The Whipping Tree

I: Charcoal and Cerulean

I

Charcoal and Cerulean

         “What can we do?” murmurs the lord to his wife. He quivers, though he tries not to show it.

         Eleanor Tabard Ailemer, on the other hand, exudes an air of calm, her Alice blue eyes an ocean at rest, while her husband’s rages, stormy and clouded, a hurricane at sea.

         “It is simple,” she says, her voice light, tinted with an accent native to Brevinham.

         Lord Ailemer says nothing, only waits for his wife to continue.

         “We do what all the other villages have done.” She folds her linen napkin, matching the square of cloth corner to corner before dragging her nail down the edge, creasing it in a calculating manner. Her brow, just barely marked with wrinkles, comes down above her eyes as she studies a stain in the white fabric.

         Her husband is silent. He turns over the thought, a spit over a fire, letting the idea cook until he realizes what his wife is implying.

         “But what?”

         Lady Ailemer entwines her fingers, a tarnished gold ring stark against her porcelain skin. She places them in her lap and smooths out the skirt of her dress.

         “If the Noci are restless as the messenger says, they will require more.”

         Lord Ailemer shivers despite himself. The flash in his wife’s eyes tells him the offering will not be livestock this year.

         “We can’t,” he whispers. “It wouldn’t be right.”

         “What do you propose we do, then?” The lady’s nostrils flare as she stares her husband down. “A single life is a fair exchange for the safety of our entire village. A good exchange, even.”

         Mathieu pales at his wife’s words. He cannot help but think that this is not the woman he married years ago.

         “It may not be true,” he ventures.

         “How can it not be true?” his wife spits, before he has the chance to complete his thought. “The messenger came all the way from Hildegard to warn us. Surely you must not be ignorant enough to disbelieve that?”

         The lord shakes his head. “No, that is not what I meant. The offering. Who is certain the Nocen requires a human sacrifice?”

         At those words, Eleanor stills. When Lord Ailemer raises his gaze to meet hers, he shudders inwardly, and hopes she doesn’t notice.

         “Mathieu, you don’t think the messenger would lie to us about such a serious subject?”

         Though he knows it not, he shakes his head right as the words leave her mouth.

         “Good. In any case, the Whipping Tree will decide for us.”

         They fall into silence, and Lady Ailemer stands.

         “I must check upon the maids. Their work has been poorly done of late, and I will not tolerate their negligent behaviour.” She lays her hand upon Ailemer’s shoulder when she leaves, and though he assures himself later that it was all in his head, it is a deep-rooted knowledge that tells him his wife has changed.

         Eleanor visits her daughter later on in the day. Despite her disagreement with her husband hours prior, she is concerned for her daughter. What the Whipping Tree decides is beyond their control, and has been for several decades. Though she is unsure how the tree makes its decisions, she is worried that, in her daughter’s state, she will be chosen.