The Shoemaker's Tale

Once upon a time, in a certain kingdom beyond the seven seas, there lived a shoemaker. Every day, from dawn to dusk, he sat in the front room of his cottage, cutting and sewing, hammering and pricking, smoothing and polishing. The faded sign over the door said, Shoemaker to the King, but it had been many years since he’d received an order from the court. He couldn’t remember the last time he had made a pair of calfskin riding boots, or silver-buckled dancing shoes, or satin bootees for a royal baby.

Since his change of fortune, he’d kept body and soul together by selling clodhoppers to farmers and clogs to their wives, for little money and no thanks. His life became so miserable, that when he finished work one day, he decided he wouldn’t make another pair of shoes for anyone else, whether high born or low, until he had made a pair for himself, something he had dreamed of doing since he was a boy learning his trade at his father’s side.

For reasons that were long forgotten, it was the law in that land for shoemakers to go barefoot. Since the penalty for disobedience was severe, the shoemaker could not allow himself to be seen shod. He dare not even breathe a word of his vow, for fear he would be reported to the authorities and thrown into prison. He looked at his grimy feet and shook his head. It would have to stay a dream.

Unless… he left the kingdom.

The face that looked back at him from the surface of the water when he washed his hands, was lined with care, but his body was strong from years of toil. He was still young enough to make a new home. He had never married, so there was no reason to remain in the land of his birth. The next day, he packed his tools, his lasts, and his leathers into a small wooden trunk; tucked the few coins he had saved into a purse on his belt; wrapped a loaf of bread and some cheese in a cloth and set off. He walked, and he walked, and he walked, until he came to the King’s Highway, which was the only road leading out of the kingdom. Should he go East, or should he go West?

It was late and the shoemaker decided to follow the setting sun. When night fell, he slept in a ditch and when the sun rose, he carried on walking. So it went for many days and nights, until he came to a line painted across the road. He stepped over it into the next kingdom and sat down beside a tree stump. He got out his needles, awls, and beeswax; his thread, his hobnails, and hammer, his skiving knife, smoothing gum, and wooden lasts. He chose the finest calfskin from his pack and before night fell, he put on the first pair of shoes he had ever worn. He danced a jig round the tree stump to try them out. They were so comfortable that he shed a tear of joy and pride.

When he got to the nearest town, he set up a stall in the marketplace. Trade was brisk, and he soon had enough money to stay at a comfortable inn. No-one thought twice about a shoemaker wearing shoes. But the inn-keeper’s daughter had shaved her scalp because she was a hairdresser and in that kingdom, for reasons long forgotten, hairdressers were forbidden to have any hair. As a young girl she’d had glorious chestnut tresses and having to go about bald made her very sad. Marry me, said the shoemaker. We’ll go somewhere you can grow your hair.

The inn-keeper’s daughter thought that was a fine idea, so they jumped the broomstick and set off westward, until they came to a line painted across the road and stepped over it into another kingdom. They were happy together and her hair soon grew back. They would have stayed if they hadn’t discovered that the butcher and the baker went hungry in that land because bakers were not permitted to eat bread, and butchers were forbidden to eat meat. It didn’t take much to persuade them to follow the shoemaker and his wife to a third kingdom where such things were allowed.

All would have been well there, had dressmakers not been forced to go naked and woodcutters prevented from burning wood. So, they upped sticks and travelled west again. There were some lands where birds were not permitted to sing nor dogs to bark; some where teachers had no schools and ministers had no churches in which to pray; and others where builders went unhoused, and gardeners denied their own parcels of land. Before long, a troupe of wronged citizens, with stray dogs tagging along and flocks of birds swooping overhead, travelled from kingdom to kingdom looking for somewhere they could call home, until they came to a land like no other. There were no roads there or villages or towns, no churches or schools, no shoemakers or hairdressers, no bakers or butchers; no dressmakers or woodcutters, no houses or gardens, no birds in the sky or dogs to howl at the moon.

There were no adults either, but there were children. Hundreds of them. Unshod. Naked. Straggle-haired. Hungry. Cold. Lonely. Heathen. Ignorant. Abandoned and left to their own devices because in that land, for reasons long forgotten, children were not permitted to have parents. The penalties for disobeying this ancient edict were grievous, but since there were no grown-ups left to enforce the law, everyone decided to stay and take care of the children.

Houses and churches and schools were built, gardens dug, shoes cobbled, dresses made, hair cut, and bellies filled. The birds nested in the trees, the dogs found comfortable homes, and soon new babies were born. The shoemaker and his wife had twins. They called them Barefoot and Baldy, so they would never forget how they came to be. It’s said that when they grew up, they led a great army that routed the foolish kingdoms through which their parents had passed and restored the rights of all.

But that is another story for another day.

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