The Legend of the Spanish Moss
some fairytale fiction
So, we’re in South Carolina and I’m thinking about this week’s Substack and I’ve got like no ideas at all. I turn to Alli (my wife) and am all like, “What should I write about?” And she literally looks straight up, points at—what I now know is called—Spanish moss and says, “How about that?”
And here we are. Enjoy.
Hair decays last.
It can take human hair years to fully decompose, to completely turn to ash and dust and sink back into the darkness of the earth. Hair that hung loosely upon slender shoulders. Hair that was tied back or pushed up or trimmed and combed and lovingly stroked. Hair that fell into blue eyes and boiling soups and that collected at the bottom of shower drains like a soggy family of ferrets.
That’s human hair—so important to so many for so long. A reflection of personal intent and desire, dangling in life’s breezes from heads too full, too stressed, too busy to see the world rumbling past. And when those heads are nothing more than empty eye sockets and broken skulls, the hair remains. For a while, at least—even if it’s too late to enjoy the world that was missed.
The rules are different for magical creatures, for beings of myth and legend. Some say that there are no rules at all. Human hair decays last; the hair of those from Faerie lasts for generations. Maybe even forever.
And that’s why humans seek it.
*
The long-haired nymph is a creature of the Old Times. In those days, when magical beings roamed the world in freedom, the long-haired nymph was a Familiar, a companion creature who brought light and joy to its master.
Few images remain that depict the long-haired nymph of those days. What we do have reveals little more than a floating mop of long, leafy tresses. Still frames tell us precious little about the movement of these creatures, but we deduce they bobbed and bounced upon air currents much in the way a balloon might, though without ever gaining unwanted altitude. The long-haired nymph was often seen depicted alongside great sorcerers and traveling pilgrim wizards and witches alike.
Little is known about how these creatures were domesticated; no record remains that details how their trust was won or earned. Indeed, we can only hazard educated guesses as to where these magical beings originated, and the result is a cautious finger pointed roughly at the Americas.
But what we do know with great confidence is that the long-haired nymph was a much-desired Familiar because it contained miraculous healing powers. Some writings even suggest the long-haired nymph possessed the power to resurrect the recent dead.
In any case, the trick only worked once; the master of the nymph would call upon such healing abilities in the gravest of peril. And, seemingly, the nymph knew when to act of its own volition in the cases of resurrection.
In all the lore we’ve been able to decipher, the nymph’s act is one of total sacrifice—it dies so that its master might live. How such an agreement was made and the ethical implications of such a one-sided accord are the topic of some discussion, though seeing as the long-haired nymph is—for all intents and purposes—extinct, and the magic users that coerced them into companionship driven into exile, the topic is all but academic.
But one aspect that remains of interest, at least to me, is a little-known variant on the well-known myth: Some say the nymph doesn’t die, not entirely. Rather, the nymph fuses with its host. The power of resurrection, of healing, of restoration requires not the death of the Faerie creature but its life.
And so I wonder, is our world full of dormant nymphs? Does the power of resurrection dwell in the very raw material of our universe?
*
The long-haired nymphs as a species were last encountered during the Era of Conquest in hidden corners of the American continent. They were no longer the oft-seen Familiars of powerful magic users; at this point in common history, the nymphs—it is guessed—had fled into the deep bogs and marshy forests of the continent’s coastal regions.
Though the nymphs themselves had been rarely seen for generations, their reputation as great sources of power had spread across the European continent. Their allure called to the conquistadores from across the oceans, and it was that desire for immortality—even more than glory or riches—that drove those great ships over mighty, deadly waves. The waters of the Fountain of Youth paled in comparison to the acquisition of an entire race of life-saving creatures that could be bent to the will of Empire.
The conquistadores were clumsy but persistent. Their heads were full of the same lore and legend that we know today. But rather than cultivate a disposition of curiosity, they were twisted by a lust for something that no mortal can ever truly master.
We do not know if the conquistadores actually encountered any nymphs. We know they searched for years, pushing deeper and deeper into the great oak forests, hacking away at the groves of bald cypress.
Until, finally, they stopped. They retreated, pulling back to their ships and their crews. One can only imagine the sigh of relief exhaled by those hidden nymphs. One can almost hear their songs of light and wonder rising up from the marshy depths.
That’s when the fires began. That’s when the conquistadores changed tactics, charging into the sacred groves of Old Faerie with torches held high. It is written that the ash that rained down upon the world in that place was so thick, so utterly deprived, that when it fell back upon the marshlands, it absorbed what little liquid remained, forever changing that tenuous ecosystem.
Now, I must note, we enter the realm of conjecture. Because, according to the records we have readily available, the conquistadores once more turned back in defeat. The fires got out of hand and thirteen of the Spanish ships burned. The fleet retreated in disgrace.
But those with a curious eye and a ready sense of wonder might return to those desecrated grounds. They might walk through the cypress groves; they might marvel at the great oaks. They might wonder how so many trees remain when the Spanish fleet itself, safely anchored well away from the shoreline, could not withstand the strength of the flames.
And then one might look up and see what we colloquially call Spanish moss dangling down from the great tree branches, hair uncoiled and unconcerned, blowing in the quiet breeze. One might even go so far as to run a tentative hand through those soft locks of would-be hair, to feel the grace and beauty touch rough, calloused skin.
Is this all that remains of the long-haired nymphs? In their eagerness for power, did the conquistadores force the nymphs to shed the power that they themselves had so greedily sought? Did the nymphs, seeing the suffering of the forest, bring it back, heal it, allow it to withstand the slaughter? Did they act toward the trees as they’d acted toward their masters of old, responding in healing love?
These things we cannot know. Not with certainty. But we can wonder. We can guess. We can hope. And while we do, let me say one thing more: I do believe the power of the long-haired nymph is not one of sacrifice but one of life. I believe you can feel as much when you run your hand through the hair of those hidden creatures of magic.
Here’s the thing: I don’t think those nymphs are dead. Not really. I believe they lie hidden, still, in every tree from which their hair hangs. And their hair—well, that will last for as long as they desire. Dare I say, forever.