by Resa Nelson
“I found shelter in a cave in the woods nearby and learned how to find food by following the birds and the chipmunks. Being a child and too young to control my body, I felt my shoes grow tighter every day. I knew I would outgrow them by winter.
"I discovered a town on the other side of my woods. I went there with my cobbler’s knife and needles and knocked on every door. I offered to mend any worn shoes or make shoes for anyone who could provide the leather. In exchange, I asked for scraps of leather or cloth. I mended a few pairs of shoes, but most people simply gave me whatever scraps they could spare.
“By autumn, I had enough scraps to make a pair of new shoes. I planned them carefully, leaving enough room for my feet to grow comfortably throughout the winter and, at the same time, making the shoes small enough so they would not fall off when I walked in them.
“The miller had given to me an armful of bright red cloth, and I had planned to make a dress with it. But after I stitched my new shoes together, I was disappointed because they looked like patchwork. All the scraps of leather I had used were different shades of black and brown. Although my shoes were well enough made to see me through the winter, they were ugly. I decided to cover them with the miller’s red cloth.
“Once I had covered the shoes in red, I was filled with joy. Not only were they beautiful, but I had made them myself, and it was the creation as much as the shoes themselves that made me happy.
“That is how I lived year after year. I had a cave for a home. I gathered food from the forest. And every autumn I made a new pair of red shoes for myself. When each winter ended, I celebrated by planting wildflowers by my cave. I discovered I loved working the earth with my hands. I woke up surrounded by the scent of pine trees and the music of birds. At night I walked barefoot in the grassy hollows and gazed upon the stars crowding the sky.
“But every winter was hard, and when I stopped growing and became a woman, I yearned for an easier life.”
###
“I continued to knock on all the doors in town with knife and needles in hand. Over the years, I became a fine cobbler, as my father had been. I spoke with everyone who needed shoes made or mended, or who merely wanted someone with whom to pass the time of day. That suited me fine. I stayed in my cave for weeks or even months at a time during the winter, and it was never long before I craved the companionship of other people. I came to be greeted warmly, and my customers bartered generously with me. I believed it would take many years, but I hoped someday I could acquire my own home in the town.
“One morning I knocked upon the door of a fine manor. It was nearly the size of a castle and was surrounded by riding paths and grassy hills. As always, the master himself answered the door when I knocked. He was dressed in a fine, white shirt and black, billowing trousers. He wore high, black riding boots, which were well heeled. He had first taken pity on me when I was a child. He always gave generously, whether he had any need for his own shoes or not.
“I had been smitten with his good looks and his kindness even when I was just a young girl.
“His hair was as black as his boots. So were his eyes, and they were shining at me as he leaned in his doorway and smiled at me. ‘I have a confession to make,’ the master of the manor said to me. ‘I would like to offer my home to you.’
“I was astonished and spoke without thinking. ‘But I have been without a home for many years! Why is it now that you offer me shelter?’
“The master looked down at the toes of his beautiful riding boots for a moment, then looked up and gazed steadily into my eyes. ‘If I had offered you shelter before, it would have been as a father. How could I have done so when I was falling in love with you?’ He reached out and took my hand. ‘I am asking you to be my wife and the lady of this manor.’
“It was a great temptation. A man who had shown me nothing but kindness now offered me companionship, a home beyond my wildest fantasies, and a carefree life.
“Because I was an orphan girl, I had long ago given up hope that any man would ever want to marry me. As I gazed into his dark eyes, I felt the first stirrings of love.
“I said yes without thinking.”
###
“I was immediately welcomed into the manor. A servant girl led me to a small room where she brought in buckets of steaming water and poured them into a grand marble tub. I spent an hour in the bath, until the hot water warmed me to the bone. I was then given undergarments, a long white dress, white stockings, and shiny black shoes.
“The next day the master of the house became my husband.
“At first, I was delighted. I explored every room of the manor. I ate as much as I wanted, whenever I wanted. The servants of the household were scarcely older than me, and I asked them many questions, for I wished to know them as my friends.
“It was then that my husband first admonished me.
“’You must not become friendly with the servants,’ my husband said. ‘I understand you come from their class, but you are now of a higher class. It is your duty to behave in a way fitting to our class, not theirs.’
“This was something I had not considered before agreeing to marry.
“In my own village, there were no people of such high class, and these customs were new to me. ‘Tell me what I must do,’ I said to my husband. I was determined to live up to whatever responsibilities my new life demanded.
“And so my husband told me that I was to be a lady. I was to make decisions about the household, and if there were any problems I was to defer them to my husband’s judgment. I was to sit quietly in the house whenever I was not running it. I was not to go outside. And whenever my husband held dances in the great ballroom, I was to make myself look beautiful and dance with him all evening.
“I embraced this new life. I relished the comfort of our feather bed and the warmth of the manor. One morning I forgot to put on my shoes, and my husband was quick to put his hand upon my arm.
“‘A lady,’ he said, ‘does not go barefoot. Where are your black shoes?’
“I sat on the edge of our feather bed and pulled on my white stockings. When I saw my shiny black shoes at the side of the bed, I felt very sad. I remembered how I had once made my own shoes. ‘Husband,’ I said. ‘May I wear my own red shoes today?’
“He laughed until he saw that I was serious. ‘Lenore,’ he said as he sat beside me on the bed. ‘You are no longer a poor commoner. There is nothing you need fear.’
“‘I just want to wear my own shoes,’ I said.
“My husband took my hand and held it gently. ‘I never imagined you would have any use for them again.’
“‘Where are they?’ I asked. I felt panic rising up within me.
“‘On the day you moved in,’ my husband said quietly, ‘I had them burned.’”
###
“My husband’s pleasure was to dance, and it soon became my pleasure, as well. I pushed aside my longing to plant wildflowers, which I could not do because a lady does not soil her hands. I ignored my desire to walk barefoot in the grassy meadows at night and look up at the stars, because a lady does not walk outside at night. I tried to forget how much I loved the scent of fresh pine in the morning and the pleasure of the birds singing.
“Most of all, I pretended not to miss my needles and my small knife and the feel of supple leather in my hands. Cobbling was for commoners, not for ladies.
“I loved dancing because it was what my husband loved.
“He decided to hold a dance in the great ballroom as a way of introducing me to his proper friends. He gave me a pocketful of coins and told me to buy some new dancing shoes from the town cobbler.
“I walked into the cobbler’s shop knowing full well my husband expected me to buy a pair of black dancing shoes. But on the cobbler’s bench was a pair of red shoes that made my heart pound. They were not the bright, joyful red of my old handmade shoes. They were a dark, mottled red, as if the shoes themselves were brooding.
“I paid the cobbler immediately, and he wra
pped up my shoes in a plain package so no one would know what I had bought.
“On the evening of my first dance, I wore a featherweight black dress. The dress covered not only my ankles but my feet. I walked gingerly into the ballroom, so none of our guests could see my new red shoes peeking out from under my skirt. I danced only when the floor was crowded with couples, all dressed in finery of black and white. But in the middle of the evening, my husband made a grand announcement to introduce me to everyone in the ballroom. As the musicians played, my husband spun me onto the empty floor. I felt my skirt flare, and then heard my husband’s proper friends laugh softly among themselves.
“They pointed at my shoes as we danced, and someone soon took my husband aside and informed him of my choice in footwear.
“My husband was kind to me. ‘I know you miss your shoes,’ he said. ‘But you have a new life now, which means you have different responsibilities.’
“‘And is it my responsibility to wear black shoes?’ I asked.
“‘Yes, only black shoes,’ he said. ‘Or you may wear white shoes, but only in the summer.’
“And so I embraced dancing with all of my heart. My husband, like many wealthy men, was frugal. He could not bear to throw away a perfectly good pair of shoes, even if they were red. He told me I could wear them once in awhile, but only when I was at home alone and the servants could not see me in them. Whenever my husband left the manor, I would steal the red shoes from their hiding place and swear the servants to secrecy. I practiced every step my husband taught me. I asked the servants to dance with me. When they tired, I danced with large scarves or my husband’s shirts as partners.
“Some days it seemed my feet kept dancing long after I had tired. My husband would make me sit down, but my feet kept dancing in the air until he pried the shoes from my feet.
“My husband soon hosted another dance in our grand ballroom. He reminded me to do the proper thing and wear my black shoes. He lifted the hem of my long white ballroom dress and nodded in approval when he discovered I was already wearing black dancing shoes. Then he went ahead to the ballroom to greet our guests, as I was to finish preparing myself for the dance.
“I searched for my red shoes until I found them locked away in a cabinet. I broke the red shoes free of their prison and put them on.
“Again, I was careful how I danced so no one would notice. It was not until the end of the evening that anyone saw my red shoes and so informed my husband.
“When the dance ended and all our guests had left, my husband tried to speak to me, but I could not stop dancing. He managed to catch me and carry me in his arms out of the ballroom, but still my feet kept dancing in the air. Finally, with the help of two manservants, my husband pried the red shoes from my feet, and they were still at last.
“‘What troubles you?’ my husband asked me later, as we prepared for bed. ‘You are no longer the happy woman I married.’
“I lifted a hand mirror to fix my hair and saw it was not my own reflection looking back at me, but the reflection of my husband.”
###
Astrid sat back in her chair, puzzled. “Someone changed your face?”
Lenore nodded.
“But that is unthinkable,” Astrid said. “Do the people of the northlands practice different customs? Do they not consider letting their own opinion change another’s appearance to be wrong?”
“I did it,” Lenore said quietly. “It was not other people who viewed me differently. It was myself. I willingly gave up the life I created for myself in exchange for a bit of comfort. And for love. I gave up what I loved because I wanted to be loved.
“When I realized what I had done, I felt trapped. I was truly in love with my husband, and I saw him as my salvation. I came to believe if I embraced what he embraced, I would become happy again. Instead, I became my husband.”
Astrid chose her words carefully. “And no one remarked upon your face looking just like your husband’s face? None of your guests commented upon it? None of the servants? Not event your husband?”
Lenore smiled sadly. “The people of the northlands are very much like the people here. To do so would have been rude. It was out of kindness that no one said anything to me about the change in my appearance. It was something I had to discover for myself.”
“What did you do next?”
Although Lenore kept smiling, her eyes dulled. “I could not sleep that night. All I wanted was to dance so I would not have to face the reflection I had seen in the mirror. The next day, my husband put on his riding boots and took his favorite stallion out for a ride in the country. I found the red shoes and danced out of the manor and throughout the town. Although I wanted to stop, I could not.”
“Were the shoes enchanted?” Astrid said, although she did not believe such a thing was possible.
“No,” Lenore said. “Even in the northlands, we do not practice any belief in enchantment. I had simply lost control of myself. I believed I had lost the will to stop, and my thoughts kept spiraling around me until they trapped me in the dance.”
“Then how did you stop?” Astrid said.
Lenore looked at her for several long moments. “I came upon the town blacksmith. I asked him to use a sword of his making to cut the shoes from my feet. But I had been dancing for hour upon hour. My feet had bled, and the shoes were stuck to my feet.”
“What did you do?”
Lenore paused for a heartbeat, then said, “I asked the blacksmith to cut off my feet.”
Astrid looked at Lenore in astonishment. “But he did not.”
Lenore held her hands together on the tabletop. “He did.”
“How do you explain that?” Astrid said. She peeked under the table to make sure Lenore’s bare feet were still there. “Did you grow yourself new feet?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes.”
Astrid studied Lenore’s expression. As far as Astrid knew, Lenore had been unlucky in making any true friends in the year since she had joined the village. Astrid had seen Lenore sprout larger breasts or longer legs as she laughingly crossed the road from one man’s side to another. Men were mesmerized by both her beauty and her confidence—and women avoided Lenore for those same reasons.
Finally, Astrid said in wonder, “You do not jest.”
“No,” Lenore said.
“I know you must be telling the truth,” Astrid said. “But you must admit it is a very difficult thing to believe.”
Lenore nodded. “No one could believe at first I had my feet cut off, especially my husband. But when I explained how it was a sacrifice I would gladly make to return to my old life, my husband gave me his favorite stallion and enough provisions for an entire family. ‘Go seek your old life,’ my husband said to me. ‘And with luck, you will become as strong as the child you once were. Perhaps you will become strong enough to believe your feet are with you in a spirit so great you may walk upon it.’” Lenore paused and covered her face with her hands.
Astrid drew a fresh handkerchief from her vest pocket and gave the handkerchief to Lenore.
“His love for me was true,” Lenore said, dabbing the tears from her eyes. “As mine was for him. And I kept his words close to my heart as I rode south, knowing they were the greatest gift he had ever given to me. As I traveled, I imagined my feet as they used to be. As my injury healed, I removed the bandages from my ankles and exposed the stumps instead of hiding them. And as I imagined my feet, I began to have feelings in them. One evening, as I rode to an inn, I looked down to discover my feet had reappeared.”
“But they are not real feet,” Astrid said. “They are only an illusion, such as when you unknowingly changed your face to that of your husband.”
“My feet,” Lenore said, “are as real as my belief in them.” She pulled up a small bench and placed it lengthwise between them. “Here,” Lenore said, resting her legs upon the bench so her feet dangled over the edge. “I will show you how real they are. Take my feet in your hands.”
“I
might as well measure them,” Astrid said. She brushed the dirt gingerly from the bottom of Lenore’s bare foot. Astrid aligned the heel of her palm with the heel of Lenore’s foot. Lenore’s feet were longer and sturdier than Astrid had first thought. She could feel the bones and muscles moving fluidly under her touch.
Eerily, Lenore’s skin felt more like tanned leather than skin.
And yet Astrid could not believe the story she had just heard. “These are real feet,” Astrid stated.
Lenore’s story had been just that—a story.
###
Just as Astrid was about to let go, the feet dissolved in her hands, like sugar disappearing into warm water. What had been muscular and bony was now just empty, tingling air. Lenore’s legs ended in stumps crisscrossed with thick scars.
Astrid looked up and saw Lenore had closed her eyes. Lenore’s hair was now brown instead of golden, and it was streaked with gray. Wrinkles gathered around her eyes and mouth.
Something solid filled up Astrid’s hands again, and she looked down to see Lenore’s feet. Astrid ran her fingertips along Lenore’s ankles, where stumps had been just moments ago. Lenore’s skin was seamless and unflawed.
“I apologize for such a vulgar sight,” Lenore said. She opened her eyes, now that she had returned to herself.
Astrid felt the warmth from the feet she still held. What had just happened was not possible. “You need not apologize. It takes great trust to show your true self to another.”
Astrid frowned as she let go of Lenore’s feet, trying to make sense of what had just happened.
Perhaps it had merely been Astrid’s imagination. Perhaps she had wanted to believe Lenore’s story, and for a moment had seen what Lenore had suggested was true.
Or perhaps this had been Lenore’s way of seeking out a friend. Perhaps it was an illusion that Lenore had created and practiced until it worked perfectly.
Lenore looked at Astrid hopefully. “Are you willing to make a pair of silver shoes for me?”