The Whipping Tree

I: Charcoal and Cerulean

I

Charcoal and Cerulean

         Lord Ailemer finds himself in his study after speaking to his wife. His chair is turned to face the fireplace and he sits with his elbows on his knees. Above the mantle hangs a painting of he and Eleanor and a nine-year-old Joaneveive perched between them.

         He thinks of when his daughter would scamper into his study at the most inopportune of times to demand a story, and how he would—regardless of how busy or otherwise occupied he was—humour her with a tale or perhaps two, if she demanded an encore.

         He remembers an afternoon, overcast but still warm enough to leave the windows open, when his daughter returned from a walk with Vera filled to the brim with questions. They had walked past the Whipping Tree just as a man had been brought out.

*

         Mathieu Ailemer is part irritated that Vera was careless enough to allow his daughter a peek at the criminal, and part worried that he will not fabricate a story quick enough to avoid Joaneveive’s speculation.

         “Why did they take him to that tree?” she asks.

         The first thing to surface in Lord Alimer’s mind is the legend of the tree, but the thought is quickly pushed aside as he thinks the content too violent for his sweet little daughter.

         “He wanted to see it,” he replies, hoping for once that his daughter would accept his answer without questioning.

         “How do you know he wanted to see it?”

         “He needed fresh air.”

         “Why did he need fresh air?” Joaneveive sucks in a deep breath and exhales loudly through her mouth.

         “I…” Lord Ailemer struggles to appease his curious daughter. He peers down at her through his spectacles and reaches to pull out a small chair, her designated seat within his crowded study.

         The second she sees his hand moving towards it, she squeals and all questions about the man she saw being dragged and chained to the tree fly out of her mind, just as the Lord knew it would.

         “What kind of story is it today, Father?”

         “It’s a story of a toad and—”

         “A flower?”

         Lord Ailemer sighs. “Have you heard that one already?”

         “Mmhmm!”

         “The Little Boy and the Blacksmith’s Forge?”

         Joaneveive smiles patiently and nods.

         Her father pauses to probe his memory, searching for stories his daughter might not have heard yet.

         “Have you heard the legend of the Whipping Tree?” he asks finally. He decides that he can gloss over the more gruesome details if need be.

         Joaneveive shakes her head and scrunches her shoulders, folding her legs to her chest, heels against the chair seat, and resting her chin on her knees. “I never knew that tree had a legend,” she chirps.

         “I believe we have a story then.” He takes off his glasses and turns to face her, clearing his throat and preparing his storyteller voice. “Once, in a time only Imorda could remember…”