Roots and Wings
Once upon a time, there was a tribe that lived upon the water. Their homes were tents that they had pitched long ago upon great, moving, floating mats of seaweed. This marvelous material grew so thickly and densely that the people of the tribe could walk and run and roll on it, even as the mats beneath their feet rolled on the back of the never-ending waves. Storms would come and go, but the tribe remained, and day by day and year by year, the roots of the plants and the people of the tribe grew.
Into this tribe a little girl was born. She grew up between the waves and the sky, learning to swim and walk at nearly the same time. Her parents had many other children and were busy with their responsibilities to the tribe, and so her closest friend was her old grandfather. When she wasn’t running and playing with the other children of the tribe, she would make her way to his tent and sit beside his fire while he told stories of his travels across the seas of their world.
For Grandfather had been a great traveler in his youth. He told her tale after tale of his adventures on – and even beyond – the sea, for he claimed to have traveled to the Fixed Lands that did not ride upon the back of the great waters.
“But Grandfather,” she asked, “How did you swim so far away from the tribe’s lands? I cannot swim nearly so far as the horizon, and you must have gone much further than that!”
Then he would smile secretly, stroke his long white beard, and whisper his secret to her as she listened with eyes wide in astonishment. What was it? Well, you will know soon enough.
As she grew to be a young woman, the boys of the tribe who used to run away whenever she tried to play with them began to notice her. And, as boys will do, they began to tease her. She didn’t like it. When they pulled her hair or shoved her in the arm, she would shrink back and begin to cry. Then, because she was timid and shy, they would torment her more. They would never let her sit in peace while they played, but they would yank her hair and push her around until at last she would run back to her grandfather, eyes wet with tears.
Each time, he would fold her in a hug, listen to her tales, and sigh. After this had gone on for some time, he sat her down and began to tell her a story. He told her of the marvelous things called trees that could be found far away on the fixed lands. These trees, he said, grew as tall as the clouds, and they raised their heads to the skies, spreading branched arms wider than the base of a tent was large.
“But Grandfather,” she asked, “How do they not fall down if they are so tall and wide.”
He smiled and laid a hand on her head. Then he bent down and whispered the secret to her.
“Roots.”
She looked up at him, wide-eyed and mouthed the word, “Roots?”
He smiled and pointed to the moving surface beneath their feet. Grandfather explained that the roots of the trees were not like the roots of the seaweed. The roots of the trees grew out like a mirror of the branches. He held up his hands together, splaying one set of his fingers to the sky, and one set of fingers to the ground. Because of their roots, he said, not even the strongest winds could blow the trees around. The roots carried life to them up from the ground and kept them anchored when the storms came to blow them down.
The girl sighed.
“I wish I had roots. Then those boys wouldn’t be able to push me around.”
Grandfather’s eyes twinkled.
“Maybe you already do,” he said, “The next time they come to blow you down, try to find your roots.”
She thought about this as she went home and helped her mother with the evening meal. She thought about this as she helped put her younger brothers and sisters to bed. She thought about this as she helped her father put away his nets and tools for the day. She thought about this as she lay down herself and watched the stars and the moons whirl overhead.
What were her roots? Did she have them? Would she always be pushed around by the others?
With a shocking lack of foreshadowing, the next day began just as the ones before it always had.
But this day would be different. Once her chores were done, the girl went to play with the others. As they had always done of late, the boys began to tease her. But today, she thought of the marvelous trees that her grandfather had did not fall down. Although they were blown about by the winds, but they did not topple because of their deep roots. Rather than shrink back and cry at their teasing, she imagined her feet stretching deep, deep down into the majestic, immovable Fixed Lands.
The thought made her smile. The boys stopped teasing her. “Why are you smiling?” they demanded.
“I was just thinking about my roots,” she said with a lofty smile. The boys looked at her strangely. But they left her alone. Perhaps they thought her mad. But at least they let her alone.
Later, when she told her grandfather about it, he grinned and ruffled her leaves … that is … her hair. She didn’t mind when he did it. Birds nest in trees, so trees must not mind getting their leaves mussed.
Strangely, her game did not grow old. Stranger still, the more she thought of herself having roots, the more she saw the truth of it. She hummed songs while she worked the way that her mother had always hummed over her chores. She went carefully about her tasks the way that her father had always carefully arranged his nets at the end of each day. She told herself little stories about her life the way that her grandfather would fill each day with wonder and magic.
As the days became weeks that became months, she saw that the boys stopped teasing her altogether. After all, it was no fun to try to blow over a tree that had its roots planted deeply in the Fixed Lands.
Soon, the winter winds began to blow, and her grandfather began to work with her on a new task. They would build something together, he told her. He led her to the water’s edge, where they gathered armfuls upon armfuls of the seaweed from the edge of the floating mat. Then he showed her how to lay out the roots in a long row and bind them together so that they formed a strong, straight, thick mass.
“These roots will be your keel,” he said. She nodded, but without understanding of the words.
Next, they began to weave an enormous basket around the keel. Day by day, higher and higher, it grew until it was as high as her waist. Its weave was tight and dense, and they smeared it with the sap of the seaweed that would harden in the cool air into a strong, smooth coating that would keep the water out.
“Your boat is almost finished,” Grandfather chuckled as they lashed a light framework of sticks in place, leaving an empty gap in the middle near the front of the boat, “Soon all it will need are its wings.”
The very mention of wings excited her imagination. You see, all those months ago, when she had asked Grandfather how he had traveled beyond the horizon, the secret that he had whispered had been that he had flown across the sea with his wings. Like a bird.
She knew of birds, of course. Flocks of them landed amidst the tribe several times each year as they traveled back and forth between the Fixed Lands. Sometimes, after storms, windswept birds would be found by the tribe. They had wings. But how had Grandfather grown them?
Tomorrow, he told her, she would find out.
But that very night, Grandfather fell ill. He was too weak to go down to the boat with her. She stayed by his side day and night as he tossed and turned with the fever. Finally, after a week, the fever left him exhausted and weak. He called her close and told her to look beneath the bed, as he had a gift for her.
She obeyed. As she reached down, she felt something soft to the touch, and she pulled out a large net that had had thousands of feathers woven into it.
“Stretch it out on those poles,” he urged. Again, she obeyed. Soon, the slanted square of netting was held by the two poles, one at the top and one at the bottom. Then he pointed at the third pole and the lines of cord that hung from it, she understood. The third pole would hold the two up and stretch the feathered net. She looked at the base of the third pole and understood why they had left the gap among the sticks in the framework of her boat.
He saw her expression and nodded, saying, “This is my old sail. It was my wings. Now it is yours.”
The girl grinned and hugged her old grandfather gently. Even though his illness had passed, he now felt even more frail than ever. He saw her look of concern, but he shrugged dismissively. Yet she couldn’t stop thinking about it, wishing that there were something that she could do to help him.
And so, over the next few days and weeks, as she practiced with her sail and her boat, she thought about him and all that he had done for her. He had given her roots. He had given her wings. But what could she give him?
One night after she had gone to bed in the early winter darkness, she heard her mother talking with her father about Grandfather’s health. Mother said that he might not last until the summer, not unless he had some of the fruit from the Fixed Land. For the fruit could work wonders, Mother said. As the girl sat in the darkness, her imagination began to light up with hope and possibility.
She knew of the fruit. Sometimes, it washed up against the tribe’s home. But they had not seen any for a very, very long time. She worried that they might not find more in time to save Grandfather. Now she thought to herself that if the fruit could not come to them, she could go to it. Grandfather had found the Fixed Lands when he was younger. So could she. He had done so with his wings. So could she. She would chase the far horizon and find what lay beyond it.
Sleep claimed her as she resolved to leave at first light. The next morning, filling her boat with provisions, she set sail. For weeks, day after day, the wind carried her. Night after night, the stars sang to her.
She called to the wind to lead her and to the stars to guide her, saying that she must find the fruit of the Fixed Land for her ailing grandfather. The winds listened. The stars glowed. Day by day and night by night, her little boat sailed further into the horizon.
One morning, she saw a smudge on the horizon. As the day wore on, the smudge became a smear, then a line, then a lump, and then a mass of something solid and unmoving. She stared at it in amazement.
Fixed Land!
The winds brought her gently to shore and she stepped foot for the first time on something that did not move with her weight. It was the strangest thing. For some time, she practiced finding her balance. It was not easy, but soon she could manage a sort of rolling walk across the softly yielding surface that she felt beneath her feet. Sand, Grandfather had called it in his stories. He had said it was made of tiny broken rocks. She scooped up a handful to bring back.
Thinking of returning made her remember the reason that she had come. Looking around, she saw sticks standing tall with bundles that looked like feathers at the top. Yet they were thicker than stick. Her friends, the winds, blew at them, and the sticks bent as the feathers swayed. But they did not fall over. As her playmates moved away, the sticks stood upright once again. Then she realized what they were.
Trees. With roots. Trees would have fruit. Fruit would save Grandfather.
Awkwardly, she stumbled through the sand toward the towering feather-topped pillars. Sure enough, at the base of each tree, half-buried in the strange-feeling sand, she found dozens of the tough-hulled fruits that she had sought. Laughing with joy, she gathered them one by one until she had filled her little boat with them. Then, offering thanks to the winds, the stars, and their Maker, she set sail once more.
“Take me home,” she asked the winds and the stars as she left the Fixed Lands behind her on the receding horizon, “Carry me back to Grandfather before it’s too late.”
Someone must have listened. For day after day, night after night, the winds filled her sails and the stars sang over her. Before long, she sensed a familiar feel to the waters, and within another day, she saw the tents of her tribe. Within moments, they saw her and shouted in welcome as she sailed up alongside and made her boat fast. Wordless, she waved aside their questions, instead gathering up several of the fruits and running lightly over the rolling surface of the floating mat to the tent where Grandfather lay, looking weaker than ever.
She knelt beside him, opening one of the fruits and offering it to him. He took it, sipped its sweet juice, and ate a morsel of the soft flesh. As he did, the twinkle came back into his eyes. Before long, he sat up, already looking stronger. He looked down at her as she knelt beside his bed.
“How did you do it, dear one?” he asked.
She smiled, “Oh, Grandfather. You already know, for you gave me everything that I needed.”
She leaned in, hugging him around the neck and whispered in his ear, “Roots. Roots and wings.”
Michael Somerville is the author of several short stories, as well as an in-progress high-fantasy series called the Tales of the Broken Realm. He loves telling stories of hope about ordinary characters doing their small part to help heal a broken world. By day, he pays the bills as a hands-on storyteller and project manager, leading and envisioning professional teams in the "real-world", even as he is busily building and illustrating imaginary worlds in his evenings and on the weekends.
Outside of work and writing, he enjoys a wide range of hobbies, including playing music with his family and friends on keyboard or guitar, drawing, sculpting, painting, sewing, and blacksmithing, or walking the length of the Appalachian Trail in his home neighborhood in the Shenandoah Valley, where he serves as a Board member on his local civic association.
Most important to Michael are his family and his church. Michael and Jessica celebrate their 20th anniversary in 2026 and are happily raising three wonderful daughters. He serves actively in his local church, playing music on Sunday, teaching the older elementary kids, and leading a small group of wonderful saints. He hopes to hear "Well done" one day, and plans to keep serving his true King until then.
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