Mama never talked about father. She said the town-folk would never understand. She said shadows flickered in their souls.
But sometimes when the moon was full she would take us with her, holding a candle above the high summer grass and take us to a tree. She would settle me and my sister in blankets against the tree and press her fingers against the running lines of its’ bark.
There she would tell us stories of our father. There she talked to us of how our father had strong shoulders and eyes the colour of bronze. He was a man who would read books in the highest tree branches and played tricks on the wood cutters. How he would tell her jokes, play hide and seek in the meadow and pull his weight in the local mines. She never said he was a good or a bad man, simply a man who lived and loved her.
When we asked her where he went, she would say he could not stay with us. Then, she would smoothly move on to say how he would hold us in his arms as babes and whisper prayers in our ears.
Away from the tree our father did not exist. But near the tree our father was as alive and as real as the blanket we clutched against the cold. Before we left the tree, mama would sing a song, her sweet voice echoing through the trees.
Are you, are you290Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcKMKsk7yis
Coming to the tree290Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡs2oFaNQpVV
Where dead man called out290Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVZEM8UTs50
For his love to flee290Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqGmVjLRhKW
Strange things did happen here290Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUuF1AytZb9
No stranger would it be290Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡV51c0Pckkb
If we met at midnight290Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡs7OfMaz5Df
In the hanging tree
I never thought more of it than a pretty song, a tradition. Years passed. We worked hard. I never saw a relative, I was told they had died of a sickness before we were born. My mother talked less and less about our father. The full moon visits stopped. When I had time, I would clamber up the tree and sit in its branches, imagining myself like my father.
On my sixteenth birthday my mama took me to see the tree, her candle flickering in the dark once again. As she walked, she sang;
“Are you, are you290Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjO8k72mKhY
Coming to the tree290Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1E0FZdmCSj
Where dead man called out290Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡludgi1u35E
For his love to flee290Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYIsjELGebL
Strange things did happen here290Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9OzVqs0OeZ
No stranger would it be290Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYNZBVNd5jD
If we met at midnight290Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIH8mdzWcri
In the hanging tree”
There in the bosom of the tree mama eyed me quietly until she lifted her head and sang more words, words I had never heard before.
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Coming to the tree290Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbC5GVUW00s
They strung up a man290Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfjejfD0mtD
They say who murdered three290Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJpjPENSk8V
Strange things did happen here290Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3NrpEIO8f9
No stranger would it be290Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVIWusp6bLK
If we met at midnight290Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7DTSXzTQPL
In the hanging tree.”
There she explained how father died, strung up for murdering three men. There she admitted the three men had been her uncle and his two sons. Her family had died when she was little, leaving her with relatives. It was not a happy home. She was belittled, played with, beaten. My father had gone to see her and found a scene he had not bargained for. She had not bargained on his anger, as fierce and deadly as a housefire. My father was found guilty and hanged. He had not argued or pleaded or justified. He had kissed her and left for the hanging tree.
I looked up at the tree, our tree, my tree. At my father’s legacy.
“Mama,” I had said at last, “what does the song mean?”
She did not answer my question, only silent tears. She told me she had tried to stop them, she had tried to explain. But no one listened. He only asked for two things from her. He had asked her not to come to the hanging tree when they took him away, but to visit him after he was gone.
And so, she had.
We returned home and never talked of it.
My sister was married, then I was. To a woman who sang our children to sleep and laughed at my jokes. She followed me when I climbed trees, and produced me a son I never knew I would love so dearly.
One night as I was feeding our chickens I heard my mother’s voice ring through the village, her candle flame dancing far away in the breeze.
“Are you, are you290Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpemS1N90tn
Coming to the tree290Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvrXnR0ZeMn
Wear a necklace of hope290Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡaCsgdllTUY
Side by side with me290Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQpW9kKTwb7
Strange things did happen here290Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKdEaK5cgKo
No stranger would it be290Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNLzDOpV3bJ
If we met at midnight290Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrRgtNTNmmA
In the hanging tree.”
Before I knew I was moving I was sprinting for the tree, scattering chickenfeed and ruffled chickens as I went. No mama. No mama.
When I made it to the tree the wind whistled and whispered the song to me, as eerie as the flickering candle lying on its’ side. The silence screamed in my ears, leaving nothing but the gentle creak of a hangman’s noose. There my mama danced, her arms limp and still. Her face was peaceful, as though she had awaited this for many a year.
And still the wind murmured the song, beckoning me to sing along.
“Are you, are you290Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQtCVI8Wp4F
Coming to the tree290Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡR4QSyrmV3c
Where they strung up a man290Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡoNBAGpFFE1
They say who murdered three290Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQs1Ntlgo2P
Strange things did happen here290Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjb5P8LJdbb
No stranger would it be290Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡChWyTlJcw0
If we met at midnight290Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlH6Lt4bgik
In the hanging tree.”
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