Gather ye round, children. Are you sitting comfortably?
Good. Stay, and hear the story of "The Scarecrow."
Once upon a time, there was a Scarecrow, born of screams.
A sickly thing, really. Unloved, unwanted, undesirable. Unworthy of life, to most.
But he was given it anyway, maintained by an evil Sorceress. Every day since the Scarecrow was born, the Sorceress reminded him that he was worthless, an abomination before God, and unworthy of life.
And when he was big enough, the Sorceress put him to work in the fields. The sun scorched him and flies bit at him without mercy. But he learned not to complain, not ever.
Complaining was bad.
And when he was bad, the Sorceress punished him dearly. She would order him to dress in his special suit as a symbol of her generosity. And then she would summon down a flock of crows to peck and claw at the poor Scarecrow, cawing and shrieking at him as though enraged by his misbehavior.
For years, the Scarecrow lived under the Sorceress. Every day he had to go into town and every day the townspeople would torment and taunt him and torture him. Every day he would suffer their abuse, every day he would drag himself back to the Sorceress and hope that she would show mercy.
"It wasn't my fault," he would cry even as the dark cloud would begin to gather in the sky, "They hate me!"
And every time the Sorceress would tell him,
"It is your fault that they hate you, abomination."
The Scarecrow bore these burdens for years.
Until one night a storm awoke him, for even Scarecrows must sleep.
He heard a sound down in the Sorceress' kitchen and crept down to investigate.
There he saw the Sorceress brewing a potion. He watched her drop three rats into the brew, and then pour it over his special suit.
The Scarecrow watched the Sorceress toss the rats into the field-and lo and behold, the flock of crows came screaming down from the skies to devour it.
The Scarecrow couldn't believe it! She was no Sorceress at all-she only used a petty parlor trick to train the crows!
At that moment, the Scarecrow realized her secret, the secret that would give him strength from that moment on.
There were two simple sources of power.
Fear and control.
That very night, the Scarecrow stole into her library and learned her secret recipe. He would turn it around on her, he swore, and have his justice.
The next day he pretended to have seen nothing. He bowed his head before her and went into town as she ordered.
But while he was there, one of the townspeople accosted him, as they always did. The foolish person stole the little money that the Sorceress allowed him. But what the fool didn't know was that the Scarecrow had soaked the money in the Sorceress' brew.
And sure enough, all the birds from the surrounding sky descended upon the foolish thief and pecked out one of his eyes.
The Scarecrow returned home in triumph.
That very night, he secretly sprayed the Sorceress with her own brew. The Scarecrow was quite tall and terrifying in the half-dark house and the evil Sorceress ran out in panic.
The Scarecrow watched as her own crows came screaming down once more from the black sky. He watched as they devoured her.
The Scarecrow buried her where she had fallen. Then he turned his back on her forever.
The Scarecrow has never forgotten the important lesson the evil Sorceress taught him.
And he has never forgiven her.
THE END.