~ Gisopi Minari’s, The Cobbler’s Art, Chapter Twelve - Boot Anatomy - The Tongue
A boot has a piece of cloth called a tongue that sits directly under the laces. This piece of material assists in keeping the wearer's foot safely ensconced inside the boot. It is often constructed out of the same material as the top and is fastened to the upper half of the boot, right above where the insole is located.
Within a boot, the tongue is responsible for a variety of critical activities. It lessens the likelihood of the laces causing pain or irritation by helping to uniformly distribute the pressure they exert across the top of the foot. It also helps to maintain the foot's stable position inside the boot, preventing it from slipping or sliding about inside the shoe.
It is possible for a boot's tongue to be cushioned or have additional characteristics in order to improve the fit of the boot and the comfort it provides. To further enhance the overall look of the boot, it may also include a decorative component, such as an embroidered logo or pattern. This would be done in order to complement the appearance of the boot.
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— The thing that is different.
Mirabelle sits on the branch of her tree, staring down at the world around herself. It’s the middle of the night, and she’s returned from her work at the shoemaker’s house. But there is something different tonight.
Her eyes rise up towards the sky, in which not a single star shines alight. Not the glow of a single heavenly body, neither star nor moon fill the night, which the sister-sun has covered the world with, as she herself went down to sleep. Clouds fill the dark sky, so many and so thickly that at first, she wasn’t even able to tell that there were any clouds at all. It just looked like someone had taken a big brush and just painted over the entire sky with a thick stroke of paint, leaving nothing behind but a singular, colorless smear.
But that isn’t the thing that is different.
Well, no, it is, but it’s not the particular thing that she was thinking about.
Mirabelle lowers her gaze again, staring across the dark waters of the pond at the body of the man, laid out over the bench. His head rests on a crumpled, empty fabric bag. His hands are folded over his chest, holding an upside down coat in place. The summer breeze comes, too weak to move even a single one of the clouds, but strong enough to cause the man’s nice hair to sway to the side as he sleeps.
The fairy isn’t sure how he did it, but the man seems to have laid himself in a strategic position so that the wind doesn’t ruin his hair as he sleeps, but actually accentuates it through small swoops of the long strands, catching in the breeze.
Humans are really absurd creatures, aren’t they?
Deciding that this is her chance, Mirabelle flies into her house and pulls out the comb that she had made, carrying it in both of her hands towards the sleeping figure. She always forgets how big humans are since she’s kept her distance. But now, up close, she realizes that she herself is really only about the size of the span between the man’s longest finger and the base of his wrist.
Like a thief in the night, Mirabelle quietly lowers herself down, slipping the comb into the pocket of his jacket, and then just as quickly flies off before he can snatch her out of the air.
But the man doesn’t move, and he certainly doesn’t swipe after her, simply continuing to lay there in his sleep.
Smiling to herself, Mirabelle goes back to her tree. She hopes that he’ll like it.
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— The thing that is different.
It’s an hour later, and the fairy puffs out her cheek, pursing her lips to keep the air inside and not make any noise, as she stares into the window, peeking in on the strangers in their home.
The stick-man lives here. The one who always breaks sticks and throws them into the water. The house that he and his family live in is small — the smallest she’s seen so far, in fact.
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It was only a coincidence that she found this place. She was actually out exploring the city, flying over its more obscure parts in the dead of night. That’s when she’s safest from the eyes of people, but unfortunately, she's also in the most danger from cats. They like to stalk around at night like the horrible monsters that they are.
But that’s not the thing that is different. No, Mirabelle does this every other few days. After all, it’s important to get a good vision of your landscape. Who knows when she’ll have to make a hasty escape?
No, the thing that is different here, rather, is the figure who is still awake in the house. A man sits on an uncomfortable looking wooden chair in the corner of the single room that houses two beds. One belongs to a young child, and one belongs to him and his wife, who lays fast asleep by herself. But the man sits at the table and stares, gazing at the wood with the same mesmerized eyes that he has for the water of the pond.
But he also isn’t the thing that is different. The thing that is different here is the woman, his partner, who is lying in bed and appears to be asleep. But Mirabelle can see that the corners of her eyes are cracked open just a tiny bit. She can see her fingers gripping the fabric of the blanket just a tiny bit too tightly for someone asleep. She’s pretending to be asleep, but she isn’t really. She’s just watching the man, who, in turn, watches the table.
Mirabelle tilts her head. Humans are such odd things.
The fairy shrugs, hoping that whatever plagues them, they’ll figure it out. Pulling away, she flies off into the night.
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— The thing that is different.
The cruel fairy hovers around the biggest, most central plaza in the city and looks around herself. Now that she's really examined the place, it’s clear that her tree and the park that she inhabits are more off to the side of the large city. This place here, this seems to be the liveliest, most important part of the whole place. That much is clear, given that the houses here are stronger, sturdy, and ornate things that all seem to be shops.
But that isn’t the oddity; rather, the thing that is different in this place is…
“- I’m telling you!” says a voice from down below. “It was at least level ten!”
“You’re crazy,” sighs someone else from next to them. “It was like… level six at best.”
Mirabelle lands on the edge of a rooftop, peeking over carefully as she watches people move by down on the street. Not just one or two out for a nightly stroll, no. There are dozens of people, hundreds perhaps.
“Hey? Did you find any blue caps?” asks a voice.
A man, passing them by, stops and thinks for a second, turning to look at his own bag as if he were unsure himself. Two large blue caps that look like they belong to giant mushrooms dangle from his back. “Yeah. These,” he replies.
— The thing that is different is that here, in this part of the city, the human-people and all of their ilk are still awake and busy. The shops seem to be closed, but the more eccentrically dressed people are about and abuzz, heading to and from another oddity in the world.
Mirabelle lifts her gaze, staring at the biggest thing that she’s ever seen. A massive, ornate, stone gate stands in the very middle of the market plaza. But it’s not a gate like any of them along the walls, leading into the city. No, rather, it’s just… standing there in the open. It’s not connected to any walls. Instead, inside it is a pulsing, soft blue fog that obscures the vision on the other side.
Someone cheers, coming out of the dungeon and jumping around excitedly. A few people come out after them, looking far less energetic but still happy.
“We did it! We did it!” chants the first one out, her pointed, flat-brimmed hat bouncing around on her head.
“Shut up!” groans the person walking next to her, rubbing their forehead. “I’m beat. My head is killing me, and your shouting is going to finish the job.” The girl with the hat laughs and spins around. Whatever they ‘did’, it must have been very challenging and rewarding.
Mirabelle stares toward the gate. This must be what the human-people call ‘the dungeon’.
She watches them, observing as people and groups head inside, armed to the teeth, and then as others return out of the fog, carrying bags laden with trophies; weapons and things she recognizes as monster parts, scraps of armor and pieces of metal, herbs and roots and plants, and everything else imaginable that they’ve plundered from the dungeon.
She frowns, unhappy with this. Whoever lives in the dungeon must have a really hard time, with all of the human-people going inside all day and stealing all of their stuff. She just doesn’t understand how this could be. With this mass of people moving in and out of it all day, every day, not even her own old grotto would last a single night.
But the dungeon seems old and well-set and it just seems to have nearly endless treasures to offer.
Mirabelle rubs the back of her head, shrugging as she flies off into the night.
Just another oddity of the human-people, she supposes.
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Once again, as much as it confuses Mirabelle, she has once again found a thing that is different.
The cruel fairy hovers there, pressing her face against a new window.
This time, nobody is inside it on the other side. Behind the thick pane of glass, hidden behind several metal bars, are jewels and pristine, shiny, lustrous jewelry. There are stones made up of the bloodiest shades of ruby red, verdantly green emeralds, and sapphires the color of the summer sky. There are chains and rings of gold and silver and of metals far more exotic than that. There are things that she’s never heard of before. Past them and past the reflection of the girl, whom she doesn’t much like looking at, she sees something else.
— There, besetting the middle of the display case, nestled atop a fat satin cushion, is the thing that is different, a pearl.
A single pearl the size of her head. Its hue, that of a rich, warm cream, is almost out of place amongst the overwhelming craftsmanship and intricacy of the vibrant jewelry. It is far more simple in its beauty, perfect already as nature has made it. It is subdued and quiet, yet just…
Mirabelle hovers in front of the window, staring at it.
- Just beautiful.
Could this pearl be from her very own grotto? She doesn’t know. It’s not possible to say, really. But as she stares at the beautiful thing, nestled upon a soft, warm bed, she once more catches a glimpse of herself in the glass, and then, feeling bad about what she sees, she flies away, deciding that it’s time to go home.
After all, looking around at all of the confusing things she’s seen tonight, at all of the odd things and the strange things and the exciting things and the beautiful things, it’s clear that she, the odd, dowdy, scrawny, lonely, weird creature of a fairy, destined to spend her nights and days alone forever, is just…
…She’s just a thing that is different.
Mirabelle looks over toward the starless sky as she flies home, wondering if it isn’t colder than it was just a moment ago.
She spends the rest of the night inside of her tree, wrapped up in as many layers of fabric as she could manage to grab in her arms and to hold against herself. The padding material has the extra benefit of hiding the noise of her lonesome crying from the predators of the world.
The last thing she needs is for a cat to find her tree.