Boots

I’ve been organizing my files and found this story I wrote a few years ago. I hope you like it! xx CC

When the young man first came into my shoe shop clutching the piece of paper with the measurements, I assumed it was a jest. Boots with buttons, he wanted–then he handed me the paper. I laughed as I read it; surely no man alive had feet of such size. But the lad insisted, and set a coin on my table. I needed work, so I made his boots, and did my best work, in spite of their strangeness. He was delighted when he picked them up, and paid me a second coin.

He returned the next week. He wanted more boots, with the same measurements, and requested buckles as well. Brass buckles, he said. And calfskin for the boots themselves, not the cheaper hide I’d used for the first pair. Not keeping such expensive supplies in my shop, I asked for his payment in advance, and he gave it. So I shrugged and made his boots. He smiled broadly when he came for them.

Three weeks later he was back for another pair, wearing clothing that was finer than the previous homespun. “Dye them red this time,” he said. “And a hat, to match. A dapper hat, of the latest fashion.” I nodded, for although I was no milliner, my sister had been employed by one before she wed, and she would be glad for the extra money with her first child on the way. Even before I could ask the man for payment, he tossed a bag of silver onto my work-table, then strode out the door.

As I looked inside the bag, I found not only coin, but a small scrap of paper with measurements. My sister laughed when she saw it. “Surely he must be dressing a doll, with a hat this size,” she said. “Perhaps he is wooing a doll-collector, or a widow with a young daughter.” And so that explained the size, but not why he needed three pairs of boots. But again I shrugged–work was work, money was money, and I cared not what he dressed or shod, so long as he paid me for my labors.

He returned months later, dressed in the finest fashion of the day. Carrying a new air of authority about him, he asked me for the most elaborate pair of boots I’d made in my entire lifetime. Gold buckles, he wanted, encrusted with jewels. Not only a matching hat–adorned with a peacock feather–but an embroidered silk cape as well. I protested the cape, having only the one sister, but finally relented when he handed me the heavy bag of silver. I could easily find a girl to sew and embellish a simple doll’s cape, with funds such as these, and so I did. He smiled when he saw the finished goods, and paid me an extra gold coin.

My own fortune improved with that gold coin, and the other payment he had given. I expanded my shop, hired a few boys to learn the trade and help with deliveries. I was able to purchase better-quality leather, more dyestuffs, fancier buckles. Wealthier men now came into my shop, and by the time a year had passed, I was important–and wealthy–enough to merit an invitation to the wedding of the Princess herself. Imagine my surprise when, at the ceremony, I discovered the bridegroom was none other than my benefactor, the young man who had purchased the tiny boots from my once-humble shop.

During a lull in the feasting, the young man came to sit at my side. “I must thank you,” he said, “for all you have done for me. I would not be the man I am today without your assistance.”

“It is I who must thank you,” I replied. “My own fortune has increased vastly, and it would not have done so without your coin.”

The young man–now a Prince–smiled, and my curiosity finally overcame my discretion. I cleared my throat and asked, “But if I may ask, m’lord–for what, exactly, was I making all of those boots?”

He chuckled and then stood, beckoning. We left the dining room, walked down a grand hallway, through a set of enormous doors, and finally, into the library.

And there, in front of the fireplace, I saw it. And I laughed until I wept, and even past that until I had no more breath. The Prince laughed with me, and then finally said, “I would be greatly honored if you would see fit to make me, or rather …” He paused, making a sweeping gesture with his hand to encompass what I saw before me, and then continued, “… your only customer. There will be a title in it for you, of course, as well as lodging and a workshop on the grounds of the palace itself, and anything else you require.”

I wiped the tears from my eyes before nodding my agreement. Work is work, and so long as I was paid for my boots, I cared not who–nor what–wore them.

And that, my friends, is the story of how I became the Official Cordwainer to Master Puss, the Royal Cat.

Shoe Bench Photo by Matteo Vella on Unsplash

Cat Photo by Jan Kopřiva on Unsplash