HILL HAVEN

Once upon a time a black crow flew over the lands of lore. The currents took it to a kingdom cursed by slumber where even the silence dreams. The magnetic compass on the crow's brain then took it northward; leaving the slipstream and into the domain of a vain jealous queen plotting the murder of a beautiful white toned princes. Nearing home now it eyed a crone scaling a tower in what appeared to be a braid of hair. Ah! But these tales have been told. They are old, ancient before we got our first portable phone.

The crow angled its wings in descent. Its two talon hands grabbed the twig in perfect unison. Birds have a natural gyroscope, no matter how their bodies turn in flight, their vision remains locked on target. So it is to this crow. Whose inherent curiosity lay on a community far below a hill where our little story occurs. And with that I welcome you to Hill Haven. 

The name Hill Haven is a misnomer for it sits not atop a hill but below it. How it got its name is a mystery. Legend has it that the woods beyond the hill was hunted, preventing a band of Ogres raiding the town. At least that is what the self proclaimed resident scribe said. But if that were true then the town should be named Wood Haven. Shouldn't it? It does not matter. A rose with any other name would still bear the same fragrance and the same affinity to women and Stephen Hawking dressed in his skivvies would still be paraplegic genius.  

The people of Hill Haven are simple folks. They relied on barter rather than tender. An emancipated cow for ten emancipated chickens, a haircut for yard work, a hand in marriage for a commitment of everlasting love and so on. But even the lack of economic structure the town prospered and everyone was content. Well, almost everyone. 

Though the misnamed town does sit at the bottom of the hill it does not mean that the hill is devoid for atop sits a huge house; which has seen the days of its prime. The paints were peeling and some of the windows wer7e hanging on for dear life. Hell, some of the windows were boarded shut with planks of wood.  

But the property has its saving grace. The entire grounds were covered in a plethora greens; Produce of every kind jutted on the property. Turnips, zucchini, onions, tomatoes, okra, cabbage and so on. Problem was; none of them were edible for the owner was an eccentric botanist who liked to splice nature on the vain hope that he might one day create something magnificent. So far he is unsuccessful and each day he cooks his inedible veggies and cringes at the taste while his grandiose mind searches for what he did wrong. Should he splice lemon with onions perhaps? 

With an un-saleable product Mr. Avery Batti; the botanist cannot trade with the town folks. And the town folks in turn can not stand his eccentricity. "What is green on the outside and rotten on the inside" A blacksmith might ask. "Mr. Avery's veggies" Answered the manicurist. "Whose house belongs at the top of the hill" asked another "it belongs to a very batty man" and they would all burst out laughing. Some days they simply call him "Old Mr. Batty." 

Not that the Batty, I mean Batti veggies were always bad, a generation ago under the guidance of William Laurence Theodore Horatio Batti; Avery's father. The greens prospered and were one of the most reviled produce in Hill Haven. Sadly though, William's green hand wasn't imbedded into Avery's genetic code. So each night Avery would stand by his broken window and stare at the campfire at the center of Hill Haven where laughter emanated and the silhouette of dancing people played on the fringes of the campfire. And He would get mad that people could not understand what he was trying to achieve; could not understand the greatness that he was.

The secret of the mad is not that their geniuses but rather that they are prolific. Short tempered but prolific. So it was that in a fit of rage one sunny morning that Batti hurled a can of experimental seeds into his garden and stormed back into his house pouring into his data and calculations.