The Cherry Tree

All works mentioned in this story are original.

February 1698-Chloe

A girl looked down at her small grave. Her mother lay in ashes under the ground. Cold and lifeless. Her mother had been beautiful but now, her cheeks were covered in black boils and her fingers burned black and cold.

The girl turned back to her own plot of tears and pressed a cherry tree sapling into the ground. She didn’t know if the plant would grow, but with chubby hands, she gently laid the sprig in the ground, recalling her mother’s words. 

“Now you have to tickle the roots,” she reached over and tickled the little girl who writhed on the floor, laughing. The girl was perhaps four or five at the time, merely 5 years ago. 

“Tickle,” the girl repeated. 

“Now you have to sprinkle water on it so that it grows big and healthy, like you Chloe.” Her mother sprinkled water over the plant with the grace of someone who’s done it a thousand times.

“Water.” The girl mimicked her mother and water splashed all over the ground. They laughed together. 

“And they need yummy sunlight to grow big and strong!” Chloe’s mother stretched her arms above her head.

“Big and strong,” the girl murmured. 

“Now we wait. Time will make it grow.”

“Tickle, water, sunlight, time,” Chloe said to herself while squatting over the grave. One day, this tree would be magnificent.

June 1721-Madeline (excerpt from Madeline’s diary)

It is a strange thing, writing. Perhaps one day, I shall get used to the feel of paper and pen but not today. Pѐre and mѐre watch me closely. Mѐre is watching with proud eyes, her daughter can read and write. Pѐre looks at me with concern and disapproval, his daughter can read and write. 

Much to mѐre’s dismay, I do not like reading and writing. I prefer to speak, it is much easier and it does not hurt my eyes or my wrist. She told me to “write what comes” in this little book. It feels strange writing to a book. 

With Pѐre, his stories and words flow onto the page before she can even think. Mѐre keeps at least 5 diaries and she’s always fumbling to find the right one. Every word is a struggle for me. 

I sit under a young cherry tree, mother tells me it is Grand-mere. Perhaps I will write to grand-mere instead. I had never met grand mere, or rather I have never met you grand mere. 

I was born twelve years ago, on March 14, 1709. Mѐre says that I am a spitting image of you. When she first told me that, I was 7 and I told her that I do not look like a jar of ashes. I was a foolish child and she spanked me for that.

Tell me, did you have marron eyes and brown hair? I think not, mѐre said you were the most beautiful woman so you must not have looked like me. I think she remembers badly. The most beautiful woman in the village is named Adaline-Katrine. She even has a beautiful name. She has long blonde hair and blue eyes and a single freckle on her nose.

I suppose you might know this if such a thing as heaven exists. My name is Madeline Anne-Marie Cartier. 

Grand-mere, mѐre says you died of the plague. Was it terrible? Did it hurt? Mother is older than you were when you did, isn’t that strange? I see you as old and frail and yet my mother is older than you. 

 Mѐre says I must depart now Grand-mere, I suppose writing isn’t too bad. You can have my diary until I come back. 

Grand-mere! You have made the most delicious fruit! Mѐre made jam from your fruit and she made cakes and sweets and even jelly. The entire town is coming to our house to taste the fruits. I tell them all that you made the fruits that they eat. Mѐre told me to stop so I did but secretly, I tell them that you made the cherries in my head. 

You made the fruits! You should get credit! Here is mѐre’s famous cherry jam:

400 grams of cherries, wash and pit them. Then slice them. Mix with 200 grams of sugar and 100 grams of water. Boil them until it becomes jam. Here’s the secret ingredient, a spoonful of honey and a spoonful of strawberry jam. 

Gilbert from down the block doesn’t know how to preserve the jam. What an idiot! “He’s a perfect little boy, don’t speak of such nonsense.” she would say. I care naught. 

Gilbert keeps coming over and I keep telling him to bug off. Mѐre keeps looking at me funny and pѐre laughs. I think they are trying to set me up.

Mѐre yelled at me today. She said, “Gilbert is such a sweet boy you cannot tell him, ‘casse-toi’. You should know better.” Grand-mere, I am not against getting married. I would like to have a husband, a farmhouse, and three children when I grow up. But Gilbert is so stupid I cannot possibly marry him! Today he asked me why humans can’t fly. 

What an idiot! 

June 1731

Grand-mere, it has been 10 years. Gilbert and I got married 7 years ago. He is not so much of an idiot as he is a charming idiot. 

Too charming in fact. Women are falling over themselves for him. Grand-mere, what do I do? He is growing tired of me, I just know it! We live near the cemetery where you and mѐre are buried and I had always wished for children but I bear none. 

Is it the fault of Gilbert? I suspect not for the neighbor is pregnant with a child but she has no husband. Gilbert has been going to the neighbor many times a day, he tells me it is for little trinkets but I doubt it greatly. 

Grand-mere, do you think something is wrong with me?

September 1731

I am with the child, and yes it is Gilbert’s. The only thing keeping me with him is the dream that I may have a child and a loving husband in my hometown. I should forgive him but I don’t feel like it, grand-mere. 

February 1732

Grand-mere, the pains started this morning. It is nearly two months too early! I don’t know what to do. Please, help! I really hope you send a si

June 1732

Four months have passed Grand-mere. Four entire months and I have not written to you. I am too angry. I pleaded for help but you never gave me guidance or help. The child died after a week of birth. Gilbert isn’t even trying to hide the fact that he’s blatantly cheating on me. 

There is nothing for me in this town. I am moving to Marseille and forming a life as an author. I’m leaving my diaries here, perhaps someone will read them and know about this cured town. 

May 1831-Adam

Adam ran barefoot through the streets of his tiny town of Riseux. No one looked at him. They were used to this behavior and simply parted the way for him. 

Adam ran away from the panic that rested in his chest. He reached a small crook and a wide-open field. As Adam walked through the fields, he could see pale tombstones like teeth. In the distance, a tree loomed over a grave. 

He prayed for a miracle that would save his shop.

A red stain marked his leg, and a cherry pit fell to the ground. Adam looked upwards and noticed the speckles of red glimmering in the tree. Glumly, he popped one of the fruits into his mouth and relished in the sweet flavor. 

Adam didn’t know how long he sat there spitting out seeds and eating the sweet flesh of the cherries. A red cherry had fallen under a tree root and when he went to pick it up, he found a small leatherbound book. 

He pulled it free and examined the tired pages. It looked really old. “It is a strange thing writing” it began. 

Adam had never been too fond of literature but there was something endearing about the scrawling handwriting. He flipped through all five of the books, reading every line. 

Adam collected all five of the books and walked back home. He was no longer devastated, instead, he decided to drown himself in the life of another person. 

He read the second diary when he was at home, this story was a continuation of her childhood, most were tales of homeschooling and playdates with kids on the block. There were a few mentions of Gilbert but none as prominent as the first mention of him. The third diary focused on her wedding and first wondrous years of marriage and the sudden death of Madeline’s mother. The fourth was a collection of tales and poems. The fifth was only two pages long but tragic and heart-wrenching. 

Adam knew what it was like to have no one answer him. He knew what it was like to be completely alone. He wondered if she ever did make it to Marseille and made it big as an author. He hoped so.

“What are you making?” an elderly woman behind Adam asked. She was one of the only customers. “Is it a new recipe?” 

Adam stirred his pot, the gentle steam heated up the room. “I’m making some cherry jam, Mademoiselle Natalie, I found an old recipe.” He’d gone to the cemetery early that morning and collected a basket of cherries. 

“I’ll have a jar. How much?” Adam paused. He hadn’t planned on selling the jam.

“I don’t know, I wasn’t planning on selling the jam.” The woman hummed to herself.

“I’ll pay twice the price of a baguette.” Adam opened his eyes wide. 

“Are you sure? That is quite a lot of money,” he approached cautiously.

“If it tastes as good as it smells, It will be worth it.” Adam bottled the jam and snuck a taste. Mѐre knew what she was doing. Mademoiselle Natalie clutched the jar to her chest. “Thank you, Adam, I hope your bakery does better soon. I can’t get baguettes like yours anywhere else.” She pinched his cheek and waved as she walked away. 

Adam slumped in his chair. What was he going to do? Maybe he should start praying. 

A bell awoke him from his thin slumber and he stood up expecting to see Mademoiselle Natalie but was pleasantly surprised to see a stranger. “Do you still have the cherry jam in stock? I would like to take 5.” When Adam didn’t move, the man in front of him grunted impatiently. “Do you or don’t you?” Adam nodded, hastily and went to go fill more jars.

“Right away!” As he handed the jars to the man and collected payment, three new customers walked in. They were also curious about the jam. Slowly, his bakery became crowded with customers, all asking for jam. 

By the end of the day, his feet were sore and his arm drooped heavily by his sides but Adam made more money than he had all month. The next day, he went back to the cemetery and collected several baskets of cherries. 

Over the crowds of tourists, villagers, and merchants all vying for a jar of jam and his jam-based confections, he could see mademoiselle Natalie wink at him. Then she disappeared. 

Many years have passed since he’d first read the recipe, but people still flocked to Adam’s bakery. He sat under the cherry tree that saved his dream. He’d returned the diaries to the tree. Part of Adam wanted to keep them for himself but he felt like the tree and the worn leather books were connected to each other. 

He’d added an entry in the back of the fifth book. His handwriting was shaky and tired but legible. 

To the lucky next reader, I hope this diary changes your life as much as it did mine. I bid you strength and happiness for the rest of your days because perhaps this blessing is what you really need. 

-Adam Benoit 1894

July 2017- Frankie

I had been so excited to go to France because I thought we were going to Paris, the city of lights, not Riseux, the city no one heard of. 

“Look, Frankie! It’s Le Petite Cerise, the famous bakery.” My mother points to a quaint-looking bakery. 

“Yeah, famous. If it were so famous, why haven’t I heard of it?” I mutter to myself. 

“Don’t be such a grump, we’ll see Paris soon enough.” Mom bumps my shoulder and I find myself grinning. Mom has this aura to her that makes me energized and strangers feel comfortable around her.

My mom sighs. “You have your phone?” I nod, flashing my cell at her. “Why don’t you explore, have some fun?” 

“Really? Yes! I’ll see you in a bit!” I’m already running off when my mom yells after me. 

“One hour! Don’t get into trouble!” 

The town is so small, I could probably run to the other side of town if I wanted. The cobblestone paths led me to a patch of grass. I squint out at the field and I see a large tree. I’m suddenly hyper-aware of the heat beating down on my neck and back. I sprint for the shade. I leaped over the caution tape that marked off the area.

My foot catches on a white rock a moment after I see it. I fall on my arm and I can feel a stinging on my knee. I wish I'd worn jeans instead of my short romper. I examine the scrape on my leg and try to gauge the damage. 

It hurts but I figure it’s fine. It’s then that I look at the stone that I tripped on. The white stone had been worn down to a grey and though it was cracked and breaking, it was clearly a gravestone. 

When I look more closely at the field, I can see white stones like pearly teeth strewn around the place. It must be a cemetery. I crawl over to the tree and sit, staring out. When I blink, a girl appears by my side. 

I startle. “Hello, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you.” With a double-take, I can see that she’s older than I thought, in her early twenties. She had wide brown eyes and long brown hair. Her face was delicate and sweet in a timeless sort of beauty. 

“Sauve moi! Sauve moi!” I look at her and chuckle nervously.

“Um. Bonjour?” She looks at me like I’m an idiot. 

“Bonjour? Pourquoi dis-tu salut? Sauve moi!” She pleads again. She clutched my shirt. “Sauve moi!” she screams. 

I wake up in a cold sweat. Cherries litter the ground around me. I know better than to eat food from the floor though. 

A flapping sound caught my ears. I turn and see an overturned book on the floor. Five, actually. “It is a strange thing writing,” the scrawling handwriting starts. A diary. I turn and look around for someone who could have left it, but I’m alone. Then I notice the date, “1721.” I wonder briefly if it’s a trick but truly no one is here. 

I began reading the diary. I had just finished the first one when I see a figure walking towards me. “Que fais-tu ici?” It yells. 

“I’m sorry! I was just reading and-” at his confused expression, I realize he can’t understand me. 

“Go now!” He yells. I gulp and gather my books. I scramble away clutching the books to my chest. 

I meet up with my mom who leads me into an inn. While she showers, I read. I’m careful not to let my wet hair drip on the parchment. As I read, the story comes alive. When I finish the last book, I see a small note at the end. 

“Whatcha reading?” My mom looks over my shoulder. 

“I found these old diaries under a tree. They’re very interesting.” She takes a look at the weathered pages and shrunken leather backs. 

“They do look old. Adam Benoit?” her eyes find the note at the bottom. “He’s the founder of the shop, ‘Le petite Cerise’. The one that’s famous for the cherry jam.” 

“I saw the recipe earlier in the first diary.” I point to the shrunken leather book. “Something strange. I was sleeping under that very cherry tree when I saw a woman there. She was saying something to me but I couldn’t understand. She looks exactly like how the writer’s grand-mirror is described.”

“Grand-mere. Not mirror. And perhaps she was a ghost, small towns like these are perfect for that kind of lure.” My mom looks thoughtful and I love that about her. She doesn’t dismiss my ideas. “What did she say?”

“Saw-mwa.” I try to mimic the smooth French but it comes out embarrassingly rigid.

“Save me.” My mom has perfect French, of course. “You should get some sleep. Maybe you’ll crack this mystery in the morning.” She kisses my forehead and I lay down in the bed, unease shaking my stomach.

“Save me,” the voice whispers. 

When I run to the cemetery again, I come in time to see the cherry tree fall to the ground. I gasp and try to run forward but the tape has been replaced by shoulder-high cinder blocks. “No!”

For some reason, unexplainable grief fills my stomach. This tree has stood here for over 300 years and now, it’s gone. A stump was left where the sweet-smelling tree once stood. 

The girl who had cried out materializes next to me. She looks different. Her face was marred with black boils and her fingers were cold and dark. She was pale and looked like a walking corpse. “Tu m'as refusé.” I can not understand French, but even I know what she said. 

“You failed me.”