The Cobbler

Part One

was the son of a cobbler. Hardly the stuff of legend. His father and grandfather and great-grandfather (as far back as the family cared to tell) made and repaired shoes. It was in their blood, the family liked to say. He enjoyed this idea even from an early age. It made him feel connected to a long, long history of proud artisans who mastered an important craft for their town. The local heroes had worn shoes made by his family...heroes who marched off to faraway places with their feet safely encased in his family's wares. And this included the local nobility: why, the statue of the earliest magistrate erected in the center of town chiseled from marble quarried nearby stood in shoes made by an ancestor. It was in this tradition that his father now labored dutifully to make a pair of shoes that would slip onto the dainty, most radiant and righteous feet in all the land. They needed to be special.

His father sketched designs for the important appointment between his daily mendings, but his son could think about little else. Imagine: the Princess herself, emerging from the scented royal baths, freshly dried then oiled in pretty smells, sitting on the softest of chairs, as her dressing women pressed shoes made by his family onto her feet. Was there an honor more grand? This would be the most important labor in family memory and he would be allowed to help. It was to be his job to tan and dye the leather. And he intended to do such a job that it would live in the imaginations of that familial memory for all time.

With so much weighing on his mind, he could not recall where he had first learned of the den of ruby drakes. He could not say why it it should come rushing back to him with such urgency. It may have been his cousin from Chaddendale who boasted having heard of the nest down in a cave by the Lembrel Creek. He rarely listened to his foolish cousin, but if his cousin wasn't lying to impress him (for once), perhaps he could indeed catch a glimpse of the magnificent and deadly beasts. And if he were clever, very clever and careful, perhaps he could catch and kill one of the fell things, ridding the area of a hazard. But more important: he would be able to add something special, something unique to the slippers for her Radiance. An iridescent splendor to match that of the Princess.

Armed with a net, a cooking dagger, and a crust of bread, he set out before the sun rose.

Part Two

The way to the Creek was deceptive, for the spring run-off from high atop Schappink Ridge meandered its way across the land differently every season, in places near indiscernible, in others concealing boggy areas of muck, easily able to pull mounts and travelers alike to a foul and murky doom. More than one unwary merchant visited the cobbler's shop to replace boots claimed by the land, thankful that they lived to tell of the experience. The son of the cobbler wended his way carefully and was himself thankful as the sun finally rose to help guide him toward the mountain range which was his destination.

After many hours walking, only pausing to munch on his hard crust of bread and a handful of early-summer berries, ripe and good, growing on vines that lined the horse path, the morning wore on. In the distance, the range looked to be growing no nearer. Had he underestimated the distance? It mattered not: the son of the cobbler found ways to pass the miles. In daydreams. Clearly in his mind he could see the leather (at once red and nacreous both) he intended to win, heating in the sun in his private work area behind his family's shop. If the stories were true, the leather would become redder and more nacreous from the heat. He would sit with a small tub of his most precious and secret aromatic blend of oils and creams and botanicals of his own making, having experimented over time, and would gently massage them around the edges of the leather, softly at first, until the outermost area was saturated. Then, using his thumbs (which were strong for his age) he would begin slowly spiraling inward. What strange and exotic result would he find from this new process? Would the leather respond quickly to his touch and oils? Would it take longer than he expected to produce the desired result? Regardless, he knew, eventually, the material would become as supple as he needed it to be. Pressure, rubbing, slippery, warm. Eventually it would be supple. And the shoes, magnificent.

He knew better than to underestimate the skill needed. Every detail of the making of these shoes crowded into his mind’s eye in a flash. He imagined the inner-glow that was fabled to emanate from a ruby drake’s hide, illuminating him as he worked into the night, making him appear to blush. He imagined the Princess watching him as he worked, admiring him performing his craft. He fancied that she had never watched something so workaday before, but even such a mundane act could surely amaze a royal figure like the Princess when done with zeal. She may even marvel at his mastery, and in her admiration, he would endeavor to do his best work ever. How could she help but be impressed? One of her subjects, working so tirelessly, exerting such effort, poring over the labor but giving that work less thought than he was giving his audience who was to be the recipient of his vigor. She would know it to be exhausting work, not something easily accomplished, not something many (if any?) of her subjects could do equally and without considerable exertion. After the shoes were complete, would she permit him, the son of a cobbler, to present the slippers to her, personally? Would he be allowed to kneel in front of her, placing them at her feet? Would she demonstrate the kind of splendid magnificence for which she was so renowned? He imagined looking up at her pleased face, smiling her beneficent smile, then gracefully stepping out of her shoes, standing barefoot before him, shifting her royal weight and lifting her right leg with a balance and steadfastness denied to ordinary folk...presenting her small foot to him...

There were still a few hours of the morning left before the sun rose to be directly overhead, and so the cobbler’s son pressed on, his step lighter and more eager than before.

Part Three

His journey continued into the early evening hours, for now, it was much later than he had expected. He would not be able to accomplish his heroic capture of a ruby drake and return home before he was missed, but there was nothing to do for that now. The cobbler's son would have to count on receiving forgiveness for his transgression from those at home. Certainly his years of faithful diligence would count for something? He had traveled too far to turn back.

As he contemplated his possible changing fortune at home, he heard the sound of a thousand thundering and deep and angry voices arguing from somewhere beyond the hill in front of him. He stopped, unnerved. It was a disconcerting moment for the cobbler’s son. What sort of titans bickered around the bend ahead? Where the mighty feud, he knew, the small folk around them will be forever changed. Yet the idea of turning sheepishly upon his heel and returning home, empty-handed, with a mere tale of a giants' quarrel as his only companion seemed to paint him with the same brush he used on his feckless cousin. Despite his native fear and healthy sense of self-preservation, he made his decision: he must find out what was ahead. With a deep breath, he crept forward along the horse path as it veered around the hill behind which the voices seemed to issue.

Once clear of the hill, the cobbler’s son was afforded a much clearer view of the Roachell Range where Shappink Ridge, in its slumping and portly posture, gaped down upon the valley of his home district, and here, his breath caught in his throat: the typically gentle run-off which fed the Creek and untold streams and brooks and rivulets, was now a roaring waterfall, a waterfall that had sounded to his untrained ears like angry voices. The prodigious glacier which crowned the Ridge and which had grown larger and more solid these past twenty years (or so the elders of the district maintained), was thawing, and the resulting cascade had reached a tipping point. What was more, the cobbler’s son foresaw that the deluge was far from reaching its full climax, and would indeed only grow more urgent and more puissant until it threatened to overrun the town and his home.

There was little anyone could do about the course of the gushing water. It was certainly beyond his power to stanch the flood now that it had started. He could possibly run back and warn the town, but to what end? There would be much debating and perturbation about how to manage the dizzying change of their situation, but in the end, it would not mean the dissolution of the town. The signs of the increased pressure from the flow would be visible to those there who more vigilantly looked for such things and precautions and preparations may already be underway. The cobbler’s son knew one thing: his quest had started and even the noble effort of warning and preserving the town by reporting events (which, he reasoned, may probably be no surprise at all) would avail him not. Thus girded, he continued onward, toward the source of the raucous activity, which now served to draw him along in a kind of irresistible pulling toward its source, and the achievement of his goal...a goal which was growing over the course of his travels into an obsession.

Part Four

Yet it was not possible for the cobbler’s son to continue his beeline toward his goal, for the Creek had severely overflowed its banks and the resulting river was a formidable obstacle. He would need to circumnavigate; the direct route was inaccessible. He looked into the dark thicket that grew off the horse path, and after a moment of consideration, plunged in.

It was slow going, yet after a few moments of uncertainty, the cobbler’s son found that the thatch was remarkably soothing to explore. The earthy smells, the damp floor, the sounds of the wild were all unexpectedly pleasing. He had heard stories of rangers who could find their way through the unmarked bush after a lifetime of practice and he had never understood how such a thing could be accomplished. Now, in the midst of it, he could imagine venturing out from the comforts of his familiar surroundings and experiencing the exhilarating thrill such an expedition would afford. The cobbler’s son knew that if all else came to naught, he had found a new and stimulating pastime in nature.

Without warning, the cobbler’s son found himself approaching a cabin in the woods. He knew there were woodsmen who chose to be apart from society, and such a discovery should not fill him with dread, yet he could not help but feel alarm. The cabin was nothing of the kind: it seemed uninhabitable and liable to fall under the weight of its mossy, sagging roof and rafters at any time. It could serve as nothing but the rudest shelter. The cobbler’s son knew enough of the tales from childhood to understand it was best not to enter such a place, despite his higher-self reassuring him against superstition. Yet curiosity could not be denied: he stepped up to the front of the shack and peered in. What he saw amazed him. Lining the walls and scattered upon the floor were some of the most beautiful (if tragically faded and damaged) paintings he had ever seen. Around the edges of one such painting (one of the few that nature had not damaged beyond recognition) he saw intricate gold scrollwork. He nearly entered through the window itself to inspect things more closely, but why further tempt fate? Instead, he circled around to the back of the shanty on his hunt for a way around the engorged Creek barring his path.

At the back of the hut he was startled, for there was an old woman, sitting on a rocking chair made from saplings and branches and held together with cord. She rocked and twisted her grey hair around a

gnarled finger.

"Wet ast dyl mack'n zum mes hot?"

The cobbler’s son, still dazed by her unexpected presence (and searching his memory for stories about beautiful paintings with elaborate golden scrollwork about the edges), did not recover his wits before the old woman continued.

"Bes dyl douf, bengal?" She stopped rocking and looked intently at the cobbler’s son with piercing, intelligent eyes.

"I...I'm sorry, madam, but I don't speak that language. I am just trying to get up near Lembrel Creek."

"Are you traveling alone out here, then, boy?" The cobbler’s son was amazed at how effortlessly the old woman shifted to his language. "Why are you not on the path?"

"The path is blocked by the Creek," he began. Before she could make a retort he continued earnestly, feeling she may be in danger here from a possible flood: "The Creek is overflowing, you really should think about moving to higher ground, mother."

"Oh, indeed! The sound of the falls can be heard from here, but I don't leave my property, you see, so I had no way to know. You are polite and helpful, I can tell, but I will not be able to leave my home, even should I want to. My old feet could not manage the journey, you see. Besides, I would never be able to bring my belongings. Once upon a time, I was a court artisan! Although I have not painted a single scene in more than ten years, my craft was such that a single canvas would fetch 1,000 gold pieces from any of a dozen noble houses! I could not leave without the tools of my trade, even if I do not use them any longer."

"Oh, but mother, I know who you are! You are Lys Embers! You’re famous! I am the son and grandson and great-grandson of cobblers, hardly the stuff of legend, but I would be happy to mend your shoes so

you could make the journey, if you should want to. I will do so willingly, under the condition that you strongly consider again picking up your brush." And he approached the old lady still sitting in her chair made of twigs, and examined the soles of her shoes. "No, these are not bad at all, you see the stitching here and here has pulled away. If you have a needle that can be worked through this hide, I can easily repair them for you." The old lady considered his offer, and with an alacrity that amazed the cobbler’s son, stood, entered her small hut and emerged with a bag which he discovered contained enough scraps and materials to repair the old woman's shoes, which he set out to do. In less than an hour, he had completed the job, but by then, the night had fully descended on them.

"Stay here the night, young man. I shall prepare us a stew and you can leave in the morning with your water skin full and continue your journey. You can tell me why you are out here, for I would like to repay you for your courtesy." The son of a cobbler, although eager to continue on his way, knew it was folly to walk through the wilds at night and opted instead to take what shelter he could. Despite the stories of his childhood and his initial, baseless fear that nearly deprived him of meeting this fascinating woman in the middle of the forest, he slept soundly and safely and rose early the next morning to the delicious smells of hare cooking over a fire. After they broke their fast together (during which the cobbler found a second pair of shoes, in worse shape but not beyond repair, which he also mended), the old woman stopped him.

"Young man. You seem brave and kind. Forgive me for saying so, but I wonder whether you ought to be traveling alone. The creatures guarding the treasure you seek," for he had revealed he was searching

for ruby drakes, "are not only dangerous but also cunning. Do you suppose you possess the savvy to outwit them?" The cobbler’s son did not know how to answer such a question.

"Suppose I were to offer to bestow upon you one of three gifts: a poetic spell in the style of Bobbin W. Servise fabled to charm even the most savage of beasts when read aloud; a drawing I created while you slept, the first in more than a decade and precious enough to be sold for enough gold to elevate your family forever out of poverty; or my diary: a log containing all of the secrets of the courts for which I practiced my trade, giving you insights and intrigue enough to rise to real and true power. No, no, do not protest. You will allow me to continue. Here is what you must do: you will make a simple statement to me. If that statement is true, I shall bestow either the spell or the painting. It will be my choice. If your statement is false, then I shall bestow the diary. It would be easy enough to state something true, such as "I mended your shoes," but in doing so, I will likely choose to bestow the painting, and not the charm, and you will leave here with what you need to be a wealthy man. If you were to state something false, such as "I did not mend your shoes," I will bestow the diary, and you will leave here with what you need to be a powerful man. In either case, you will leave here without the magic spell that I assure you you need to continue your quest, and not encouraged in your daring but (forgive me) unwise journey. You see, this is a test of your resourcefulness, cobbler. If you want my help, you need to make a statement which will compel me to give you the charm, not either of the other two objects. That will show whether you have the resourcefulness you will need to face down the drakes."

The cobbler’s son thought about this riddle as he looked at the lined but caring face of Lys for a moment. The money or the power she could bestow would indeed help his family. Either of them would allow him not to return empty-handed, and the town may hail him hero for the warning of the oncoming tides.

But this was not his heart's desire.

With a mere moment's weighing, he stated: "You will not give me the painting."

Lys Embers smiled at the cobbler and bestowed the text of the spell which had been tucked in her dressing gown.

Part Five

The cobbler’s son bid Lys Embers adieu, and continued his trek toward the foothills of the mountains: the source of the flooding that would one day forever change the landscape of his life, and the cave that

harbored a nest of deadly creatures capable of burning at temperatures no mortal could withstand. He was armed with his fishing net, kitchen knife, and now cobbler tools, stories and tokens from Lys, and a parchment scrap on which were words he dared not to read until facing his final trial ("...for once you read these words, they will fade from the page as if they never were...").

The second day of his quest promised to be as unexpectedly long as the first, and he made less progress. Picking his way among the tangle of roots and rocks and unpassable copses took far longer than he could have anticipated. But somehow his time with Lys convinced him the rightness of his decision to press forward. She was a woman who had lived, truly and fully lived. Hers had been a life that shared in the opulent excess of the higher born, the dangerous intrigues of dastardly court politics, entertainments from far off lands that defied explanation, affairs of the heart with lovers who, not speaking the language of the land, spoke instead with their bodies. These were the fruits of a life lived beyond the confines that the cobbler’s son had, without thinking, imposed upon himself. Hearing what sorts of sights and events and experiences were possible led to a startling realization. The cobbler’s son felt as if Lys had opened the door of his dim sleeping cell and not only did she let him glimpse some of what lay beyond, but she also beckoned him to step outside. The very fact that she herself had walked in that glorious light proved that he, too, could live such a life. The tangled way forward did not seem such an obstacle when viewed with fully opened eyes.

The cobbler’s son was so occupied with his musings that he failed to notice how the canopy of treetops was squeezing out the sunlight of late morning. After another few hours of walking (and a modest meal from fare supplied by Lys), he realized that the advancing darkness could not possibly be nightfall, and he took stock of his surroundings. It would be more treacherous than need be to walk into the forest's heart without the aid of daylight, but he had no torch or lantern. After a brief look around him, he chose a path that appeared to hold the promise of fewer trees, one where tall, leafy plants grew among them and may allow more precious light through. It was not the way he would have otherwise chosen, but it seemed needful.

His instinct proved correct: the trees grew fewer as the cobbler’s son picked his way through the field of tall, leafy plants. As the plants grew thicker, they replaced the trees altogether; his speed was no faster, but at least the broad-leafed plants allowed him more early afternoon light. It was as if a jungle of these successful vegetations was starving out the trees and formed a boscage of leafy sentries taller than a man. The heavy leaves, firmly fixed on their thick stocks, did not rustle as he passed. They seemed like green plates of mail that he imagined could be worn by the Princess's protectors. The cobbler smiled to himself as he thought about how he might look wearing a green-coat of leaves stitched together with the tools of his trade and ingenuity. He was certain she would approve and would, over the course of tea, ask him to describe how such invention occurred to him. He stopped, intent on finding a way to separate a leaf from its branch, and thereby savagely cut his hand: the outer edges of the leaves were sharp as razors. But how had he traveled for hours through this lethal thicket unscathed? He examined the flora more closely and saw that the deadly edges could be found only on one side; the side facing the direction he was going.

The cobbler’s son turned (careful not to step backward) and looked the way he'd come, and shivered at the expanse of verdant razors facing him. If he turned back, and if he took great care, the best he could hope for was to emerge a mess of shallow cuts, weak beyond reason, owing to the blood loss. The worst...the worst did not bear considering. To stay in the light, he had chosen a path that had but one direction.

Part Six

Despite his slow expedition through the deadly bushland, the cobbler’s son still found himself cut and bleeding from many small wounds. None was deep enough to cause real worry, but the discomfort, physical and mental, exhausted him even more than the journey itself. As if the thicket was suddenly aware that its secret was known, it seemed to shrug off its charade, and could now reveal how destructive it could be. This was not a monstrous danger that the cobbler’s son faced. In some ways he had braced himself for colossal peril. This was far more insidious, far more malign. No gruesome menace to face down in a single, epic battle. No terrifying chasm or obstacle to brave in a heart-stopping moment of daring. No challenge of wits, matching his determination against an untold enemy. Instead, he had walked into the heart of this trap, allowed himself to be surrounded. The way had seemed so logical, so easily followed, and now, these surroundings dictated his every move. He had no choice but to be led, like an insignificant feather on the wind, else face not an heroic end, but a painful, protracted, one -- one where his own heart (that he had always believed he could trust and rely upon) would mindlessly pump his life away as he watched, powerless to stop it.

The cobbler’s son reminded himself that the journey was not over. This spiteful, overgrown timberland could not continue forever. The cobbler’s son would press on and face whatever fate chose to concoct for him.

It was his second night away from home. He dared not sleep. He pressed forward, eyes resolutely forward, and tried to distract himself, to occupy his mind with careful memories. He thought about the royal rider who came to his family's shop, led by the village magistrate. A royal horse, flying the crest and colors of the Princess herself. How majestic he looked, as if he himself had been royalty rather than a mere prized servant. How aloof he appeared as he gazed at the dirt in front of their shop and their home before alighting from his mount, only a brief hesitation before landing, with a warm smile, on the dirt, no trace of grass nearby.

The magistrate was less schooled and barely hid his displeasure and embarrassment of such a humble dwelling as he whispered assurances of the skill of the cobbler's family to this special rider. With simple elegance the rider stepped forward to the elder cobbler, paid them all greeting, and, assuming (correctly) that the old man knew not how to read (a skill the cobbler’s son had fortuitously acquired), broke the seal and read the note. The words were beyond belief; never had they heard language such as this, at once authentic and frank, at once sophisticated and rich. The Princess had seen a pair of shoes made by the cobbler and his family and desired that they make a pair for her. The honor was beyond imagination! The cobbler’s son still could recall the emotion that rose in his chest as he heard the words; looking back, he knew that had the Princess’s message instead instructed him to pitch himself from the height of the Cliffs, he would have done so for her. Whatever her grace required. Whatever she wants. What. Ever. She. Wants.

He replayed that moment over and over, savoring the taste of the emotion and the warmth of its favor. Had he truly thought that plants (PLANTS?) could stand in the way of fulfilling Her Grace's decree? As the sun rose, the cobbler's son realized how laughable that idea was. He knew that if necessary, he would be only too happy to press himself into the very face of those leaves. Let them cut him. Let them try to stop him.

The cobbler’s son then stopped walking. Directly ahead: the sound of a rushing stream. He was emerging from the grove of evil herbage just as the sun rose. Forgetting the danger, the cobbler’s son dashed forward. It was as though the aura of the memory shielded him from more damage, for he was able to forge the rest of the way through the bush and emerge with no more cuts, and even the many, shallow cuts he had were forgotten with his destination in sight. The cobbler’s son stepped into the light, and there was the Creek and, to his amazement, the cave he so desired to enter.

Part Seven

The cave was deeply inset against the base of Schappink Ridge. It would have been completely hidden, the cobbler’s son realized, had he not emerged precisely where he had, through the cursed grove. He advanced and, at long last (much later than he had foreseen) entered the cave.

The darkness was immediate and complete. Foolish, he thought, to have imagined that his prize would be so simply realized. He should have foreseen that the ruby drakes would not present themselves for capture. He would need to go deep into the depths and puzzle out a way to endure long enough to reach the culmination of his quest. Somehow. The brief and cursory spelunking with which he had previously dabbled alone, close to home, had been in rock recesses which paled in comparison to this far more mature and intricate cavernous system before him, for he could tell, even here just at the threshold, that his endeavor was, contrary to nearing its end, only just beginning.

He turned back and into the morning light. He had come far, and he would rely on his cunning and good fortune once more. And so he spent the morning, walking from the cave to the mighty Creek (now more like a raging river, he noted, but pushed the worrying thought from his mind as he considered its inevitable, irresistible advancement on his home), back again, and beyond to the foot of the imposing mount. He felt weary, and knew that the lacerations were at least partially responsible, but he could not give them attention or thought. He managed to find a branch that would work well as the handle of a torch, if only he could find material and fuel and a way to ignite them. He sat down on the forest floor, and reluctantly admitted to feeling disheartened, when he noted that his shoes were splitting where the sole met the welt. He withdrew the prized cobbler supplies Lys had gifted to him: strong bone needle, thick threading, a small metal awl, a jar of conditioning cream (which he himself had hastily made for mending her shoes), a few strips of leather, and an ingenious pair of folding scissors.

He smiled to himself while beginning the repair work at the memory of how dull the scissors were before he sharpened them with her whetstone, and at the expression on Lys's face as he had so quickly threaded the bone needle, and how he had made the conditioning cream from a precious bar of soap Lys had been given by a courtly suitor many, many years ago. It was the same suitor who used the odd translucent sheep-gut "condus" during intimacy, a second-skin, Lys coyly said, that he would need more than she; only after clandestinely examining its elasticity did the cobbler’s son formulate a notion of its protective purpose. He had informed her straight away that the soap was made from pure lanolin and botanicals: a rare gift indeed. Mixed with beeswax candles and the oils from pecan nuts (which also served as this morning's breakfast), he had been quite pleased with the results of his makeshift conditioner. In the heat, the cream would liquefy, but smeared across the leather of his shoe, he would find the material highly conditioned for the repair, he need only...could he...was it possible...? Lanolin! Beeswax! Pecan oil! The cobbler’s son made short work of the mending and removed his blood-stained shirt. Using the small pair of scissors, he snipped the fabric that had been the shirt's arms, wrapped them around the sturdy branch, and tied them to the tip with lengths of leather and threading. He sparingly applied the conditioning cream to his makeshift torch. Now, how to light it?

The cobbler’s son had heard that some woodsmen were able to produce a flame by striking certain kinds of rocks together, especially rocks typically found near the sea. He was not near the sea, but perhaps the river could be counted on to produce what he needed? It seemed only fitting that providence would provide in this way. He approached the river and walked along its banks scanning for rocks. He found many, chose a few, and set out to see whether they would serve. Over an hour of striking the various rock together produced nothing, as far as he could tell. He even brought the cache of stones into the darkness of the cave in the hope of seeing sparks. Eventually, he had to admit that these were not the right materials for the job.

The cobbler’s son had heard that some woodsmen were able to produce a flame by twisting a branch between their palms quickly, and the resulting friction could ignite tinder. He gathered small bits of leaves and twigs and grasses and piled them carefully on a larger stone and sat. Vigorously he twisted his palms back and forth and back and forth, as fast as he was able. Stories told him that this was a painstaking process that would not be immediate, but again he was forced to look for an alternative as he could not coax fire from the materials after hours of trying.

The cobbler’s son had heard that some woodsmen were able to produce a flame by making a kind of bow, twisting the bowstring around a small stick, holding the stick in place from above with a small stone and very quickly drawing it back and forth, much like how he had spent the previous hours but with a more suitable tool. After many more hours of trying this technique for himself, he gave up for a third time.

It was now past mid-day and his exertions had made his cuts bleed. The cobbler’s son was near to allowing despondency to enter his mind as he fought to think how he could make a torch against the dangers of the cave. And so the cobbler’s son once again allowed his mind to wonder as he stared absently at the rushing waters of the Creek, the strong afternoon light sparkling off the surface and twinkling like the jewels of a crown for a Princess.

He recalled a story told by Jyles, an odd hermit who traded animal skins for food. Jyles was avoided by most of the village (including the cobbler’s son himself), for Jyles's isolation and squalor made the foulest stink; how he managed to catch woodland animals was a mystery best left unsolved. Jyles once told the cobbler’s son a fantastic tale about how the Princess had employed an engineer to make a device composed of nesting lenses and, when viewed together through a tube, could bring the most distant objects immediately within reach. It was an illusion that Jyles understood, for he had a book (Jyles could read, you see, and the elder cobbler --once convinced of Jyles' veracity-- traded a pair of boots with him so his son could learn that art) that explained something called "optics." The lenses made a trick with light. The cobbler’s son was skeptical until Jyles showed him a lens (where he obtained it was another best-left unsolved mystery). Not only could this piece of shaped glass make small items appear larger, they could burn insects. This amused Jyles and repulsed the cobbler’s son.

But this did give him an idea. He dug out the condus, stretched its length momentarily to ambitious proportions, went to the water's edge, and dunked it into the swift current. In moments, the condus filled and threatened to burst and spray everywhere the fluid trapped within, but its integrity held. The cobbler’s son withdrew it from the waters and returned to the stone on which his tinder resolutely remained placed, unlit. Angling the now-full balloon so the light from the afternoon sun was behind it, the cobbler’s son twisted and bobbed himself, jockeying around until he felt he hit just the right spot. As if by instinct, he maintained his concentration, focused, and inwardly knew that he was close. He could feel the heat increase. His positioning was perfect. Any moment now...remaining steadfast...unrelenting...the moment approached he knew...and then it happened. Fire. The violence of the flame surprised him; but surprise was surpassed by immense satisfaction. As soon as the sudden moment of the blaze died down, he dropped to his knees and (again, trusting his instinct) started to blow gently on the kindling, moving his puckered mouth from side to side, feeding the flare in the aftermath of its eruption. This seemed to produce almost a second blaze, this one less intense perhaps, but one that (he somehow knew) would last longer. The cobbler’s son backed off, allowing the momentum of the moment to feed itself without him. He stood, watching in satisfaction in the light of the late afternoon, as he mentally planned his next move.

Part Eight

The cobbler’s son kept his fire lit, feeding it larger branches from the forest edge. He was not yet ready to begin the final leg of his quest. He foraged for an evening meal. He found ripe berries (safe, he surmised, as birds could be seen dining on them, as well) a nest with an egg forgotten by its maternal guardian (one of the berry-feasting avians?), heated a large, thin rock over the fire, and cooked the egg the way he preferred: heated to firmness on both sides, but runny inside. With his final piece of bread, he considered himself properly nourished. He gingerly smeared river mud on his hurts, trusting in nature’s remedy to help staunch the cuts that stubbornly refused to close completely. He supposed that some wounds were not meant to heal fully; their lingering presence a grim reminder of what life delivered to the unthinking. Fed, watered, and repacked (in pain, weak, tired), the cobbler’s son fetched his torch and touched the embers with it; his conditioning cream was a superb accelerant, and the torch was alit. He turned to the mouth of the cave and entered.

It took less than a quarter of an hour for the temperature to drop and for the darkness to become ever-present. It took less than an hour for his bleeding to begin again through the mud bandages. It was as he applied direct pressure to one of the bloodier wounds that he stumbled on the uneven ground. He landed hard on the stones and felt the warmth of yet more blood from his wounds. Out of the corner of his eye, the cobbler’s son saw the form of Lys. Lys, his wise and wonderful mentor, she had followed him after all! She had crossed through the razor vegetation and she allowed him to puzzle out how to make a torch, build a fire, make a meal in the waning light of early evening. It was, of course, impossible. He was hallucinating. He put his hand upon his damp forehead and noted for the first time his fever. His cuts must be infected. He pushed himself up to a kneeling position, his head still bowed to the ground, and he noticed, through the smoke of his makeshift torch, the flow of black oil: oil flowing downhill along the edges of the cave. He was so tired. He could not bring himself to raise his head and stand.

“Dyl muss nished gumuttif, cobbler. Geshlaffen dyl. Ish wurrdyn dyl detunden.” Her voice was unmistakable: it was Lys. With what little strength he had, he raised his head and looked into her careworn face. She was smiling down on him. She knelt next to him and embraced him. Her old but loving arms encircled his body, and he felt the warmth of her form pressing against him. He would be alright. Lys would take care of him. She would have a story about her fascinating and engaging life, a life of self-reliance and preservation, of strength and value. A life worth living, so unlike the one chosen by fate for him to lead. All he need do was sit back and reclaim her familiar and attentive and affectionate care. It was a wonderful, comfortable feeling. He allowed his body to lie back, as Lys stroked his arms, his chest, his legs. They felt cold, but her touch was warm. Her touch was everywhere. Soothing. Familiar. Comforting.

The cobbler’s son, on his back, immobile, eyes closed, heard the calming voice. She had come for him. He could stay with her now without regrets. His former quest could be forgotten. It was the outside

world that asked him to follow that path, to be larger than he was, to do more. But he knew that there was also value in being with Lys, here. Now. Tremendous value. She held him in her arms, comforting his troubles, slurping away his disquiet. Why should he ever want more than this? The strength of this wonderful woman who saw something in him, who felt his absence, who (if he should really leave for once and all) would be finally and tragically alone; this woman of vitality with much to offer and in much need, facing the end of her life alone. It filled the cobbler’s son with more than sorrow. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Please, let me stay. I want to stay right here. With you.” “Cleer. Oh, cleer, mys enjal. Stae hiere, stay here with me. Right here.” She continued to stroke his fevered forehead, sipping his cold pain in her warmth. She began to sing.

It was her song that sounded strange to his ears, for the song was accompanied by instruments. How could there be instruments in the cave, the cobbler’s son nearly asked. “Shhhh. Worry not. Just lay back, my child. Lys will handle everything. Everything.” But the instruments (why did they sound like children at play? At play? No…children for sure, but not at play) did not abate. The eerie sound remained even as Lys hummed a song in time with the children’s sounds. Children…in the chill of autumn. That is what the cobbler’s son heard. Children in autumn…eating? Yes, children eating. Eating soup. Slurping the comfort of a rich, thick, red broth. Eagerly dining. So hungry, all of them. As though their mother rarely fed them, poor beasts. The cobbler’s son had never known sumptuousness, but he had never known children to be near starvation. The village had no such poverty. The Princess would never allow her people to suffer in such a way. The Princess…the Princess. The reason he left the village. The vision that drove him to his current place, cosseted by Lys, surrounded by hungry children. It didn’t fit. Something was wrong. The cobbler’s son wrenched his eyes open.

He was surrounded by the black oil he had seen along the edges of the cave’s path. The oil that had been flowing downhill, along with the cobbler’s son, now defied the rules of nature as he knew them and

flowed…uphill. His senses were suddenly more alive. He lifted the guttering torch and brought it closer to his body: there, oozing over his body was not oil at all, but leeches. Leeches engorging themselves on the cuts covering his body, draining him, emptying him. The shock brought the cobbler’s son to his feet in a single, swift motion, and he forcefully brushed the vermin from his body. The vision of Lys clearing from his fevered mind, forced out by the vision of the Princess. For the Princess was real. The Princess was all. Nothing, nothing in this world would stop him. Nothing. He must close the cuts. Now.

The cobbler’s son brought out the small vial of conditioning cream, and he smeared it into the cuts he could reach. One by one, he rubbed the stinging ointment into the openings in his skin, surrounded by the red tissue of infection. Then, one by one, he lit the wounds with his torch, cauterizing them. One by one, closing the shallow cuts, cuts with poison that prevented healing and that brought on evil dreams. One by one, with the single vision of the Princess in his mind, the cobbler’s son seared and sealed his body. Nothing, nothing in the world would stop him. Nothing.

Part Nine

“’Nothing’ is more vast than you think, cobbler.”

The Voice boomed from around him; all around him. It came from the depths of the cave that lay ahead.

“’Nothing’ is what you have in abundance, and what that Princess of yours wants.” The same Voice. This time, behind him as well as ahead of him.

“’Nothing’ is what you can offer her, and it is what she will take from you.” The deep, booming Voice: ahead, behind, under his feet, over his head.

“’Nothing’ is what fills you, like a hole in the ground. ‘Nothing’ is all you are, cobbler. The larger you aspire to be, the more ‘nothing’ you become.” The Voice was not angry, nor goading, nor menacing. Yet, it was familiar in some small way.

“’Nothing’ you are, like a shadow, you see. A shadow that falls upon the ground and exists only insofar as ‘something’ of true substance lies between it and the light. ‘Something’ like your Princess. As you said, she is real. She is all. She is in the world and is changing the world where she treads. And you, shadowman, you change ‘nothing.”

“No!” answered the cobbler’s son, his strained voice echoing into the emptiness. “No, you’re wrong. I am on a quest! I will find the ruby drakes, capture and kill one, skin it, and make the Princess something she will treasure.”

“Ahhh,” answered the Voice. “You will make the Princess ‘something,’ you say? Knowing already that she is something. Knowing what the world already knows: the Princess is something. And you are going to cobble something together for her?”

“Yes…yes…my quest…”

“Ahhh,” answered the Voice. “You are on a quest to be a cobbler, cobbler? Much toil. Much pain. Your quest to make shoes. Your quest to do what you always have done, at home. For what you already have. At home. What ‘something’ is it you hope to gain, shadowman? For if your life is to make shoes, you have come so far already for ‘something’ you already have, which means of course that you toil and pain for nothing. For nothing.”

“No!” answered the cobbler’s son. “It is not for ‘nothing!’ I know, deep down, I know that I am meant for…for more than making ordinary shoes. I will make extraordinary ones.”

“Ahhh,” answered the Voice. “But then your quest is to make shoes that are more than ordinary. Like your family has always done. Like what your village expects from you. Like what your village wants you do to. If your quest is to make extraordinary shoes, to make ‘something’ extraordinary, you should return, return home, return to what you know you can do. Return to the life that your ancestors lived, making extraordinary shoes. Your journey is not for naught. Your journey and your pain and your toil show you that it is your life to do more than you had done: to make extraordinary shoes. Like the shoes on the feet of the magistrate statue. Those are ‘something.’ Those are more than the ‘nothing’ you have and the ‘nothing’ you’ve been. Return to your home, and do what your long, long line of ancestors taught you to do and inculcated you to do. But do it with ‘something’ more than you have. Live that life, cobbler.”

“But…but to turn around now, after all I have been through…” answered the cobbler’s son.

“To turn back home now will mean you return a better cobbler. A cobbler who knows what it means to make ‘something’ extraordinary. A cobbler who has escaped the senseless wandering for ‘something’ that is so readily offered. At home. A cobbler able to bring warning to the people of the waters that may destroy them. Besides, cobbler, what place have you outside of that world? What place have you among the privilege of peerage when instead you could enjoy the solace and prosperity of mind that results from mastery over the world you know? Do you abhor contentment so much, cobbler? Have you reflected, given true reflection, on the subject of why you toil for discontentment so painfully? “

“I’m not…I don’t…”

“With the privileged peerage, you will be one more in a choir of scrabbling Voices, barely discernible. In your village, you will return with stories of this journey. Stories that will amaze. And you will return a new cobbler. A cobbler who makes extraordinary shoes. Live that life, cobbler.”

“I’m not…I don’t…”

“Ahhh. It is true. You are not. You don’t. Accept that, as most content men accept it. Reject it, and remain discontented. Remain tired. Remain fatigued. Remain mired in your swampland. In your limbo. Cut and bleeding. What, oh what did you expect, cobbler? To climb and mount the Princess’s faithful steed? Barefooted, and adorned with what amounts to a jester’s cap? Drinking the wilds and succulence that stains the lips of the privileged peerage? You, straining to remain awake in this dream of ‘something’ you crafted for yourself, eyes straining to remain clear but through the heartache of the turbulent gulf that remains between you and the effigy of attainment that will never, never be yours, a turbulence grown stronger as the surge of your inadequacy thaws and those impossible waters rise further still, a gulf grown deeper from the doubts that will never clear, attainment far from your outstretched hand, promising to be near but never near enough, your burns your scars never healed, never completely, as her soft and strong hands soothe with experienced touch from afar, and then, only then… ”

“…then, only then,” the cobbler’s son continued in the Voice he finally recognized as his own, “…only then will I find my feet, and make my move, nettled and goaded forward, at long, long last, the imagined obstacles melt to the sound of my triumph, a triumph born of boldness, that there is no obstacle between me and the object of my quest. The object of my quest is not shoes. Never shoes. But her. Always her.”

Part Ten

The cobbler’s son followed the downward path of the cave, the echo of the Voice still in his head (which was of course the only place it ever has been) and the bitter-sweetness of its message heavy in his heart. How long had the cobbler’s son carried the specter of inadequacy in his soul? How long had that specter, silent but present, weighted his being? Where would the wind of the world had taken him had he but followed it? If the Princess would not permit him to enter her life (and there was no reason to believe for a moment that there was room in her life for the likes of him), he still owed her a debt, for it was her and her alone (always her) that had put the tool in his hand to cut away the bonds holding him back. His was now a freedom that would carry him along to destinations unknown and after his quest was complete, he would venture out to find those destinations.

The world of his village was just too small now. He felt again the animation of youth, seeing limitless possibilities ahead, impossibly wide paths to explore, and the delight of flexing one’s strength, astonishing sensations that had narrowed through the passage of time as years passed, progressively, through no direct action of his own. The thought filled him at once with a lightness of spirit and a profound sadness. He derived no joy from the notion of leaving the community that valued him, but nor could he deny the exhilaration, the aliveness he felt. The cobbler’s son faced his first hard truth: adulthood is not filled with making decisions between right and wrong; adulthood is making decisions between two very right things that cannot both exist at once and learning to live with those decisions. And now his choice was made. He lightly brushed the tears from his cheeks.

When the sloped cave floor and walls began themselves to weep and to become similarly moist, he could not say, preoccupied as he was with his own thoughts, yet the cobbler’s son now noted that here and there were small puddles of water gathering on the edges of the uneven ground. The humidity in the depth of the cave (like his mixture of feelings) intensified stiflingly and the cobbler’s son began to sweat. The deeper he traveled, the warmer and moister the air, walls, and ground became.

His shoes, artifacts from a former life that seemed to exist years ago (lifetimes ago) rather than mere days, had been made by his father and were sturdy and well crafted, and he had little fear of slipping. His old strength seemed to return to him as he continued his trek, despite the ever more tropical conditions that burned lightly in his lungs. After several hours, his breathing became more and more labored, the warm rarified air took on the metallic flavor of water left overlong in a steel canteen. The cobbler’s son estimated that he was scores of miles underground now, the last dozen or so of those miles were over ground slick with steaming water from some approaching hot springs, lousy with minerals. He could no longer see the cave floor as his feet plopped forward, but he imagined the rough and sharp edges of the stones underfoot which caused his soles to start to ache and burn even through the excellent leather shoes his father had made him. That he had made with his father, he corrected himself.

Why did he do that, he asked himself. Why did he not give himself credit for the contributions he made? His old father was skilled, it was true, but he knew he exceeded even his father’s talent for tanning leather. Was that not why he was on this quest? His natural skill was highly praised by those from his village, even if he rarely heard those accolades from his own family. Perhaps this was why the cobbler considered his input there to be a requirement, often a thankless one, until he himself was unable to see the commendable quality of his contributions as anything more than obligation.

The admirations he heard from their family’s customers were undeniable: his skill at leatherworking was extraordinary. He had tanned the leather of the very excellent shoes he wore now: he had skinned the old horse himself, hydrated it in water and lime, pickled it, basified it, thinned and lubricated it, split it, stripped it, dried it, softened it, buffed it. The cobbler knew skin. He knew how to treat it properly and revere it. The subtlest variation in his treatment produced different results, and every skin was different but the cobbler’s dexterity (rough and gentle and fast and unhurried) was natural and unique and he so enjoyed it, every aspect. Even the smell. The smell. What was that smell?

It smelled as though something were being burned--some beast being burned nearby. Could it be the poor and hapless prey of the ruby drakes? Was he that close? The cobbler stopped his walking to listen for evidence of the proximity of his quarry. But he heard only silence. He tried to remain quiet, but the rough ground under the sweltering waters at his feet forced him to shift his weight uncomfortably and he could still feel the hot water. He looked down. The shallow, steaming water on which he was standing smelled like burning flesh. He lifted his right foot and the leather strappings of his shoe gave way and splashed into the shallow liquid. He had not been stamping through hot spring water at all, but caustic, corrosive acid. He held his torch up high and looked behind him: miles and miles of acid-slick ground. He bend down, picked up the dissolving remains of his right shoe, wiped the acid as best he could from it, slid in his bare foot, winced at the pain as the acid bit, and ran forward. He had to hope and believe that the way ahead would prove better than what he knew lay behind: incessant and nagging hurt from beneath him that would bit by bit decompose him and most certainly cripple him forever.

The cobbler ran forward.

Part Eleven

By the time the cobbler spotted the high promontory of rock ahead of him, the acid had risen to above his ankles. He took special care even as he was running to keep his mangled shoes upon his feet, grateful for the little protection they afforded. As he reached the outcropping, the cobbler vaulted himself up and onto a ledge that formed something of a cubicle and lifted his feet from the damaging fluids. He was short of breath, and what breath he was able to take stung his lungs as he labored. Nevertheless, the cobber savored the respite as he sat on the rock booth.

He removed his ruined shoes and examined his feet. In places, the skin on his soles was red and raw, and blistered in others. He would be walking very slowly for many weeks. The question of how he would make it back out of the cave was too ominous to consider. He took stock of his immediate surroundings. On the lowest ledge where he sat, the cobbler was amazed to find the skeletal remains of many beasts. Among those animal remains (some of which his limited experience could not identify), he found a rather large bone close by, and, careful to keep his torch lit against the dark, used it as a makeshift crutch. The cobbler got inelegantly to his injured feet and stepped over the skeletons of rodents, pigs, even horses, cows, ducks, and a swan.

Treading gingerly, the cobbler started to search for a way to scrabble to the top of the rock. It was then that he heard the noises of several animals eating. He stopped moving, his eyes widened as if to make his hearing more keen. He judged that the creatures were just around the curve of the natural jetty. Slowly, cautiously, the cobbler made his way around the edge of the acid shoreline. He peered over the ridge of stone and there spied the lounge of ruby drakes. The cobbler cursed his luck; he felt uncomfortably close to the prey he had been hunting. As his ill-luck would have it, the lounge was very near, despite the fact that this outcropping, he now discovered, was easily more than 300 feet across. Possibly a full lea.

Yet the beasts were glorious. The four small drakes wrestled languorously. The cobbler noticed the bloody remains of an enormous goat which they had not yet fully consumed. They had finished eating, he surmised, and were torporific. On a small tuft of weeds, the cobbler observed broken egg shells the size of melons. These drakes, themselves the size of feral cats, were hatchlings. The cobbler slowly settled back, out of sight, although he doubted the drakelings were likely to register the danger he posed, young as they were and (if legends could be trusted) unable to smell. The cobbler untied from his waist the net he had brought along with him and which served as a small belt, and began untangling it in preparation. He envisioned tossing the net over the four beasts as they continued their listless exercise, and he would move quickly to slit their small throats before he found out first hand whether their fabled ability to erupt in fire was true. He construed the sounds the creatures made as reassurance that they remained unaware of him. In fact, the sound of the goat suddenly being dragged noisily across the jagged rocks meant that these growing beasts were still hungry. As they chomped down on the bones and gristle, the cobbler quickened his pace, his trepidation welling.

It took longer than he would have liked to unpack the net and prepare it to capture the ruby drakes, but at last all was ready. He stood (his feet were worse for sitting for those long minutes of work with the net) and crept back into position. What he saw froze the blood in his veins: leaning over the body of the goat was a fully-grown version of the hatchlings he hunted. So surprised was he that he remained unmoving, watching the adult ruby drake with the remains of the goat. It was not a fast eater, picking over the carcass, moving it about with its nose as though looking for the right place to bite. It repositioned itself over the goat’s remains, and the cobbler noticed that the monster was severely injured. Its teeth had been broken, its front two legs all but useless. The sounds he mistook for the brood moving the goat across the rock must in fact have been the wretch pulling itself painfully from wherever it had holed up, nursing its injuries. The cobbler did not take note of his newfound fondness to theorize deductive questions and answer them as quickly as he can field.

The cobbler had no time to consider further what this turn of events meant for his quest and how he could turn this to his advantage before it became clear that the adult drake was not in fact finicky at all: it could not manage to eat. With its shattered teeth, it had no way to rend the meat from the goat. Yet then, the four small drakes came near the goat and their parent, reached into the carcass, and systematically pulled meat from it, chewed for a while, then dropped the tenderized morsels on the ground, which the parent slowly (and, it seemed to the cobbler) painfully consumed. It was a pitiful sight. The cobbler, who had killed many animals in his life (for food, for leather) was moved. It would, perhaps, be a mercy to try to put this thing out of its misery if he could. If he could manage it, he would have not one, but five fells.

He watched mesmerized for a long while before the wounded adult drake lifted itself back up on its front legs (did it wince?) turned itself around, then dragged its body back toward what appeared to be an alcove which the cobbler had not at first noticed. Along the way, it stopped at the edge of the corrosive liquid, bent its head at a small, isolated pool of acid, and drank. The puddle erupted in flame. Nonplused, the drake pulled itself just inside its shelter. The cobbler, however, did not ignore the blaze, aware of the effect that the drake’s breath stoked.

The cobbler would never be able to say precisely when or why he decided to leave the drakes in peace. A week earlier, he would not have thought twice about obtaining his prize. Now, he simply needed to puzzle out a way to return the way he had come without suffering permanent injury. The cave was deep underground, and he would need to pass through acid and leeches and razor-sharp leaves and a raging river, but he had never felt more content. He would travel that long trek back more comfortable than he had ever been and he would leave the drakes and their meal behind. It was a larger world than the cobbler could have known, and there was room in it for him with his newfound purpose, and there was room in it for these ruby drakes and their meal.

…but, where exactly had that goat come from? None of the beasts he had seen were capable of bringing the carcass this deep underground. Certainly the goat had not wandered through those hazards haplessly into the lair of this family of drakes. So, then…? The cobbler’s curiosity about the world would not be denied. He waited in his hiding place until the sounds of the hatchlings subsided, climbed atop the outcropping and had a good look around. Only the sheltering of rock into which the wounded animal had retreated remained out of sight. Convinced that the drakes were deeply napping in their post-feast lethargy, the cobbler braved forward as silently as he could with his bone cane, guttering torch, and supplies. He had grown skilled at deadening his footfall’s noise.

He sneaked toward the alcove. Hidden by shadows, the cobbler found not one form, but three: the wounded drake (now utterly insensate), a second but larger drake, and a grotesquery: a chicken the size of a large dog, but with a serpent’s tail. It must be a dead cockatrice, an abomination whose breath was death and its stare paralyzing. The larger drake was also clearly dead, likely the result of a battle with the horror, and the remaining adult drake was much the worse for the encounter. Perhaps the cockatrice had stalked the family of drakes and attacked when they were engrossed by their kill, and now the smaller adult drake would not leave the side of its dead mate, despite the noxious fumes issuing from the cockatrice. For the smaller drake to live and care for its young, the body of the evil bird-serpent must be removed.

The cobbler backed away and into the fresh air. He breathed heavily and quickly, taking large gulping breaths until he felt lightheaded, the way he filled his body with air before diving deep underwater to impress the girl whose family lived by the lake and who served as summer lifeguard for the village. With one final intake, he held his breath and entered the shelter.

When he was close enough to the cockatrice, he threw his net over its body and began to tug and pull it from the recess. The cobbler dragged the corpse to the edge of the acid, and, with a mighty heave, rolled it into the liquid; he did not want the poisonous discharge from the thing to hurt the hatchlings. With satisfaction, he saw the feathered corpse, deadly even in death, start to dissolve. Only when he could stand it no longer did he risk a quick breath, and found the air fresh. He watched in amazement as the last of the monster liquefied and disappeared, and It was then that he heard a stirring from behind him in the alcove of the smaller drake. It was starting to move. Stories were told of ruby drakes’s remarkable healing powers, but the cobbler could not have imagined how quickly the beast would recover once the source of the lethal fumes was removed.

He had little time to lose. He hobbled back over to the far side of the promontory and remained as quiet as he could. And there he stayed, listening, as the adult ruby drake regained its strength, hissed an angry call, and he watched, wide-eyed with wonder, as it scampered more quickly even than it healed down the side of the promontory, into the acid and ran up the shaft the way the cobbler himself had come, its four babies clinging to its back. He told himself that he only imagined the lively relief and glee he saw on the faces of the tiny beasts, reunited with their parent, and the creatures he had been hunting for days were gone in a trice.

So sat the cobbler, still deeply wounded, hungry, thirsty, and now stranded on a rock refuge with no prospects of rescue surrounded by acid. Yet he was happy. He had come so far, in every sense. If he was fated to die, he would pass knowing that he was so much more than he had been. No more was he merely a patient on which the world worked. He worked his will on the world. As the Princess did. He had experienced and seen enough to know that the world held astonishing things, and if he had regrets it was merely at how little of it he had seen. He owed much to the Princess, his quest, and the fabled ruby drakes.

Part Twelve

So sat the cobbler. And here he would sit, in his cubicle of stone, his barefeet dangling above the surface of the corrosive liquid, until the end of his days. For however long that would be. He reminded himself that he was happy, comforted by the knowledge that he had become more than he had been. He was transformed. He indeed owed much to the Princess. He must, in some way, repay her. There was nothing he could gift that was equal to the riches at her disposal, so instead he found himself moved, for the first time in his prosaic life, to poetry.

I’ve heard tell that the nobility

must be removed, snobby, and lofty

to remain autocratic and be admired.

Generous in their giving

gentile in their living

is how to remain ravishing and desired.

But my Princess is gallant,

courtly, fearless, valiant

no needed airs to prove that she is radiant .

Righteous all on her own

splendid right down to the bone

her mores are just and know no sneaky gradient.

“Alluring” says the kid in us

more adult would be “pulchritudinous”

it’s that kind of word play she’d find so very playful.

Warmhearted in her heart

winning right from the very start

she serves perceptions discerning by the trayfull

Exaggerating? No I amn’t!

she truly is that bright and lambent

her strength and will are truly very hearty.

Undaunted, against the odds

energetic as the gods

weaving craft as ethereal as it is arty

Once attached, never parted

braving all so lionhearted

with a mix of strength and of supple lithe

Affectionate we two would be

road-weary, no never we

My feelings forthright, buoyant and so deeply blithe

The truth in affection’s commanded

the time is nigh for avowal candid

my affection I must own and be steadfast

True to passion’s high-wire

compassionate with heart’s desire

Admission brings convivial peace at long last

As the cobbler struggled to find more and more descriptive words to express what she meant to him, he found his feelings pouring out of him through his awkward, immature sincerity. As the stanzas decanted from him more and more quickly (and with less and less care), he knew he was not happy after all. He was incomplete. The Princess would care little for the profound changes she had forever ignited within him, but he would tell her nonetheless. Somehow, he would. She was everything to him. The Princess was all.

The cobbler got to his feet and explored the promontory with more scrutiny. But after an hour of searching, his torch nearing the end of its life, he had to admit that fate did not leave him an easy method of escape, despite the renewed hope he had felt. He found himself standing just outside of the shelter from which he had dragged the cockatrice (unwilling as he had been to touch the monstrosity). He sat down once again, alone with his (and the cave’s) growing gloom. What he needed was a miracle. What he needed was a little magic.

He quickly rummaged through his scant belonging, and found the spell Lys had bestowed. It was meant to soothe the savage drakes, but he had not needed its power then. He needed it now. Hoping that it contained a more general usefulness, the cobbler unfolded the paper and read the words aloud: “You need no spells. You have what you need.”

The brief spark of optimism died away as the cobbler let the parchment fall. Lys had been right about her prediction, in a way, but she could not possibly know how terrible a blow her message (meant well) would deliver. The cobbler shook his head, feeling the last of his will to survive crack, and looked down at the fallen parchment, now blank. The words were gone. Were those lines just another figment of his imagination, as the Voice had been and Lys’s image before that? He was certain the words had been real. As real as the message itself. “You need no spells. You have what you need.”

Again rising to his feet, the cobbler hobbled into the alcove and looked at the dead ruby drake. He bent down to examine it more closely. The shimmering hide, which indeed would make for excellent shoes, shimmered iridescently. In the waning light of his torch he nearly hypnotized himself in its splendor. That was when the idea struck him. A big, audacious idea. He needed no spells. He had what he needed.

He withdrew his knife and proceeded to remove the hide from the beast, just as he had planned to do from the off. With quick and adept strokes, he skinned the ruby drake and brought the large hide to the edge of the acid and dropped it in. As the cobbler predicted, the acid left the hide intact, even as it quickly dissolved the bits of carnage and gore, leaving it clean. He withdrew it from the pool, and was amazed to find that the acid did not linger on it. The cobbler dropped to his knees, carefully wrapping the hide about him, still holding his supplies and torch, and, in one swift and gutsy move, tossed the dying torch toward the acid and covered the rest of himself under the hide.

The cobbler felt as well as heard the massive whoooosh as the flammable corrosive caught fire, as he had seen it do when the other adult drake drank. But he was insulated against the inferno and remained quite cool. He could not say how long he stayed motionless, listening to the holocaust raging around him, but after what seemed like hours, he heard nothing and dared peek from beneath his protection.

The acid had combusted away, the way before him was fully open, he knew that the leeches would have popped and perished in the conflagration, he held the extraordinary and magnificent hide he had sought, now glowing dimly red in the darkness, and all that remained now was to return to Lembrel Creek (emerging on the far side) and to follow it back.

The man was free to find his destiny and live a life of legend.