By Bo Demont.
You might ask yourself why? Well, over a thousand years ago, the ancient ones built small beautiful, ornate boxes along with larger, more valuable, sculpted, golden vessels, to safely contain their most sacred magic therein. Slightly shiny repositories now becoming old antique relics with the unfortunate odorous smell of musk round about them. Many a magic box, then as now, has a somewhat sad, frustrating propensity to suddenly and alarmingly break and need an emergency repair by an expert tinker. Perhaps a splintered crack, a slightly loose hinge, or a broken Vee latch renders the container, and sometimes all the magic, utterly useless. Why, might you ask? An even bigger and troubling question; What of the magic still contained within the vessel?... Tiny bits of it escape and leave the remainder incomplete, volatile, or even angrily dangerous to those who encounter the fragmented or loosely unhinged, leaky vessel; encounters that sometimes end horribly with deadly consequences for the naive. Everyone knows a broken magical box can only be fixed safely by an expert tinkerer, and even then a repair effort to save the magic within can sometimes end in the craftsmen's untimely demise.
Many of the people now living in this present magical age have heard of the handed-down tales of yesteryear; tall yarns spoken of mostly around smoking campfires, and by many a whisper to the wise, who listen undercover during the dark of night. Whispered words about two forms of magic in this world; the good and, of course, for better or worse, the always dangerous and unpredictable black magic. Both the good and the black magic were contained inside these magical vessels, but never both together in one. These vessels retained the powers of each type of magic in pristine condition so the potency of the powers was preserved and could be used at any time by the wizard or the witch upon the procurement of the box. In those days of the past, only wizards and witches wielded magic boxes. And although these two extremes would never have been found sharing the same housing, only an "expert" would have been able to discern what type of magic might be in any one box, especially one that had been damaged or compromised in some way. Only an expert tinkerer can read the magic within a vessel as to whether it was of the good or the dark power.
Now, most magical objects, priceless in their own right, cannot be replaced, and once broken, need to be quickly and expertly repaired; but by whom? Well, certainly not just any old tinkerer, of course, can do the fixing. It takes great knowledge learned as an apprentice and a lifetime of experience, as well as a little old-fashioned luck to read the magic contained in any one vessel. It also takes a good sense of smell, a set of steady hands, and much practice and care to repair a damaged vessel in the presence of the magic's life-threatening volatility. Some would-be, non-magical tinkerers have tried and died for their efforts; sometimes turned into a pitch-black pillar of carbon as a result of their unfortunate error and hubris. Who could be so utterly careless with one's life, you might ask yourself. Well, payment for the job is a tempting large bag stuffed full of gold coins which can be a temptation to many a greedy, unqualified man to their end. A small fortune can be had for the skilled and the brave for sure, but hear me, all should beware! To be sure, a careless mistake, or a lack of knowledge, can result in one's grisly fate. Such danger, of slipping into a cold grave, makes it difficult and nearly impossible to find a worthy, brave apprentice; an apprentice willing to face his death, as he learns to do the repair work of this dangerous profession.
The reality is, that one needs to be a bit crazy in the head or a lot naive to take on the challenge of becoming an apprentice, and understandably, few sane swains would even consider the opportunity of this type of apprenticeship. Prospects understood that if you were dead, brutally slain by the magic, one couldn't spend the bag of gold! When offered the opportunity, prospective apprentices would turn down the offer and turn a quick heel to leave the old master who would foolishly try to recruit them.
As a result, to pass on this trade, a magical tinkerer could be forced to lie, cheat, and even steal a young boy child to secure a candidate, but one must understand too, most tinkerers never lie, never cheat, and most of them would never thieve a young boy child from the safety of his home, Instead, they must wait for the right and willing swain. Often enough, the right one never comes along and the tinkerer sadly dies with no willing apprentice to pass on this ancient knowledge that had been acquired over many lifetimes. As a result, over time, many magical objects fall into a state of disrepair and they, as well as their formidable magic, will slowly fade into legend and will be forever lost in a changing and hurried world.
Ebb, an authentic tinkerer of old, with a scruffy, somewhat graying beard and a knowing, bright twinkle emanating from his deep blue eyes, lives a fair way out, as the crow flies, from town by choice. A tinkerer by trade, he has found that living among non-magical folks is extremely difficult. A lack of understanding and mistrust of his work fueled their fears, and for the better part of his adult life, he had been alone even when he was walking among them. As far as he was concerned, they were busybodies, making it easier to live far from their questioning eyes and soft-muffled whispers. Living out and away from them was far more comfortable, and likely safer, for all concerned.
Now, his abode was nothing more than an old, rickety shack with four walls and a roof covered with at least six inches of green moss and assorted flowering weeds. The floor in his shanty was rough cobblestone but looked as though the rocky floor had not been swept clean since the shack had been constructed some four decades earlier. His furnishings were simple, nothing fancy, but for him, they were all the comforts that he needed or ever wanted. A feather bed, an old worn workbench where he repaired magical boxes and vessels, and two English-made chairs; one for himself and one for a visitor, should he ever have one. And most important to him, was his large, well-seasoned, eastern-made, cast iron stove that was nearly as old as he was. For an old reclusive tinkerer, Ebb had everything he needed... Everything but a young and willing apprentice. But despite his misgivings about, as yet, not finding a suitable student to teach his trade, Ebb was happily content. Living far and away from the bustle of Maplewood Cove and being a good days ride from town, he rarely had to endure those hob-nobbers or fancy snoots he chose to live without.
A curl of white smoke poured from Ebb's chimney as he gingerly stirred two fresh eggs he had gathered from the hen house earlier that morning. As the loud, gurgling sounds of his belly fill the small room, he chuckles to himself, "I don't know why I am so hungry this morning, but this will surely meet my needs, don't you think Claw?"
Claw, looking down at him with a curious tilt of his head; his black beady eyes intently fixed on watching the scrambled eggs now steaming nicely in the skillet, paces back and forth on his perch, hoping there will be something, anything, left over for him. Although Claw knows, even if his manners are perfect, he may still have to beg Ebb for morsels that are left. He also knows any up-overs out of the pan, falling to the floor, will be his.
"You old bird! Quit your eyeing my breakfast! Go and fend for yourself, you lazy bird! Catch some crickets or grasshoppers as God intended crows to eat."
"Well, old man... If you think they are SO darn tasty, be my guest. You eat them as there are plenty of them just outside your front door!" Claw squawked at Ebb.
Now, Claw had not always preferred food scraps... especially cold scrambled eggs, but Claw is no ordinary feathered friend and certainly not your run-of-the-mill black field crow. Some time back, Claw had been perched near Ebb's work table as he tried to repair a magical box that had been dropped on his doorstep in the dark of night. As Ebb worked to repair the hinge, some of the magic dust escaped and Claw accidentally breathed in the dust particles, and from that moment forward, Claw speaks his mind... Surely, to Ebb's dismay.
As certain as the morning follows the night, it is lucky for Claw, that the enchantment in the box had been good magic and Ebb let him live. For sure, had the enchanted fumes been from the dark side of magic, Ebb would have been forced to eat well done, roasted field crow for dinner. n>
Now, I don't know if this could be where the saying "eat crow" was derived, but it stands to reason that it did.