A Japanese Fable
Once upon a time there were three young crows perched side by side on a dead branch of a tall red-ivied tree which stood by itself in the middle of a dirty field. They were waiting to be called before the Council of the Flock which, gathered to decide if any young birds were yet suffi- ciently wily to deserve full membership in the flock, blackened the treetops of a nearby wood.
A loud and nasty caw summoned the first young crow. When he had settled in the centre of the Council, the King of the Crows, an old white-feathered villain, croaked out the key crow-question. 'What', he demanded, 'should a crow fear most?' The first young crow shuffled his claws, scratched at his glossy head and at last scraped out an answer. 'What a crow should fear the most', he hesitantly offered, 'is the arrow of a hunter'. All the crows clapped their wings in wild applause, the King of the Crows nodded his approval and the first young crow was welcomed into the flock.
The second young crow, a creature smart-arsed from the egg, was asked the same question. 'What a crow should fear the most', he answered with a cheeky flick of his tail, 'is not so much an arrow as a good archer'. The flock clapped even harder than before, the King of Crows actually croaked congratulations and the second young crow was warmly welcomed to full membership of the flock.
When the same question was put to the third young crow, he sat so long dead-still in a broody crouched position that the flock began to get restless. Some of the younger members started to lose attention and to indulge in such typical crow- behaviour as calling out rude names and trying to shit on each other. Eventually the third young crow un-hunched his neck to say 'What a crow should fear the most is neither an arrow nor a good archer. What he should fear is a bad archer. Because when he hears the bow-string twang of a marksman, he need only flit to one side and the arrow will pass him by. But where shall he move to dodge the arrow of a bad archer?' There was total silence in the treetops. Then pandemonium broke loose. The floor of the wood grew thick with feathers as the flock clapped itself silly, and for miles around the foxes fled from the noise to their deepest stinking dens. The King of the Crows sat open-beaked with astonishment to hear such words of wis- dom and, recognising that his master had arrived, flapped off in sagging zig-zags into an early retirement. And the third young crow was there and then elected to succeed him by loud and unanimous acclaim.
Three weeks later, so I understand, he was shot dead by a one-eyed crone with a catapult.
Christopher Wilson
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