The local flower-merchants were initially concerned about the new monastery, but the monks assured their neighbors that they too would abide by the practices that ensured the continued health and abundance of the local flora. Thus mollified, the merchants welcomed the monks into their community.
Thus it was with horror and outrage the local merchants found out that the monastery on the hill was giving away their arrangements for the asking! Sending a representative to the abbot, the merchants demanded that the friars either stop their arranging and leave or charge a suitable price for their handiwork. The monks declined, citing their tenets that their work was out of love and must be given freely or it would be rendered meaningless to them. The sale of their art was anathema to them, and to stop entirely would mean be the same as leaving their order, and having risked so much to build their new abbey in this new location, they refused.
The merchants were furious and came together to discuss ways to put an end to this outrage – they thought to close the town to the monks, but it was feared that people would simply go directly to the monastery for their flowers and the town would lose all their income. One suggested the burning of the abbey, and that was discarded as well, for not only was it too extreme, there was also the danger of the fire spreading to the mountain and destroying the flowers. There was no way to prevent the monks from gathering the flowers themselves, for the mountain was too large and too well covered with the blossoms.
Finally, one man stepped forward and claimed to have the answer.
“I have a cousin”, he said, “who will be able to handle these monks if any can.”
The room held their breath for a moment, for many knew what he would say next.
“His name,” he breathed, “is…Hugh.”
The room erupted into chaos, a nigh-incomprehensible babble – despite the certain knowledge that this course of action would succeed, many were concerned that this might be taking things too far.
It quickly became obvious, though, that this was indeed their only safe course of action and all came to an agreement – Hugh would be sent the very next day to the abbey to see about the monks.

That fateful morning, the entire flower-arranging population of the town gathered near the road that led to the abbey and watched as Hugh marched up the pound on the doors.
As a man they held their breath as the doors opened up and Hugh walked in, confident in his mission.
The massive portal swung shut behind him and all became deathly quiet as the huddled mass strained to hear any escaping sound, but nothing could be discerned save the insects on the wind.

Hours seemed to pass, and the townspeople began to worry. Had Hugh failed in his task? It seemed impossible, but the entire situation was unlike any they had faced before. At long last, the door to the abbey swung open, and Hugh strode out, looking worn but satisfied, and the townspeople knew that they had been saved from certain poverty.

The very next day the monks abandoned their monastery, leaving everything inside and fleeing as though for their very lives. To this day, no one knows what transpired in that building between Hugh and the men of the abbey. Only one thing is certain – the facts are clear and undeniable: Hugh – and only Hugh – can prevent florist friars.

These furnishings were laughable to one such as I, who, having seen many of the more opulent in home furnishings, would have found a simple Barcalounger to be simply common taste in decor. And yet, this chief was fascinated. Each new “throne”, they explained, was relished with zeal and awe, whether it was a cherrywood rocking chair or a brand new recliner, complete with cupholders and a mini-refrigerator, as they had given him this year. Having no electricity, I marveled at the waste of utility that such a thing would produce, but the villagers assured me that their chief was an ingenious man and would surely find a use for it.

Indeed he did, for while I watched he managed to fit an entire chicken within the small compartment. Truly this was a man who valued access to a quick meal.

I was also lucky enough to find myself on hand when the annual ceremony began which removed the previous throne to the upstairs apartments, and watched with delight the pageantry they put into the spectacle. Oh! You should have seen it. It was short lived, that year, and may not take place again, you see – for the house in which the chief did live was made from the grasses around the village, and the thrones from all the previous years as well were stored above the newest gift – when the ceremony was complete, it was not long before the ceiling caved in upon the poor chief, and he was killed.

I fear to say it, but I fear it must be said, so that all may remember the noble savage’s lesson – people who live in grass houses shouldn’t stow thrones.

One summer, much like any other, the farmer went into the fields to tend his plants and examined his gardens with a care born of love. Coming to the berries, he was astonished. There, upon the vine, was the most perfect berry he had ever seen. It was just before the peak of ripeness, round and firm, large but obviously filled with the sweetest of juices. It was a wonder that the birds had missed such a specimen! Unable to resist the temptation, the farmer plucked the berry from the vine and hurried into his house where he placed it upon his table. Falling into reverie, he spent the rest of the day and long into the night in silent contemplation of the berry.

The following day, the farmer went to his closest neighbor’s house and brought their entire family back to view the fruit of his vine, so vivid were his descriptions of its virtues. They did not leave disappointed – the following day they brought even more people back to see the berry, which enraptured all who gazed upon it. Day after day more visitors flocked to the poor farmer’s door to see this wonder – and many of them, moved by the beauty they saw, left donations for the farmer for the privelege of their pilgrimage. And the farmer, though at first embarassed by the money, soon realized he could put their generosity back into his farming, and perhaps increase the quality of his other crops to the same level as his berry!

This continued for some months, with attendance and donations increasing, until the man had to begin placing limits on the number of people who could see the berry in any given day. “If you do not leave me now, I will not get any farming done!” he would exclaim, “and would it not be a shame if I could not harvest more berries like this one because I was standing here watching you?” And so they would all return to their homes. The next morning, though, they would show up even earlier, waiting for the farmer to open his door and let them in to see the magnificent fruit.

One evening, long after the man had retired to his bed, there came a pounding upon the door and, irritated, the farmer roused from his bed to answer the summons and tell the supplicants to return in the morning. Before he could reach the portal, the pounding came again with renewed vigor and it became obvious that the people beyond meant to break the door down if necessary. Rushing to open his door, he threw back the bolt and was thrown back himself by the force of the door opening from without. There beyond the threshold gathered a band of brigands and cutthroats, grinning into the small farm house.

“Please, sirs,” quavered the farmer, “go home. You may come again in the morning to admire the berry.” There was terror in his eyes as he gazed into the faces of his assailant, and his heart sank when the largest, most brutish of the group opened his mouth to speak.

The bandits’ leader sneered at the farmer and said “Fool! We come to seize the Berry, not to praise it!”

(it’s come to my attention that this one is a bit of a stretch. if you don’t get it, read this)

To protect his people, Rupert called on a travelling salesman of security systems and asked him what should be done. The salesman told the good king of all his different security systems. He told of the mystical iron statues who would slay any intruder who set forth across the tiny bridge that connected the island to the land. He told of the great and magical crystal bubble that could be placed upon the island, keeping all invaders at bay. He told of the mysterious flowers that could be planted at the end of the bridge to lull intruders to sleep. He told the king of all these things and more, and when he was done the king decreed that the salesman should straightaway install for him the magical Yellow Fingers of Doom, which would guard the bridge and drag any intruders down into the watery depths.

On the day of the Great Fingering, the king called his subjects together and told them of the marvelous plan which would protect the kingdom forever. He brought the people together before the bridge and showed them one of his trusted knights standing at the far end of the bridge with a man from another kindom, who had been condemned under the laws of Rupert’s domain. Pressing forward, the knight forced the man onto the bridge, whereupon he was snatched from the bridge by the horrific fingers and dragged to his doom below. Cheering wildly, the royal subjects watched the loyal knight attempt to cross the bridge and return to the island. A sudden hush fell over the crowd as the knight, too, was plucked from the timbers and hauled screaming in terror below the icy waters.

King Rupert stood aghast, horrified beyond belief. Calling forth another of his brave knights, he instructed him to sally forth over the bridge and fetch the salesman before he had gone too far. It was Rupert’s hope that the fingers could be fixed, or at least removed to ensure his people’s safety. Alas, it was not to be – when the second knight attempted to cross the bridge he too was ensnared in the Yellow Fingers and crushed beneath the sea. Children in the audience began to cry – a murmur ran through the crowd. The king was losing control! Something must be done!

Rupert, though many things, was no fool – he sent the people back to their homes, assuring them that all would be fine and that all would be safe. There was nothing, in short, to worry about. In fact, despite the small glitch (which would shortly be worked out), everything was going exactly as he had said, hadn’t it? While this did not quiet all fears it did at least quell the people enough to maintain order. Furious, Rupert called forth two of his remaining knights and directed them to take the bridge with any force necessary.

The only force, however, was exerted by the Fingers. One knight was squished by a thumb, the other had his head lopped clean off with a thrust of his own sword between another thumb and forefinger. The king despaired, but the knights were now resolute – as a man, the stormed the bridge in one last, but ultimately futile attempt to take back their kingdom.

When the slaughter had abated, King Rupert broke down into sobs of grief. What had he done? How could he ever put it right? There was nothing for it, but to abdicate his throne. Just then, a young page approached the throne.

King Rupert, said the young man, I would like to brave the bridge and bring back the salesman to put things right. You, said King Rupert, you would like to take the bridge where my entire force of knights could not? I cannot send you out onto that bridge of death! The page was resolute, however, and insisted that he be allowed to make the attempt. Feeling that there was little else to be done, Rupert acquiesced and sent the page out to what would surely be slaughter.

Looking on with saddened eyes, Rupert was shocked to see the page dodge and dance between the Fingers! He skipped and strolled, always just out of reach! When at last he reached the other side he sprinted off to find the salesman.

A few days later, the boy returned with the salesman, who repaired the fingers and saved the kingdom from certain doom. Marvelous celebrations were held, and the boy was knighted on the spot.

The moral of our story is this – always let your pages do the walking through the Yellow Fingers.

And the shamans, who understood the ways of the woman’s tribe, said to her “Go, get these herbs which we have told you of, and the hide of a deer. When your husband comes to you at night, both of you drink a broth made of these herbs and lay upon the deer hide.”

The woman thanked the shaman and went back to her own tribe, and nine months hence she bore her husband a stong boy papoose.

It was not long before a second young woman appeared to the shamans with much the same request. “Oh Shamans,” said she, “I have come to you in supplication, that you might help me to bear my husband a strong son, that he might be a great hunter like his father, and hold high regard within our tribe when he is grown.”

And the shamans smiled knowingly and said unto her “Worthy sqaw, find these herbs and brew them into a tea which you and your husband shall drink each night. Fetch also a hide cut from a buffalo to lay upon each evening, and that which you ask shall be granted.”

This woman, too, gave birth nine months later to a strong, healthy boy who grew to be a mighty hunter indeed.

Presently, another woman came into the tent of the shamans and lay herself prostrate before them. “Oh, might Shamans!” she cried, “My husband and I have no children! We have been married for fifteen years and I am thirty five years of age! I fear that I may never bear him a child and I cannot accept that! Please tell me what I must do!”

The shamans gazed upon the woman with concern, for they knew that she would have no chance but for their intervention. “Good squaw, hear our words. Yours will be a difficult road to follow. We have set before you a number of herbs, of which you must brew a tea each night and drink a full measure. Further, you must find the hide of a hippopotamus to lay upon when you lay down each night.”

When the woman heard this, she was stricken and broke into sobs of grief. At last she gained her composure and thanked the wise men, taking with her the herbs she would need. Although she despaired ever finding the hide she needed, so great was her desire to bear a child that she sought throughout the countryside for the skin of this strange animal.

Many weeks passed, and she had nearly lost all hope, when she came across a trader who had the hide she needed. Rough and grey, thick and strange it was, but the squaw took the hide back to her husband and told him what they had to do.

Nine months later, the squaw gave birth to not one, but two beautiful, strong baby boys.

This proves beyond a doubt that the sqaw of the hippopotamus equals the sons of the squaws of the other two hides.

Alas, it soon became apparent that something had gone horribly wrong. Despite his best efforts the boy was rude and crude, the likes of which even the man’s own parents had never seen and could not explain. He was taken to psychologists, psychiatrists, physicians, and philosophers. None could determine the nature of the child’s festering mind. He was, it was universally decided, simply a “bad seed”.

This was simply too much for the scientist to take – the boy had come from his own genetic material, after all – shouldn’t he be no more bad-tempered than his progenitor? Forget “nature vs. nurture” – he had been nurtured as well as anyone could hope, and his nature was beyond doubt – unless…

The scientist was forced to confront the idea that perhaps something had gone wrong in the cloning process – he returned his son to the lab and secured a sample of tissue from the boy. The results were astounding – his son was, in fact, made up entirely from the kind of tissue that had been used to create him! The child was a complete ass!

Stunned though he was, the scientist was resolute. He had come to love the boy as though he was his actual son, and although his moment of scientific glory had been denied, he determined that he would still raise the boy to adulthood, never telling him of his origins.

The boy grew into a man, continuing all the while to torment his father – and, indeed, everyone he came in contact with – with taunts and torments of the most foul and bawdy nature. Day by day, the man grew more and more exhausted simply with keeping his progeny away from the rest of the world, hoping desperately to minimize the damage he could do.

Over time, the scientist became an old man, his health weakening until he realized that he could no longer continue to protect his world from his creation. He knew what he had to do. Taking his grown son in tow, he drove to the highest cliff above the city and stood there gazing out into the sky. From beside him, his troubled scion continued to mouth wanton and wicked suggestions, screaming them into the heavens. With a great sadness and a heavy heart, his father reached out and put his hand on the young man’s shoulder.
“Son,” he said, “there is one thing more I must do before I die. I hope you understand, and can forgive me.”
Looking around, his son replied “I understand, old man, I understand you can stick itaaahHHHHH!”
The old scientist had pushed his child over the edge of the cliff, and the grown clone fell into the chasm, shouting expletives all the way down the side of the mountain. Seemingly drained of all his energy, the old man sat down on the hood of his car. He saw flashing lights in the distance and could just hear the sound of the sirens on the wind.

He had known this would happen. Known the would come for him. He would spend his last few remaining years in prison, for everyone knows it is illegal to make an obscene clone fall.

They passed through Ireland and England, seeing the most beautiful Cathedrals and ancient mounds and henges, dropped down into France and across to Italy, enjoying the foods and wines of the mediterranean and wondering at the countryside. They jogged up through Austria and into Hungary, having the time of their lives and crossed into the outskirts of Romania.

Noting that they were in the vicinity of Transylvania, they decided to drive through simply to be able to say they had been, and so rented a tiny car to make a day trip, jaunting up into the mountains above the villages.

They soon realized that it would have been prudent to take a guide or a taxi, as Frank and Sandy quickly became lost attempting to read the traffic signs, completely oblivious to the many posted warnings of dangerous roads ahead. It seemed that despite having studied the local traffic laws extensively, the rural area into which they had travelled used non-standard signs with simple instructions in Romanian.

Hours dragged on, the Hills becoming more and more lost with each passing moment. The skies became forbidding and it began to rain, making the already treacherous roads deadly indeed – and in fact. Frank lost control of the car and slid off the edge of the road, into a deep crevace, mangling the car beyond repair and grievously injuring the pair.

From high upon the precipice above, a man had been watching the headlights with interest. It was not often that an automobile made the climb towards his abode, and it was with much alarm that he observed the car plunge into its abyss. Frantically, he called for his manservant and sent him out into the teeth of the storm to see if there was anything that could be done – and, if the passengers were injured, to bring them back to the castle for treatment.

Alas, when the servant arrived at the scene of the accident, it was a grisly scene. Neither passenger was without injury, and removing them from the car only worsened their wounds. Leaving them where the were, however, would likely have meant their immediate demise, as the crevace was quickly filling with water.
As quickly as possible, they were brought to the castle and given over into the care of its resident, a doctor and surgeon of no mean skill. Dr. Stefanescu rushed his patients to his offices where he worked tirelessly into the night, attempting every means at his disposal to bring the helpless people back from the brink of death.

His work, however, was futile, and despite his most heroic efforts they expired upon his tables early upon the morning. Aggrievedly, he searched their persons for identification and resolved himself that he would have to contact their next of kin. It pained him to see them so, and he fled from the room.

Distraught with the pain of losing not one, but two lives in the night, he sought to console himself by playing upon the magnificent pipe organ that was constructed into the very walls of the fortress itself, and thus lose himself in the music. His manservant understood this mood well and went down into his master’s offices to clean up after the night’s labors.

But before he had got very far, a peculiar thing began to happen. With every swell of the music, Frank and Sandy began to twitch, began to rise, began to sit up and move in time to the strains of the organ. It was entirely too much for a servant to take. Bursting forth from the operating room, he ran screaming to his master, wailing and shrieking.

“Master!” he cried, “Master! You must come at once! The Hills are alive with the sound of music!”

Much time passed, and Mary could not be happy, for she pined for her Sam. She knew he would be faithful and would one day come to be with her and Mary wanted nothing so much as to see him again. Alas, it was not to be. One day and Angel came to Mary and told her of Sam’s fate – he had pined so greatly and wanted so much to see Mary again that he had moved himself into the clamming area of the coast, something which amounted to suicide, and Sam had been sent straight to Hell.

Of course Mary was heartbroken, and she wailed to the Angel, “Please! I must see my Sam! I never got to say goodbye! Let me see my Sam again!”.
And the Angel, being, of course, an Angel, had compassion and told Mary of a way in which she would be able to see Sam again, and all hope would not be lost.
“What you must do,” said the Angel, “is take your harp and hold it out before you, where it will guide you safely to see your true love. Once you are there, you may spend just one day with him, and then you will be compelled to return. But beware – make sure that you keep your harp safe, for if you lose it upon the road, you will never be able to find your way back to Sam again.”

Mary was ecstatic – she would be able to see her Sam! Hurrying forth from Heaven, her harp held before her as a shield, she made her way as quickly as she could down the long road to Hell (which was, of course, paved with good intentions). Upon her arrival, the Demons at the gate became confused, but were fascinated by this event, the likes of which had not been seen for many thousands of years. They showed her immediately to where her Sam was located and left the two lovers alone.

“Oh, my Sam!” cried Mary, “What horrible tortures have you been put through?”
“Nothing so bad as that,” replied Sam. “I’m the manager of the local Disco! It’s amazing. The Demons have never heard anything like it – they’ve become convinced that it’s the most exquisite form of torture, and that in a few years we’ll be able to disco-ize all of the underworld!”
Mary was, of course, startled out of her tiny little mind. “Sam! That’s horrible!”
“No, Mary, don’t you see? If I can do this, I’ll be free to see you whenever you come down, instead of being chained to the wall! It’s the only thing I can do to help us!”
Mary had to agree, she could see no other way around it, and so she agreed to vist Sam’s discotheque. The lights and music were exactly as she remembered never having seen when she had lived in the ocean, and she and Sam spent the rest of the day gazing once again, longingly, into each other’s shells.

Alas, the day came to an end, and she was compelled to return to Heaven, but she promised Sam that she would be back. “I love you, my sweet,” she called out as she fled back up the long and winding road to Heaven, and she saw a tear drop from Sam’s shell as she turned the first corner.

When she arrived back at the gates of Heaven, her Angel friend was there to greet her, but its smile turned to dismay as it saw her rushing back up the path. “Mary! Oh Mary!” it called, “Where is your harp!”

“Oh no!” wailed Mary, “Woe is me! For I left my harp in Sam Clam’s disco!”