Shoemaker

Our story begins in the dead of night. The moon, full from eating the evening light, hovers in the sky not sure whether to leave or stay because it too is scared of the shadows. The woods stretched for miles, engulfing the land in a mixture of greens, browns, and darkness; a small village was located in the centre, isolated from the rest of the world. This village was called Elfen, translated to Elves. This was due to the old wives tales that circulated through the village, being passed down through the generations of the Elves that lived in the forest.

The elves were recognised to have great craftmanship, having been known to make the most luxurious saddles for the villager’s horses, the most lavish aprons for the blacksmiths and the grandest necklaces to be worn by the grandest women. This was all heard of centuries ago, that the elves would come and find a worthy individual and help them in their trade. This was all heard of centuries ago, until it happened today.

His name for Jeramiah. This old man had lived longer than most people had in the village, surviving three fires, two plagues, and one terrible accident in which his wife had perished. No one knew how old Jeramiah was, nor what he did alone in his workshop all day and night; all the village folk knew was that in the morning he would put out a new pair of shoes to be sold. Jeramiah was the only shoemaker in the village, which meant, due to his old age, that only one person could purchase a new pair of clogs each day. This was sometimes the cause of the mid-morning grumbles as people scuttled about the streets, but no one would dare utter a word to the old man, as someone who lived to his age was seen to be un-natural. Some even went as far to believe that his wife had sacrificed herself in a ritual to allow him to live for eternity, this however was a right load of poppycock. Those who could remember back that far knew that it was a tragic accident that had killed his wife; their carriage had been overturned in a ferocious storm which left a partly paralyzed man and a dead woman huddled in a box for over 24 hours.

One night, Jeramiah opened his window for some fresh air, his house had been locked up for a few days now which meant it was high time he got rid of the smell of lingering shoe polish and bad breath before he suffocated himself to death. As soon as there was a crack in the window a large gust of wind blew through and scraped along his face. That was enough of fresh air, Jeramiah thought to himself, quickly closing the window again. But that small slither was enough for the others too.

“Hee-hee.”

Jeramiah whipped around to find the source of the little snickering. But he couldn’t see anything. It must have been his imagination.

“Hee-hee.”

There it was again. He wasn’t loosing his mind, not yet at least. Then he saw it. A small elf sat cross legged on the windowsill. It was exactly how you would imagine an elf to look; small features, green pointy hat, hooked nose, pointed ears and long gangly legs.

“Hello there old chap!” yelled the elf, trying to make his voice loud enough to be heard by the old man.

“I have come to help you!” it yelled again.

Jeramiah looked it up and down, yawned and decided he must have lost the plot so trundled off to bed. When laying his head on the pillow he caught sight of it again, perched on the bedside cabinet.

“Ok,” Jeramiah began, “Let me guess, you have come to help me make my shoes because I have proven myself worthy,” rolling his sagging brown eyes.

“Something like that,” the elf peeped, “My name is Dingleberry Firefly McAppleblossom-Coffeesleeper, Mum and Dad couldn’t decide on whose last name to give so I got both, but you can just call me Dingle.”

Jeremiah blinked to see if this gangly creature would go away but he just reappeared staring at him.

“We can help you,” Dingle continued, “All we need is some names of the villagers to help us make the right sized shoes and you can kiss this lowly life goodbye.”

What harm could happen? Thought Jeramiah; It would result in either of two scenarios. A. the elves would make great shoes like the legend suggested and he would be rich or B. he was going delusional, and he just told some random names to his candle stick that perched on the edge of his cabinet.

“To hell with it,” he proclaimed, “How about you make some shoes for the sweet little Lucinda who lives two streets down from me; now leave me alone so I can get some rest.”

“Your wish is my command,” Dingle rang and disappeared before Jeramiah could fully comprehend what had happened.

The next morning Jeramiah woke up to a beautiful pair of pale pink shoes that were decorated with beautiful white pearls and laced with a thin brown lace. They were utterly breath-taking. So, the elves must have been real then. He put the shoes out on display, waiting for Lucinda to walk past and beg her mother for the shoes. However, another little girl scuttled past and beat her to it. The shoes were gone in a matter of seconds.

This happened night after night. Jeramiah kept giving more names and more of the same shoes appeared each morning. He did not need to go out the house anymore to collect supplies so he could just spend all day in his chair reading and sleeping. After a few weeks he felt rather disconnected from the outside world so decided to venture out of his house to the local church for the Sunday service. However, when he got there it was a much stranger service than he had expected. At the front of the congregation were 5 coffins, varying in size from child to middle-aged man with sobbing mothers and wives crouched beneath them. How strange. With the limited number of people in the village the rate of deaths was usually pretty low.

“What an awful way to die,” came the voice of a woman next to him, “How awful for their families.”

“How did they die?” questioned Jeramiah.

“You don’t know?” exclaimed the woman. With a shake of Jeramiah’s head, she continued.

“Over the past few weeks people have been mysteriously found at the borders of the woods, skinned to death.”

Stop. Hold. Processing. A few weeks. Mysterious. Woods…

Elves.

Jeramiah ran back to his house and sat in anticipation for Dingle to come back that night.

Like he always did, Dingle popped through the window and landed on the cabinet to ask for more names. This time Jeramiah got wise to the tricks and wanted to know what really happened once he spoke the names.

“So, who have we got tonight?” Rang Dingle.

“Only one tonight dear friend,” Jeramiah rang back, “I would like a new pair of shoes, I want you to make me a pair of shoes.”

Dingle’s eyes widen with a look of surprise and a glint of evil.

“Ok, lets get this over with then!” he replied.

Taking out a little flute from his small trouser pocket, Dingle began to play a beautiful, enchanting tune which slowly began to morph into a voice, into words, into her voice and into her words. Jeramiah’s wife was speaking to him, telling him to come to the woods to help her. It was almost believable, but Jeramiah knew his wife. He knew she was a stubborn horse and would never admit defeat but most of all he knew she was already dead. But Jeramiah followed along.

Down to the edge of the woods they went to find a group of elves awaiting his arrival. But they didn’t look like Dingle, they were horrifying. Large, pointed teeth, grey skin, claws, razor ears and red beady eyes. Hunger was burning in their eyes as the full moon hung above them. The voice of his wife began to tell him to sit down and let the elves climb over him. But he stopped.

“I know what you are doing,” Jeramiah said, “And I will only let you do this if you tell me why and promise to leave.”

Knowing too well that Jeramiah would only spread their information across the village they had to agree to his terms. So, the story began.

“Over the years, we have come to humans for help in the disguise of helping them. Elves feed off of human blood, but we cannot obtain any if it is not willing as we are not powerful enough to tackle a human, but we are powerful enough to outsmart one. So, whenever we need to feed, we find a poor, unfortunate, helpless soul who believes that we can help make the world a better place and use them to get the names of others. Names have power you see; names are people’s identities and with this comes their fears, loves, desires and heartaches which can be used to lure them to us so we can eat. But in return we will produce a gift to keep the meals coming. Those shoes we made for you were truly made out of your friend’s skin, teeth, and hair but no one will ever know.”

That was the last the villagers saw of the shoemaker. They presumed he had run off into the forest to die alone, leaving a parting gift of a beautiful pair of pink shoes with yellowing pearls and white lace.