Sleepwalker

Chapter Ten: The Cobbler Stones

“I need to stop at the shoemaker’s.” Dill reminded me as we passed through the stone streets of the town. Determinedly, he strutted along the main road against carts and rickshaws manned by zealous and seedy traders. While he didn’t note them, I stared.

“Miss, you look like you could use a scarf.” Smoothly, one pulled a silky cloth around my neck. “See how lovely it looks on you.” He stroked my hair beneath it.

“Sir, I believe you are mistaken. I do not need a scarf. It is not even summer’s end. Also, I have a wool one tucked in my bag,” I verbalized pulling the silk off my neck.

“But it is only the finest material to be made from nature woven by nuns in Swarthara. Isn’t it lovely, miss?” He rubbed the soft cobalt scarf against my cheek.

Forcefully, I clasped a dark hairy forearm and pushed against him. “It is as fine as you say it is, but I have no need for it since it will provide me little warmth in winter.”

He opened his mouth to protest again, but Dill yanked his shoulder away.

“She said no. She does not want your damn scarf,” Armadillo barked. “Leave.”

After huffily gripping the handles of his cart, he stalked off. “Some people.”

Dill grabbed my arm. “Next time, keep up,” He ordered, eyebrows lowered.

“It is not my fault that a trader decided to shove a scarf like a noose about my neck. Why do you think that I am such a child?” I slipped out of his grip.

“Jenny, I am trying to protect you. You are very intelligent, but more so naïve. You have never left home before. You would not understand.” He grunted, irked. “Now, may I get my boots so that we can continue to Eirodin?” He forged ahead resolutely.

With his valid argument, I hushed. Uneager to watch his boot fitting, I traced his footsteps with my own until he entered a rather large building in the center of the town.

Weathered wooden shingles, pounded by bouts of rainfall, coated the building. Their ashy tone told the tale of many years. The wooden door was painted red, chipping and dulling into a limp mahogany. A plain wood sign out front read in simplistic white lettering, ‘COBBLERSTONE’S’. The chain creaked to and fro as it swung in the breeze.

I giggled at the simple pun of the name, continuing to the inside of the store.

As Dill and I entered, the chime of a small melodic bell hanging in tune with the opening of the door greeted us. When we stepped further in, the smoky sweet smell of leather combined with the stale air in the store and the heat of the day.

The front counter was a long dark wood, natural with a carved border with designs so intricate that they appeared to be woven into the wood.

Subconsciously, I brushed my fingers against it and leaned on the counter. When a stiff and resounding smack met my hand, I peered up eyes wide and mouth open.

“Don’t touch that, you stupid girl.” Lean and tall, he curled over with age. His beard was ivory wire jutting out of his chin yet embedded in his rumpled thin cheeks. As I stared, he glared back at me. His eyes were steel, metallic and cold. “How may I help you?” His voice was grumble, gruff and hollow as it reverberated off the walls.

“Ah, Mr. Stone, could you perhaps make me a pair of boots?” Dill asked politely.

He grunted corrosively, “So, that is my job…had I only known…”

My face paled. I had thought the name merely a joke, not a ploy on the shoemaker’s surname. “Armadillo, I think we should leave.” I clutched his wrist.