Gather round, children, and hear my tale, for I speak of a time when there were no dreams, or dreaming, and the world was laid into a darkness of hate and war.

You see, long ago, longer than any of us can remember, men did not hate or wage war or even quarrel, for these men ate from the fruit of a special tree, a story tree, who's fruit made them dream vivid and beautiful dreams which made them see beyond such petty and terrible things.

But as time went on, these men, who had lived in peace and harmony for ages, began to become petty, and quarrelsome. They forgot their beautiful and vivid dreams and began to make stories of their own. Cruel stories which they used as an excuse to harm one another. Some men became so lazy and cruel that they declared themselves better than others, and made themselves kings, while the other men they declared slaves.

Before the end, the story tree was all but forgotten - a mere legend, it's fruit not touching the lips of a single man for ages. Only the elves and faeries remembered, and they dare not come outside, because men had declared them beasts, and would slaughter them on sight.

After enough time had past, with countless wars waged, countless kings crowned and defeated, the world became hungry for dreaming again. But only vague impressions of the story trees remained after a length of time. No facts were understood. All memories were subject to rumors, legend.

The elves and faeries knew it was time, and they abandoned their hiding places, in the hills and forests, in the mountains and sky, and they returned with pouches full of seeds of the story trees.

"I will seek out the wisest of them, and ask him permission to grow the trees in his orchard," said a faerie, as he flew off to find the man who was regarded as the wisest among his kind.

The wisest man was the great king, leader of the greatest kingdom of man. He lived in a fine ivory palace upon a hill, and was regarded by many as a god. Surely he would grant permission for such an important endeavor.

"No," said the king, quite squarely to the faeries face. "I cannot guarantee the safety of such a tree! If men began to eat from it, they would surely become lazy and useless. They would no longer be good subjects. I will tell them such things are dangerous. They will not eat from it. I will forbid it by decree."

"Very well," said the faerie, who flew off dejected.

An elf had declared that he, being wiser than the faerie, would seek out the kindest of men, and beg him for permission to plant the story tree. And so he sought him out in a great church by the sea.

The one man regarded as kindest was a great priest, you see. He was said to have performed miracles and had visions, even without the story trees, and he was considered by many to be a god himself. Surely he would understand the importance of such a request.

"No," said the padre, without much hesitation at all, "the story trees are wicked things. I have read about them in our sacred books. They were used to cloud men's minds and make them forget about our holy stories and legends."

"But that is the purpose of the story trees," the elf pleaded, "To give the men their stories, their sacred dreams."

"Blasphemer!" cried the great priest, and he called his guards. The elf was lucky to escape with his life.

The final seeker was not so fabulous or lofty as the faerie or the elf, but was rather an ugly old gnome who looked like a root as much as a faerie. He hadn't any ideas on who to ask for permission to plant the trees, so he simply wandered aimlessly through the country side, singing tunes to keep himself company.

Before too long a voice joined in on the singing, which baffled the old gnome for he knew there was nary another elf or faerie in sight. He looked around and saw an old farmer, as ignorant and dirty as they come. The farmer sang the same tune as the gnome as he hacked away at the dirt, tilling for the coming season.

"How do you know that song, human?" the gnome asked gruffly.

"Hurh?" the man said, pausing mid till, "Whatsit, oh, hey there little fellar." He leaned a bit, using his backhoe like a cane, and thought, "Well my pa used to sing the song when he tilled the fields. So did his pa. Prolly all the way back to the olden times. We don't much care fer other things, but we love our singin' here."

"That's a gnome song you sing, old man. It makes the earth fertile and good for growing. It is the oldest kind of gnome magic."

"Well I'll be! Always thought it was catchy. Didn't know why. Huh. Guess it explains why we never starve, even though we're poor as such."

Upon hearing this, the gnome suddenly got an idea, and remembering his mission he asked, "Would you let us plant these seeds in your fields? They will grow to be great trees in a short time, and they will bring your race happiness and peace."

"Well.. that does sound a might better than what we got now, but what will we eat while they grow?"

"Have you not any neighbors who will support you during this period?"

"No sir," said the farmer, "Good a friends as we may be, we can't afford to help each other out like that. We don't work, we starve. Thems how it works fer us."

"Then you must decide which is more important."

The farmer leaned, and thought about it for a spell, and an expression forming on his face like he was about to cry. Then he spouted, "Plant them seeds, and I'll do whatever I can to feed my family. Figure the way things are going, them trees is more important."

And so it was, that they planted the fields of the generous farmer with story trees, making a great orchard out of his humble farmstead, and in a few years time, the fruit was ready to be eaten.

By then the farmer and his family had become beggars and outcasts. No one wished to have them around. One man had put out the farmers eyes one night in a rage, and now he was blind and ill.

The gnome found him at harvest time, hoping to make him the first to eat the fruit. He saw the wretched condition of the old farmer and was shocked.

"What has happened to you, farmer, in but a few short years without your farm?"

"That voice, is it you, old gnome?" The farmer gasped pathetically, "without those fields ta grow in, we've become penniless beggars. My daughters have ta walk the streets and my sons don't know nuthin' other than farmin', so they beg with me. Lost my eyes because of it."

The gnome was aghast, and he stamped his feet and shouting at the surrounding villagers, "Disgusting creatures, you humans are! A sacrifice you meet with hatred, a test you meet with spite!"

And the gnome was just about to cast a curse upon them, the darkest of gnome magic, when the farmer stopped him. "You found me, surely you wanna tell me somethin'! That fruit ready yet?"

"Yes, old friend, and I wished for you to be the first to taste of it. But now I think you should be the only one. The rest of these beasts are not worthy."

"Tain't why I given you my fields, old gnome. If only I eat from the trees, then what about the rest of us? I'm a blind old beggar, I can't stop wars or bring happiness. I just till, and plant, and harvest.. and I can't even do that no more. Please Mr. Gnome, let 'em have the fruit. Don't let all this sufferin' go to waste."

"Very well, old man. I shall heed your merciful plea. But if it where up to me, well.. Never mind."

And so the word spread fast across the land that the story trees had returned. Men from all over came and ate of their fruit, and began to dream again. With their eyes opened as they slept they no longer wished to fight one another, nor did they want things like priests or kings, and no longer were the poor made to starve on the streets, nor was any many so rich that there needed be any poor. Everyone shared, and there was enough for everyone.

And as for the poor farmer and his family, they dream now too. The old man sees in his sleep, and the horrible memories fade when his daughters dream. His sons, no longer ashamed, now live comfortably, as does his whole family, and all regard the old man, though shabby and ignorant, as a hero. His story stands before everyone a shining example. The world is has found its soul again.

And so when we sleep, dear children, know that our dreams are sacred things. Once, enslaved, we were dreamless, bound by our ignorance and greed. But now we live together peacefully, and no one is denied their dreams.