The Humble Haberdasher

PERHAPS HE SHOULD have paid the tinker for his story with one of his own right away and set off at a more brisk pace to put steps behind him, Steven thought; but the tinker was such good company and Steven had so many questions that it was difficult to part. Steven spent the entire walk the next day asking for more details. While others he had met confessed to have heard of a dragon, the tinker was the first who actually knew a story about one and may have even seen the impossible pot at some point in his life.

“What color was the dragon in your story,” Steven asked.

“Well, mostly green,” answered the tinker. “Didn’t I mention green? Although she was encrusted with jewels from lying on her hoard. You knew dragons had a hoard, didn’t you? They collect treasure all their lives. The man who masters a dragon is a wealthy man indeed.”

“Did this dragon change to a damsel only at night, or could it happen at any time of day?” Steven continued to probe.

“The dragon was more inclined to human form when in human company and kept her dragon form as her natural state. Armand loved the lady and feared the dragon. So, naturally the creature stayed a lady most of the time they were together,” the tinker answered.

“What happened after the seven years?” Steven asked next. “Did Armand Hamar stay with the dragon lady or go back to being a tinker?”

“Now that is a puzzle to most people,” said the tinker. “Some have said they see him wandering the roads to this day. Others that it is seven years with and seven years without kind of romance; he goes back to her after he has wandered seven years away. But the stories all seem to agree that his time with the dragon gave Armand an exceptionally long lifespan. Some say he even turned to a dragon.”

“Do you mean one could become a dragon?” Steven asked, astonished. This thought had never crossed his mind. Perhaps his dragon had once been someone else. Perhaps even the missionary who had come to his village eons ago.

The tinker simply nodded and said, “Some say.”

Before Steven realized it, the bulk of the day had passed and there lay ahead of them a sizeable mountain village. Banners streamed in the afternoon sun from the town’s main street, for as they drew nearer, Steven could see that this was no one-road town, but that more buildings than he had ever seen leaned into each other along twisting cart paths through the town. Steven was in awe.

“I’ve never seen so many people. This must be what is meant by a city,” he told the tinker, keeping close to the cart.

“Not so large as a real city,” the tinker said. “But this is the main trading center for many days journey around. I’ll set up shop in the market and do a sharp business tonight and tomorrow. I’m afraid I’ll have to wait to hear your story until tomorrow night.”

At this Steven chafed a bit, but a deal was a deal, and just because he could not tell his story around the fire tonight, he still owed the story to the tinker and was bound to pay him. It was only fair. He helped the tinker open his cart for the customers who already had lined up with broken pots, furniture, and even a dog with three legs and a wheel. Steven soon found that the tinker had made the extraordinary contraption for the dog, which got around almost as well as a normal dog. The tinker oiled the wheel and petted the dog.

Steven also found that some of the buildings were shops where goods were bought and sold. Having never seen or used coins before, Steven was at a loss for how he could trade for food or supplies. The tinker came to Steven’s rescue, buying each of them a meat pie from one vendor and a tankard of ale from another. Steven was reluctant to be any further in the tinker’s debt, but the tinker seemed to think that Steven was performing a useful service by keeping people in an orderly line as they brought their things to be mended, or sought to buy a new pot or have a talk with the tinker about mending a roof.

The two worked well into the evening around the tinker’s fire and Steven proved himself worthy by mending a cane chair himself. He discovered that many of the tasks the tinker performed for others in town were things that people in his village did for themselves. When they were too tired to go on, they slept with the donkey, leaning up against the cart.

They were awake before dawn, and soon were working side-by-side. Steven went off to mend a thatched roof for the tinker and returned with coins that the tinker said were for his labor. Steven was remarkably proud of the coins and placed them in the same pouch with his precious herbs where they jingled merrily when he walked. Late the second day, as they were cleaning up the remains of the work they had to do, a man dressed in fine clothes came up to the tinker.

“The master asks you and your assistant to join him at the manor for the evening meal,” said the man.

“Ah,” said the tinker. “And what might the master want with a poor tinker?” This was said with a slight lilt and Steven caught a devilish wink from the tinker.

“Naught but your company, and perhaps a story,” said the man. “There will be clean straw for your bed and a hot meal in return.”

“Tell the master that his humble servant will attend him after the sun has set,” answered the tinker. The man was satisfied and went off with his message. The tinker turned to Steven and said, “It seems the story you are to tell me must be shared with others tonight. I do hope it is a good one!”

Dinner at the manor was the most elaborate meal Steven had ever witnessed. There was as much food as at any village feast, and in addition to the master, many townspeople were in attendance. The tinker introduced Steven George the Dragonslayer to the master and Steven then sat at the table.

“That is a spectacular hat you are wearing,” said the master to Steven. “I dare say we have never seen anything like it in this part of the mountains.” Several young women who had heard the comment hid their faces, but Steven could hear their laughter.

“It is a badge of honor to wear this hat,” said Steven. “Many there are who would have it, but it is the only one of its kind in the known world.” Steven spoke as though he knew all the known world rather than just the two hundred sixty-eight thousand seventy-four steps he had journeyed from his home.

“Perhaps,” said the tinker, “if it pleases the master, you will take my place to pay for our meal and beds with the story of that remarkable hat.”

“Yes, yes,” said the master. “If it is as unique as you say, it will be a story well worth the meal.”

“This story has been passed down for generations along with the hat,” Steven improvised as he stood to address the assembled dinner guests. Though still smiling at Steven, the maidens were no longer laughing.

ONCE UPON A TIME, many steps ago, there lived a humble haberdasher named Kasimar Caciula, known to all his customers as Kaz-in-a-Hat. Kaz made clothing, hats, belts, and even boots. The place where he lived was very hot in the summer, so people came to Kaz from far away to get the light summer hats and sandals that he made from straw. The place where he lived was also very cold in the winter, so people came to Kaz from near and far to get boots and the warm winter hats with earflaps that he made from sheep’s skin to warm them in the cold. Kaz made beautiful hats, and functional hats, and all his hats were warm in the winter and cool in the summer.

One day as Kaz sat at his milliner’s bench molding a particularly fine sheepskin hat, he spied a rat creeping along the wall looking for scraps. Kaz threw a wooden hatblock at the rat. The rat neatly sidestepped the block and continued calmly to investigate a site it seemed particularly interested in.

Kaz threw a hammer at the rat, but the rat again neatly stepped aside and continued foraging. Looking for another projectile, Kaz pulled the not-yet-finished hat from the table and flung it at the rat. Because of its unique shape, the hat floated gently through the air and settled cozily over the surprised rat.

Now the rat was alarmed. It scurried left and right bumping into table leg and chair. But since it could not see outside the hat, it could not tell that its doom approached on the feet of Kasimar Caciula. Kaz followed the hat around the room with the rat’s tail protruding from one edge. As the rat ran into a blank wall and was for a moment dazed, Kaz snatched it up by the tail, removed it from the shop and drowned it in a pail of water.

Satisfied that his home and shop were once again free of vermin, Kaz recovered the hat and proceeded to finish it. As he worked, he absent-mindedly hummed a little ditty to himself that he made up as he went along.

“With this hat
I killed a rat.
Through the air it lightly flew
If there’d been another, I’d killed it too.
And if a third had come to see,
With this hat, I’d have killed three.
You ask if my hat could handle four;
I say to you, bring more, bring more!”

Kaz was incredibly pleased with himself, both for having been clever enough to catch the rat and for the ditty he had made up celebrating the fact. But little did Kaz know that his youngest child had wandered by as he sang his song. The child, always in awe of his father and his splendid hats, went to his playmates and—as children are prone to do—proceeded at once to boast of his father’s amazing accomplishments.

“Oh yea?” said the little one “My papa has made a magic hat that catches rats.” The child’s playmates were suitably awed. They went to their homes and told their parents about the magic hat that could hunt by itself.