by Avi
The shoemaker became alarmed.
Old Scratch smiled—or was the smile a frown, or a grin, or a pout—and said, "Perhaps you would prefer some kind of bargain which will give you a chance to stay."
"Yes, a bargain!" cried the shoemaker, determined to outwit this changeable fellow.
"I'd like that," said Old Scratch. "You are a maker of shoes. From time to time—considering how much I travel—I need shoes. Would you be willing to try your skills on me?"
What a fool this fellow is, thought the shoemaker. If there is one thing I can do, it's make shoes. He said, "That sounds like an excellent idea."
"Here's my deal," said Old Scratch. "Things change, so I shall visit you three times. I shall visit you small. I shall visit you tall. I shall visit you one and all. Each time I come, if you can find a way to put shoes on my feet, I'll not take you. But if ever you cannot shod me, it's you and your soul I'll take."
The shoemaker, quick as anything, said, "I accept."
The bargain made, Old Scratch vanished.
As for the black cat, she woke up, stretched, and then looked coolly at the shoemaker with her lemon-colored eyes.
Days, months, years passed. After the shoemaker made his bargain with Old Scratch, his fortunes changed much for the better. He began to greatly prosper. He married well. He and his wife had healthy, happy children.
During all this time the shoemaker was not visited by Old Scratch. In fact, so much time went by without his seeing or hearing from him, the shoemaker began to think his bargain was nothing more than a dream. There's nothing to fear from him!
As for the black cat—she remained.
One afternoon—it was a hot and lazy summer day—as the shoemaker worked at his bench, a fly began to buzz about his head. Finding it very annoying, the shoemaker tried to brush it away with his hand, but it didn't work. Finally the fly landed right before him on his workbench.
The shoemaker picked up a shoe. He was just about to bring it down on the fly when the insect called out: "Would you kill me, Shoemaker?"
The shoemaker was so startled, he could neither move nor speak.
"Why would you want to kill me?" asked the fly.
"Forgive me," said the shoemaker, thinking, Where have I heard this voice before? Then he said, "I didn't stop to consider you might have feelings on the subject."
"Things change," said the fly. "But no one likes to die."
"I apologize," said the shoemaker as he put the shoe he was working on aside.
The fly cocked his head and looked up at the shoemaker. "Does it mean nothing to you that I have no shoes and must go barefoot all the time?"
The shoemaker looked closely at the fly. It was true: The fly had no shoes. At that very moment he realized who the fly was: Old Scratch.
"Yes," said the fly with a chuckle, as if reading the shoemaker's thoughts, "this time, as promised, I am visiting you small. Can you make me shoes?"
The shoemaker remembered his bargain. Knowing he had no choice, he said, "Yes, I can make shoes for you."
"Then do so," said the fly. "And, as you can see, I require three pairs."
The shoemaker set to work. First he measured each of the fly's feet. They were so small he could hardly see what he was doing. Next he cut the necessary leather. What tiny bits they were!
The fly—promising to return when the shoes were done, if they were done—flew off.
The shoemaker worked with infinitesimal stitches to make the shoes. Three pairs. It took the shoemaker a year to make them. In addition, his eyes had become so sore as he made the shoes, he could no longer see: He had become blind.
However, no sooner were the shoes complete than the fly returned. "I'm back!" he announced.
The shoemaker fit the shoes to the fly. "There," he said with pride, for he had done what he was sure Old Scratch did not think he could do. "I've kept the bargain."
"Things change," said the fly. And he flew off.
As for the black cat, she with the lemon-colored eyes, she slept in a snug and sunny corner, purring blissfully.
Though the shoemaker did not regain his sight, his skills had grown so much while he made the tiny shoes that he no longer needed to see. So great was the dexterity and preciseness of his work, he became very famous for making the finest, most delicate of shoes. In addition, he grew quite rich.
More time passed, so much time that the shoemaker began to think his bargain with Old Scratch had been fulfilled.
But one fine fall day—when the air was crisp and cool—while the blind shoemaker was working on a pair of shoes for a duchess, he heard a sound he could not identify. The sound was heavy and rough. Every time it came, the workshop floor shook as if it were atop an earthquake.
Because the shoemaker was blind, he could not see who (or what) was causing such a commotion. "Who's there?" he called.
No reply.
The shoemaker went back to his work thinking that perhaps he had dozed off and had only imagined the sounds. The next moment more crashing and thrashing interrupted him. Now the shoemaker knew something (or someone) was there. "Tell me what you are!" he demanded.
Still, no answer.
The shoemaker became angry. He picked up one of his razor-sharp leather cutters, and was about to fling it in the direction from which the sound came, when a voice boomed, "Would you kill me?"
"Who are you?" demanded the shoemaker.
"I am," answered a great voice, "a creature of change. I thought you might know me."
The shoemaker instantly recognized the voice of Old Scratch. "Forgive me," he said. "I didn't realize it was you."
"Forgive you?" said Old Scratch. "You might have killed me with that sharp cutter of yours. Think of all my friends who would have missed me."
"I'm truly sorry," said the shoemaker, wondering what part of the bargain he would have to fulfill now.
The great voice went on. "It is even worse for me when you consider the great distance I have to go, and yet I have no shoes upon my feet."
"What happened to the ones I made you?"
"Souls and soles both will wear."
"Would you like me to make you new shoes?" asked the shoemaker, knowing very well what the answer would be.
Sure enough the voice replied, "I have visited you small. Now I visit you tall. Yes, I'd like shoes upon my feet. Can you do it? Happily, today my feet number only four."
"I'm sure I can make them," said the shoemaker. That said, he climbed off his workbench and groped his way to the sound of the voice, feeling for the feet. It was just as Old Scratch had said. He had four feet—but each foot was as big as a house!
When the shoemaker measured the huge feet—it took three days to do so—Old Scratch lumbered off, promising to return when the shoes were done, if they were done. The shoemaker purchased all the leather he could find, hundreds and hundreds of yards, and set to work.
As for the black cat, she merely watched.
So big, so heavy were the shoes that the shoemaker made, each took a year to construct. Still, at the end of those four years—working every day, some nights, plus holidays, election days, and one extra leap-year day—the shoemaker made the four shoes. Hardly had they been made when Old Scratch returned. The shoemaker fitted the shoes, and they fit wonderfully well.
Old Scratch thanked the shoemaker for his work. "Well done," he said. "I can almost forgive you for thinking of throwing that cutter at me." Then off he clumped, the ground trembling with every step he took.
Unfortunately, all the shoemaker's hard work making the huge shoes had crippled his hands. They had become so tired, so weak, during the four years, he could hardly cut a piece of paper, let alone leather. He could not even pick up a needle.
Unable to work for himself anymore, the shoemaker had to employ others. No great hardship there. His fame as a skilled shoemaker had spread so widely, he attracted many an apprentice, all of whom he instructed. He did it very well, too. He became richer than he had ever been before. The who
le world seemed to desire shoes made under his direction.
So, though the shoemaker was blind and could no longer use his hands, he thought his bargain was not a bad one—and that he had fulfilled his promise. Had he not outdone Old Scratch?
As for the black cat, she with the lemon-colored eyes, she continued to doze her days away in a sunny window.
The shoemaker's life went on. As time passed he quite forgot that his bargain—like all good old bargains that had been bargained since time began—had three parts. That did not change.
One bitterly cold winter's day—when he was sitting in his warm shop, listening to the whistling wind outside and feeling quite content to be inside—the shoemaker heard a knock on his door.
"I'm sorry!" called the shoemaker. "I cannot open the door for you. My hands are too weak and I am blind. Please let yourself in."
The door opened. Bone-numbing cold filled the workroom.
"Be so good as to make yourself and your business known!" said the shoemaker.
"My voice should tell you all," came the reply.
In an instant the shoemaker knew then that it was Old Scratch. He knew, too, that Old Scratch had come to visit him for the third and final time. He was not afraid. Had he not outwitted Old Scratch each previous visit? He was sure he could do so again.
"Well then," he said, "what brings you to me this time?"
"No more than we bargained," returned Old Scratch. "Things change. The shoes I've been wearing have traveled so far they've dwindled to nothing."
"Have you thought of retiring?" asked the shoemaker. "That would certainly cheer up many."
"To tell the truth," said Old Scratch, "I'd like to. But I fear retirement would be dull. No, the work I do isn't pleasant, but ... well, somebody has to do it. Fortunately, I make bargains such as I've made with you. They keep me amused. In fact, I really have no time to chat. I've come to make my last request."
"Request away," said the shoemaker.
"This time," said Old Scratch, "I must have shoes for me as I truly am."
"That's all very well for you to ask," returned the shoemaker. "But how do you expect me to make shoes for you when I can't see what you are?"
"No eye is so blind it cannot see the likes of me/' said Old Scratch. "Look up!"
The shoemaker looked up. And he saw Old Scratch just as he had been before, a constantly changing man. He was tall, he was short, he was thin and fat. All at once and all the time, he wore a thousand different fashions of every color and hue.
"Yes," the shoemaker said at last, "I can see you. But because of you, my hands have become quite useless. I can make nothing. That's not very fair, is it?"
"I suppose not," said Old Scratch. "But I assure you, no old hand is so old it can't feel my presence. Reach out. You'll be able to feel me."
The shoemaker did as told. It was as Old Scratch said: He was there, and a very cold there at that. "Very well," said the shoemaker. "What must I do for you?"
"Only as you promised," said Old Scratch. "I have visited you small. I have visited you tall. Now I visit you as one and all." So saying, he held out one of his feet. The shoemaker took hold of it. Even as he did the foot changed. First it was wide, then narrow. Then it became short, only to become long. It had five toes. It had sixteen. It turned into a hoof. It had claws. It never stopped changing.
"Now then," said Old Scratch in his most pleasant voice. "Can you make a shoe that fits or not?"
"I think I can," said the shoemaker, trying to gain some time. "But I must work out a plan."
"I have waited long enough," said Old Scratch. His voice was not so pleasant as it had been.
"Three days," said the shoemaker.
"I can spare two," snapped Old Scratch. "I'll be back in forty-eight hours. If you do not have my shoes, then you must come with me." So saying, he went away.
Alone in his shop, the shoemaker thought and thought how he could make shoes for a foot that constantly changed. It seemed impossible. Oh, how he wished he had not made this bargain! But he had.
On the second day he began to have an idea, his sole idea. It would have to do.
Fortunately, Old Scratch had restored his vision and healed his hands. That night he labored on a pair of shoes for himself. The shoes fit so perfectly, so snugly, that there was absolutely no space between foot and leather. They were like a second skin, the best shoes he had ever made. When he had put them on, the exhausted shoemaker lay down to sleep.
As for the black cat, she with the lemon-colored eyes, she just waited, watched, and purred.
When the shoemaker awoke, there, standing before him, was Old Scratch. He was tall, he was short, he was thin and fat—all at once and all the time. "I hope you slept well," said Old Scratch. "You have a distance to go."
"I slept very well indeed, thank you," said the shoemaker. "But I don't plan on going anywhere."
"Do you have my shoes or not?" said Old Scratch. He had many expressions on his face. Not one of them included a smile.
"Almost," said the shoemaker.
"Almost is not good enough."
"That's to say," said the shoemaker, "the shoes are made. There is only the question of making them fit."
Old Scratch sneered. "I'm willing to try," he said.
The shoemaker reached down and took off one of his new shoes. He set it before Old Scratch.
"Do you mean to suggest that this shoe is for me?" growled Old Scratch.
"I do," said the shoemaker. "Of course, like all good shoes, they will take a little adjusting. Fortunately, you are of a type that can make these adjustments well."
"That's true," said Old Scratch, rather puzzled.
"Very well," said the shoemaker, "try it on."
Old Scratch took up the shoe. Even as he did, his foot grew as large as an elephant's. So though he attempted to put on the shoemaker's shoe, it did not fit. Old Scratch grinned. "I'm afraid you have failed at last. There is no way I can get my foot into this shoe of yours."
"Ah," said the shoemaker. "It must be something caught in the tip of the shoe that prevents you from getting all of your foot in. Try taking it out."
Old Scratch darted a quizzical look at the shoemaker, but nonetheless picked up the shoe and peered inside. "Nothing," he said.
"Search harder," said the shoemaker.
Old Scratch shook the shoe. Nothing fell out. He reached in. He found nothing. "Empty," he proclaimed.
"You're not looking hard enough," insisted the shoemaker. "You know how skilled I am in my trade. That shoe will fit but only if you are willing to try."
"You're a stupid man after all," Old Scratch snapped. "There is nothing here!"
"Perhaps," said the shoemaker, "you are too big at the moment to reach in. I thought Old Scratch could go anywhere. I guess I was wrong."
Old Scratch was stung by these words. It must be said, he was nothing if not vain. "Of course I can go anywhere!" he cried. "No place is too big or too small for the likes of me!" So saying, he made himself small enough to jump into the shoe.
The second he did, the shoemaker grabbed the shoe, pulled it on, and laced it up, trapping Old Scratch against the bottom of the shoe. The shoe fit so tightly, so perfectly, not even Old Scratch could get free.
"Let me out!" he cried.
Instead of answering, the shoemaker opened the door of his house and began to run as fast as he could. Every time he came down on that foot, he squashed Old Scratch against the bottom of the shoe. Each time he did, Old Scratch shouted, "Ouch! Free me!"
"Not until you release me from my bargain," replied the shoemaker.
"Never!" returned Old Scratch, who made up his mind to wait until the shoemaker became tired.
The shoemaker, however, had not run for years and years, so he had lots of energy and strength. Hour after hour, day after day, month after month, he ran.
Seriously pounded, Old Scratch began to think of what he might do to get out of his predicament. It took him a while, but at last he had an
idea. He turned himself into an itch.
At first it was a very mild itch—a small, nibbling, wiggling, tickling, crawly sort of an itch. What's more, it settled itself right beneath the shoemaker's smallest toe. At first the shoemaker was not sure what had happened to Old Scratch. He began to think that Old Scratch was gone, that he had outwitted him. That was good, because he had begun to feel a tiny little itch right there beneath his little toe, quite the hardest place of all to scratch.
The shoemaker tried to ignore the itch, hoping it would go away. The itch persisted. It grew worse. It began to crawl up and down along the sole of his foot with a prickly, stickly, tickly, highly irritating sensation that never ceased.
As the shoemaker ran, he tried to stamp his foot down extra hard. The itch stayed. The shoemaker rubbed his itching foot atop his other foot. The itch stayed.
Finally the shoemaker sat down. Was the itch gone? No! It was twice as bad as before. It was as if twenty little fingers with cracked fingernails were plucking, poking, picking, and tickling him.
Desperate, the shoemaker began to take off his shoe. As he did he heard a laugh. As soon as the shoemaker heard the laugh, he realized that the itch was Old Scratch. The shoemaker began to run again.
The itch would not go away. The more the shoemaker refused to scratch, the worse it got. It began to drive him crazy.
He tried to run faster. That did not help. He tried stopping. No better. He plunged his foot in cold water. Nothing. In hot water. Nothing. He ran on ice. He ran on hot coals. Nothing could get rid of the itch!
The shoemaker began to think that if only he could stop for one moment—just one small, tiny, infinitesimal moment—and get to that itch, all would be saved.
He had to try.
He stopped. He sat down. He set the foot with its itch before him. He bent over. He unlaced the shoe. He reached down. He counted to ten. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-ten! Fast as anything, he tipped off his shoe and started to scratch that itch! Ahhhhh!