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There are those that say that the monks at St. Fiacre's should not plant their vegetables so close to the churchyard, that it is unseemly to fatten the marrows, squashes, and pumpkins so close to human bones filled with human marrow. Of course, the same voices don't complain when those same vegetables come to market, ripe and full of rich flavor. But that is another tale, and... ...wait, what is this? Who comes here at this hour? A ruffian in disguise, bent on disturbing the bones in the cemetary?! Nay, ruffians plural! Grave robbers, here to trouble those at long rest under stone! And who is this?! A sinister figure, clearly the ringleader. "Go now, and find me that wizard's grave!" A little foxfire around the eyes and mouth of a carved pumpkin will frighten the superstitious into thinking these grave-robbers are haints. "Not one stone in ten is as it was in the old times; be sure where ye dig!" "Wait, lads--what is that light?!" "That's no sexton's lamp! Take to your heels, boys!" It is, perhaps, only fair that those who mock Jack O'The Lantern get to see the original. A variant of Jack In the Green, easily summoned. "BOOOOO!" "YOU WHO TRESPASS ON THE ROW / YOUR FLESH WILL MAKE THE PUMPKINS GROW" "'Tis every man for himself, lads, and devil take the hindmost!" "TAKE THE HINDMOST? SO BE IT!" "AH HA HA HA HAAAAA!" As I said, the pumpkins from St. Fiacre's are always welcome at market. Something about the tender flesh and delicate taste, the kind you don't find elsewhere. Rumors that a wealthy patron of the monastery was a sorcerer are just that--old wives' tales. And the story of a guardian appointed to keep his rest secure 'till doomsday? Obviously also fictitious. Old wives will talk; this is well-known.