Sown in the Seven Achers

There stood in the middle of an overgrown field a pile of brittle wood. Around it danced tall grass, tickling into the summer wind hymns of secret things the centuries once said. “Over there stood the house and near it the well, into which the family’s children disappeared; each jumped, none of them fell.”
          The brittle wood, piled as it was when the home had long been torn down, concealed under its drifting weight the path which once led to the forest from where it was sourced, and now slept the bones of the property’s owner. Without a stone to mark the spot, his wife had thought at least a stack of firewood should.
          Nearly dust, the wood whittled by gossiping wind and laughed at by distant trees never understood how mean memory could be. For some people, never for sticks such as these, an eternity turned every fear they had when living into an unquenchable chill; instead of being able to burn bad things into warmth, their souls froze under churchyard hills.
          Except the master’s; his was here, unmarked, freezing still. Little prayers swallowed back like pills more often kill than cure, so the master, attempting to inspire love, neglected to protect his children enough from a wife who was devious. A witch born in spring, came summer and she summoned to her their six daughters and one son; as the master of the plantation went to plant, she convinced the children to jump in. They swim there since.