{"id":488,"date":"2025-11-22T05:50:40","date_gmt":"2025-11-22T05:50:40","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/?page_id=488"},"modified":"2025-11-22T06:03:49","modified_gmt":"2025-11-22T06:03:49","slug":"arboreal-queen","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/fiction\/arboreal-queen\/","title":{"rendered":"Arboreal Queen"},"content":{"rendered":"

Alexei Raymond<\/span><\/p>\n

Cat\u2011killer, pig\u2011faced hound, Arboreal Queen–Monroe.<\/span><\/p>\n

On a late\u2011March morning in 2003, the forest was buoyed by chill air. The sun\u2019s rays filtered through branches and leaves. The nearby highway\u2019s cacophony could scarcely be heard through the muffling boughs, thickets, and scattered, porous rocks. A red Citro\u00ebn Berlingo–hearse that day–crawled up a short, steep incline and parked in a clearing. In its hold it carried her, wrapped in love and a thick, wool blanket so that her white–her equal-measure orange–could only be recalled in the mind\u2019s eye. She was spared further pain the previous day. The radio, strangely, memorably, seemed to insist that she was beautiful–no matter what they said. What words could not fell, a tumor did. Lodged somewhere in the loyal mind of her, until it could house nothing else. The song pouring from the radio was cut off as the car came to a halt. The driver led the silence. Two more cars–one dirty-white, the other a forgotten shade of dark blue–parked further down, not daring the climb.<\/span><\/p>\n

The boy freed himself from the seatbelt and rolled open the door. His sneakers crackled the rock and rich earth, flattening stray blades of grass. The air felt cool against his legs. His father lingered in the car, collecting some items, putting others away. Stepmother and stepsister, Julia and Michelle, climbed out together, huddling with backpacks and baskets in hand. The boy was the first to lead the way up the rest of the incline, carrying a plastic bag. At the top of the climb, the woods opened again in the wider, familiar clearing. The boy was followed by the listless steps of the other family members, others coming up from below. The clearing was theirs–a hidden spot where friends and family congregated, barbecued, and traded vital weekend talk. Only photographs and memory would later prove that they\u2019d ever been a community, that an effort was made to stay together. Here, Monroe had patrolled her minor realm–loving and loved in return.<\/span><\/p>\n

The father remained behind and attended to the tools he always carried in the spacious trunk of the trusty Berlingo. He laid the case which held them on the grass, then turned back to the trunk. His calloused hands–destined to ache, to atrophy–caressed a beige cloth and the rigid form beneath. A hefty white\u2011marble slab, cut and polished only days earlier. A bereaved labor of love, shaped in quiet foreknowledge and acceptance. Nearby waited a bucket, a bundle of water bottles, and a sack of cement. He largely ignored the guests, and none approached to interfere. That day, the clearing and what lay further in the woods belonged solely to him. The car gradually emptied, until Monroe lay there alone in perpetual sleep. The father carried all he would need up the incline, unaided–moving stone of a man–past the clearing. He made his solitary way into the trees through a narrow path. It had been claimed and cleared by boots and paws walking–sometimes running across it. To and fro. So, the grass was kept at bay, and the bushes too. The path led on, past tree and rock, until the sudden grey-white of a large stone revealed itself out of the earth. Naturally cloven stone, or carved by some primordial inhabitants. Its surface had been breached, and in it lay a recess the shape of a small bath. The father placed the implements of burial beside it, took a brush, and set to clearing away dirt, dust and any shed branches.<\/span><\/p>\n

Back in the clearing the guests arranged a tenuous semblance of their usual picnics. A cloth was spread out on the ground, some snacks and drinks were laid out on a nearby flat rock. Those present milled about, eyes cast low. Some kept themselves occupied with the sandwiches; others slowly sipped store-bought juice. The father\u2019s boy was seated on the cloth, knees held in interlocked hands. When his father walked back from the path toward the car, the boy rose and approached him with some apprehension, not used to being apart from him, leaderless.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cCan I help? Can I hold something?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo, these are too heavy for you, and I\u2019m almost done. I’ll call you if I need help, okay?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The eight\u2011year\u2011old stood there, oddly diminished, yet relieved. The father returned to the car, where the marble slab awaited.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOlezha, why are you standing there? Don\u2019t be in the way. Come, take a sandwich.\u201d The stepmother laid a gentle hand on Oleg\u2019s shoulder to guide him back and allow his father to deal with the weight by himself. The boy followed the stepmother back to where other adults were, where his toddler stepsister crouched in the grass, chewing a pink bottle. There, he barely registered the other mourners, and the moment stretched into stillness. The only movement and sound came from his father\u2019s boots hitting the ground, his silent labor to carry the marble to the rocky recess at the end of the trail. Oleg tried not to stare at him at work. He felt that his eyes somehow added to the weight on his father\u2019s back.<\/span><\/p>\n

His father had held countless slabs as he labored at a marble processing factory, or when he was called to adorn interiors with the luxurious stone. Larger ones. Heavier. Ones better carried with four hands, with load-bearing belts. His back had been used to it. Though that day, his grip seemed to betray him. The sharp slab cut through and into his calloused hands, his back strained with its weight, and his arms imperceptibly shook. Still he did not falter. The stark white of the marble glimmered among the trees, catching the sunrays, as if some spirit wandered there brazenly; no need for night. He lowered it then, gently, onto a piece of cloth he\u2019d spread nearby and walked back to the car for the one he\u2019d entrust to the forest\u2019s keeping.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOlezha, come here. How are you feeling? Are you okay? Don\u2019t be sad.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Oleg walked over to Julia, feeling embarrassed by her concern.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span>
\n\u201cIt\u2019s\u00a0okay. She was sick for a long time, and\u00a0it\u2019s\u00a0better now.\u00a0It\u2019s\u00a0natural.\u00a0This happens sometimes. Hey,\u201d she signaled\u00a0for him\u00a0to look her in the eye, to keep his attention on her. The boy looked puzzled\u00a0by the insistence but\u00a0complied.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI know. Monroe–“<\/span><\/p>\n

Suddenly, she pulled him into an embrace, and his face was held against her. Soft. She held him and kept him from turning to see his father\u2019s final walk with Monroe. His father walked slowly, cradling the blanketed weight in his arms. Death mask, his back utterly straight. His gaze could not be caught, and none tried as he walked once more onto the path. And once he was out of sight, lost among the trees, Oleg was released from the embrace to wander around the clearing aimlessly, awaiting his father\u2019s return. After what seemed like a halted age, his father emerged from the path with his bucket and tools at hand, looking weary but recognizable. A shadow seemed to have lifted from his face, and some gleam returned to his previously matte eyes.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s it. I\u2019ll come back tomorrow to make sure the cement is set. I\u2019ll have to polish the grave up a bit and paint her portrait on the marble. We can go now.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

And so, all was gathered back into the vehicles until no one would be able to tell that anyone had been there. It was always their secret pride; the reverence with which they treated the place. With the forest regaining its shape, Oleg felt as he always did at the end of such retreats. Normalcy seemed to return as he turned away from the woods with a lighter step, toward the iconic red of the Berlingo, of childhood\u2019s endlessness. The matter of the funeral had almost slipped from his mind, when he noticed a lack.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWait–where\u2019s Dad? Hey, wait–Dad\u2019s not here!\u201d Oleg suddenly called out to the leaving guests as if he\u2019d forgotten something behind. As if everyone would leave with his dad left somewhere in the forest unless he stopped everyone.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOlezha, he\u2019s there. He\u2019s coming. He just needs a moment,\u201d his stepmother put her arm around Oleg\u2019s shoulder and walked him toward the car as the boy peered back, searching for his father. Then, he saw him. His father stood with his back turned toward everyone, in the clearing, unmoving.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDad,\u201d Oleg called and turned to walk toward him, but was gently stopped by Julia\u2019s firm hand.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cGive him a moment; let\u2019s go.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Oleg watched his father\u2019s back, watched as he took a step, then another, as if those had been the first ones he\u2019d ever taken–stone cracking, come to life. Though they weren\u2019t taken toward the Berlingo and everyone else. His father slowly wandered away, back to the path, and was lost among the trees. There, at the final glimpse of him, Oleg thought he could see his father\u2019s back tremble as he receded in the direction of the grave.<\/span><\/p>\n

In his father\u2019s dreams she was swift and a huntress through the trees. That day the forest gained. There she would wait, and there he would visit.<\/span><\/p>\n

Arboreal Queen of her Sylvan Court–Monroe.<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\nAlexei Raymond Cat\u2011killer, pig\u2011faced hound, Arboreal Queen–Monroe. On a late\u2011March morning in 2003, the forest was buoyed by chill air.…\n<\/div>\n
Continue reading “Arboreal Queen”<\/span>…<\/a><\/div>\n","protected":false},"author":83,"featured_media":0,"parent":14,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-488","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry","entry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/488","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/83"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=488"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/488\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":495,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/488\/revisions\/495"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/14"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=488"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}