The Craftsman

The craftsman's skill at carving, be it stone or wood or metal, was unrivaled.His deft hands, with a keen blade, breathed life into the inanimate rocks or logs or ores that he carefully chose for his creations. There was no mistaking his workmanship. It was indelibly etched into everything that came out of his workshop.

Sometimes he would just walk into that workshop, and silently stare at the wonders his hands had produced. He would move from piece to piece, remembering the meticulous labor that had gone into each one: the hours it had taken to carve the intricate patterns, the painstaking sharpening of the blades that imbued the likenesses onto the raw materials, the satisfaction that came when the piece was finally ready for display. He loved to carve, to bend the unfashioned to his beautiful will.

When he awoke that morning, sadness was already hanging in the air. He could feel it, and as he walked with deliberate steps to his workshop, he already knew what awaited, or rather not awaited, him there. The collection of carvings was gone. The tears flowed freely as he searched the bare shelves for perhaps one carving that the thief may have overlooked, but the burglar had been efficient. Not one remained.

The carver did not grieve long, though, for he knew what must be done. And so, the search began. The craftsman set out to find his collection, to restore it to its rightful owner. The task would be no easy one. The one who stole would not give back what he had taken without a fight, for the collection was of inestimable worth. The craftsman, though, was willing to fight, to die, even, in order to get back what he esteemed invaluable. The carvings were his, and belonged with him.

After difficult journeys and sleepless nights, the craftsman did find the thief's lair. While one would have guessed that the bandit was a connoisseur, an art thief, as evidenced by the incredible treasures he had stolen, it turned out that he lived in an earthen hut, foul-smelling and unkempt, with piles of stolen goods lying about everywhere in no particular order. The thief was a lout, and a snoring one at that, as he slept noisily when the carver came upon his residence.

The carver tried to control his joy and his anger as he gathered up the abused but still beautiful collection. His hands trembled as he held them again and placed them gently into the pouch at his side. The thief slept on until, just as the last carving entered the pouch, he awoke.

"Thanks for gathering those up for me," said the thief, "now you can just hand them over." "If you want them so bad, come get them," said the craftsman.

"If you insist," said the thief, and he leapt on the intruder.

The battle raged on for quite some time as punches and kicks and bites were exchanged. Both were bloody and bruised by fight's end. The thief seemed to be getting the worst of it, though, as he was breathing far harder and more rapidly than the carver. The thief, in a last effort to gain the victory, managed to grab and twist the carver's ankle, causing a nauseating snapping sound and a wail of pain from the craftsman. The craftsman, ignoring his pain as best he could, was able to gain a stranglehold, and within moments both the fight and the thief were finished.

And so, the pieces were restored, put back in their places by the gentle hands of their creator. The workshop was once again a place of joy. The craftsman walked with a limp for the rest of his days, but he reckoned a limp a small price to pay to have the pieces back in the workshop, back in their birthplace, back where they belonged.

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Contributed byStephen F. Pizzini
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