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Long, long ago, in a land far far away, there lived a farmer and his family
They lived outside a small village in their quiet humble way, living in a little cottage, just a little ways away from a river.
The farmer was a good man, taking care of his family, taking care of the land, and he was happy, and his family was happy.

The village they lived near was a quiet one, where people went about their business and did what was required to do to get through life if not happy, then satisfied.  It was a good place.

The lands around the village was filled with men who were not as good.  They were bandits, mean, tough, fierce.  They rode where they wanted, and took what they wanted, and it seemed that no one could stop them.

One day, while the farmer was tilling his fields, he saw some men ride up to his cottage.  He stood, dumbstruck, as they set fire to the cottage, burning everything they could. 

The farmer ran at the bandits to try to stop them, but the men just charged at the farmer, hitting at him with their fists, and bashing his head with thier swords.  The farmer slumped to the ground, and they thought him dead.  They took his body and dumped it into the river where the swift currents bore it downstream.

When he awoke, sputtering and half drowned, the farmer found that he had washed ashore near a wide flat plain.  As he pulled himself from the river, he saw, in the distance, two moutains, rising high into the clouds, like guardians of the valley.  Shivering and dripping, head aching from the blow he had received, he turned and saw that he had landed at a spot where the the river split, forking left and right from where he was standing.

Silent tears poured from his eyes. Grieving for his family, whom he was sure had died in the fire, grieving for himself, not knowing where he was.  But even through his sadness, he was the sort of person not to give up, not to quit, so he set about the task of living.

He gathered some wood, and made himself a small hut, a lean to, really.  Just limbs stacked against a tree, but it was enough to keep the weather off him.  He unraveled some of thread from his shirt and wove and twisted it until he had a long stout cord.  He found a tough twig and sharpened it on a stone until he had a hook and tied it to the cord.  Scratching in the dirt, he came upon some worms, which he speared on the hook and tossed the hook and worm into the river.  It wasn't long until he had caught his fish, and making a fire, he roasted it, ate it.  Afterwards he lay down inside his small shelter and slept, hard and fast.

When the sun broke, bright and cheery, lighting the glade with a yellow light, the Farmer stood and looked at the land.  Toward the mountains, far away, were dark, dense woods.  To his left, the land rolled green and fertile sloping gently till it reached a knoll, a small hill.  On the knoll grew a single tree, tall, old and gnarled. Further on, the knoll sloped down to meet the right fork  To his right were grassy fields, stretching for quite a ways till it reached the left river.  Behind him was the river, the main body, flowing swiftly.

Squaring his shoulders, and sighing deeply, the Farmer started toward the fields to his right.  He was, after all a farmer, and he knew the ways of the land, he knew seeds, and the types of seeds.  He spent that day, and the next, and the next after that gathering seeds, introducing himself to the land he intended to tame, letting it know him and promising to be a good steward to it.

On the sixth day of his new life, he dug his first furrow, and planted his first seed.  He knew it would be a long time till he saw the fruits of his labor, but time was something he figured he could afford.  His family was dead, his old life was gone.  He had set his mind to creating a world that he could live and survive in, a world of work, of planting and harvesting.  Seasons and rythm. 

As the months wore on he slowly came to know his place.  His shanty had become a cabin, built with logs that had fallen in the dark forest near the foothills of the twin mountains.  The spot where he had washed ashore he build a small pier, from which to fish and watch the river run and fork.

He made a chair and a table at which to sit and watch the days pass, and the fields grow, and grow they did.  Corn and beans and carrots, greens and reds and yellows.  Flowers too, grew in his fields.  The Farmer knew to worship the land, become a part of it, know it for what it was.
The fields grew remarkably fast, and before winter set in, the Farmer had his first harvest.

The fields also provided meat for the Farmer.  Rabbits and birds would come to eat the plants, and sometimes the Farmer would lay to trap the animals.  The animals would fall into the Farmers hands with uncommon ease, sometimes walking right up to him and looking at him with silent eyes, as if giving him permission to take them and make them a part of him.

Winter came, silent and white.  The river crusted over with ice and fish became rare and hard to find.  The fields were covered in a crisp blanket, and the animals slept in their silent burrows.  The Farmer, however, snuggled warm in his cabin. He feasted on smoked fish, fowl, and rabbit.  He ate and cherished the bounty of fruits and vegetables that had come from the ground.  And though his life was pleasant, and lacking of worry, he was awful lonely and missing of company.  He still grieved for his family, but knowing they were gone, there was nothing to be done, except live till he was gone and into the soil he had come to call home.

The winter slowly passed, and the Farmer watched the signs of the river and the fields.  He watched with crinkled eyes the sky as the clouds came and went, whisps of cotton against a stark clear blue.  His bones told him when the snows would come, and when the winter started to release it's hold on the land.

Spring brought a large creaking of ice at first, as winter released it's hold on the river.  As the days got longer and the sun grew warmer, the water flowed freely again, and the fish became plentiful.  The rabbits and the birds returned to the fields, which had survived the winter and was awaiting the first planting of the season. The Farmer's life became busy, preparing his seed, and readying the ground to recieve the first plantings.

One day, after his day was over, he sat his chair on his little pier and enjoyed the sun set on the river.  Far away, a small speck appeared on the water, near the horizon.  As the farmer watched, the speck grew larger until it became a boat.

And what a boat it was!  It was red and yellow and greens.  It flew small multicolored flags from all the lines and the sides were draped with cloths of vibrant colors.  A small smoke stack puffed greyish clouds, which billowed out behind it.

The lone figure on the boat was as colorful as the boat himself. A shock of red hair, flowing around and over his shoulders framed a face that was round and moonish.  The eyes were bright and smiling, blue and crinkling at the corners.  He was dressed in a garish costume, with puffed sleeves on bright orange shirt, pantaloons of purple and green shoes whose toes curled round twice.

As the small carnival boat pulled up to the pier, the man on board tossed a rope to the astonished farmer, who tied it off to one of the pilings.  As the man stepped off his boat, he called out "Hello!  How are you, friend?"

The Farmer, who hadn't spoken for many months loosened his tongue and croaked out a greeting.

The man stepped up and shook the Farmers hand vigorously.  "My name is Hephestus, my friend!  A shopkeeper, a seller of things, traveling this river, looking for a new place to set up shop!  Do you own this fair land?"  He perched on the edge of the Farmers table and looked expectant.

"No", said the Farmer, slowly.  "More likely it owns me.  I came here months ago, the vicitm of a bandits attack.  The land saw fit to have me and took care of me"

"Well, then," said Hephestus, looking around, "it looks like you did allright by the land as well.  This is a fine spread.  Is it all right if I take a stroll up to that little hill over that way?" He pointed towards the knoll and inclined his head that way.

"You have free reign.", said the Farmer.  "As I said, I don't own any of this land.  I'd stay away from the woods though. I've heard some fearful noises come from there, and I only go just inside the borders."

"I'll take that warning to heed, friend Farmer", and Hephestus walked up towards the knoll, leaving the farmer to watch in wonder.

That night, the Farmer served his guest roasted rabbit, and vegetables that he had got from his dwindling supplies. The conversation was light, and sparse.  Mostly Hephestus did the talking, telling tales of the places he'd been and the magics that he'd witnessed.  He told tales of wonderous strong wizards and powerful witches that cast spells of good and evil.  He spoke in quiet tones, except when he laughed, which came from deep in his belly.  The Farmer just sat quietly and listened, still stunned for having company after all the long months of loneliness.  After the supper was over, and a quiet smoke by the fire, the two men went to sleep.  The Farmer let Hephestus use his own bed to rest, instead sleeping outside, under stars, wondering about this new turn his life had taken.

The next morning, as the sun was rising over the knoll, the Shopkeeper strolled over to his boat, and rummaging around, produced a small package.  He approached the Farmer with a shy smile on his face.

"Friend Farmer," he said " after speaking with you last night, and getting to know you ever so slightly.  I feel I have a gift to give YOU."  Although the Farmer protested  Hephestus thrust the package at him.

The package was wrapped in simple newsprint, a small bundle, tied with simple twine, and a reminder to the Farmer of happier times.  He took it reluctantly took the gift and opening it, found a spool of red thread, a needle and a small bit of cloth.

"No, no, friend", laughed Hephestus. "The gift wasn't inside the wrapping.. the gift WAS the wrapping!" He gathered up the twine, needle and cloth and put them in his pocket.

The Farmer looked at the newsprint, uncomprehending, not being able to read.  The pictures showed faces, and places, none of which looked familiar.  He turned it over and looked for something, something he was supposed to find.

Hephestus quietly minded his own business, looking at the knoll, perhaps thinking of what sort of customers he could attract. He only turned when he heard a small sob escape from the Farmer.  "What's wrong, Friend?", he asked quietly.

"It's my family, this picture here", and he pointed to a photograph on the newsprint.  Hephestus took the paper and read the small print under the picture.

"'Father was lost when bandits attacked'", he read.  "Hmm.. one of the things that brought me here was the rumor that there may be someone living here.  The light from your fires have been seen far to the north", and he pointed towards the knoll, and far beyond that.  "Folks were afraid to visit here.  There's magic in the forest, and the mountains are inhabited by fierce dragons.  Not even bandits come here, so strong is the fear of the magic and the dragons.

"But the rumor of your light was just strong enough to cause me to curiously wonder who was here. So here I came!"  Hephestus looked around.  "Seems like the magic of the land likes you, Friend.  It's accepted you and nurtured you.  And it's brought me here.  And it's bringing your family here, as well."

This last shocked the Farmer.  His family here?  "When", he croaked out, choked with emotion.

"Soon, I would imagine", said Hephestus.  "I'm starting back today to bring my inventory here.  There are others like me, that feel the old village has gone stale. We were wanting a place to call home, and between the river and the magic of this place, I think we've found it!"

And so it came to pass that Hephestus brought the Farmer back together with his family, and brought other shopkeepers and villagers as well.  The land near the knoll became a sort of village of shopkeepers and merchant, and the land around the little farm became land that supported the village.  The little pier became the entrance of the village, and years later the entrance was guarded on either side by Dragon's ribs.

But that's another story for another time.