FIELDS OF FORTUNE

On the edge of the city, where glass towers gave way to scrubland, a man bought a stretch of ground no one else wanted. To most, it was worthless dirt — dry, stubborn, incapable of yielding more than weeds. But he believed the land could be coaxed into life.

He studied. He worked. He learned when to water and when to hold back. He measured the soil and fed it with care. He woke before dawn to tend rows of seedlings and worked until dark pulling weeds by hand. For years the harvests were meager, but slowly the land changed. The earth grew richer. Crops grew taller. By the time his neighbors noticed, the farmer’s fields were heavy with grain, enough to feed many more mouths than his own. And so he sold them. The city folks were eager to buy his food – far cheaper and better than what they had to import before. 

And so the farmer grew wealthy and the city was fed. 

But from the city balconies, a generation who had known nothing but plenty, watched the wagons of food being hauled away to market. They whispered among themselves.
“Look at all he has. The rain falls on us all. The sun shines on us all. Is this not what makes the plants grow? What right has one man to claim more than his share? Why must we pay for the things that grow in the earth?”

As the farmer prospered, resentment grew. Eventually, a crowd gathered, marched out to his land, and demanded he open his barns. Some shouted, some pleaded, others simply broke the doors. The food was divided equally, and for a time, the city celebrated. The long tables sagged under roasted grain and sweet fruit. Musicians played in the fields while revelers trampled stalks that had taken months to grow. That autumn, there was laughter and fullness.

But when spring returned, the people waited for the ground to offer more, only to find it barren. Few remembered to sow seeds. Fewer still knew how to tend them. Those who tried failed more often than they succeeded. The harvest was poor, then poorer still. By the second year, hunger had tightened its grip on the city. Children grew thin. Families quarreled over scraps.

It was desperation, not wisdom, that drove a handful to take up the old farmer’s work. They bent their backs to the soil, studied its rhythms, and learned by failure what their parents had forgotten. They sowed, watered, and weeded. They endured lean years until finally, crops once more grew high and heavy. Food filled the city again and all prospered.

In time, the streets bustled with life and trade. Markets overflowed. Those who farmed most skillfully could buy finer clothes, sturdier homes, and better food. For a while, this was accepted. But prosperity breeds short memory. The next generation, raised among plenty, looked at the uneven baskets at the market and cried, “Why should some have more than others? The earth is everyone’s. Let us divide the food equally.”

And once again, they marched to the fields.