While I was never particularly fond of the arrangement, it had helped my family through tough times. When I was young, I would eavesdrop on princes, knights, hunters, and anyone else looking to have something quietly burried on our land. It made me sad when whatever they brought us hadnât been hurting anyone. If it had been killed for sport or as some kind of rite of passage.Â
Sometimes after they were done, I would sneak out and sit by the newest mound and look at the stars, hoping that whatever was resting beneath me knew I was sorry for it; that I hoped it found some kind of peace on the land I call home. It never felt like enough though. Once, I decided to make a headstone for one of them, a baby frost dragon. Really, it was a log with the word âfrostyâ carved in it, but the next day it appeared in our fireplace as my father lectured me about the dangers of magical creatures. It never changed how I felt about the whole thing.
When I inherited the property once my father passed, I still couldnât break off the deal, but I did change how things were done. I would ask the client what they were burying and hand them the shovel. No small talk, no explainations, no tales of gradure overshadowing the body slumped over their horses backside. I wanted to make it clear I wanted nothing to do with what they had done and I did. After they finished and brought back my shovel, I would go and mark the grave. Something small that only I would notice. That way at least someone would remember them as more than prizes or monsters.
The garden was my plan to wean myself from depending on offering this sickening service. I couldnât bear the thought of leaving my home, but the reality of keeping a mass grave was even worse. So, I vistited a farm nearby who were willing to give me enough seeds for my first year. In the spring, I went around my property and began planting them by the markers I had left. I wasnât sure how well they would grow if they would at all, but I couldnât sit and stare at these ugly mounds of death and shame anymore. I wanted to make them beautiful.
To my joy, they grew. Some of which better than I had even expected and others grew differently than I thought they would. Of course, this was due to what was under them, but I had never considered that possibility.
It started small. First, I noticed the berries on the blueberry bush above Frosty were sparkling. When I looked closer, it wasnât some trick of the light, they were frosted and frozen solid but still growing strangely enough. They tasted sweet and helped me keep cool on long summer days. Only one was enough to make someone shiver on the hotest days of the year.Â
I never expected the apple tree I planted above the Caladriusâ grave to live. For years, there was a radius of dead soil around it. No matter how much rain or sun it recieved, any seeds that fell upon it were doomed to shrivel and die. Except for the apple tree. By the end of the year, it had grown to an astounding height of 30 feet and in the fall, it produced a number of white apples. Theyâre sweet and they can keep for months, but storing them is tricky. Anything theyâre near starts rotting or dying meanwhile the fruit remains perfectly fine. The tree itself is beautiful in a haunting way. No animals ever nest in it, not even ants touch the fallen fruit. As it grows, the trees closest to it are starting to die. Fearing what it could do to the forest, Iâve taken it upon myself to dispose of its seeds carefully, not wanting the species to spread if it can.
Planting watermelons on the Kelpies grave was a mistake, one that I wouldnât recommend repeating. Of course, they began just fine, growing fast and gracefully. Their flowers were a vibrant yellow and despite the bees avoiding them, they soon began growing into fruit. They looked gorgeous, sporting deep shades of emerald green and promising to be delicious. They werenât. When I cut into them, the smell was atrocious. They were rotten and the gooey mess they left behind stayed around wash after wash until I eventually decided to burn the table that slime had gotten all over. I never replanted there, but I did give the remaining melons to pretentious clients if they would inscesantly brag about the things theyâve killed. Rarely did I ever see them again after that.
The same farmer the following spring traded some of my blueberries for a pair of lambs, boy and a girl. They were adorable when they were little and it didnât take long for me to grow attached to them. That why I began panicking when their skin began to turn gray, stiff, and cold as stone. Their wool fell out and they began refusing the hay I was giving them, instead choosing to gnaw on stones and pebbles. Despite all these changes, their temperment never did so. They acted happy and content, continuing to thrive despite my worries. The ramâs horns began growing in and had a golden shine to them. Then, their wool grew back even though it wasnât the same. It was sharp and shiny. Once it was long enough, I could see it wasnât even hair. It was steel. I had to comission a blacksmith for a special pair of shears so I coud shear them properly. Now sheâs the primary buyer of their wool, using it to make modified chain mail. It took me far too long to realize the stones in the field where I grew their hay were really the remains of stone golems that had likely been there since before I was born.
Mastering the properties of my land has been a long process. However, I did what I set out to do. I no longer rely on providing a service I despise. Iâve made my home something to be proud of, something magical. At last it is somewhere I and any others here can feel at peace.
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