"Some time ago, deep in the forest, an egg was laid," she begins, pushing the wooden egg from her palm to her fingertips, pulling the first of her tools free from its pouch.
"Before the bird within the egg knew how to know, it could feel the weight and warmth of its mother upon it, and all was well." As she spoke, she began to carve. The warmly colored wood came free curl by curl under her practiced hands.
"One day, soon before it was ready to hatch, the warmth went away. And, when it hatched, it was alone." The egg slowly gave way to the shape of a bird, what would become wings partially raised behind it.
"It did not know what it was, or how to become what it should be, and it called out into the forest in its confusion." Its beak became evident, the head curving slightly down towards it.
"There was to be a response to its call--but not the one it had hoped." She carved a space beneath it, leaving what would be legs connected to the bottom of the egg.
"For it happened that in this forest there also lived a flock of crows, and they came to answer the cry with their hunger, rather than their help." The last vestiges of egg disappeared beneath her patient knife, turning to a perch of sorts.
"When they came to take the bird as food for their young, however, the leader of the crows had an idea. She could see an opportunity. For she was old and wise, and knew what the fledgling was. If they could raise it as one of their own, it would grow into a strong hunter, and provide much more than it could as the small meal it was that day." The beginnings of talons appeared, gripping the perch.
"And so, they took it back to their nests, and the bird became a crow." She paused for a moment to switch to a finer tool, and to sweep the mess of shavings from her lap into a bag that had been folded up and tucked into her belt.
"It grew as the others did, perhaps a bit more. It spoke their guttural cries, though perhaps more piercingly. When its feathers came in and did not match the glossy black of its fellows, it thought perhaps it was not trying hard enough. But they all took wing together, and never did it doubt the old matriarch's assertion: it was a crow." As she spoke of its cries, she shaped the beak--long, flat like a crow. For fledging and flying she began to detail feathers, giving it tracings of a crow's spread primaries, the eyes small at the sides of the head.
"It came to pass that the matriarch was right. The bird had sharp eyes and sharper talons, and over the years it provided much for the flock. It never asked why it was different, and she never told." She continued her detailing, adding more feathers, the grasp of the talons on its perch.
"It came to pass one day, while the flock looked for food, that another cry was heard in the forest. Going to see if it could be a meal, the bird was astonished to see another like itself. She had been attacked by wolves, and would soon perish. In the trees, the crows waited for her end so that they could feast upon her." As the bird saw its like, she began to change the carving, rounding and widening the eyes.
" 'Why do we not help her?' asked the bird, 'Why do we wait for death?'. 'If we do, we will go hungry,' replied the old matriarch. 'But if nature takes its course, we will all be full. Perhaps if we look, we may find eggs as well, and grow even stronger.' " She began to carve the primaries, different than the lines she had carved lightly into the wings before.
"Suddenly, the bird remembered how cold it had been before it hatched. It thought of the crows, waiting in the trees, perhaps waiting for its own mother to die--and so, indeed, had it happened. The old matriarch saw the change in its eyes, and became scared. 'I was wrong to take you!' she cried. And then, in fear and anger, she spat its name." Nahariel carved away the length of the beak, turning it into a wicked hook.
"'Hawk!'" And so it was. Under her hands, it had changed from a crow to a kestrel, gripping its perch, wings slightly spread as if about to burst into flight.
"The other crows became frightened as well, and their meal was forgotten in the fight that followed. There were many crows and but one hawk, but it fought with the ferocity that only one who has lived so long without its name can fight. At the end, many crows were slain, and the rest fled, screeching vengeance and fear." She replaced her tool for a finer one again, continuing her detail work on the wood. As she spoke of the fight, the perch emerged in more detail as a weapon hilt.
"The hawk winged down to its fallen sister, then. With her dying breath she told of her nest, and the hawk promised that the eggs there would not go uncared for. That from the moment of their hatching, they would be taught what they were, and how to become what they should be--" Another tool, this time to gently smooth the wood in the places that were not as detailed.
"--For in the end, nothing is as powerful and free as someone who has come to know what they are." Finally, she applied a few drops of oil to a soft cloth and rubbed the carving with it until it shone as well as the egg it had started as.
With a small smile, she brushed the wood shavings from her lap again--they were finer, nearly dust, so this time she let them fly off into the afternoon breeze. Then she turned, and held the finished carving out to him.
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"Some time ago, deep in the forest, an egg was laid," she begins, pushing the wooden egg from her palm to her fingertips, pulling the first of her tools free from its pouch.
"Before the bird within the egg knew how to know, it could feel the weight and warmth of its mother upon it, and all was well." As she spoke, she began to carve. The warmly colored wood came free curl by curl under her practiced hands.
"One day, soon before it was ready to hatch, the warmth went away. And, when it hatched, it was alone." The egg slowly gave way to the shape of a bird, what would become wings partially raised behind it.
"It did not know what it was, or how to become what it should be, and it called out into the forest in its confusion." Its beak became evident, the head curving slightly down towards it.
"There was to be a response to its call--but not the one it had hoped." She carved a space beneath it, leaving what would be legs connected to the bottom of the egg.
"For it happened that in this forest there also lived a flock of crows, and they came to answer the cry with their hunger, rather than their help." The last vestiges of egg disappeared beneath her patient knife, turning to a perch of sorts.
"When they came to take the bird as food for their young, however, the leader of the crows had an idea. She could see an opportunity. For she was old and wise, and knew what the fledgling was. If they could raise it as one of their own, it would grow into a strong hunter, and provide much more than it could as the small meal it was that day." The beginnings of talons appeared, gripping the perch.
"And so, they took it back to their nests, and the bird became a crow." She paused for a moment to switch to a finer tool, and to sweep the mess of shavings from her lap into a bag that had been folded up and tucked into her belt.
"It grew as the others did, perhaps a bit more. It spoke their guttural cries, though perhaps more piercingly. When its feathers came in and did not match the glossy black of its fellows, it thought perhaps it was not trying hard enough. But they all took wing together, and never did it doubt the old matriarch's assertion: it was a crow." As she spoke of its cries, she shaped the beak--long, flat like a crow. For fledging and flying she began to detail feathers, giving it tracings of a crow's spread primaries, the eyes small at the sides of the head.
"It came to pass that the matriarch was right. The bird had sharp eyes and sharper talons, and over the years it provided much for the flock. It never asked why it was different, and she never told." She continued her detailing, adding more feathers, the grasp of the talons on its perch.
"It came to pass one day, while the flock looked for food, that another cry was heard in the forest. Going to see if it could be a meal, the bird was astonished to see another like itself. She had been attacked by wolves, and would soon perish. In the trees, the crows waited for her end so that they could feast upon her." As the bird saw its like, she began to change the carving, rounding and widening the eyes.
" 'Why do we not help her?' asked the bird, 'Why do we wait for death?'. 'If we do, we will go hungry,' replied the old matriarch. 'But if nature takes its course, we will all be full. Perhaps if we look, we may find eggs as well, and grow even stronger.' " She began to carve the primaries, different than the lines she had carved lightly into the wings before.
"Suddenly, the bird remembered how cold it had been before it hatched. It thought of the crows, waiting in the trees, perhaps waiting for its own mother to die--and so, indeed, had it happened. The old matriarch saw the change in its eyes, and became scared. 'I was wrong to take you!' she cried. And then, in fear and anger, she spat its name." Nahariel carved away the length of the beak, turning it into a wicked hook.
"'Hawk!'" And so it was. Under her hands, it had changed from a crow to a kestrel, gripping its perch, wings slightly spread as if about to burst into flight.
"The other crows became frightened as well, and their meal was forgotten in the fight that followed. There were many crows and but one hawk, but it fought with the ferocity that only one who has lived so long without its name can fight. At the end, many crows were slain, and the rest fled, screeching vengeance and fear." She replaced her tool for a finer one again, continuing her detail work on the wood. As she spoke of the fight, the perch emerged in more detail as a weapon hilt.
"The hawk winged down to its fallen sister, then. With her dying breath she told of her nest, and the hawk promised that the eggs there would not go uncared for. That from the moment of their hatching, they would be taught what they were, and how to become what they should be--" Another tool, this time to gently smooth the wood in the places that were not as detailed.
"--For in the end, nothing is as powerful and free as someone who has come to know what they are." Finally, she applied a few drops of oil to a soft cloth and rubbed the carving with it until it shone as well as the egg it had started as.
With a small smile, she brushed the wood shavings from her lap again--they were finer, nearly dust, so this time she let them fly off into the afternoon breeze. Then she turned, and held the finished carving out to him.
"Happy birthday."