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Rated: 13+ · Book · Gothic · #593396
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#215313 added December 7, 2006 at 6:36pm
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The Garden Of Pleasant Flowers
Beware. Lust and incest and insanity.

When the wind was blowing against the side of the house, the little girl trembled with fear. She was deathly afraid of the walls coming down around her, of the ceiling crashing down upon her head. She cried out loud with every creak and groan and begged for forgiveness of imagined slights and sins. She did not even understand why she was so afraid of everything, why she did not want to sleep at night, why she was so alone. In truth, she did not want to discover the reasons. She wanted only to overcome every obstacle in her path without discovering the origin of the problem. She wanted the easy way out.

Her father was not a very nice man, he was cruel and calculating, and he was rich. His wealth made him more powerful than anything else ever would or could. She did not fear her father so much as loath him. She thought of the death that would eventually be forthcoming and would cause him to leave her life forever. She was only four when she realized how important her father’s death would be to her life. She was only four when she dreamed of it.

Her mother was empty and hollow, full of self-pity and despair, a black cloud of depression upon everyone. She used to be beautiful, till she married the man of greed and hate, then her life changed. In truth, she did not want children, not after seeing her true husband, the man behind the smile. She withdrew, had a child, and withdrew some more. She lost contact with her family and her friends, stopped caring about anything, and did not show anyone love.

In the rich manor in which they lived there was never any laughter, never any parties, never any family time. The girl cowered in corners, dreaming of freedom and wishing for friends. The servants drifted throughout the house like ghosts, not speaking, not laughing, just working. The girl observed everything, her parents, the servants, and the house. She watched it all and hid in the shadows. She spoke to the walls, assured that they would keep her secrets. The house never betrayed her, her secrets were never shared, her thoughts never discovered.

She heard her mother speak of the garden, speak of a place of pure beauty and fragrant roses. Her mother loved roses. The garden was forgotten and neglected for years, but once the child was born, her mother hired a gardener. The garden flourished, her mother withered. She knew why her mother named her Rose.

When another baby was suddenly born, Rose felt a surge of joy mixed with intense defeat. It was a boy. A beautiful, healthy baby boy and her father had his son, all he had ever wanted. Thorne. Named to be the one thing against a Rose, the one thing that made Roses dangerous. Thorne.

He grew quickly, taking after his fathers teaching and becoming cruel. Rose was isolated, as she had been, and ignored. She felt the bitterness rising up in her, corrupting her soul and blackening her eyes. She would look in the mirror and see her eyes growing darker and darker. She watched Thorne receive love she didn’t know existed. She saw him get what she was missing all these years but had never realized that was the hole in her heart and life. She didn’t cry anymore, tears had no purpose. She really didn’t dream anymore. She gardened.

She spent hours with the flowers. Many of those hours were spent in the night. But, regardless of sun or shade, rain or pitch, she labored in the garden. She told them her secrets and filled them with tales of fantasy. She slept in the garden and no one noticed. She was eight, Thorne was three and life was over. Her mother died.

Should she cry, mourning a mother that wasn’t a mother, mourning with joy? She didn’t cry. She didn’t attend the funeral. She didn’t ask for details, not that she could, she didn’t care. She sat by the roses and dug. The hole was deep, really deep and wide. The roses covered the hole from sight. In the cover of night, she stole into the crypt, stole into the family grave, and looked at her mother. She smiled and, using strength unnatural to an eight-year-old girl, carried her mother to the garden. She threw her into the ground where she had dug the hole. She didn’t hesitate in returning the dirt to the hole. She packed it nicely.

“Mother, to you I dedicate these roses. To you I dedicate theses thorns. To you I give the garden. Make it flourish. I will destroy this family. I will have the house. I will be remembered. You are dead and I am alive and I will have what is mine.” Rose turned and walked away from the unmarked grave of her mother. Her father and brother never visited the tomb where her mother had been laid originally. Rose planted, Thorne hated and time passed.

The oldest should inherit everything but her father had a son now. Her father’s plans were devious and so, at age nineteen, Rose was wed to Edgar. He was an old man, too old for Rose to care. She never let him touch her. She really didn’t agree to marry him, but was forced into the union. And so, she planned and she waited. The old man was meaner than her father and Rose thought of revenge. It filled her days with thoughts of vengeance and filled her nights with dreams of anger. She waited.

Thorne ruled the house. He treated everyone crueler than his father had. He raped and abused servants and young girls, while his father watched. He didn’t truly know Rose existed until he was fourteen and she was sent away. He grew angry and wrecked havoc on the house. His father allowed it.

The night his father fell down the stairs, only he and Thorne were home. He stood over his father and smiled.

“Really father, you have no one to blame but yourself. To poison a woman, your wife, my mother. To make her suffer, the way you did. You were bound to die painfully as well. And my sister. Rose. Rose and Thorne. You hid her from me. I could have destroyed you. Now I’ll just let you die.” And he did.

So did Edgar. One night, in his sleep, he passed on. Rose left and returned to her garden. Thorne seemed different to her, friendlier, kinder but his eyes were still cold. She dug up a corner of her garden, near the tall oak that thrived and grew of its own accord. There she placed their father as Thorne watched.

“So, where is mother? I went to pay my respects. She is not in the crypt and now I see where you bury our father and I can’t help but wonder.” Thorne smiled.

“She is by the rose bushes. Roses were her favorite flower. She will make the garden flourish. Father will constantly overlook the garden as the oak.” Rose said.

“What of Edgar, your beloved husband, sister? What of him?”

“He’s dead.”

Thorne nodded. “And me?”

“Weeds, I think.”

“Very well.” Thorne grimaced. “I may be younger, sister, but I am not foolish. Father was foolish. Do not try to lie to me. To not try to dethrone me. I know your thoughts.” He leaned close to her and whispered against her cheek. “I know all about you, Rose. I am the man of the manor, you look the other way.”

“Just stay out of my garden, brother, and all is well.”

He did and Rose attempted to look the other way. She saw the sadness of the servants and still she worked in her garden. Thorne would not permit her to sleep outside. The one time she fell asleep in the garden, he woke her angrily and insisted that she sleep in her bed. She always did as he said.

Thorne raised the wealth of their house and spoiled Rose with gowns fit for a queen. Then the parties began. Great parties in which the house was bright and gay. Laughter filled the silent halls and people roamed the beautiful gardens and asked who the gardener was. Rose was forbidden to claim that she was the one who worked the garden. Thorne expressed intense dislike in her constant time in the dirt and so he hired a gardener for appearances.

Thorne was haunted with night terrors, dreams of his mother and his father. Dreams that woke him in a sweat and took him to the servants bedchambers in search of release. Rose did not approve of his abuse of the serving girls but she never said anything. She kept to herself, even avoiding the gardener, and only at parties did she truly smile.

When Ellyn came to the manor, Rose felt a deep loathing for the girl. She was beautiful; blond hair, blue eyes and an easy smile that showed how forced Rose’s smile truly was. She was Thorne’s whore and Rose saw her greed. Rose tolerated the whole thing up until Ellyn strolled through the garden telling the gardener what she wanted added and removed. The gardener constantly told Ellyn that the garden truly belonged to Rose and that all changes must be brought to her. Ellyn had pouted and vowed vengeance. She grew even angrier when she did not get what she wanted.

“He absolutely refuses to do what I ask!” Ellyn fumed.

“I told you, Ellyn, that garden is my sister’s. It is the one thing she truly lays claim to in this house.” Thorne replied.

“If you love me you will give me the garden.” Ellyn whispered as she touched him. Thorne’s eyes gleamed dangerously as he smiled.

“I don’t love you Ellyn, I use you. I thought you knew that you were just my girl till someone better came along. I only brought you here to please Rose. She doesn’t like me touching the servants. So you see, you matter little to me.”

“I will leave then.” Ellyn stood.

Thorne grabbed her arm tightly. “You will die here, Ellyn, you will never leave. You have seen too much, heard our secrets and discovered our lies. You will never leave here alive, my dear.” He kissed her harshly and threw her to the bed. “Time for bed.”

Rose was unaware of the hate and anger burning behind the walls. The servants seemed happier and Rose vowed to keep them that way. She went to Thorne.


“Ah, Rose.” Thorne lounged in a large chair in the study and Rose smiled at him. She never would have thought that her brother would actually be her brother.

“I have a thought.”

“Share it with me.”

“The servants seem to be happier, let us have a meeting with them. We will allow them to laugh in the halls, to speak to each other without fear, to form friendships and bonds. We will let them live.” Rose said.


“Yes? That is all?”

“Sister, I have a confession to make.” Thorne paused thoughtfully as he studied her and Rose felt trapped. The door to the study was closed and she was too far in to flee. Not that she would. She never defied Thorne.

“A confession, brother?”

“Rose, do not call me brother here.” Thorne stood and crossed the room to the doors. He bolted them then turned to look at her. “In this room I am Ravyn.”


“And you are Myst.” Thorne approached her. “Ellyn has died. You do not wish me to touch the servants. I have a compromise.” He took her in his arms and kissed her passionately. “We were never raised as brother and sister. Father saw how I watched you and so he married you off. So I pushed him down the stairs.” He kissed her again. “And I know you are still a virgin. I will take you.”

Rose frowned. “Ravyn?”

He kissed her again and made love to her on the floor of the study. Rose grew to hate that room, to hate the summons that brought her there almost daily. The servants suspected but never accused. Rose hid in the garden on some days and he would leave her there. He never forced her but she was in truth forced by her inability to upset Thorne. She grew to love him as a lover and hate him as a brother.


“Ah, Myst. You have come on your own accord today.”

“I have a thought.”

“Share it with me.” Thorne was nude, his body lounging on the couch, showing his desire for her clearly.

“I have grown to hate you, brother but love Ravyn. So, I ask that we let all servants go and hire new and start a life as Ravyn and Myst, lovers not sister and brother.” Rose said.

Thorne’s eyes burned with lust and Rose shivered. “Show me.” He said.

Rose slid out of her gown and stood before him. He stared and smiled. She felt violated and immediately planned his death and his place in the garden. She imagined his corpse beneath a copse of weeds and thistles. She thought of her mother, beneath the rose bushes and thorns. She dreamt of the oak and the harsh man beneath its boughs. She felt Thorne’s hands upon her.

“You see me dead.”

“I see my brother dead.” Rose said. Angrily he thrust into her.

“Who am I?”


“Am I dead? Is this dead?” He asked as he took her, hard and fast.

“No.” She gasped.

When they were finished he spoke. “I will do as you ask and on the morrow you will come to my bedchamber. There we will be Rose and Thorne. Everywhere else we shall be lovers. I will take you as brother often. You will comply.”

“Yes Ravyn.”

He took her over and over that day, even after she passed out from weariness. Rose was in hell and she was going to kill the devil.

He died as Thorne, in the cold of winter, in the silence of the garden. He would never violate her sacred garden. He would never visit her there. She was sleeping with the new gardener. He was five years older than her and much more experienced. Thorne found out and killed the man in a rage. Then he raped Rose in the garden, upon the snow and ice, in anger and hate. Rose found the shears and stabbed them through his throat while he was grunting harshly on top of her. His warm blood spread over her bare breasts where he had ripped the fabric. He fell upon her and she pulled him out of her. He had violated her for the last time.

She had allowed weeds to grow in one corner of the garden. She pulled the weeds back and threw him upon the ground. She did not bury him; she only covered him with the thick tangle of weeds. She had no brother. Her mother and her father rejected her.

She buried the gardener under the lilac tree since they used to make love beside it. She felt betrayed and alone but the house changed. The evil was gone. Life began anew. She filled the gray halls with color, the dark rooms with light, the silent halls with laughter. The servants were compassionate and caring about Rose, always helpful, always watchful. Rose threw parties and made friends. She lived in bliss and the garden of sorrow was neglected and forgotten. With the gardener dead, Rose did not think to hire another. Two months passed and Rose denied the truth. At five months she hid her belly. Whose child did she carry? She feared the worst.

The day of the child’s birth brought great havoc in the manor. And with Thorne dead, all thought of the hardships of fatherless births. Her screams filled the halls and the servants prayed. A day and a half later, the news spread. Two girls born, one resembled Thorne but the other looked familiar, like someone all should recognize but none could recall.

Rose was happy. One of her children was a reminder of happy times and passion, the other of sorrow. She loved both and treated them well. The garden grew wild and unbound, thriving on something indescribable. Rose did not give the garden a second thought and the house was so cheerful that the guests enjoyed the indoors.

She named Thorne’s child Thistle and the gardeners child Lily. She never treated them as a burden and they grew fast and kind. The house was finally a home. Rose did not even notice the years pass, they grew so quickly and soon they were beautiful and sixteen. They never questioned who they were and why they were so different. They loved each other. They explored the house and made many friends. They were spoiled. They asked who their father was and Rose would smile and say three names: Thorne, Ravyn and Maddor. They were satisfied.

But Lily was drawn to the garden, drawn to the untrimmed lilac tree, drawn to gardening and renewal. Thistle was drawn to weeds, to deceit and lies, to wild lusts and hungers unbound. She was never cruel but she was her father’s child. So, reluctantly, Rose returned to the garden.

She called Thistle and Lily to her there and showed them the rose bush and spoke of her mother buried there, spoke of her sorrows and rejection. She showed them the oak and spoke of her father, of the pain and the constant shadow of control he cast. She took Lily to the lilac tree alone, and told of Maddor, her father. The gardener who was compassionate and loving, who was caring and seductive. She took Thistle to the weeds and spoke of Thorne, a brother who loved her too much and of Ravyn, a man who was passionate and harsh, a man who destroyed her and Thorne with his lust. A man she was well rid of even though she loved him.

Then, as her daughters mourned their fathers, Rose retreated to an overgrown area in the center of the garden and lie upon the ground. She spoke to her family as her daughters watched.

“Mother, you were buried first, you insured the growth of the garden and the protection herein. You placed the shears in my hand when I was violated and the peace of this place was destroyed. You showed me Maddor and a love I didn’t realize existed. You forgave me and loved me in your death. You have your roses.

“Father, you have guarded the garden and watched over me. In life, you were a shadow of jealousy and anger. In death, you are the shadow of life in the oak, the shadow of protection of our garden. I commit it to you father, these are my daughters, Thistle and Lily, your grandchildren, and they will carry on the name and the torch. Thorne is dead.

“Thorne, Ravyn, you are dead. Beneath the weeds you lie. You are nothing to me. I cannot believe that you would violate me like you did, brother; I cannot believe that you would destroy me. But thank you for Thistle. May you watch over your daughter always. May you never forsake her.

“Maddor, you are my true love. Today we shall see each other once again. There, beside the lilac bush our souls shall make love and see, finally, the eyes of my family upon us. I believe father betrayed us to Thorne but now my love, we have eternity. We will watch Lily grow and we will be happy.

“To the garden I come.” And, as she said this, the vines and flowers began to grow and twist. Lily smiled in understanding while Thistle felt a loathing she did not comprehend. The garden swallowed up Rose’s dead body, covering and burying it in its folds. Soon, in the center of the garden, grew a beautiful array of plants that would never die, despite attempts. Lily resumed her mother’s role and soon had the garden to full bloom and beauty. Thistle kept the house beautiful and loving, despite her father’s blood, she had been raised and loved by Rose. The sisterly bond was never strained or broken, Rose had taught them the importance of family. The line continued and there were always two: one for the house and one for the garden.

Of course, now it is just a tale of love and betrayal. No one truly believes in Rose, or in the garden. And despite the disbelief, no one ever dug up the center of the garden. All left the patch of weeds alone to thrive. The oak was respected and the roses always groomed. The lilac bush was used to fragrant the house. But no one believed, all knew it was a made up story. But none could explain the attraction, none could explain the hardiness, none could explain the sorrow or the joy or the tears or the laughter. None could explain…

The Garden Of Pleasant Flowers

© Copyright 2006 DragonWrites~The Fire Faerie~ (UN: mystdancer50 at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
DragonWrites~The Fire Faerie~ has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
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