There was a wanderer. There are and were and will be wanderers, wherever, whenever. But this one was.
In particular, this one was Somewhat-Clever Cirlew, who was walking down the long dirt roads of the long spring valleys when she found an unexpected thing: the road became cobbled.
“Well, that’s nice,” she said.
“Not as much as you think,” said a nearby peasant, bent-triple under a load of stones for roadwork. “It’s not for the benefit of you and me, but for the land-lord.”
“And who might that be, and who might you be?” asked Somewhat-Clever Cirlew.
“I am Bow-Legged Nleet, and these are the lands of Wide-Armed Wallis,” said Bow-Legged Nleet. “He’s the strongest within these lands and so they are his and he may do what he pleases with them, and what pleases him is to extract ruinous tolls from all passers-by on pain of death, which he gathers up in his grand keep. We toil at his will to keep the roads busy with traffic to extort, and it will never end.”
“I think I can fix that for you,” said Somewhat-Clever Cirlew.
“Well, good luck with that,” said Bow-Legged Nleet, “because here he comes now.” And indeed the cobbled road hummed with the furious force of thunderous footfalls, and up the road stomped Wide-Armed Wallis, thirty stone if he was an ounce and all of it burly and hairy and most of it knuckles.
“HEY YOU,” he introduced himself. “YOU OWE THE TOLL FOR USE OF THIS ROAD, WHICH IS EVERYTHING YOU’VE GOT ON YOU.”
“Oh dear,” said Somewhat-Clever Cirlew. “To whom is this toll owed?”
“ME,” explained Wide-Armed Wallis. “I AM THE LAND-LORD OF THESE LANDS, FOR I AM THE STRONGEST OF ANY WITHIN THEM. THAT’S HOW IT WORKS.”
“Oh, you are?” said Somewhat-Clever Cirlew.
“YES, I AM,” said Wide-Armed Wallis.
“Oh. Alright. I thought – nevermind. Well, what’s the toll?”
“YOU THOUGHT WHAT?’ demanded Wide-armed Wallis.
“I thought I heard you were the strongest within these lands,” said Somewhat-Clever Cirlew. “And well, I suppose that’s sort of true. Strongest man, yes, certainly.”
Wide-Armed Wallis’s shoulders flexed in outrage, destroying his shirt. Hot steam spurted from every opening of his body in rage. “I ATE A BEAR ONCE,” he proclaimed. “I CAN LIFT AND THROW COWS. I AM THE STRONGEST OF ALL IN THESE LANDS, NO EXCEPTIONS. WHAT LIES HAVE YOU HEARD?”
“I heard the winter weather here is pretty fierce up on yonder mountainside,” said Somewhat-Clever Cirlew, with a meek and submissive gesture of her pointiest finger. “Quite tough. Real nasty.”
“I FEAR IT NOT,” said Wide-Armed Wallis.
“Of course, of course.”
“I AM STRONGER THAN IT.”
“No doubt, no doubt.”
“I WILL GO SHOW YOU RIGHT NOW.”
“Oh?” said Somewhat-Clever Cirlew innocently. “Oh, well, I mean, if you insist-”
Wide-Armed Wallis picked up Somewhat-Clever Cirlew in one hand and his snarl in the other and clambered uphill and through dale and nigh to the very summit of the nearest peak, where you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face for the wails of the winter in the wind and the rush of snow through your eyesockets.
“NOW I WILL FIGHT THIS BLIZZARD AND SHOW IT WHO IS STRONGEST,” said Wide-Armed Wallis.
“Oh, how brave!” admired Somewhat-Clever Cirlew. “Only it’s not this spot that’s the nastiest. It’s a bit over there.”
Wide-Armed Wallis went a bit over there. “HERE?”
“No, there.”
Wide-Armed Wallis went a bit over there again. “HERE?”
“No, there.”
Wide-Armed Wallis went a bit over there again, again. “HERE?” he began to ask as he fell into a crevasse, plummeted two hundred feet, and lost a very rapid arm wrestling match against the mountain.
***
Bow-Legged Nleet was taking a breather with a cup of tea and some gossip with Natter-Mouth Moilra when Pretty-Cunning Cirlew came back down from the mountainside, covered in snow and a bit smug grin.
“I believe your land-lord problems are now over,” she proclaimed with satisfaction.
“Oh, not quite, not quite, not nearly so,” said Bow-Legged Nleet. “You see, Wide-Armed Wallis had a son: Quick-Grasp Grimley. He’s not as burly as his dad was, but he’s lightning-fast and even more avaricious. As a matter of fact, since his father’s dead, he should be coming up the way to raise the tolls right now.”
“When?” asked Pretty-Cunning Cirlew.
“Now,” said Quick-Grasp Grimley, his boots still-dusty as he tidied them off by kicking Bow-Legged Nleet’s shin. He was as tall as his father, but six times narrower and three times nastier. “And now, I will take the toll for the use of this road. Everything you’ve got on you twice over, please.”
“That’s quite a lot,” marvelled Pretty-Cunning Cirlew.
“I deserve it for my diligence,” said Quick-Grasp Grimley. “Every day of my father’s reign I woke up bright and early to squeeze our rightful gains from insolent and greedy trespassers. I billed the roads; I priced the bridges; I took three birds from every flock and three fish from every stream. Nothing moves through these lands without paying a price, for I am their land-lord.”
“Oh of course, of course, of course,” soothed Pretty-Cunning Cirlew. “Except the clouds, naturally.”
“Naturally what,” said Quick-Grasp Grimley, his eyes narrowing.
“Naturally you can’t extract payment from the clouds. But I mean, who would? The clouds are beyond anyone’s grasp.”
“Not mine,” said Quick-Grasp Grimley. “Of course they’re not beyond me! They just have nothing of value to give up.”
“There’s a rain-cloud!” pointed Pretty-Cunning Cirlew with a precise and accurate gesture of her pointiest finger. . “It’s not stopping, either!”
“OH, NO IT WON’T!” shouted Quick-Grasp Grimley, and he was gone, and gone, and gone, matching pace with the cloud as it soared down and away through the valleys and over the hills and down the riverways and over the sea and over the sea and over the sea and into the middle of the sea, where it evaporated.
“Tax-dodger!” snarled Quick-Grasp Grimley.
Then he remembered he couldn’t swim.
***
It took Very-Crafty Cirlew four days to walk to the coast and back, and by the time she made the trip, word had got around. The village was in an uproar of riotous festivity, and not a single back was bent under a load of stone and brick.
“I’m back!” proclaimed Very-Crafty Cirlew, holding aloft her noxious prize. “With proof of your land-lord’s passing: the discarded boots and clothing of Quick-Grasp Grimley!”
“Hooray!” shouted Bow-Legged Nleet.
“Hooray!” called Natter-Mouth Moilra.
“HOORAY!” hollered Damned-Short Sillas.
“HOORAY!” yelled everyone else.
“I also got his keys!” said Very-Crafty Cirlew.
“Hooray!” shouted Bow-Legged Nleet.
“Hooray!” called Natter-Mouth Moilra.
“HOORAY!” hollered Damned-Short Sillas.
“HOORAY!” yelled everyone else.
“Now I’m going to live in the land-lord’s keep as the land-lord, since I am the cleverest in all the land,” said Very-Crafty Cirlew. “I suggest you pay up on time, since I’m incredibly devious and will get you no matter what in the end. Now get back to work on the roads.”
“Hooray!” shouted Bow-Legged Nleet. “Wait.”
“Fuck,” said Natter-Mouth Moilra.
“Shit,” said Damned-Short Sillas.
“Piss,” agreed everyone else. “NOW what?”
Bow-Legged Nleet thought about it, then smiled. “I think I know who can save us.”
***
The land-lord’s keep’s great and terrible door laid open a crack, permitting the faintest egress of light into its depths. A hand was placed upon it, gnarled and wrinkled, and with a slow and ominous creak the crack opened wide.
“Pay your dues and begone,” said Very-Crafty Cirlew’s voice from far within. “But don’t come inside, or the many terrible curses I’ve laid upon the door will fell you.”
“Feh,” said the intruder, and stumped inside, slamming the door for good measure.
The land-lord’s keep’s towering, ominous hall soared and swooped from gloomy rafters to flat dead-grey flagstones, wide and rough. Old leathery boots tramped on them, and mud spattered across them.
“Ah, you are too brave to be thwarted with curses,” said Very-Crafty Cirlew’s voice from the end of the hall. “But your fellow villagers fear you for your boldness! They plan to turn upon you when you return to them after dealing with me, serving you poisoned beer with false smiles. I can save you from this fate if you’ll stop and listen and promise to leave.”
“Meh,” grunted the intruder, her hobnailed waddle unceasing.
The land-lord’s keep’s throne was a great and towering thing carved from raw oak, and in its enormous seat was sat Very-Crafty Cirlew and a very comfortable pillow.
“Okay, you’re too smart to be tricked,” she admitted. “How about this: you can have all the gold in this place if you go home and say you killed me.”
“Hngh,” said the intruder, as she patted at her pockets. Then she pulled out a large, sharp kitchen knife and planted it in Very-Crafty Cirlew’s chest.
“But….I’m the cleverest…” she bubbled.
Face pinched in annoyance, one-good-eye squinting, her killer leaned in closer.
“EH?” shouted Stone-Deaf Dreen.
***
They still kept the road in decent shape, when all was said and done. Toll or no toll, they all had to walk on it.