, as curious of her as she of it. She could see clusters of fungi and lichen, encrusted like gemstones along the thickest of branches. They sat for a while, regarding the other, unable to fully understand who or what the other was. At last, the whale took one last breath and dived, sending Freya-Mae rocking once more.

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Lowenna watched as the waves became still and the tide rescinded, the leaves settling down onto the muddy ground or dancing away in the wind. The birds begun to sing, and Freya-Mae became still. For a long while, she sat, her hands pressed to the wood to feel something real. To make sure she was not dreaming. To hold onto what she saw and engrave it into her mind, carve it so deeply that it will forever be something true.

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Her grandfather had told her once that everything holds memories – old books and records, broken instruments, and torn teddy bears. They all have a past, she wondered if old boats did too? Was that a story, woven from the memory of Freya-Mae, stitched together with autumn colours to make real once more?

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On shaky legs, she hopped out of the boat. She was coated in mud and debris, twigs entangled in her dress and hair. Freya-Mae bore no sign of what happened. Lowenna ran her hand along her side, tracing the bold lettering. When she drew her hand back, flecks of paint had dusted her fingertips.

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She could not help but smile; it was her first adventure after all.

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