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She is called The Farmer, even though no one is sure if what she does can actually be called farming. Her hands are rough as tree bark, her face is never seen save for, sometimes, the yellow sliver of a smile missing half its teeth. She is hunched, ponderous, slow; when she moves it is with the stately bulk of some ancient glacier. Her voice is an old voice: rickety and rattling and full of little coughing noises. But her laugh, when she laughs–which is often–is a young woman’s laugh, and beautiful. She wants her little children, as she calls them, to find homes and have adventures. She will send them along with you, if you ask.
