I was going to buy shoes. Not loose, raggedy shoes, nor tight shoes prone to callusing. No second hands, either. I, Ludik, son of a shoemaker, would have my own shoes. Bespoke, if the money allowed it.

It wasn’t even lunchtime when I headed to Burrow. I woke up extra early to finish my chores and give Otto a bath. You’d think that would be a fast chore, but Otto had the surface area of a jousting arena.

Down the dungy street, Mr. Aree loaded his wagon. He was a kind old man whom Heimee usually hired to transport Heims to Baer and whose sense of humor I would never understand. Not because I didn’t get it, but because his lower lip was bent on consuming as much of his face as it could, making it impossible to lip read.

“Ouch!”

Something pointy hit me on the side of the head.

I rubbed my temple where it struck me. Was it a pebble? I turned around, expecting to see kids ducking behind a haystack or something but found no one. Men sprawled on the tavern’s benches, dozing off after their mid-morning aperitif. And the non-alcoholics generally went about their own business. Nothing seemed out of place.

I looked down at my feet and found a piece of paper folded to look like an arrowhead stuck in the hay. I picked it up and tapped the crumpled tip with my finger. That’s what hit me. There was handwriting on it, so I unfolded it, noting the straight and deliberate creases, forming symmetrical triangles. The handwriting was delicate, feminine, and precise. The sort of calligraphy found only in old books and—

It was addressed to me.

What, in the Bastard’s name, was I reading? I reread it, but it made no sense. I rubbed my eyes to ensure I wasn’t dreaming and read one more time, carefully examining each word.

Dear, Ludik.

I could tell you why I, Mathew Doller, am currently dangling off a cliff, rope tied to my feet, but I’m afraid that if I tell you why too soon, you might leave me hanging. Or cut the rope to see if I can fly. I can assure you, I will. However briefly.

But Miranda says you’re cool, so here we are. Now listen, forget about whatever it is that you’re doing.

There are three mountains east of Guillingsbaer. Bang to the left one. Only two roads lead there. Take the right road… as opposed to the left one. I don’t mean the correct one. Well, I do mean the correct one, and the correct one is the one to the right. Sigh. After about two miles—what do you mean he doesn’t know what a mile is? No suh! Jesus, why did you bring me to the medieval ages? Okay, okay, I get it. After one and a half league, more or less, there will be a tree perching on the cliff edge. There’s only one. Ya can’t miss it. I’ll be about ten feet below it.

Please hurry.

Seriously,

Mat.

My mind raced to find a plausible explanation.

As far as I knew, there weren’t any other Ludiks in Burrow. No, that’s not accurate. As far as I knew, I was the only Ludik in the region. Of course, I could be wrong, but the ‘ik’ in my name is very northern. And even in the North, it was not a common name. What were the chances that I lived so close to another Ludik my head just happened to intercept his messages? The rest of the letter didn’t make much sense either. How could this Mathew fellow have written this letter while upside-down? And how had it reached me from so far away?

It had to be some kind of prank. But who could be behind it? I didn’t have many friends in Burrow. I’d been careful that way. Also, the letter was too imaginative for the average Burrow kid. I snapped my fingers. Brinn. It had to be an elaborate prank of hers. But it wasn’t that funny even. She usually had a better sense of humor; upon closer scrutiny, the handwriting couldn’t possibly be Brinn’s. Her calligraphy was as smooth as a handful of gravel. She could’ve asked for someone else to write it. That, or she had been hiding some serious calligraphy skills from me.

But if it was her, then where—

I saw her coming up the street, a basket full of bread in her arms. Any doubt as to whom was responsible evaporated. I folded the letter, trying to follow the creases, but gave up and ended up with a neat square. I stashed it in my pouch, tucking it in a small compartment so it wouldn’t touch the honey apples I had brought.

I waved at Brinn, but she didn’t see me—or pretended not to see me. That was fine. I didn’t have time for this anyway. If I didn’t hurry, Mr. Aree would leave without me, and I would have to walk, turning a one-hour journey into a two-hour feet-blistering trip, which meant more time without buying shoes.

“Hello, Mr. Aree,” I said as I reached him.

Mr. Aree scrunched his face in what I can only assume was his way of greeting, his lower lip covering everything beneath his nose.

“Would you mind giving me a ride?”

He showed me two fingers. At first, it seemed like a rude gesture, but then he rubbed his pointing finger against his thumb. Two. Money. Oh yes, Two bolts. Of course. It had to be a bolt. No one in the right mind would charge two heads for a ride to town.

I reached into my pocket and produced a full head, glistening in the sunlight. It was as if I had shown him a severed limb. He snatched my hand, and for a moment, I thought he’d steal the coin; instead, he bent my fingers over it. He shook his head and raised his hands in a “Are you mental?” gesture, then motioned to the general area around us.

Were there rules about money? I didn’t know it wasn’t socially acceptable to display money publicly. And how could I have known? I never had any.

Mr. Aree sighed, relaxed his shoulders, and invited me aboard anyway.

“Thank you, Mr. Aree. I’ll pay you after I get change, I promise.”

He waved a hand dismissively.

An hour later, we reached the giant stone pin cushion called Guillingsbaer. Heimee and I often traveled there on official business, so I knew the lay of the city pretty well. The city’s very religious, and preachers infest every corner. “You’re lucky you’re deaf,” Heimee had once told me. “You don’t have to hear these lunatics preach about how miserably you should lead your life.” He shoved a preacher aside. “Yeah, I get it, the Bastard’s an idiot. Get out of my face before I put you in contact with Him.”

I prayed to the Bastard every now and then, but I seldom visited a Palrik. No, that’s a lie. I’ve actually never been inside one. Both religions were the same to me. They both prayed to the light and the Tree of Life. One, however, had a nameless Bastard who had led a miserable and perilous life and spent his late years preaching his findings on the streets until they found him dead in his meditation pose, and miraculously his body did not decompose. Ever. It is said you can still see him meditating into eternity in the first Palrik in Polis, the capital of the Holarmo Empire. A city so far away it could very well be imaginary.

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

I often wondered if I ever went nuts, would someone start a religion after me?

Mr. Aree left me at the beginning of the shopping street before it became too narrow for any cart to continue.

If you want to buy anything, Baer’s shopping street is the place to go. It had everything you could possibly need. And everyone went there. Not by choice, though, but because the nearest market was leagues away in Lirterin.

The street bustled with chaotic activity. I don’t have to be able to hear to know how loud it was—I felt it in my skin. People gathered in packed, tiny esplanades or haggled with street vendors. Some held the flow of the crowd chatting in the middle of the road, ignoring everybody else’s insults. Soldiers marched up and down on endless patrols. Well-dressed people perused what street vendors had to offer or admired showcase windows, happily ignoring the beggars lining the curb.

I pitied the beggars, maybe because I had been one myself. Granted, not for long, but still. I wanted to share my money with them, but I’d worked so hard for this money. And if I shared, I might not have enough for my shoes. Was I being selfish? I remembered the apples in my pouch, noting the weird note that stuck my head earlier next to them, and decided to offer them to a kid sitting on the curb. It was like seeing a younger reflection of me.

“Great, more apples,” he said and promptly forced a smile, revealing pristine white teeth. “Do you have money?”

“What?”

“Listen, kid,” the kid, much younger than me, said. “I can steal as many apples as I want. What I need is money, so I don’t have to steal apples.”

It was tricky deciphering that, but he had easy lips. “But if you have my apples, you won’t have to steal more.”

The kid blinked as if what I said was truly moronic. He lifted a blanket at his side, revealing a bag full of apples to which he added mine. “Thank you so much for your kind help,” he said, adding the most forced smile in the history of forced smiles.

Despite that, I felt good about myself. I had done my part.

A year or so ago, I stumbled upon a shoe shop. Heimee had told me he wouldn’t spend money on new shoes since he had already given me “a perfectly good pair,” but he also mentioned that Danilee Shoe Shop was the best in the region. So there I went, up the narrow busy street, heart pounding in my chest until I found a showcase widow with Danilee Footwear, Buy and Repair stenciled in golden letters.

I reached for the shoe-shaped door handle and pushed the door open. A familiar smell of treated leather welcomed me. Like I was opening the door to Dad’s workshop, like returning home. I quickly shook it off my mind and took notice of the room. Two rows of chairs divided the shop into men’s and women’s sections, each facing shelves packed with incredible leather shoes: work shoes, hiking boots, riding boots—you name it. They came in all shades of black, brown, and white. Different patterns, too—pointy, round, or square toe caps. Long quarter, short quarter. Thick heel, slim heel, tall heel. Fancy or humble brogues, or no brogues at all.

“May I help you, my young man?” the cobbler said with the passion one might show for cheap dish soap. He wore a spotless, olive-green apron. He had an oval-shaped bald head, and where he still had hair, he’d shaved not so long ago—a razor-cut scab hung above his right ear—and observed me with unimpressed eyes over his thin spectacles.

“I’m here to buy shoes,” I said.

“How unexpected,” the cobbler said, straightening his apron and measuring me with his eyes. Fortunately, his lips weren’t hard to read, but I did struggle. “We don’t sell second-hand shoes, I’m afraid.”

“I came here to buy new shoes. Heimee Heims told me this is the place to go.” I often used Heimee’s name as a greeting card. Everyone knew him or his brand. Well, anyone who drank knew him or his brand. And everyone drank.

“Very, well. Don’t touch anything unless I give it to you.” The cobbler reached for the top shelf and produced a pair of beautiful boots—dark brown, thick-soled, modest, perfect lines. He produced a pair of clean socks and a shoehorn. “Please put these on before trying any shoes.” He passed them to me. “Did I guess your size correctly, young man?”

I put on the boots; they fit perfectly. I got up, taking a few steps. That’s what walking should always feel like. Like stepping on fluffy pillows. “How much for these?” I asked.

“Fourteen heads.”

“Fourteen heads?”

He shook his head and showed five fingers on his hand. “Fifteen heads.”

“Fifteen heads?”

“Fifteen heads.”

Blood drained from my face as I took the boots off carefully. I don’t know how I would ever pay them back if I damaged them in any way. Heimee would be furious at me. Trying not to get my hopes down, I asked, “What do you have for three heads?”

“Old shoes,” he said, words like daggers.

I didn’t mind them being old. “Old but never worn, right?”

“As I said, I don’t sell secondhand.”

“Can I have a look?”

“Wait here.” The cobbler shuffled through the storage room and came out holding four boxes. “These are all I have left in your size within your… budget.” He settled them down in a line and opened the lid of each box, one by one as if revealing a treasure. The first three were very unremarkable. Flimsy sole, thin body. Turnshoes, they called them. Only good because the seams were turned inside and hidden from view. You would think that’s good, but you’d be wrong. The seams would rub against your skin, and because the sole was but a thicker layer of leather, they were only marginally better than good winter socks. I remember Dad telling me he had stopped making turnshoes because no one paid for them anymore, not even himself.

My hopes vanished like a blown-out candle. Until the cobbler opened the last box, and my heart sank to my stomach. A tingling sensation spread across my skin like static. There, in that box, were a pair of thick-soled boots, and branded on the side of the creamed color leather was an encircled three-peak mountain with swirly leaves and flowers.

I was petrified—the air in the room became as thick and dense as water.

The cobbler waved a hand in front of my eyes.

“How much for these?” I can only imagine how cracked my voice was. I felt the vibrations when I spoke and knew I didn’t sound right.

“Four heads.”

I felt gutted. Of course, I couldn’t afford them. How foolish was I to think this would be easy? But the boots had to be mine. “I don’t have four gollings,” I said. “I told you; I only have three.”

The cobbler inspected me as I forced my eyes dry. “Then three is the price.”

“Three?”

“Three.”

“Three heads?”

“Three heads.”

I hugged him.

The cobbler held his hands up, peeled me away like someone getting rid of a dirty tablecloth, and adjusted his apron and spectacles.

I reached into my pocket and eagerly passed on the money.

“Don’t you want to try them first?” he asked.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Then may I suggest baking soda and dried woodberry leaves,” he said as he pinched the coins off my hand. “For the smell.”

I put the boots on. Oh, my dear Bastard. How was this possible? I was so elated I had to leave the shop in a hurry to get some fresh air. Every step I took was a flood of childhood memories: playing with laces, scraps, and rubber. I touched the sole, feeling its unusual texture. They weren’t as soft or comfortable as the first pair I’d tried, but they were perfect for long hikes. They might even be perfect for work.

And I walked—walked in my dad’s boots. When I took my eyes off my new boots, I was back in Burrow. Already? The sun was on its way down.

Brinn should be off work! I had to show her my boots. My new boots! I headed for our spot by the lake, and sure enough, there she was. I started blabbing about my morning before she could say, “Hello.”

“Are those?” she signed and pointed at the brand on my boot.

“They are!” I exploded with excitement. Hours passed, and I still couldn’t believe it. “Isn’t it amazing?”

“But how?”

“I don’t know. The cobbler just had them stowed away at the back of the shoe shop. He never sold them. I guess people weren’t ready for rubber soles.”

“But isn’t that the mountain you want to kill or something?”

“Yes,” I said, unphased. Who cares about Aureberg? My dad had made those boots. And now they were mine.

“But isn’t it a little like walking around with a picture of your worst enemy?”

“I don’t care. I’m never taking them off.”

“I’m very happy for you.”

I couldn’t stop grinning. “How was work?”

“As good as it can be expected. I didn’t kill myself nor anyone else.”

“I hope that business with the flying letter helped. But I must be honest with you; I didn’t get it.”

“Uh?” she said. Well, I think that’s what she said. It’s not like I can read ‘uh’ on someone’s lips, but it was a fair assumption judging by her contorted facial expression.

“You know, Mathew Doller hanging from a tree, asking for rescue.”

She furrowed her brow. “Buying those shoes really affected you, huh?”

“Here,” I said, fumbling in my pouch and passing it to her. “You’re telling me you don’t know what this is?”

Brinn took the letter and unfolded it; her lips moved, and her brow furrowed as she read. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Bastard’s bother, you are still trying to trick me.”

“Yes, I’m a mastermind of boring pranks.” She handed me back the letter.

I read it:

Dear, Ludik.

I’m thrilled about your shoes. They’re wicked pissa. Now help me, ya burger head!

P.S.: I really need to pee.