The Happy Moron

I’m trying out a little game I thought up. The game is to retell a fairy tale or children’s story while omitting one of the major characters.

This is Puss in Boots, minus the kitty (Part 1). Part 2. Part 3.

There once was a miller, who had three sons. He died; and his estate was divided between them. For his inheritance, the eldest son received the mill. The second son received the miller’s donkey, and the the youngest son received nothing except the miller’s cat which roamed the mill and kept the rats away.

The first two sons decided, upon receiving their shares, to join their resources and run the mill as it had always been. But the youngest could not even find the cat which was his only due. It had run away or gone feral, and he was left with nothing but his wits with which to make his way in the world.

Well, this was a problem, and he knew it. He sat and pondered his situation.

“Had I any shred of confidence, had I any guile, I could make my way easily enough.” he said to himself. “But I don’t. I’m not very clever and I can’t see any sort of greatness about me. But I’m still young, so I guess that is something.”

Seeing as he had nothing, he decided he may as well not give himself airs; he went to the village cobbler and offered himself as an apprentice. It was honest work, though not glamorous, and the boy learned to love the wood, leather and wax of the cobbler’s bench. He felt at home with the weight of an awl in his hand.

The cobbler was an interesting man who always had an opinion to share.

“You can tell everything about a person by their shoes.” he would say. “Everything.” And then he would prove it by hefting a shoe and describe in detail how its style, color and condition dictated it’s owner. He would look at the wear of the sole and the dirt in the seams before proclaiming an honest man,  a lazy man or  a drunkard.  To the boy’s immense surprise, the cobbler was rarely wrong.

“What do my shoes say about me?” asked the boy one day. The master looked back at him. “That’s a good question, why don’t you answer it?” he said.

The boy looked down at his feet. They looked the oldest shoes in the world… at least those bits which remained of them. They were cheap and tattered and filthy. The boy was filled with shame, and he didn’t look up; he couldn’t bear to look at his master.

“I hate them,” he whispered. “They’re awful and they’re not who I want to be.”

The boy felt his master’s hand upon his shoulder.

“Look at me.” said his master. The boy looked up. His master smiled and laid an awl in the boy’s hand. “Who do you want to be?” he asked.