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.

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)

He watched, late at night, when he couldn’t sleep for all his energy. Watched the night sky, waiting for it to come back. Sometimes it did, fading in and out, bobbing there in the air. Waiting and hovering like nothing he knew. He knew about radio towers and skyscrapers, knew about warning lights and signal lights, knew about airplanes and red lights on the right, green lights on the left, knew about any number of things that were real. One by one he dismissed them all. None of them were interesting, because he knew about them already. He didn’t know anything about the light. So the light was interesting. And it was definitely real.

Time passed and the light stopped glowing. He grows up fast. Faster than he knew. He marries and buys a house and gets a job and pays his bills. He walks under the sky and under the stars. He still looks up and watches, watches, wishing. And when an airplane passes before his eyes he still holds his breath until he sees the earthly lights. And he knows that it doesn’t have to be there in front of you to be real.

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.