Once upon a time…

In a land of golden, wheat-filled hills, where the earth smelled like rainfall and the sun cast thin rays through thunderheads; where the sound of wind whistled through grain stalks, and the grass touched damp against bare feet…

…there lived a man who was skilled with his hands.

A carpenter, not old but far from young, lived on the outskirts of a small town known for its prosperity. For many years he dwelled in solitude amidst the fields of wheat. The people there knew him fondly, for he built many good things for them. One season he built a small bridge across the stream in their market, and another he built a schoolhouse where the town’s children learned their words. He even once built them a church: modest and humble, but good.

But what the carpenter loved to build most were windmills: windmills that spun between the gold stalks and steel sky. For the town he built two with cloth sails and stone bases, and for himself he built one: a grand windmill, three stories in height with a small hut at the side in which he lived. For hours at a time he would sit and watch the windmills turn around and around. For this reason, he was known as the Windmill Hut Man.

The townspeople adored the Windmill Hut Man. They valued him greatly for both his kindness and his craft. Always they invited him to their feasts and festivals, and sometimes roamed the fields to bring him gifts of butter and bread. Other times they sought him out for council and advice: for the Windmill Hut Man was wise beyond his years. No matter how great or small the concern, the carpenter always made time for them. Though the townspeople did nothing to merit such kindness, the Windmill Hut Man offered it all the same. Thus the townspeople endeavored to be aware of their good fortune, and in sincerity did their best to give thanks. 

Now, the lifeblood of the small town was rainfall: it spilled out from the thunderheads that hung in the sun’s blue skies. Rainfall proved the blessing that kept the townsfolk well. It grew their wheat, their barley, their root-crops, and their fruits. It watered their horses and oxen, their children, and themselves. When the misty sky began to cool, and the tang of lightning touched the tongue, the people looked to the storm clouds that rolled over amber hills. The skies would open and shower the lands with water, and the earth would grow.

The townspeople loved the storms. Wind and thunder proved good friends of the city. The town often threw festivals to celebrate the rain, rejoicing when storms passed by. Never did they take the rain for granted. Never did they believe themselves or their efforts responsible for their good fortune. Always did the townspeople thank the rain for its generosity and kindness: for it gave to them though they did nothing to merit it. In return, the rain never took from them. Never did stray lightning lay claim to a thatch roof, or a flood drown livestock or wash away home. Never once, not in one single storm, had the wind blown so fiercely that barns toppled over. And though the townspeople were prepared for these things, never once did each or any happen.

So the town gave thanks to the rain, grateful for the mercy of the storms.

Now, the storms were a friend to the town, and the Windmill Hut Man was a friend to the town. Only one discrepancy threatened the two: the Windmill Hut Man lived far from their walls–far from those who might help him should disaster fall. His windmill stood alone amidst the wheat, and the townspeople feared that lightning might strike it. And though Windmill Hut Man dismissed them kindly, claiming lightning would do no such thing, they persisted in their worry. So the carpenter relented.  

Four hollow rods he crafted from the iron of his home, and attached them to each blade of his windmill. These lightning rods he rooted to the earth, so that if lightning were to strike it would travel harmlessly into the soil. The townspeople were content, and all rightened with the world.

On clear days, the windmill was calm–its hollow rods silent as breezes passed them by. But as chilly winds whipped down from the mountains, the windmill sprung to life. Its gears creaked, its blades quickened, and the four hollow rods began to hum. Four melancholy notes rang out across the fields, and as the winds grew stronger they merged into a song.

The townspeople knew that when the sky grew dark and the song began to play, a storm approached and with it fresh rain. Over the years they began to remark that the storms did not summon the song, but that the song instead summoned the storms.

Years went by for the prosperous town. Storms came and went. Rain nurtured their crops, and the townspeople flourished. Over time, rumors of their prosperity traveled across the kingdom: the Windmill Town grew the sweetest fruits, the heartiest vegetables. Bread baked from their wheat filled a man for five days, and their beer warmed thrice as fierce. Such rumors spread through the kingdom, and many arrived to ask what magic the town used to earn their fortune. 

But the townspeople denied such miracles. No man has the power to bring the rain, they said. Yet the rain falls all the same: across all lands, and across all people. The storms love all things equally, and they come though the people do nothing to deserve them. Thus, man’s duty is to recognize the gift when it comes: to be grateful, for it blesses them through no efforts of their own. This, the town claimed, is grace.

So of course the whole realm believed the Windmill Town to be hiding something: some dark ritual responsible for their success. Many scoured the town for its secrets, and rumors persisted and grew. Eventually, such rumors reached the ear of the King of the Realm. He sent three horsemen to discover if the tales were true. The horsemen reached the town and saw it prosperous. But when they asked those who lived there how they won such wonders, the townspeople replied the same: the storms could not be bridled. Grace was not earned: it is a gift.

The riders were not convinced. They set about sulking through the streets, sneaking and spying in shadows. Eventually they learned of the Windmill Hut Man, and of the song that summoned the storms. These rumors they brought back to the King.

Now, the King of the Realm was a worldly, material man: greedy, but of good nature. He desired wealth and riches for all of his realm—that he might awe men with abundance and charity. Upon hearing of the Windmill Hut Man, the King desired a singing windmill of his own. So he sent his riders back to fetch the carpenter and invite him to feast in royal halls.

The carpenter accepted the invitation and journeyed to the city of the King. There, they drank and made merriment for many hours. As the sun began to set across the horizon, the King of the Realm asked his question.

“They say that your windmills bring the rain,” the King of the Realm said to the Windmill Hut Man.

“Do they indeed?” the carpenter smiled. 

“Travelers speak of the town which bridled the storms, and of its unparalleled prosperity.”

“The rain falls where it pleases, mighty King, across all lands and all people,” the Windmill Hut Man replied. “It is not within the power of one man to bring it, nor a hundred men.”

“Yet your town prospers.”

“Through grace,” the Windmill Hut Man said.

“Many might thrive should the storms graced their fields,” the King continued. “And in return show their gratitude.”

“Might they?” the carpenter mused with knowing eyes.

The King saw subtlety fail him, and so earnesty revealed his desire. 

“I wish to bring the rain to all fields in my lands,” he said. “I wish for them to prosper and reap bountiful harvest: then I will be a King of fertile lands. Build for me a singing windmill that we may command the rains: that all who hear your song may rejoice in the storms it brings.”

The carpenter regarded the King’s plain words, charmed by honesty. He took a moment to weigh them, then spoke.

“My windmills cannot command the rain, great King,” the Windmill Hut Man said, and he watched the King’s countenance fall. “No more than you or I can lift the sky. Such is the wonder of the world: that so much conspires to help mankind though he is frail and undeserving. If he could but see this, man would find much to be grateful for.”

The King drew a great breath, and thought of what he might offer the man to persuade him.

But the carpenter continued. 

“Accept this, and I will build for you a singing windmill. In return let its song remind you of the rain’s great love: let every ear in the kingdom pause a moment and give thanks, for though they did not bring the rain, it graces them all the same. And with the bounty you may receive, you, too, must be as the rain: share its gifts freely and with humility. Let your prosperity grace all corners and all people. Promise this, and I shall do as you ask.”

The King leapt at the offer, eager to accept–but the Windmill Hut Man held up a hand. Stormy eyes swept over the King.

“But should you break this oath,” he continued, and his voice hummed with distant thunder. “Should you seek to become a master, be warned: for the rain may oblige and give you much of itself.”

But the King hungered for wealth and prosperity, and readily accepted despite the carpenter’s words. How could one not remain grateful, he thought, when all their needs are provided for? Thus the carpenter and the King came to an accord, and the Windmill Hut Man set about his work. In the center of the King’s city, he constructed the grandest windmill ever built. 

It towered above the city, imposing and beautiful: an elegant windmill so large it could be seen for miles. Cloth blades spun with the kingdom’s finest linen: its wooden frame built from the strongest oak trees. The polished stones of its base traveled many miles from rich quarries, and its banners flew the kingdom’s colors: shimmering silver, gold, and blue. 

Then were its lightning rods: long and shimmering that cast the deepest, fullest tone. So large were the rods that the notes played for miles, sweeping over field and plain. And all could hear.

So the King of the Plains had his own singing windmill.

The rains came, and the King’s land flourished. He and his people experienced unrivaled prosperity. The kingdom became wealthy beyond measure.

In return, the King kept his word. He and his kingdom began to give thanks for that which they did not control but which came to them anyway. So it became custom in the Kingdom of the Plains to hold a festival at winter’s advent. From what he taxed in food and wine, the King returned at year’s end: and all the people flocked to the windmill to eat their fill and take food for the winter. Thus the King mimicked the rain and spread the land’s bounty over all men. The people gave thanks to the King, and the windmill, and the rain, and the festival. For many years, the land was happy.

And the Windmill Hut Man was glad.

One year of plenty, the King of the Plains found himself so pleased that he had to brag. He sent four horsemen to four nearby realms and invited their kings to his festival: to enjoy his prosperity and hear his windmill. The four Kings arrived astonished: at the windmill, at the festivities, and at the sight of boundless prosperity. While filled with wine, the King remarked that he owed such fortune to a carpenter who taught him the ways of grace. Immediately the four Kings asked to meet the Windmill Hut Man, and they begged him to construct for them each a singing windmill. 

The Windmill Hut Man desired to see all lands prosper. So he accepted humbly, but gave his warning. 

“No man can bring the rains, great Kings,” the carpenter said. “Nor can my windmills. Yet even so, let one be built in each realm if you desire. Let your people hear its song and see the storms, and be grateful as the rain draws near: for there are many things in life that man does not control, yet those things conspire to help him anyway. Urge your people to take notice: that they may come in meek humility to thank the grace of things beyond them.”

The four Kings readily agreed. How could each not think they would be grateful? They accepted the Windmill Hut Man’s proposition, and awaited with eagerness their very own singing windmill.

Soon each kingdom was possessed of one, and they became the Five Kingdoms of Storms. 

For seven years the kingdoms prospered. The Kings were happy and rejoiced in their fortune, and the people were happy and rejoiced in their plenty. For seven years, no man starved. No child hungered, and no family failed through winter to greet the spring. The windmills sang as the rain pattered down, and the realms flourished. Each year, the people sang in the rainfall for the Festival of Storms. 

But on the eve of the seventh summer, as days grew shorter and daylight darker, twelve horsemen arrived at the gates of the Kingdom of the Plains. Each rider demanded their own audience with the King. Each horseman touted their authority: how they spoke for the king of their own realm. And as twelve riders sat in the King of Plains grand hall, each revealed their lord’s desire: that their own lands receive the blessing which allowed Kings such excess. 

The King was afraid, and he sent the riders away. 

As autumn months faded and the Festival of Storms drew near, the King of Plains summoned his others: the King of Mountains, The King of Seasides, the King of Valleys, and the King of Forests. In the grandness of his hall, he told them of the twelve riders and their demands. 

The Mountain King, furious, voiced his mind. 

“For many years we’ve shown thanks to the storms,” he bellowed. “For many years we’ve remained devoted and diligent in our gratitude. We prosper not from windmills, but through the rightness of our understanding.”

The Seaside King gave nod. “Our realms know the value of meekness and grace: surely this pleases the storms? But these new kingdoms see only prosperity, not the lessons that led to it.”

The Valley King, thoughtful, crossed his arms. “They seek reward without understanding. What have these Far Kings done? Have they fed their people through grace and benevolence? Have they nurtured and cared for all their kingdom, as we have?”

The Forest King sighed. “Our people have learned the depth of grace’s melody, and through their own power act well. Without such foundation, the distant kingdoms will surely misuse the boon. ”

“But what of the Windmill Man?” the Mountain King boomed. “We know well his heart. He would build windmills for each and all, blind to the selfishness of men. His generosity undermines the very lesson he represents.”

The King of Plains, who held his windmill the longest, then defended the carpenter from his fellows. 

“The Windmill Hut Man is a gentle soul,” the Plains King said. “He sees goodness in men, and for that we all have prospered. Let us bring to him our worries and seek council. Surely he may heed our wisdom in this matter?”

“And if he does not?” the Valley King asked.

“And if he remains stubborn?” the Mountain King glared.

“And if he blesses indiscriminately?” the Seaside King muttered.

“And if his work dooms us?” the Forest King mused.

And the Plains King had no reply.

So the Mountain King spoke.

“It falls to us to guard this gift,” he said and drank, watching his fellows with cautious eyes. “Should those Far Realms grow, they may attack us with their numbers and lay claim to our lands and people.”

The Seaside king followed. “We have proved our devotion: that we are blessed is good and proper. Perhaps it is time for us here to take this cup, and to take up the burden of shepherding many lands.”

The Valley King agreed. “For many years we have served as stewards, and as stewards learned the ways of stewards. Let us shoulder the responsibility of prosperity, and bring the Far Kingdoms beneath our banner.”

So the Forest King joined them. “Thus may we teach them the lessons we so well know. Surely this brings greater good to the world?”

So the kings convinced themselves that they should know better than others, and with their wisdom be shepherds and the Far Realms sheep. 

The Four Kings looked to the King of Plains.

The First King faltered beneath their gaze, and could do naught but ask a question.

“…but what of the carpenter?” he muttered. “He will not be swayed by this reason.”

“Then perhaps we must take that responsibility, too,” the four kings agreed, and they fell to greed that night.

The next day, the Kings summoned the Windmill Hut Man. He appeared in their hall smiling, humble, and weathered. Many years shown upon his face. Many lines told of winters and festivals in his village, and though he had no family and had never taken a wife, he stood happy, content, and beloved.

The five Kings invited him to dine with them, and thanked him for his lessons. They fed him, and warmed him, and made him comfortable. 

Then they killed him.

The Kings cut the carpenter’s body into five pieces, and each took a piece back to bury beneath their windmill. Such was their last act of respect.

Far away, in the land of golden, wheat-filled hills, the villagers came to a pause in the streets. They looked out through the fields towards the Windmill Hut Man’s house as it slowed to a stop and died.

The seventh autumn ended. Each kingdom prepared for the festival. But this year, the Kings touted the praises of their people: through their own hard work and dedication, their own labor and sacrifice, had this year’s harvest been reaped. By their own faith and humility and knowledge of grace, this festival would be the grandest ever. They should be grateful, nay proud, of themselves and those around them. For their actions earned prosperity.

The people liked these words and were flattered: for succeeding by one’s own efforts is an alluring thing. None noticed, as the orange leaves fell, that the windmills had stopped singing. None noticed, as winter came, the blade’s steady turn began to slow. As winter crept upon the land, no man noticed the windmill’s gears freeze. One by one the five grew cold. They quieted, stilled, and died.

But the people of the five kingdoms were merry. Snow and cold bothered less with food and wine, and the bounty they brought through their toil. Bellies full and happy for winter, they feasted by warm fires as frost swept across the kingdom.

In the Kingdom of the Plains, children pointed and asked after the cold, dead windmill.

“Oh, that old thing?” the people laughed. “A myth for simpler times. Man tills the soil, man plucks the weeds, and by our own sweat do we bring the wonders of the world. Man alone masters his fate.”

Thus did winter pass.

But as the cold months faded, and as the sun rose high where once there had been clouds, the snow began to disappear. Small tufts of grass and clovers sprouted, flowers began to bloom…

…and the Windmills began to thaw.

They woke to the warm light of spring and shifted. Their gears shook off the ice. Spring winds spurred the blades to life once more, flaking off frost and snow and rust. 

And the windmills began to turn.

The five kingdoms heard it: a deep groan over the land, low and echoing and melancholy. It hung in the valleys and made the mountains tremble, shook the forest roots and forced waves back from the shoreline. It made the plains tremble and quake: 

The five windmills awakened and together sang their dirge. 

But the people of the kingdoms looked up in wonder.

“How funny that it spins,” they laughed as the sky grew dark. “Do not cry, old windmill, for we prosper still, though you have not turned!”

The song grew fiercer, pulled heavy clouds in from the sea. Thunderheads gathered, and distant thunder boomed. The wind began to race, the sky to blacken, and the whole realm listened to the song. Now the people paused in the streets, gazing up at the brewing  tempest.

So the chorus rose, and the climax reached its peak: 

Down came the thunderheads to drown the five kingdoms. Out lashed the storm clouds, spitting lightning and crackling thunder. Faster spun the windmills, the song howling in the wind. A torrent of rain spilled over the kingdom. Thunder shook the earth with its fury. Hurricanes whipped stone and home to rubble. And as the floods washed over the realm, the Kings watched their lands devoured by rain. And they, too, were swept away.

A bolt of lightning forked from the eye of the storm, and struck the five windmills together. It surged down the iron rods into the earth, and retreated to the thundering sky. Then it struck the earth in a deafening crack. 

There stood the Windmill Hut Man, and he listened to the dirge of storms.

So the five kingdoms drowned in a deluge of rain.

When dawn broke, three great lakes lay in their place–crystal blue and shimmering as the sun’s rays split the clouds. The Windmill Hut Man returned to the village where he began, and he was pleased to see that the town he loved survived the torrent: for the people there never faltered. Though their fields lay deluged and their crops drowned, they accepted it with humility and grace: for the rain blessed them with plenty, and it was its right to act as it pleased. Never once did the people curse the storms; they made do with human hands. And on that day when the carpenter returned, the village’s windmills spurred to life. The floods subsided, and the gentle rains returned. 

A great feast was held to honor the Windmill Hut Man, and there was much rejoicing. From that day forward the town prospered in abundance.

The next morning, the Windmill Hut Man packed his hammer and saws, and he loaded his belongings into a cart. He said his goodbyes wished the village well, then departed. The village promised they would remain ever watchful–ever grateful–and pass his lessons down from father to child: that the kingdom their children might build around the lakes would do better than those before. This they promised: a kingdom of gratitude.

So the Windmill Hut Man departed those lands and journeyed to distant realms. Where he walked, the thunderheads followed. Where he dwelt, he left a windmill behind. Those who heard its song found they had much to be grateful for, and though they did not earn such gifts, they found them all the same. Such is the wonder of the world: that so much conspires to help mankind through no effort of his own. So look to the sky when the rain falls: when the storm clouds gather and thunder breaks. For in that sky is love unyielding: for all men, and all things.

Fortune formed from gratitude, the luck of cosmic love.

Boons won not through works, but by grace.