Shodden Woe was a boy, twelve years of age, and the only son of the town cobbler. Shodden loved his father, but he had no love for his father's business—leathers, tassels and such—and to Shodden's disappointment, his father never carried a musket, which in Shodden's estimation, lacked a heroic quality necessary in a man. Shodden wanted to be more than his father. He wanted to be a wolf hunter, like the old knight that lived in the castle, high up on the hill.

The knight hosted a winter feast each year. All the nobles attended, and on this year, the knight commissioned a new pair of boots for his winter suit. Mr. Woe set to work right away, fashioning them in the finest leather, fur lining, and silver tassel adornment. It took an entire month and all the Woe's treasury, but he finished them in time for the knight's feast and set out that night with Shodden for delivery.

"Shodden," he said. "We must deliver these boots this very evening, lest the knight refuse payment and have us in the poorhouse."

This was melody to Shodden's ears for Shodden had waited eagerly, a time, that he might walk the Grove at night. Shodden grabbed his musket, a sleeve of powder, and his last lead ball before stepping out into the moonlit snow.

It was as Shodden had dreamt it might be, trudging through the snow, musket in hand. He imagined his father was a knight rather than an old shoemaker, and for a time, Shodden walked beside him as the son of a hero. After a bit, the night grew colder than Shodden had ever imagined it might get, and much darker, as they walked further into the wood. When the first howl sliced through the air, Shodden felt the rigid pulse in his veins, where his blood had certainly turned cold.

"Douse the lantern," his father whispered.

They turned off the path and headed into the deeper snow where they hid behind a brush, until certain the wolf had traveled on.

"There is a stream ahead, father, I can hear it."

The faint babble of water drew them deeper into the wood.

"We'll follow it," his father said. "It most likely the one that runs from the castle."

Shodden slipped and stumbled upon the ground.

"Careful, Shodden, that you watch the stream. A wet foot will not do in this cold."

Not two minutes later, Shodden slipped upon a topply rock, and landed right in the water, sinking both feet. An icy cold ran up through his legs, and he jumped up onto the bank.

"It's okay, father, just damp."

Mr. Woe knelt down and looked at his son's wet shoes. "You're drenched through. Take off your shoes and socks." Mr. Woe took from his back the oilcloth package. He cut the twine, unwrapped the cloth, and handed the boots to Shodden.

"But father, the knight will not pay for a pair of used boots, even ones so handsome as these."

A howl erupted through the air, this one closer, and Mr. Woe looked at his son.

"Put them on Shodden! Hurry, we must move on!"

Shodden saw the disappointment and urgency in his father's eyes. Shodden would have given anything not to wear the knight's boots, but he did as his father said and put the boots on. His father grabbed him to his side and started uphill.

"Quickly Shodden, we're almost there."

Shodden looked up and through the moonlit trees, where he saw the outline of the knight's castle.

They moved quietly, crouching low against the whistling wind. The wind settled for a moment, giving them a brief reprieve from the bitter air, and that was when Shodden heard it, a low growl from behind a bush not five feet away. Out stepped three grey wolves, beautiful and vicious, their curling lips stretched over pointed teeth. Shodden pulled the musket from his back and felt for his powder. He fumbled to load it, but the lead ball dropped to the ground and burrowed deep into the snow. Shodden knelt to retrieve it, but it was lost.

"Forget it." Mr. Woe pulled a cobbler's knife from his belt.

Shodden stared as the wolves drew closer in slow measured steps, forming a circle.

"The tassels, Shodden!"

Mr. Woe knelt and yanked a silver tassel from a boot then slipped it into the end of the musket. Shodden loaded it then pulled it to his shoulder, watching the nearest wolf.

"Shoot! Now!" Shodden felt the metal against his finger. He willed his finger to pull, but he could not move. His fear stayed him.

"Now Shodden!"

The wolf jumped and knocked Shodden onto his back. Crack! The musket fired, and the wolf yelped. It fell back, dazed, and ran off into the woods. Shodden stood quickly and swung the musket about knocking the other two off his father. One of the wolves lunged at Shodden. Shodden fell again, the wolf atop him snarling, dripping, Shodden knew it was to be the end of him.

When the musket fired, Shodden thought he'd imagined it. He had not fired his own. A musket fired again, and this time Shodden knew it was coming from another. Men's voices and horses' hooves drew near, and another musket fired. The last two wolves ran off.

Shodden fell back in the snow. Dazed, exhausted, he lay until two hands pulled him up from the ground.

"A little scrawny for a hunter. Aren't you, boy?"

Shodden looked up into the knight's face.

"Let's get you inside." The knight called to his men. They hoisted Shodden and his father onto their horses and took them both inside the castle. A servant sat them by the kitchen fire with blankets and gave them two cups of warm cider and two bowls of stew. Shodden could hear the guests laughing and the music playing in the halls. It was the winter feast, and Shodden looked down at the boots on his feet. They were tattered and covered in wolf's blood.

It was very late when the knight sought them out again. Shodden's father stood immediately as the knight entered the room. Mr. Woe thanked the knight, praising his bravery and generosity.

"And what of my boots?" The knight said, and looked at Shodden's feet.

Shodden felt his face grow hot, even as he started to tell the knight of their journey—the stream, the wolves and the silver tassel shot—he knew it would not be enough.

"Sir, I cannot ask your forgiveness. I am a fool. I slipped into the stream and ruined your handsome boots. I cannot repay you, and my father has no money left to make you a new pair. These cost us our last penny."

The knight stared at Shodden with a stony perplexion that made Shodden's knees go weak. Shodden's father pulled his son close.

"Sir, it is not my boy's fault. He would surely have lost his feet for frostbite if I had not forced him to wear the boots. He is a brave boy, my son. I will make you a new pair of boots, even more grande than these, somehow."

The knight looked at the boy and his father, then at the boots again.

"I would have no other boots than these, right here, on this brave boy's feet. They are worthy a wolf hunter if ever I saw any."

"But sir, they are tattered and bloody. Please I cannot allow you—"

"Enough, good sir. I will have these boots and no others, and, if it so pleases you and your boy, I am in need of a page, one with noble quality. Mr. Woe would you lend me your son for such service?"

"I, I don't know, my lord." Mr. Woe turned to his son, and knelt down on his knee. "Shodden, I had hoped you might fancy my work one day, but I know that you wish for far more than I can ever give. The knight asks for your service, son. Will you give it?"

Shodden smiled, for it was the very thing he had always wanted. He turned to the knight and stared up into his eyes.

"My lord, I cannot begin to thank you for such a kind offer. I have dreamt of it so many times, but . . ." Shodden looked at his father. "I have learned this night, that bravery comes in many forms, and wisdom is its greatest leader. If it pleases you sir, I must decline your offer. I, as yet, have much to learn from my father."

Shodden saw a tear well in his father's eye, and then a smile grow across his lips. The knight laughed.

"Very well then, but you cannot render me fruitless. I shall give service to such nobility. If you will not be my page, then I shall make you my cobbler; if you and your father will have my commission that is."

Shodden's father drew a deep breath and turned to the knight.

"With every grace, we accept, my lord."

Before sending the Woe's home with two good horses, the knight paid them three times over for the making of his boots. He then placed the boots on his hearth, where he told their story many nights to visiting guests. The next spring brought not only the knight's commissions, but also the orders of noble ladies and lords from across the land. The Woe's worked hard and lived fully, the bravest and wealthiest craftsmen in Gullin's Grove, and in his growing, Shodden put up his musket by day, but some nights, when the moon set just right, he pulled the musket down and walked the Grove, listening for low growls in the woods.

The End

Rae Bryant writes fiction for all ages. She lives in a valley at the edge of D.C., a most precarious location if ever a flood. Fortunately, she owns a boat.

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