It was a figure even in the cobbler's mind, because he could not call the figure a man or a woman because that would never be correct. Nor could he call it a boy or a girl, because neither of those labels would hang correctly on the person who stood there wringing its tiny hands.

"I thought you were an invisible little girl," said the cobbler.

"No, sir," said the figure. "Neither invisible nor a girl. Though I am little, and to my own people I am a girl, for I am not yet fully grown."

"I see that you are quite little, my dear. But why stand down there, where no one but a giraffe can look over and see you? Why not fly up here onto the counter? There's plenty of s.p.a.ce," he said, pushing some of his tools aside.

The little figure looked sada"or at least the cobbler supposed that she looked sad, because he had very little experience reading the expressions of persons of her kind. She turned around so that he could see her back. Then she raised her arms to her sides, and with a soft grunt of effort, expanded the pair of miniature wings.

The wings were lovely to see. Gold and tan in color, with nicely formed primary feathers, as well as all the requisite secondary and tertiary feathers, and quite attractive emarginations.

However, upon seeing the feathers, the cobbler felt his mouth turn into a small round O, and he even spoke that aloud. "Oh," he said, faintly and with an equal mix of surprise, and consternation and pity.

The wings slumped, and the little figure turned.

"I know," she said sadly. "They look perfect, but they're so small that they wouldn't lift a pigeon, let alone a Monkey."

"Ah," said the cobbler. It was not a great change in his response, but it conveyed a different emotiona"sympathy. A Winged Monkey whose wings were so small she could never ever fly.

The little Monkey fluttered her wings so they beat with the blurred speed of a hummingbird, but there was no corresponding change in the elevation of the owner. All that the cobbler could see was a bit of a flutter in the brocade vest the Monkey-child wore, stirred by a faint breeze from those stunted wings.

Once more the wings sagged back in defeat, and the little figure seemed to deflate with them. She hung her head for a moment, shaking it sadly.

"My sisters and my brothers all have normal wings, even my littlest brother, who is only two. Momma has to tie a tether to him to keep him from flying out of the nursery window. And Dadda has great wings. Big ones, with a pattern like a hunting falcon. He can fly way above the tops of the tallest trees in the forest and then soar down among the trunks, swooping past our windows. Sometimes he flies past and without even a flutter or a pause, he'll toss walnuts and coconuts in through the window, and they land on our beds as if placed there by a slow and careful hand." She sighed and shook her head. "My wings are almost the same size now as they were after I was born. They grew a little and then stopped, but I never stopped growing, and I'm still growing. Soon I'll be full-grown, and I'll still have wings that can barely lift a small bird."

Then she drew in a breath and looked up at the cobbler, who still leaned forward over the counter.

"And now you see why I need a pair of traveling shoes."

-2-.

The cobbler stepped out from behind his market stall and addressed the little Winged Monkey. He extended a large and callused hand.

"My name is Bucklebelt," he said.

The Winged Monkey curtseyed. "I'm Nyla of the Green Forest Clan. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Bucklebelt."

"And a pleasure to make yours, Miss Nyla." He tilted his head toward his counter. "As it is rather difficult to hold a conversation with you with my counter in the way, and entirely impossible to measure you for shoes, traveling or otherwise, may I a.s.sist you by lifting you onto the counter?"

Nyla sighed again and cast a sad glance around the bustling square. "I suppose everyone who is likely to laugh at a nearly wingless Winged Monkey has already had their fill of snortles and chuckles, I don't see how being lifted onto a counter can cause me any greater embarra.s.sment."

He winked at her. "If anyone so much as sn.i.g.g.e.rs, I will tonk them all a good one on their noggins in the hopes that it helps them remember their manners. This is the Emerald City after all, and the Wizard requires that everyone has manners." Now he sighed. "But of course we both know that for some folks, manners come and go like the phases of the moon."

She nodded, knowing full well that this was true. Some of the other Winged Monkeys her age laughed and made jokes about what they called her "b.u.t.terfly" wings, but they never did that when the adults were around.

With her permission Bucklebelt lifted Miss Nyla onto the counter. He did it gently and made sure not to set her down on anything sharp. Then he went back around to his side of the counter and climbed onto a stool, for in truth even though he was a grown man, the cobbler was not a large man. Only parts of him were largea"his nose was a red bulb, his eyes were as big as the largest blueberries in the southern groves, and his eyebrows stood up like giant caterpillars.

For her part Nyla was graceful and small, with dark brown fur, a soft gray muzzle, and big brown eyes that were the exact color of polished oak. She wore a vest st.i.tched with every color from the Land of Oz, along with a leather satchel that was hung slantwise across her body. The leather was dyed red and green and delicately st.i.tched with a pattern of ripe bananas under l.u.s.trous green leaves.

The cobbler noticed the bag and nodded his approval. "That's good work," he said. "And if it's not the work of Salander the Leathermaker then I'm a Munchkin."

"It is!" she cried, delighted at his recognition. The bag was Nyla's prized possession. "My grandmomma bought this for me when I started school. You wouldn't believe how many things I can keep in here."

"Oh yes I would," he said with a knowing smile. "Salander is the genius of our age when it comes to leather goods. There's a saying that if it's a Salander bag, then you can put six things in a bag made for five."

"Or even seven or eight," she said.

He nodded. "Your grandmomma must be shrewd and wise. That bag will never wear out, and you'll never lose anything you put in it. There's no better place to keep your hopes and dreams."

That put a smile on Nyla's face.

"Now," said Mr. Bucklebelt, "let's talk about traveling shoes. Exactly what kind of traveling shoes are you looking for? Because there are traveling shoes, and then there are traveling shoes. Some will get you home, and some will get you far, far from home. Some will take you places that you want to go, and others will take you to places that you need to goa"even if you don't know that that's where you need to be."

Nyla settled herself on a soft roll of yarn, pulling her bag around so that it rested on her lap. She took a moment to compose her thoughts, and then said, "I want traveling shoes that will take me to places I don't even know about."

"Ah," he said, adjusting his gla.s.ses. "You want magic shoes."

"Butaaren't all traveling shoes magical?"

"Oh no," he said. "Not at all. Most traveling shoes are very civilized and proper, and as you know, when you're too civilized then there's no magic at all."

"How can those kinds of shoes take you to wonderful places?" she asked, confused.

He took a moment before he answered that. "Well, it's because there are different kinds of magic. In the most civilized placesa"in gray places where everything is normala"then shoes will protect your feet from ordinary things like stones in the road or nettles in the gra.s.s. They'll keep your feet from burning on the hot sand or from freezing in the snow. And when you're walking in mud, they won't let squishy worms wriggle between your toes."

"I don't mind worms," said Nyla, but she said it to herself.

Mr. Bucklebelt said, "That kind of traveling shoes will help you run indoors when there's lightning or help you run fast to catch a boat that's about to sail. They won't squeak when you sneak, and they won't flop when you hop. A good pair of traveling shoesa"even the non magical kind that people wear here in Oz and everywhere where people have feeta"will be a comfort on a long journey. Anda"maybe there's just the tiniest spark of magic in them, because when you put on any pair of traveling shoes, your feet just want to go find somewhere new to walk."

"Then what about shoes with real magic?"

"Ah," he said sagely, touching his finger to the side of his nose, "that's another thing entirely. There are very few genuinely magical traveling shoes. In my whole career as a cobbler, I've seen only three pairs."

"Three?"

"One was a pair of stalking boots worn by the Huntsman of Hungry Hall. When he put those boots on, he never needed horse nor even hounds to find a stag or a wild boar for the village roast. Those boots always found the trail and kept him on it until his prey was within easy bowshot. No one in all the district ever went hungry because of the Huntsman's stalking boots."

"Wow!"

"Then there are the dancing slippers of the Ash Princess. The shoes looked like ordinary slippers on anyone else's feet, but on her feet, they transformed into the second most elegant shoes in all the world, and even though they were as soft as calfskin leather, they were as clear as polished crystal." He leaned in close and whispered. "Made from the leather of dragon's wings. With those shoes, the Ash Princess and her Prince danced on moonbeams and starlight, high above the heads of everyone else at their wedding."

"Waitayou said they were the second most elegant shoes in the world. What are the first?"

Mr. Bucklebelt sighed very softly, and when he spoke, his voice was hushed. "Ah, nowathat brings us to the third pair of traveling shoes. The dragon-scale walking shoes. Now there is a pair of shoes, my girl. The finest craftsmanship in all the world. I'm only a humble cobblera"I repair shoesa"but those were made by the finest cordwainer, the finest shoemaker in all the land. Do you know the story? No? Shall I tell you?"

Nyla nodded, her eyes alight with excitement.

"Then tell you I shall, for it is a tale anyone looking for traveling shoes really should know." He settled himself more comfortably on his stool. "This is a very old story because it happened a very long time ago. Back in an age when there were griffins and dragons and herds of unicorns. Back when fish with scales of true gold swam in rivers that flowed to a great sea called Shallasa. Ah, but that was so long ago that most people don't believe it's anything but an old story. I know, though, that Shallasa is neither a made-up story nor myth, nor even a dream. And yet all we have left of that sea are its bones."

"The bones of a sea?" asked Nyla. "How can a sea have bones?"

"They don't look like bones as you and I know them, but everything has a part of itself that remains even when all of this is gone." He gave her arm a gentle pinch. "When a sea dies, it leaves behind a great waste of salt and sand."

"The Deadly Desert!" cried Nyla in horror.

"Yes indeed. That cruel waste that no one can cross," he said, nodding gravely. "It stretches beyond our knowing and surrounds all of Oz. No one can cross it and live, and we know this because many have tried. So many. Even heroes and fast horses, even scorpions in their armor and birds on their wings. Nothing that lives can traverse the Deadly Desert. And what a sadness that is, because even though the dragon-scale walking shoes were made in what is now Munchkin Country, the materialsa"the key materials, mind youa"came from a land far beyond the Sea of Shallasa. A land not even remembered in fairytales and old songs, more's the pity. It was a land of tall castles and deep valleys, a place where jewel-birds flitted among the trees and the mountains sang old songs every night at the setting of the sun. It was there, in a place in whose very soil the soul of magic thrived. That is the only place where the silver sequins that were used to cover the shoes can be found."

"Butacan't someone make silver sequins? There is plenty of silver around anda""

"Ah," said Bucklebelt, shaking his head, "like traveling shoes, there is silver and then there is silver. The silver I'm talking about isn't a cold metal chopped from a mine. No, this is living silver, and there is only one source for it. Just one in all the world."

"What is it?" asked Nyla in a wondering little voice.

He bent down closer, and his whisper was hushed and secret. "Dragon's tears," he said.

Her eyes went as wide as eyes could go. "D-dragon's tears?"

"Oh yes. When Shallasa was still a shining sea, there were dragons in those far-off lands. Only a few, mind you, because even way back then, dragons were becoming scarce. But they were there. And there were different kinds of dragons. There were puffer dragons whose exhalations could chase the clouds through the sky and blow rainstorms away into other lands. There were soot dragons that ate fire and slept in the mouths of volcanoes. And, of course, there were silver dragons. Great, gleaming beasts made of living metal."

"Oh my," said Nyla. "Were they friendly dragons?"

Bucklebelt laughed. "Friendly? Whoever heard of a friendly dragon?"

"I read about talking dragons in stories," said Nyla. "Sometimes they're nice."

"Those are stories, little one," said the cobbler. "Stories are made up except when they're not."

Nyla blinked. "Butabuta" Her face wrinkled with confusion as she tried to understand what Mr. Bucklebelt just said.

He chuckled. "I suppose some dragons have been civil, but I don't know if any of them have ever been nice. At least not to edible, crunchable folks like you and me. Long, long ago, though, there were people who found a way to talk to those dragons. Not all of themabut the less grouchy ones. There are old songsa"songs so old that half the words aren't even words to us anymorea"about people talking to dragons. High on a cliff or under a mountain or deep in the darkest woods."

"What did they talk about?"

"About sad things," said Mr. Bucklebelt, and he felt sad to say it. "The dragons were the last of their kind. Each of them, be it shadow dragon or red-clay dragon or corn dragon, they were the last of their kind."

"What happened to all the others? To their mommas and daddas and all their sisters and brothers and aunts and uncles and cousins?"

"Dead," said the cobbler. "All dead. Just as most of those dragons are probably dead now. Bones and dust, like Shallasa the sea is salt and sand. Nothing lives forever. Not even dragons."

Nyla looked sad. "That's terrible. Dragons are immortal; they're forever."

"Even mountains don't last forever and ever." The cobbler took a breath and shook his head as if shaking off sad thoughts. He got up and tottered over to a big chest that had been placed on painted sawhorses. Mr. Bucklebelt fished inside his shirt and produced a golden key that hung from a silver chain. He looked forlornly at the key, then inserted it in the chest and opened the lock. The cobbler raised the lid and removed several items that he carefully set aside. Then he removed a parcel that was wrapped in the very finest silk. He brought this over to the counter and placed it with great reverence in front of Nyla. The cobbler licked his lips nervously and then peeled back the corners of the silk wrapping to reveal the ugliest pair of shoes the little Monkey had ever seen.

They were tiny and battered, with holes in each sole and many signs of damage and wear. And though there were sequins sewn onto them, each sequin was as pale as ash and devoid of l.u.s.ter.

Nyla gave Bucklebelt a puzzled expression. "What shoes are these?"

"Why," he cried, "these are the dragon-scale traveling shoes!"

"Butathey aren't magical shoes at all. These are just a pair of dirty old shoes." Tears sprang into the Monkey's eyes. "You're trying to fool me. You're making fun of me like everyone else does. I thought you might be different, but you're just as cruel."

The cobbler leaned back and laughed. And yet it was not a mocking laugh, or a cruel laugh, or even an embarra.s.sed laugh of someone whose prank has been found out. No, this was a hearty laugh filled with jolly merriment.

"But my girl, these are the dragon-scale shoes, make no mistake."

"How can they be? They're so old and ugly and small."

Bucklebelt shook his head. "Don't be so quick to judge. These shoes have walked more miles than there are stars in the summer sky. They were made for a little princess who wanted to see the whole world before she ascended to her throne to become a queen. She wanted to walk on every street, dance at every ball, and play with every child. She wanted to walk behind the ploughman and stroll the streets with the flower sellers and climb the watchtower steps with the sentinels. This little princess wanted to know everything about her kingdom so that she could rule with knowledge and understanding."

"That must have taken a long, long time."

"The observing took time but not the traveling," he said. "For with these shoes, she could run from Gillikin Country to Quadling Country and back twice in an afternoon. To anyone else that's a journey of weeks upon weeks. And run she did, because it was important to her to know everything she needed to know before she wore the crown."

"She must have been a very great princess."

"A great princess she wasabut a great queen she did not become."

"Why not? If the shoes could take her everywherea"

The cobbler looked left and right to make sure no one stood near his market stall. Then he leaned in close again. "Because the Wizard of Oz came and destroyed all her dreams."

"I don't understandathe Wizard is the savior of Oz."

"Is he? Is that what they teach in schools these days? Oh, sad times. Oz, the Great and Terrible, came from far away and with his magic, he overthrew the kingdom and set himself up as the Wizard King of the Emerald City." He sighed. "It is treason to say this much, but I must because it is part of the story of the dragon-scale traveling shoes."

"Oh dear, what happened?" cried Nyla, clutching her leather bag to her chest.

"What happened indeed," Bucklebelt mused, and he had to fight to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "When the princess returned here after all her journeys, she was prepared to be empress of all the land, and a fair and just empress she would have been. All the lands, all the people would have been one under her rule, and with the dragon-scale shoes she could have walked abroad over her entire reign to see that justice was done and that everyone lived according to her laws. We would have had a golden age."

"Surely she could not have worn these shoes when she was a queen. They are soa""

"Dirty and damaged?" He shook his head. "With the magic broken, they simply show the wear of all those miles she walked."

"No, I mean that they are so small. If she wore them as a little girl, she could not have worn them as an adult."

"Ah, now," he said, grinning, "that's part of their magic. When they were working properly, they grew with her and changed with her. They would have become the shoes of a young woman and then a full-grown woman. And if she left them to a daughter or heir, those shoes would change to perfectly fit the feet of whoever had the right to wear them. But that is all broken, as the shoes are broken. The magic in them sleeps."

Nyla looked confused and sad, and she hung her head.

"Can nothing be done? You're a cobbler; you repair shoes. Can't you fix them? Can't you awaken the magic?"

"Well," he said, "I have done much to repair these shoes. I've tightened every sequin, and I've done what else could be done. However, there is only one way to fix these shoes, to make the magic within come alive again."

"How? Oh, tell me please."

"If I tell you, will you promise to help me fix them?"

"I will!" she said, clasping her tiny hands together. "I willaI will."