Crows' Tale

Clouds stretched out across the sky like a blanket with golden light spilling through. A dirt path cut through an open field, its edges covered in lush vegetation and dotted with Black-eyed Susan flowers swaying gently in the breeze. In the distance, the gentle roar of a river flowed over the meadow’s quiet song. At the heart of the field stood a single red maple tree, its deep red leaves dancing against the cloudy sky. On one of its extended branches, two crows perched, their feathers black as midnight. 

The crows sat in silence, their gaze fixed on a lone traveler walking down the dirt path. 

“Traveling alone,” said one of the crows. “You ever wonder why they do that?” 

“It seems easier that way,” said the other. 

“It seems lonelier that way.” 

“Maybe he likes the quiet.” 

Neither crow spoke as the traveler stopped to rest under the shade of the tree. He looked up at the pair of crows perched above him. “What do they have that I don’t?” he thought. “Companionship? Or maybe they don’t feel the need to go anywhere at all.” His eyes lingered on their dark feathers, glistening in the daylight. Their bond was unspoken, but it was clear. They were a part of something. He envied that. 

The traveler had been to so many places, met so many people, and yet none of it had ever felt like home. He had always been passing through. Always a stranger. He looked down at the dirt path ahead of him, took a long breath, and continued walking. 

  A village came into view as the traveler reached the top of a hill. The houses were simple with walls built of pinewood and low sloping roofs. They sat well in the surrounding landscape. Each home had a small garden out front, where basil, eggplants, potatoes and other plants grew in neat rows. A clear stream wove through the village, with wooden bridges arching over it at various points. The traveler followed the path into the town square, where a sandstone statue stood at the center. The figure was cloaked, holding a potato-lantern carved with beautiful detail. Orchids bloomed in clusters along the sides of the dirt roads. To the west of the village at the base of jagged peaks lay a serene lake, its surface rippling in the breeze. The traveler took it all in. The air carried a calmness that made him feel lighter. A place to call home.  

He approached a small group of villagers gathered near the square. They eyed him with cautious curiosity.  

“I’ve been on the road for years,” he said with a steady voice. “Seen cities and deserts, forests and fields. But this place is special. I’m looking for somewhere to settle, to belong. And I think this might be it.” 

Their responses were polite but guarded. A few nods and murmured welcomes, though none of the villagers seemed eager to invite him further into their circle. 

The traveler set up his camp near the outskirts of the village. He found a small clearing of birch trees, where the stream passed by. The spot felt secluded but not disconnected from everything. He pitched a canvas tent and arranged his belongings. When his fire was lit and his dinner prepared, he sat looking toward the horizon. As he ate, he watched the sun fall behind the mountains. 

In the following days, the traveler tried to follow along with the rhythm of the village. He wandered through the winding paths and greeted those he passed, offering to help where he could. Wherever he went, he was met with indifference. “Good morning.” He would say to an older man tending to his garden. The man gave him a nod before turning back to his work. At the stream, he approached a group of women washing clothes. “That’s a clever way to tie the line,” he would say, gesturing to the neatly hung laundry. One of them glanced at him with tightly pressed lips before shifting closer to the others, as though his presence was an unwelcome shadow. Children playing near the town square stopped their game when he came near, and laughter faded into silence. At the end of one day, he was left standing alone by the sandstone statue. The traveler felt the weight of rejection pressing down on him. It seemed his presence disturbed the careful balance of their lives. He was tired of the endless wandering and open roads. This was where he wanted to live but he wasn’t comfortable being alone. 

As the traveler lingered on the outskirts of the village, he began to pick up fragments of conversation whenever he visited the town square. The villagers spoke with excitement. Late one afternoon, he overheard two men discussing their preparations near the stream. 

“I’ve been tending my crop all year for this,” the older of the two said, with a proud tone. “Last year’s lantern was good, but this year, it’s going to be the best.” 

“You’d better hope so,” the younger replied with a chuckle. “But I already know that mine will be the best. I made sure to plant my potatoes in well-drained, sandy soil. And I’ve been practicing my carvings on some of my poorly grown potatoes that I harvested early!” 

“The feast would be wasted on you. You barely eat!” 

The traveler’s curiosity piqued. Later that day, he approached the younger man as he sat on a wooden bridge, peeling a potato, with precise and careful strokes. “Busy work for such a small potato,” the traveler remarked with a smile. 

 The man looked up, then shrugged. “It’s for the festival. Everyone’s gotta try.” 

 “What festival?” 

The man looked surprised by the question. “The potato-lantern festival. We carve potatoes into lanterns. The best one wins a feast,” he hesitated. “It’s a real honor here. Been that way forever.” 

The traveler thanked him and walked away. A tradition like this wasn’t just about lanterns. It was about status, belonging, being seen. That night at his camp, he sat by the fire considering the opportunity. If he could create something remarkable, would it be enough to earn their respect? Maybe it would make this village feel more like a home. 

Determined to prove himself, the traveler began preparing for the Lantern Festival. He found a small patch of soil near his campsite, where the sunlight shined longest each day. The ground was rocky, but he worked tirelessly to clear it, pulling weeds and breaking up the clumps of dirt with his bare hands. He traded a few of his belongings with a farmer on the edge of the village for a handful of potato seeds. The farmer had laughed when he asked if they could grow quickly.  

 “Potatoes take time,” the farmer said. “You’ll be lucky to get anything worth carving by the festival.” 

  But the traveler was stubborn. He planted the seeds with care. He tended to the small garden each morning and evening. He fetched water from the stream and poured it gently over the soil, willing the plants to grow faster. Every sprout that broke the surface filled him with hope. As the days passed, however, it became clear that time was not on his side. The stalks grew weak and thin, and the few potatoes he managed to harvest were small, misshapen, and pale. He held one in his hand, its lumpy surface a testament of his failure. Sitting by his campfire that night, he turned the potato over in his palm. His mind filled with doubt. Would the villagers mock his attempt? Would they even allow him to compete with such a pathetic contribution? He glanced toward the village, where the mayor’s garden was said to hold the finest potatoes anyone had ever seen. Large, smooth, and golden-skinned. A thought crossed his mind. The idea tempted him with its simplicity. 

  The mayor’s garden stretched near the village square, surrounded by a low stone wall. The traveler had passed it many times, looking at the rows of flawless potatoes gleaming faintly in the rich soil. “They won’t miss one,” he said to himself as he crouched by the edge of the garden. His heart pounded. The village was asleep, the houses dark and silent. He climbed over the wall and moved quickly. His hands trembled as he reached into the soil and pulled out the largest, smoothest potato he could find. It was almost too perfect. Its surface was unblemished, and its shape was ideal for carving. Holding it to his chest, he slipped back to his camp, his guilt overshadowed by his hope.  

  When the day of the potato-lantern festival arrived, the village square flourished with color and laughter. Tables lined the square, each covered with potato-lanterns of varying shapes and designs. Some were simple, others intricately carved. The traveler’s lantern sat proudly at the center of his table. He had spent hours crafting it. He had carefully and delicately etched elegant swirls and shapes into the potato’s skin. The glow from inside made it shine like a jewel. As the villagers moved from table to table, admiring the lanterns, murmurs began to move through the crowd. 

“That one’s incredible,” someone said, pointing to the traveler’s lantern. 

“I’ve never seen such a perfect potato,” another whispered. 

The traveler stood a little taller, his eyes filled with pride. For the first time, he felt the villagers’ eyes on him not with suspicion, but with admiration. The mayor’s lantern was displayed nearby, with a masterful carving of a fox curled in a bed of leaves. The mayor stood by his art and was explaining his work to those around him. “See how it rests home in the leaves? It knows where it’s meant to be” 

Even the mayor’s carving couldn’t rival the quality of the traveler’s potato. When the time came to announce the winner, the judges moved forward and lifted the traveler’s lantern high. “A true work of art,” one judge declared. “This year’s winner is our newcomer!” Applause erupted, and the traveler felt as though he had found his place. 

The festival square filled with laughter and cheers. Villagers crowded around the traveler’s lantern, adoring the craftsmanship. Whispers of admiration spread through the crowd. 

“It’s stunning,” someone said. 

“A worthy winner,” another added. 

The traveler took in the attention. A group of villagers clapped him on the back, congratulating him. Beneath the celebration, he caught glances from those who had lost—faces tight with envy and disappointment. 

“Some people just get lucky,” a woman muttered under her breath. 

The mayor approached the traveler’s lantern, his hands folded behind his back, with a thoughtful expression on his face. He leaned in, examining the potato up close. His fingers traced its surface. The crowd fell quiet as they watched him. 

“This potato,” the mayor said slowly, “has a peculiar color to its skin. A slight golden hue. And the shape…” He tilted the lantern to show its distinctive curve. “It’s from a rare seed. One I’ve cultivated in my own garden for years.” 

The murmurs spread through the villagers. The traveler’s chest tightened as the mayor’s sharp eyes fixed on him. 

“Tell me,” the mayor asked, his tone calm and stern, “where did you grow such a remarkable potato?” 

The villagers whispered among themselves, and the traveler felt a bead of sweat roll down his back. 

“For a moment,” the mayor continued, “I thought perhaps an animal had gotten into my garden.” His eyes scanned the crowd. “But now, seeing this… I wonder if it wasn’t an animal after all.” 

The crowd turned to the traveler, their expressions shifting from admiration to suspicion. 

The traveler’s throat tightened. “I... I didn’t mean to cause any trouble,” he stuttered, his voice cracking. “I just… I wanted to make something beautiful.” 

The mayor’s expression softened, but only slightly. “And beautiful it is. But beauty born from deception carries its own weight, don’t you think?” 

The murmurs grew louder, with anger and disappointment rumbling through the villagers as they connected the dots. 

“So, he’s a thief now?” someone called out. 

The sounds of mocking laughter followed. “Couldn’t even grow his own!” 

“Of course he couldn’t,” a woman sneered. “He doesn’t belong here.” 

The traveler felt their words cutting into him like knives. The joy of their earlier praise was replaced by cold rejection. Each comment was a reminder of how quickly their acceptance had turned to distaste. Humiliated, he lowered his gaze and turned away from the crowd. 

 “He shouldn’t have won,” another villager chimed in. “That means second place should be the real winner!” 

“I was second,” snapped a man, stepping forward. 

“No, you weren’t,” a woman yelled back. “Your carving was sloppy. Mine was far better!” 

“It wasn’t about the carving,” another interjected. “It’s about the quality of the potato, and mine was leagues ahead of yours!” 

The crowd fell into a heated argument with villagers pointing fingers and defending their own lanterns while insulting others. The traveler, standing on the edge of the chaos, watched as the unity of the celebration collapsed before his eyes. Their mocking laughter had turned into bickering over status and pride, exposing a deeper divide within the community. 

The celebration had dissolved into something ugly, the sense of community unraveling before his eyes. The traveler shook his head with disappointment. “Even among those who belong,” he thought, “there’s still a hunger for approval, a need to prove oneself better than the rest.” It struck him as odd how even those accepted within the community seemed so insecure and uncertain of their place. 

  The traveler left the festival behind, and the villagers’ voices faded into the night. He made his way back to the outskirts of the village, where his modest home waited under the clearing of birch trees. The stars above seemed brighter now, twinkling through gaps in the branches. 

  Sitting by a small fire he built, he reached into the sack where his own modest crop lay. He pulled out a lumpy, misshapen potato that was small, uneven, and speckled with dirt. He held it in his hands for a moment, feeling its rough texture, and chuckled softly. “This one,” he thought, “is mine.” 

With his knife, he began to carve. It wasn’t intricate or perfect, but the silly face that he carved brought a lightness to his heart. When he was done, he placed a small flame inside. The glow from the potato-lantern danced in the night. He smiled, the kind of smile that came not from others’ approval but from his own quiet acceptance. Here, under the stars, with his lumpy potato and the night breeze on his face was where he belonged. 

Above the traveler’s home, two crows perched on a low branch of a birch tree. The glow of the potato-lantern below cast faint light on their feathers as they watched the traveler sit in quiet satisfaction. 

“Isn’t it odd,” said one of the crows, “how much they all strive to be accepted, even when they’ve already found their place? You’d think belonging would make them secure.” 

“It rarely does,” said the second crow. “Even in their tightest circles, they claw at one another to feel superior.” 

The first crow looked down at the traveler, who sat gazing at the flickering light of his potato-lantern, his smile warm and unburdened. “Maybe he’s learned that being whole is better than being accepted.” 

The second crow gave a slow nod before taking off into the night. The first followed, their wings cutting through the cool evening air.