In a time long ago, when the sun was young and the moon but a hint in history’s dark corridors, a farmer lived high in the mountains in a snug little valley, surrounded by sharp-rising mountains and rushing streams, and green fields blanketed with beautiful flowers that numbered as the stars in the night sky. The farmer came from a long line of farmers, and the land passed down through time from one generation to the next. Along with the land passed the secret of raising grand and beautiful flowers.

It was said that the farmer touched his flowers with magic, that incantations of unknown and beautiful origin were prayed over them, and that the heavens shed mystical stardust over all his fields. But no one knew for certain, because no one had ever seen or heard any of these things themselves. And year after year, the farmer brought lush golden blooms to the market place, and rich yellow and lavender petalled beauties. And all the village marveled at his handiwork.

The farmer was generous to a fault, and on his way to the market place he always stopped at the orphanage and distributed bouquets of his flowers to the Sisters of the High Place for all the children. He always brought a large bone for the convent’s old dog, and patted him on his head as he left.

One day the people of the village noticed that the farmer did not make the long journey from his farm in the clouds to the market place, and at first they though nothing of it. Perhaps he had overslept, or had decided to come another day, and they went about their business.

The next day, still no farmer, and the villagers began to worry that something might have happened to the old man. The village cobbler, as ancient as the farmer, and his dearest friend, called his eldest son to him, and instructed him to go to the farmer’s house and knock on the door and inquire as to his health. The son was young and strong, and ran as if the west wind filled his shoes.

It was a long run, up a long and winding trail, through the mountain pass and over a ridge, and down into the lush valley beyond. At the farmer’s door, the boy knocked, and waited. He thought he could hear something inside, but no one answered the door. He knocked again, and after a long silence the door opened and there stood the farmer. He wasn’t smiling, and his words were harsh – harsher than the cobbler’s son had ever heard from this man who was like an uncle to him. Hurt and bewildered, the boy turned and ran home as fast as he could.

The farmer came to the market place less frequently, and when he did he brought flowers that were less brilliant than those he usually displayed on his market place blankets. His face was hardened and he didn’t smile, and he had more disagreeable words to utter to those he met. The villagers were puzzled, and watched him out of the corners of their eyes as they went about their ways to the other shops in the market place.

The first fortnight since this change in the farmer’s mood drew to a close, and the puzzlement of the villagers mounted, as the farmer continued to bring his flowers to market, but with an increasingly disagreeable manner. The children no longer flocked to his market stall, and while he still stopped to leave flowers at the orphanage, the sisters found it difficult to receive the gifts because of his harsh words. The flowers seemed less bright and smaller, and lasted a shorter time even with the most diligent of care. The farmer’s blossoms no longer seemed blessed with that magic of old.

The cobbler decided one day he had to visit his friend to talk of this disturbing change in his old friend, and so made the long journey to his farm. This was no easy task, for the cobbler was now in his 80th year, and long walks taxed him dearly, especially walks up into the mountains. He took his time, and as he descended into the valley, and while he was still a distance from the house, he could see smoke coming from the farmer’s chimney, and the farmer’s old dog resting on the front porch under a badly swaying overhang. The farmer, having heard his faithful dog bark at someone’s approach, watched as the cobbler entered his yard.

The farmer invited the cobbler in the house, and the cobbler was immediately struck with the disorder, and piles of things in every corner of the room. The farmer himself was disheveled, and seemed to match the disorder of his home. The two talked well into the morning, the cobbler asking gently how the farmer was, and why he came less frequently to the market, and what was happening to his glorious flowers. The farmer was perplexed by these questions, and was not just a little irritated.

The cobbler pressed further with his dear friend, but with each query the farmer became increasingly upset, and finally said there was nothing wrong, not with himself, and not with his flowers. And he asked his long-time and dearest friend to leave. As the friend paused in the doorway, the farmer said he should not return, ever. So it was with a heavy heart that the cobbler made the long trek back to the village, and as dusk was settling he entered his own abode, greeted by his wife and two sons. The cobbler and his family wept at the loss of a very dear friend.

The farmer continued to bring his flowers to market, but the villagers gave him a wide berth because of his caustic tongue and mean manner. Villagers and travelers still came seeking his flowers, but they were disappointed with what they observed. The cobbler saw his lost friend on occasion, and they greeted each other, but not really. The cobbler ached for his friend who was lost.

One day the cobbler decided to travel to the farmer’s home once again to see if their friendship could be restored. Again he trudged along the path leading up into the mountains and through the pass. As he crested the final ridge, he saw again the once familiar valley, the green rolling meadows, and the smoke curling up from the lonely farmhouse nestled along the banks of the stream. The farmer sat resting on the top steps of the porch.

The cobbler thought for a moment he saw a twinkle in the farmer’s eyes as he approached, then there was only coldness. The farmer greeted his old friend with a shrug. The two held each other’s eyes for a moment, then the farmer nodded to his friend to sit down beside him.

They were silent for a long time, and the years of friendship seemed unable to bridge the gap that had formed for reasons the cobbler knew not. The cobbler sighed. The farmer looked over at the cobbler, and once again they held each other’s gaze. The cobbler smiled, and asked, “How are your days, old friend?” The farmer didn’t reply, but gazed at some point just beyond the edge of the yard.

They sat and said nothing. The setting sun nestled for a moment in the crook of the mountain ridge to the west just before disappearing, as twilight crept over the valley. The two sat without words as the night sky blinked slowly into a blanket of sparkling pinpoints, until the night sky was awash with light. Still the two sat not saying anything. The farmer finally got up, turned, and without a word went into the house and closed the door.

The cobbler sat under the canopy of stars for a long while, as he contemplated the pain he witnessed on his ancient friend’s countenance. Finally, and with the slowness that comes with age, the cobbler got up and started the long journey home. At the ridge overlooking the valley, he stopped to rest. He sat and leaned against a large oak with friendly branches overhead, and wrapped his traveling blanket around his shoulders. He opened his eyes with a start, and found the early morning sun warming his shoulders. He shook his head, and muttered half under his breath that he must have dozed off, and now he would be late returning home.

He took a final look down into the valley of his friend. He could see his friend in the fields working, but something seemed wrong – his friend was shoveling dirt onto the flowerbeds, covering them up to a depth of what looked from this distance to be six inches. On closer examination, though, it was not earth the farmer was placing on top of his flowerbeds, but manure. There was nothing wrong, exactly, with this, except he knew his friend would never place this much fertilizer on his precious plants and cover them up this deep. They would die. He watched with fascination.

The farmer worked diligently, and soon his work was complete. He then trudged off to his house, and left the fields. While puzzled as to the reasons why, the cobbler now understood the reasons for the decline of the farmer’s precious flowers.

Moral: Living things need a little fertilizer to grow, but if you overdo the shit, they will die of the heat…