Fat Girl in a Strange Land (6 page)

A pair of bare feet.

It’s too cold and wet and dark for bare feet.

You follow these feet, the map in your pocket smouldering to almost incineration as you wrap your hand around it for reassurance. Dodge, dodge, flit, a snap of linen…and those feet are gone.

The memory of leather is more than just a dark tang on your tongue now. It assails your nostrils, and you lift your nose towards its glory. Your feet itch.

The dull brick has gone, like the demands and the hush and the blood of the city. Cobblestones shine true in what should be a false light of the city’s twilight, but sunshine peers daintily around that far corner, that turn in the lane — where bare feet are now disappearing — which has made all those unquestionable promises to you.

A figure moves beyond a dusty window. Somehow the dirt encasing the cobbler’s shop is not unseemly, but an indicator of fine age and experience, like wine.

There are no words engraved on the window, just the detritus of the craft hinted at in the corners and an old fashioned sign above the door depicting a shoe. It’s a shoe never worn in the city you’ve left behind. The cobbler does not care to display their wares to entice foot traffic.

There is no question that you will enter the shop. There is no question that a pair of shoes is waiting for you.

A glass bell chimes clean as you push open the door. Stained glass and crystal, wood and copper. The hidden notes of the perfume from the map become apparent.

The face of leather, as well worn and lived in as the shoes you love, looks up from an old-fashioned leather bound accounts book. Immediately the lines deepen, the stars of eyes greeting you from the black depths of their sky.

“Welcome back!” The voice is as warm as the material the cobbler works. You can’t tell whether they are a man or woman, and it really doesn’t matter.

You hesitate, wondering how their eyes refuse to rake your body up and down in the one second greet-and-dismiss you’re so used to. You glance behind checking whether, as always, the salutation is meant for someone who has crept into the shop behind you…but no. You are the only customer.

“Welcome…back?” Your voice is rusty from underuse in such situations. You prefer to let shop assistants in the city stores finish their spiel — the more you interrupt to ask for what you really need, the longer the shopping experience takes. Here, no hard sell necessary. Your shoes are promised.

“Thirty years, thirty days, thirty seconds. Who’s counting?” The cobbler shrugs and shuts the accounts book with a snap. You don’t want to jump at the loud noise in the quiet shop — the weight of the city is lifting from your shoulders and hips — but you do. The movement augments the cobbler’s smile. “Though I would have thought you would be back much sooner. Shoes I made for a six year old certainly won’t fit you now.”

You dislike the lazy rhetoric of “twinkling”, but right now that is the only way to describe the cobbler’s eyes — pregnant nebulae, barely contained within the nest of the sockets. You could travel forever through the universe promised in that gaze.

“How did you know—”

“I pride myself on repeat business.” The cobbler comes around from behind the counter, the puppet becoming a full and realized person, and gazes upon the boxes stacked to the ceiling against the wall, a tuneless hum and finger on their lips. The boxes are in no particular order. The yellow of age dots the stack throughout, and no numerical or naming system is evident. You too roam your eyes across the boxes, to politely fill the silence, but you don’t know what it is you’re supposed to be looking for.

The cobbler finally makes a pleased sound deep in their throat and selects a box no different from any of the others. The box is presented to you with a flourish, the top whisked off, as if the cobbler is offering you a feast.

A feast it is. The shoes nestled in the tissue are perfect. There is no way in this world or the next that you will be able to kill these beauties. You can tell they will fit perfectly just by looking at their curves, smelling their leather.

They do. You drop a silent prayer to the animal that sacrificed themselves to your feet.

There are no buckles or laces to adjust. The shoes open each of their maws and slide right up to your ankles — boots really — then the supposedly stiff leather encase your appendages with grace, skill and the comfort of a thousand miles. They are already broken in.

“How did you—” you try again, but the cobbler’s smile answers it all, and nothing.

“I took your measurements that first time, don’t you remember?” The cobbler pats the side of each foot, as if moulding clay. “I’ve had a pair of shoes prepared for each time you’ve needed them, but you never came to claim them.”

You look upon the cobbler’s bent head genuflecting over their handiwork. You try to remember whether you asked for their name, and again it doesn’t matter. You could say you are closer than family, but your experience doesn’t bear that out. You decide you feel more like a daughter to this person than the one who birthed you.

“I did come looking for you again.” The words are lodged somewhere in the back of your throat.

“Well, you must’ve just not needed them.” You can’t place the cobbler’s matter-of-fact accent. You have to keep reminding yourself that this shop, the cobblestone lane, does not exist in your city.

“But I did,” you protest. “I’ve gone through so many pairs of shoes, I can’t even begin to count!”

The cobbler looks up sideways through their flopping fringe, and makes a click on the back of their soft palate. “And such a shame it is. They forgive you, every pair. They were happy to serve you well.”

And that was that. No shock running like water across the face, there and gone so fast but screaming in the silence. No ubiquitous statements about the amount of exercise you get, concerns for your health, capped with the quirked eyebrow or furrowed forehead of disbelief. People forget how much they can give away with just one look, especially to those who have been told to only be observers throughout their lives.

You reach for your bag, usually just a small thing but today it is a backpack prepared in anticipation.

“How much do I owe you?”

You pull out a plastic card, the account now almost emptied with anony-mous donations to a woman’s refuge, an animal shelter, and Vinnia’s secret place. Curiosity ticks at the corners of your mouth when you can find no evidence of a terminal to swipe it through, in fact, no evidence of electronics of any kind.

The cobbler nods, acknowledging your concern. Could their features fold any deeper into those striking wrinkles? “The only payment I accept is the thanks you will send me when you are a million steps away from here and your feet keep you going beyond what you once thought possible.”

This is not a dismissal but a statement of fact. Finally your own smile comes out of retirement, pushing and pulling at the corners of your mouth. Pre-industrialized, yes. This frightens you. But a place that does not revolve on silver and gold? This excites you. There is a change in the cobbler’s knowing smile, which makes you eager to put one foot in front of the other and discover the different ways biology matters here.

“My job is done,” the cobbler says without rancour, pushing against their thighs to stand up. Things creak and pop. “Before you leave, there are a few other stops you must make.” They wave their hand in the direction of the cobblestone lane, now edging towards midday though you have already experienced your own.

Your conversation has been sparse, but the cobbler minds little. Another customer is happy. All their words are in these glorious shoes. You could be walking in bare feet and not feel the thorns and arrows, the sticks and stones. There is a lightness of being to your step that you could never find in any other pair.

You open the shop door, the glass bell rings in the change, and you turn to raise a hand in farewell. “Thank you,” is all you can find to say.

The cobbler has returned to their ledger, opening the great book and making a mark on the page with a satisfied flourish. “Later, later. Tell me all about it much later.”

The well-trodden paths through your heart say that you will.

There is a tailor, a tinker and an emporium to visit. Each of them has just what you need, prepared, packed and ready for you: the clothier, sturdy garments to resist hot and cold climes, a match for your shoes; the tinker a compass, retractable spyglass and trading gewgaws; and the emporium food, cooking instruments, medical supplies, writing tools, a blanket, and a backpack to replace your inadequate city one, into which it all goes.

You post your final letters, reassured by a familiar-but-not-quite mail box at the entrance to the lane that your messages will get through. You think the cats, already in good homes, will mourn you more than people will. Maybe. Vinnia will make a fuss, but that’s her way.

One less person taking up space. Walking away is an act of self-love, one you’ve never been allowed. And you do so love to walk, blessed be the shoe makers. So much to see, so little time.

You reassess what little you have brought with you. The photographs will go with you, books and music you’ll have to consume and discard along the way, and the camera is discarded as useless.

So too are your maps. They have no bearing here.

The assistant at the emporium smiles — again a face that has seen much walking, and again a smile so genuine it’s scary how uncomfortable they make you — and points you in the direction of one final shop.

As you zag back across the cobblestones, an open bazaar of wheels momentarily capture your gaze. Wheels that would take an elephant to pull, others that would fit a small trolley or pram, and yet more with unusual tread.

These last wheels explain themselves as you enter the cartography shop. The proprietor sits at ease in a wheeled chair, his elegantly embroidered leather gloves to him what your shoes are to you.

Half an automaton, a pair of copper pants with thick joints at knee and ankle, whisper promises from their rest in a favoured corner.

It is not this automaton that ensnares your delight, but the maps.

The maps enter you through your nostrils, mouth, and pores. You can taste the places they all depict. There is spice, loam, sex, sand and death clamouring their way down your gullet.

There is another customer in the cartographer’s shop. A woman, dressed in well washed linen, hair like the bark of a redwood tree, tangled and alive, deep and rich, hastily pulled back in a tail.

She looks at your shoes, and her eyes soak into yours. Her mouth doesn’t move, a sign that some beast lurks beneath. You forget for a moment what her face looks like, too. She has forgotten the shape of your hips and belly.

The cartographer has maps of all shape and size folded out across the large counter, which is just the right dimension and height for all to pour over the wares until the right one is found.

“Where are you going?” the woman asks, her voice honey, lemon and whisky. You drink her up.

You discard and dismiss maps, choosing them more by touch than sight. You settle on one with a sigh and a caress, unfolding it to its fullest life. It is big, showing everything from mountain to sea, desert to forest.

It is also incomplete.

You point to a blank spot, beyond a stretch of water, and another on the opposite side of the map, beyond a forest. “Here,” you say. “And here.” Your fingers flex above other blank areas of the canvas, but you have to start somewhere. Your toes curl inside your new shoes.

The woman tries on a smile with her lips. It’s not quite right, but it will do. It’s a start. The lemon, honey and whisky warm you from the inside.

You fold the map into its special pouch and stow it in your pack. Together, you walk out of the mapmakers, and faces towards the sun, you both turn the corner in the cobblestone lane.

A.J. Fitzwater
lives and breathes in the shaky city of Christchurch, New Zealand, where she has become adept at skipping cracks. Watched over by a squawk of dragons, she writes in whatever sunbeam her calico cat Mini Me deems appropriate for solar powered charging. Her work has appeared in
Expanded Horizons
,
M-Brane SF
,
Khimairal Ink
,
Semaphore
,
Luna Station Quarterly
,
Flash Me Magazine
, and the earthquake fundraising anthology
Tales for Canterbury
(
talesforcanterbury.wordpress.com
). She blogs about her writing journey at
pickledthink.blogspot.com
.

Survivor

by Josh Roseman

Wen slumped against a crystal formation and stared up at the dark sky, lit only by greenish-gold auroras. Sweat ran down into her eyes and made her clothes cling in uncomfortable places. She wanted to sit down, wanted to take off the pack for a few minutes, but the last time she’d done that, her feet had ached even worse for the respite.

No. Better to stay standing.

She caught her breath before taking a measured swallow from the canteen that hung at her side. Gulping the water would be a mistake; in this state, she’d just throw up. Staying calm, that was the key.

One more swallow, though she ached to drain the whole thing, and then back onto its clip.

Wen’s borrowed comm pinged. Four hours to sunrise. Four hours until the witchlight above her head gave way to the burning white orb that would blast her with heat and radiation until she was nothing but a memory.

Four hours to live.

She shoved the comm back into her pocket, stood up straight, and started to run again.

Well, jog, anyway.

It was the best she could do.

The rich kids had chartered an interplanetary liner for their high school graduation party. Wen had been invited because she was friends with someone who was friends with someone whose father owned a big chunk of one of the moons. She knew no one liked her — no one ever really liked the fat kids, not even the other fat kids — but she’d be leaving in a few weeks anyway, to one of the top universities in the system. Why not at least try to have a little fun?