The sails spun slowly. The windmill was eating memories.
It had been inevitable, in a way. They were a people used to thick buffeting coastal winds – they had learnt to live close to the earth and tie things down, and when their industrial revolution rolled around they had sat in the kitchens of their squat stone houses and designed to harness the gales.
But laughing, unheard, into the wind they had tamed, they had forgotten the ocean. Water drove them inland, and suddenly everything was calm and their boots too heavy and they needed a new way to make flour.