{listen to the song first, it helps with the story ~ find in comments}
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 you1017Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGbMswL7D4O
Coming to the tree1017Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡps2F1ODIj9
Where dead man called out1017Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwLEYnwkm0l
For his love to flee1017Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTsAnCax0fe
Strange things did happen here1017Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTcrDd2YH8P
No stranger would it be1017Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZBfAZGUK8S
If we met at midnight1017Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBcUJIWQK82
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 you1017Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyzr9p4s4PE
Coming to the tree1017Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRsguHN8sok
Where dead man called out1017Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVijGzXJzyu
For his love to flee1017Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRoCDU52EEO
Strange things did happen here1017Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkjKpdRoZiU
No stranger would it be1017Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3mv3twpZZ5
If we met at midnight1017Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTxdrXQ7wgz
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.
“Are you, are you1017Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrkWzkrY9Ll
Coming to the tree1017Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQ0Cac1QkgB
They strung up a man1017Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDcu3rrCLd6
They say who murdered three1017Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPVBbhxzdLg
Strange things did happen here1017Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvYsIe3LtfU
No stranger would it be1017Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡK3uuXwz5vS
If we met at midnight1017Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKlXHVZoHLk
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 you1017Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5XTkrjzqt2
Coming to the tree1017Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡl3oXwxmhRb
Wear a necklace of hope1017Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuA2NArqMmM
Side by side with me1017Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡP3Px5iojgw
Strange things did happen here1017Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNvmZhVhPGt
No stranger would it be1017Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡetakiR0TXK
If we met at midnight1017Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVCtqai0fBh
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 you1017Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhT4NOJhkeC
Coming to the tree1017Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡahbcQ6Cxrp
Where they strung up a man1017Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡH6tjfESTx1
They say who murdered three1017Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIjsbKYghpY
Strange things did happen here1017Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdS0fA4Cw3C
No stranger would it be1017Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvbkCsH3l7l
If we met at midnight1017Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIHIj5VJTqu
In the hanging tree.”
