The Whipping Tree

I: Charcoal and Cerulean

I

Charcoal and Cerulean

         Joan floats for as long as she can. When she can bear it no longer, she kicks until she reaches the shore again and climbs out. She places her feet back into her shoes and squishes back to the house wondering if she’s walked enough now.

         Not long after she enters the kitchen, Selma intercepts her and claims Lord and Lady Ailemer wish to speak with her.

         “Will you change your gown first, Miss? It mustn’t be good for your health to stay as such.”

         Joan nods her assent and drags herself upstairs for a fresh set of clothes, then to the study.

         “Mother. Father.” Drops of water drip onto the floorboards and in the silence that follows, it is the only thing the small family hears.

         “Joaneveive,” says Lady Ailemer. “I’m sure you’re aware of what will happen the following week. Something we”—she glances at her husband—“fear will involve you.”

         Her eyes are blank and unblinking. “I’m not entirely certain what you mean, Mother.”

         “The Whipping Tree, Joan.” Lord Ailemer pulls out a chair for her to sit in, the tiny little thing she used to occupy at least once a day. “We’re worried the Whipping Tree will choose you.”

         She focuses a little more upon hearing his words. “Choose me?” She frowns and rubs at a particularly damp patch on her gown. “Why would the Whipping Tree choose me?”

         The two parents glance at each other before turning in concern to their daughter.

         “Sadness consumes you,” Eleanor says. “And your father and I are afraid the Whipping Tree will sense that.”

         Joan smiles a little, thinking they must be making a joke of the situation. “I cannot be the most miserable,” she says with a small laugh.

         Denial. The Lord and Lady both see this and their resolve strengthens, though they say no more.

         “Very well,” says the Lady. “We simply worry for you.”

         “It is nothing, Mother.”

         Eleanor nods and sweeps to her feet. “Ask Vera and Selma to accompany you on a walk.” She leaves no room for debate and exits the room after laying a hand fleetingly on her daughter’s shoulder. She glances back at her husband and they share a look.

         When Joan stands to exit as well, Lord Ailemer calls her back.

         “Yes, Father?”

         He pauses and studies his grown little girl. “Be cautious.”

         She smiles a mechanical smile and after calling for Vera and Selma, drapes another shawl over her shoulders and leaves the manor for a walk through the market.

         Joan sees mirrors wherever she turns.

         When she makes eye contact with vendors and buyers, they greet her with the widest of grins that border on malice.

         She feels the smiles are for her, and behind them plans to destroy her. Underneath the sleeve of eerie happiness is a layer of fear crusted over, and beneath that is an unborn soul searching the world for dregs of good to cling to. They must lift their spirits lest they be chosen as the offering.

         The Whipping Tree is merciful in a nauseating way, she thinks.

         The forced smiles, the too-shrill, too-boisterous laughter. It is a desperate attempt to lift their spirits.

         She pauses by a stall and leans down to sniff a basket of Shalenberries. It tickles her nose before the smell of it chokes her and she recoils.

         “You can have them for less, Miss,” the seller says eagerly.

         Joan shakes her head wordlessly and they move down the street. Vendors wave at them and call out offers. Despite the veil of normality, the air between the townsfolk is tense.

         Shouts of “Miss! Miss!” and “Miss Joaneveive! Miss Joaneveive!” assault her from all sides, and all of a sudden the sounds and sights are too cloying for her to bear and she looks to Vera with a silent plea.

         Her maid—no, her friend—understands and the trio cuts their trip short and returns to the house.

         On their way back, Joan catches sight of the Whipping Tree and though Selma makes a small squeak of protest, the three make their way towards it anyway.

         She presses a hand against the trunk, tracing the grooves in the bark that, a week later, will choose one amongst them for sacrifice.

(**A/N: Long time no update! I apologize for the lack of progress and excitement xD I promise the next chapter will be more eventful, as well as the ones following. I have an interesting idea for how the whole offering selection is going to go :P Drop me a comment! I like to know what you guys think.)