It is thought that, under the deep cold of the central Antarctic, sealed for millions of years, is a dark ocean, whose gentle tide-driven waves wash against an icy shore. This may or may not be true. The stories told about it, though, are false, as all stories are.
The trees bleed slowly, like glaciers. Though the bleeding is hard for humans to perceive, it is, to the tree, as though someone had severed the Aorta: the screams, low pitched and long, stretch through time as a tautened piano-wire.
