roses. He'd sworn then and there that growing the special flowers would be his life's work.
'Now, after all these years, they want me to go. If old Lord Stone were alive, he'd give them what for. There was a man for you. There was a man who appreciated the care it takes to raise roses.'
Grim dug his hoe into the earth with more force than usual. Each stroke of the tool punctuated a colorful but silent insult he directed toward the new Lord Stone.
The sound of footsteps in the garden finally drew him from his angry reverie. Turning, he saw his new lord and the new lord chamberlain. He bent his head in respect, but didn't kneel, as he would have to the old castle ruler.
The lord was a well-fed strapping young man, full of the strength of youth. The run from the throne room to the bower hadn't even winded him. That couldn't be said for the chamberlain. Of the same age as his master, he was bent over, gulping in huge breaths. It took both hands gripped tightly on his scepter just to keep him on his feet.
'Grim, what's this I hear you won't retire?' Lord Stone began without prelude. 'Listen, everyone needs to retire sometime or other. It's time for new blood here at Castle Stone, men with new ideas-in
The lord turned to leave, smiling at a job well done.
'That's far from the end!' Grim wailed. 'After all these years of service, I'm not going to be thrown into the dung heap just because your lordship is foolish enough to think he's done with me!' Each word was louder than the last, until the gardener was fairly shrieking. 'I've worked for this castle and the lords of this castle since before you were born! You've no right to set me aside this way!'
Old Grim's face grew perilously red, almost the hue of one of his prized buds. He could see the anger growing in the young lord, too, but he didn't care. He raised his hoe to punctuate his words. 'I'll not-'
That was the last straw for Lord Stone. No subject of his-especially not this withered old weed puller-was going to raise a weapon against him. He picked up the skinny old man, lifted him effortlessly over his head, and threw him with great force into the cold stone wall of the arbor. Grim's body made a crunching sound as it hit, then slid wetly down the wall. Skin broke, ancient bones broke, and the old man's heart broke.
But as his blood pumped from his torn flesh, into the ground of his beloved rose garden, Grim raised his eyes to his murderer. 'Curse you and your li-'
Grim's final words went unheard. The lord was already on his way out of the gardens. He was a busy man, after all, and the matter of the dinner menu was far from resolved.
'Clean that mess up,' Lord Stone called over his shoulder to the chamberlain. 'And make sure none of Father's roses were damaged.'
'Yes, my lord. I'll see to it right away'
The chamberlain dutifully made a circuit of the rose garden, thankful not to find one damaged flower. He made a mental note to find a new gardener to start the next day, then hurried to his other tasks.
It took nearly an hour for the guards to get around to removing Grim's body-Lord Stone had sent most of the troops to the village, scurrying like trained hogs after truffles. By then, everyone in the castle and village knew what had taken place. And those who predicted nothing good would come of Grim's untimely death were absolutely right.
Grim's blood, tainted by his curse, oozed over the freshly turned earth and sloshed against the inner wall of the castle garden. Soaking into the well-tilled dirt, the crimson fluid bathed the roots of the largest rose bush. In brief hours the root system had fed on the wetness and transformed. Root hairs and root tendrils thickened and grew coarse. The earth began to ripple and shift in the rose bed.
No apparent change occurred in the exposed part of the bush until later that night, when the moon's light caressed the plant's leaves. A soft rustle of its pliant vines marked its pleasure. Thickening, the rose's leaves and stems spread at unnatural angles and lengths to claim as much of the moonlight as possible.
Growing, doubling, even tripling in size, the cursed rose bush spread it sickness swiftly. It joined itself to the other roses in the garden, melding the root systems together into a gigantic, pulsing network beneath the soil. Rose thorns became huge hollow daggers along the pliable vines. The outside of every rose petal grew thorny teeth that sucked the life from the flies, moths, and bugs that ventured too close. The root system was busy, too, searching out and spearing every worm, grub, and beetle in the earth.
A smooth, melon-sized gall developed at the monstrous plant's center. The gall's white markings pulsed in the last rays of the setting moon. The thing could sense the many life-forms contained in the castle, life-forms that offered more sustenance than the insects it had consumed until now. Slowly, stealthily, it sent creepers out to investigate.
The rising sun, however, with its harsh and unpleasant light forced the leafy spies to retreat before they could learn anything of value. The monstrous rose shrank back against the walls, shifting its bulk into the shadows. It was considering some other way to investigate the castle when voices just outside the garden gate drew its attention; it didn't really understand what the creatures were saying, but that didn't matter. Its interest in the creatures was more basic than conversation.
'The roses and the garden are behind that gate. It's never guarded, so you'll be able to come and go as you please.'
'Yes, Lord Chamberlain.'
'Take your duties seriously. You've been given a great honor.'
'Yes, Lord Chamberlain.'
'Do a good job every day. Lord Stone and everyone else here at the keep takes those roses very seriously.'
'Yes, Lord Chamberlain.'
'Now get to work.' The chamberlain thudded off to attend to several hundred other less-than-thrilling assignments given him by young Lord Stone.
Foley Cornbottom, left standing at the garden gate, was not a happy man. He'd been plucked from his fields and informed that he was the new gardener of Castle Stone. Not that he wouldn't enjoy the position in and of itself, but Lord Stone didn't pay enough for him to abandon his farm completely, and he couldn't imagine how he was going to manage both jobs. And then there was the manner in which his predecessor had been hurried on his way to the Realm of the Dead.
Still, there wasn't a thing to be done about it. When confronted by armed guards who tell you the lord will be
'What do we have here?' At first, Foley's eyes grew huge at the impossibilities around him. His mind filled with wonder at the size and color of the plants. He'd heard about them from old Grim, but no commoner was ever allowed in the lord's gardens to see the legendary roses for himself.
And these were truly marvelous. Each blossom was the size of a man's head, and the flowers all faced the garden path. It was almost as if… well, they seemed to be looking at him! A shiver of fear scrabbled down Foley's spine.
'Never mind that, Goodman Cornbottom. You've got a job to do and you'd better get to it.' He tapped his chin and looked about. 'There's where you should start. That obviously doesn't belong here.'
Foley's rough hands reached into the shadows for the melon-sized gall. Lifting it, he noticed an unusually thick tangle of thorny vines connecting it to the earth. One of the thorns scraped along his palm, but it didn't draw blood; he'd been tending plants for over a decade now, and his hands were tougher than thick leather.
'A gall like this should've been cut clean long ago. What could old Grim have been thinking?' He turned the gall roughly. 'Maybe he just never noticed you, eh?'
The cursed vegetation tried to shrink back; the gardener only gripped it tighter. The rose monster ached to absorb this creature, but the skin on its hands was like stone. Perhaps there was another way…
Vines with long, hollow thorns reached out behind the gardener. They quickly snaked up Foley's legs, wrenching his hands away from the gall, pinning his arms to his side. The thorns penetrated at the neck and began to draw out the man's life. And with the blood and marrow, the thorns drained something else from the gardener- his will and his intellect.
