The old Turk was mad, you know.  Always going on and on about this other world and the people he'd met.  Wrote me endless numbers of postcards about it.  Harassed me every time I went round the store.  I miss the fellow and now I suppose I've no choice but to believe him;  After all, here I am.  

And as to that, me being here and all, although I wouldn't say my purposes are secret, just my own.  At least, not plain enough for me to wear them in a sign round my neck for you to read, anyway.  That would be a rather queer thing to do, don't you think?  Anyway.  Suffice it so say that I'm here because you're here and the rest you'll have to find out on your own.

But as I am here, having been ripped from my home on Hobart street (you can call me Hobart by the way as I haven't much use of my other names from other places), or maybe I left of my own volition, who can really say, I might as well tell you that I am a farmer.  The Lady Ailith has been kind enough to grant me fields in the Plains of Liberty in the Lands of the East, and I count myself fortunate indeed.  The Liberty Garden is still in its early stages; I'm in the business of rounding up seeds and mule at the moment.  But the markers are laid and the beds being dug.  If you've a strong back and a weak mind, feel free to drop by and lend a hand.