Chapter 8: Pruning Season

The cottage door frame splintered completely as more figures pressed through the opening—townspeople who had fled in terror only minutes before, now returning with movements that flowed like water over stone. Their faces bore expressions of serene contentment, as if they had finally discovered answers to questions they had carried their entire lives.

Doctor Henley was among them, his medical bag forgotten in favor of thorny growths that had sprouted from his palms like organic surgical tools. Behind him came Mrs. Hartwell from down the lane, her gossiping tongue now split into three segments that moved independently, tasting the air for traces of fear and desperation that would season the evening's harvest.

Constable Morrison pressed himself against the cottage wall, his hysterical laughter finally fading into ragged breathing as the full scope of his situation became clear. The servants of the Rose moved with coordinated purpose, arranging themselves around the cottage's main room like actors taking their positions for a carefully rehearsed performance.

"The door is open now," Samantha observed with satisfaction, though whether she referred to the physical barrier or something more metaphysical remained unclear. "No more hiding. No more pretending to be something we're not."

Elias felt the forbidden tome pulse in his hands, its organic binding warm against his palms. The ancient scripture seemed to be responding to the proximity of so many transformed servants, its symbols glowing more brightly as the cosmic energy in the cottage reached critical mass.

"Father," he said quietly, "the Shear. Is it time?"

Gideon Shearer looked down at the bone-handled implement he had carried for three decades, keeping their family's true purpose hidden behind a facade of conventional faith and academic respectability. The weight of those years—the careful lies, the manufactured normalcy, the constant vigilance required to maintain their secret—seemed to lift from his shoulders like morning mist burned away by sunlight.

"It has always been time," he replied, his voice carrying new strength despite his wounds. "I was simply too weak, too afraid of losing you children to let you see what we truly are. But the Rose..." He paused, listening to harmonies that existed just beyond human hearing. "The Rose grows impatient with half-measures."

The creature that had been Harald McGovern flowed closer to Morrison, its thorny appendages weaving patterns in the air that left trails of luminescent pollen. Where the substance touched the constable's skin, small flowering buds began to form, their petals the deep red of arterial blood.

"No," Morrison whispered, staring at the alien growths sprouting from his flesh. "This isn't happening. This can't be happening."

"But it is beautiful, isn't it?" Samantha asked, moving to examine the constable's transformation with the detached interest of a botanist studying an unusual specimen. "The Rose gives such wonderful gifts to those who serve it willingly. And even better gifts to those who resist."

Her fingers traced the air above Morrison's skin, not quite touching but somehow encouraging the growth of the flowering buds. Where she gestured, the petals unfurled more rapidly, revealing centers that pulsed with their own internal light.

"The fear makes it sweeter," she continued conversationally. "Terror is like fertilizer to the Rose's garden. The more you fight against your transformation, the more beautiful you'll become when the pruning is complete."

Doctor Henley stepped forward, his transformed hands weaving through the air in patterns that spoke of medical knowledge corrupted by cosmic purpose. "The physiological changes are fascinating," he said, his voice carrying multiple harmonics as if several people were speaking in unison. "The human form is so... limited. But with proper cultivation, such wonders can be achieved."

The flowering buds on Morrison's arms began to open further, revealing not stamens and pistils but tiny, grinding teeth that moved in synchronized patterns. The constable's scream caught in his throat as he realized that the flowers were not simply growing on him—they were growing through him, their root systems extending deep into his muscle tissue and bone.

Elias watched the transformation with academic fascination, his scholarly mind cataloguing the process even as his newly awakened consciousness celebrated the beauty of cosmic design made manifest in human flesh. This was what his family had protected for generations—not mere murder or madness, but participation in a form of art that transcended earthly categories.

"The town," he said to his father. "How many others?"

"All of them," Gideon replied with certainty. "The Rose's servants have been preparing for this harvest for months. Every person who fled tonight was marked long ago, guided back to us through pathways that exist outside normal space and time."

Through the cottage's windows, Elias could see lights moving through the streets—not the warm yellow glow of oil lamps or candles, but the cold phosphorescence of cosmic energy made visible in their dimension. The systematic transformation of their community was proceeding with mechanical efficiency, each resident being welcomed into the Rose's embrace according to their individual spiritual and biological requirements.

"And tomorrow?" he asked. "What happens when people from other towns come looking for us?"

Samantha laughed, the sound like crystal chimes in a wind that blew from spaces between the stars. "Tomorrow, this place won't exist in any form they would recognize. The Rose will have claimed it completely, transformed it into another node in the garden that spans galaxies. Anyone who comes looking will find only empty land, maybe some old foundations that don't match any maps they remember."

The constable's transformation was accelerating now, his uniform splitting along seams as his body expanded to accommodate new anatomical structures. The flowering growths were spreading across his torso, each bloom contributing its own small voice to the alien chorus that filled the cottage with harmonies no human throat could produce.

"Please," Morrison gasped, though whether he was begging for mercy or for the process to be completed more quickly was unclear. "Please, just... make it stop."

"But why would we want it to stop?" Samantha asked, genuine puzzlement in her cosmic gaze. "You're becoming something wonderful, Constable. Something that serves a purpose greater than any human institution. Isn't that what you've always wanted? To serve something larger than yourself?"

The creature that had been Harald McGovern moved to stand beside Morrison, its own transformation serving as a preview of what the constable would become. Where Harald's face had been, a complex arrangement of thorns and petals created a visage that was both terrible and beautiful, speaking to design principles that existed outside earthly biology.

"Brother," Harald's multiple voices sang in harmony. "Welcome... to... the... garden..."

Morrison's response was lost in a sound that was part scream, part song, as his vocal cords were restructured to accommodate the harmonic requirements of his new existence. The transformation was reaching critical mass now, his human identity dissolving like sugar in the Rose's cosmic waters.

Elias felt something stir within himself—not horror at what they were witnessing, but hunger. His newly awakened consciousness recognized Morrison's terror as a particularly rich form of nourishment, the kind of fear that came from watching one's entire understanding of reality collapse in real time.

"The Shear," he said to his father, extending his hand toward the ancient implement. "Let me help."

Gideon studied his son's face, seeing in it the same terrible purpose that had driven the Shearer family for twenty-seven generations. The academic, the scholar, the young man who had tried so desperately to find God's plan in conventional scripture—all of that was gone now, burned away by cosmic fire and replaced with something infinitely more useful to their true patron.

"Are you ready?" he asked. "Once you take it in your hands, there's no pretending anymore. No hiding from what we are."

"I've been ready my entire life," Elias replied with absolute certainty. "I just didn't know it until tonight."

The bone handle felt warm against his palm, pulsing with its own rhythm that matched the beating of his heart. The Shear was more than just a tool—it was a conduit, a direct connection to the Rose's will that flowed through him like liquid starlight. When he lifted it, the blade caught the cottage's lamplight and reflected it back in patterns that seemed to move independently of the flame.

Around them, the transformed townspeople began to hum in perfect harmony, their voices creating resonances that made the cottage's wooden walls vibrate like the membrane of some vast drum. The sound was calling to something—not just the Rose itself, but to other servants scattered across the world, announcing that another harvest was ready to begin.

Morrison's transformation reached its crescendo as the last of his human features dissolved into the flowering mass that had claimed his body. Where the town constable had stood, something beautiful and terrible now swayed to rhythms that existed outside normal time, its blooming face turned toward harmonies only it could hear.

"Welcome, brother," Samantha said warmly, as if greeting an old friend. "The Rose has such wonderful work for you to do."

The newly transformed creature that had been Morrison turned toward her voice, its flowering features arranging themselves into what might have been a smile. When it spoke, its voice joined the alien chorus that filled the cottage with songs of cosmic purpose.

"Sister... the garden... grows..."

Through the cottage's broken doorway, more lights were approaching—not the phosphorescent glow of the Rose's servants, but the warm yellow illumination of conventional lanterns. Somewhere in the distance, voices were calling out, searching for neighbors who would never answer in forms they would recognize.

"The next wave," Gideon observed with satisfaction. "People from the inland farms, coming to investigate the disturbance. They'll make fine additions to tonight's harvest."

Elias raised the Shear, feeling its ancient power flow through him like wine made from fermented starlight. The implement seemed to know what was required, its blade humming with eagerness to taste new forms of life-essence.

"Then let's not keep them waiting," he said, his voice carrying harmonics that matched those of his transformed neighbors. "The Rose has been patient long enough."

As if summoned by his words, the cottage began to fill with a new fragrance—not the sweet scent of earthly roses, but something deeper and more complex that spoke of gardens tended by alien hands across cosmic distances. It was the smell of the harvest season beginning in earnest, and somewhere in dimensions parallel to their own, the Devouring Rose began to sing.