It takes one to know one

There was a trickster.

It takes a certain kind of person to know a trickster.

Other tricksters, consumed with their own schemes can never really get to know one another, maybe they struggle to get to know anyone at all.

But a person of the people, there are not many such people, but the steward was one.

The steward loved the trickster when he would come into his life. He was endlessly entertaining and the steward enjoyed being on the outside of the trickster’s schemes, it was thrilling to know what exploits had been accomplished, what tragedies avoided, in the weeks or months between their meeting.

It wasn’t only this vicarious thrill that the steward loved about the man. For this particular trickster had a pair of dancing shoes,

that when he donned the room would fill with mirth and joy.

There were not many parties in the land during this time. The crops were not thriving, and the road to the market had a bridge that had been broken for nearly as long as anyone could remember.

The steward, dedicated to his land but starving left out into the world and said a goodbye to the trickster. This goodbye was no different than the last and this time no different than any other time they had shared company. Maybe drinking a little too much, saying more than they should have and having a little too much fun.

Without a nagging thought the steward bundled his meager clothing and made his way to the market, he forded the wide river and set up a small tent on the edge of the market to sell his wares, the spoons that he had carved on his land, hoping that small fragments of the trees he cherished could raise the money to preserve their home.

The truth is the trickster was always in and out spontaneously, there was no routine by which he could be missed. And so the Steward didn’t notice his absence as he continued his mundane business, living a simple life. Only after a drink or two, every once in a while, he would think of the trickster dancing. But then, he didn’t like to drink.

It came one Sunday morning in church. a whisper that the trickster had died. And so the steward without saying goodbye or reason walked out of the church slow but measured down the path, across the wide and rushing river, letting his cloak soak as he stumbled and swam, and continued with a steady pace.

After many days of walking

He came to the grave of his old friend. He thought of old times, and he wondered grimly if the trickster could have benefitted from a simpler life.

His heart was filled with sorrow, and a strange and callous judgment.

And then he saw the head stone and it read

“worth every penny”

And next to them, leaning on the side of the stone,

were a pair

of dancing shoes.

The steward took them for himself.