The young elf looked up at his father expectantly.
“What is it?”
“The floods come early this year!”
The older man sighed without looking up, “Ridiculous. They haven’t come this early in decades.”
“Enough of that! Now go help your mother with dinner.”
*“Children,”* he thought to himself, *“always getting worked up over the littlest things. Poor boy probably saw a mirage and mistook it for the rising tide.
”* After all, it hadn’t rained in two weeks, and it was far too early for the thaws to be starting in the mountains.
It would be at least another month before Ivat overflowed it’s banks and began the flood season.
Clunk! The sound of a large object being heavily set down brought him out of his thoughts.
“What is it?”
“I’m bringing the pots in so they don’t get wet!”
“I already told you, the floods won’t be coming yet.” He motioned to the back of the house, “Now would you go help your mother cut up taro-roots.”
“But they’re almost here!”
By now, the old farmer was beginning to feel aggravated.
“They are *not* almost here, now go put those pots back, and help your mother!”
The boy scrunched up his face and crossed his arms.
“Why can’t you.”
“The water’s too deep now.”
Now he was getting angry.
“Listen, there is *no* water outside, the floods have *not* come yet, and you best start listening to me or you’re not coming to the city with me tomorrow! Do you understand?”
“... yes father.”
The young boy slumped his shoulders and started off toward the kitchen, grumbling, and dragging his feet as he went, and the older elf went back to patching his robe.
After nearly an hour had passed, the rich smell of hot soup pouring into the room, and the creak of an old-hinged door announced dinner.
The farmer stood up, happy for an excuse to get away from the dull task of robe-patching, and even happier to have a fresh meal, having eaten little all that day.
“By the gods!”
He jumped, startled, “What is it?”
“Well just look outside! It’s the floods!”
“What!” shock ran through his mind, “But it’s far too early!”
He ran to the window, dreading what he might see, and saw that what his son had been saying was true: the floods had come early,
and the water was up to the four-foot notch on the measuring pillar. And he hadn’t even dragged in the tools or prepared the boat!
Just then, a tentative voice piped up from the boy, now half-hiding behind his mother, “I *told* you the floods were coming…”