Fables I
“He gives the sinners what they’re due
And repays evil praxis
All to bring woe to the man
Who has not paid his taxes.”
- Anon, “Ballad of the Tax Collector”, est. 567
The Two Brothers of Theum
There once lived two brothers in the city of Theum who cobbled shoes for all without. Upon the pale beggars and the unapproachable lepers did they whet their arete, for they spoke to the healthy with a spirit of charity: we give our shoes to the lepers! Praised were they greatly. ‘They pursue Caritas!’ So many people came to them and bought their shoes.They made despicable shoes. Worn once, they were comfortable. Worn twice, they fell to pieces. Worn thrice, and the nails pricked into the heel. ‘These shoes are not good,’ the buyers would cringe, rubbing their bloodied feet smooth with balms. ‘But they pursue Caritas, the greatest virtue. I will not forget them; I will tell them what is wrong, and they will fix the shoes.’
“We will! We will! We will fix the shoes! Here: these ones are better.”
And so the buyers bought more from the brothers. Deviously these brothers knew they had made terrible shoes, for their father was a fine shoemaker who taught them both all his craft. Their hands harboured no curse, but did their hearts, which were wicked.
On every rebuke they worsened the shoes. Nails that pricked the heel then bore into the sole. ‘Oh, these are worse,’ the buyers would wail.
“A mistake! We are sorry, but please, we will fix them now.”
They would worsen the shoes and cackle over their coinpurse. Even to the lepers they gave such despicable shoes, but only to the first degree, for the lepers had no money to take, and no other shoes to wear.
‘They make despicable shoes,’ buyers wept. ‘But I cannot forget them; for I see the lepers pleased with their shoes, and they pursue Caritas.’ So they bought and wore the despicable shoes.
“They will take whatever we give. Let us see how far they will honour our Charity.”
And so the brothers put sicknesses upon the nails, and buyers of the shoes became sick. Yet they would not blame the brothers and still they bought the shoes.
“They are fools who deserve these mangled feet. Let us see how far we can test our craft.”
And so the brothers wove the shoes to look the most beautiful, yet these were the cruellest, which destroyed the foot that they swallowed. Yet none who bought them blamed the brothers and still they bought the shoes.
“They are mad and stupid men, drunk on forgiving scripture. Let us give glory to Shien, and see if they still buy.”
And so the brothers stitched the shoes to carry curses of death, that any who wore this pair would die within three days. Yet none of the widows blamed the brothers and still they bought the shoes.
“They are not even men, they are puppets for our fun. Let us improve the curse, so the family will give us the will.”
And so the brothers made such a pair of golden shoes and found such a man that would buy them.
“Tomorrow we sell—and we will be rich, for the man we sell to is the treasurer! To think we could take over the world, and do it by just making shoes!” They giggled over their plot.
True Night’s shade bruised the sky when that day to them came Czjeir’s Tax Collector. The brothers looked down at his cloven hooves and they said, “he is not a customer, so we cannot close the shop.” And they realised they had spoken nonsense. “One who is not a customer should not be in the shop.” But already the coiling guile of a greater magician than they had snared them, that sense was become to them nonsense, and nonsense was become sense.
“I see what you’ve done,” said the Tax Collector. “You’ve raped the virtue of Charity to kill naive souls for fun and for profit. You’ve sickened them, disabled them, murdered them, and robbed them. Your balances are as despicable as your creations. I’m starving. I’ll kill you both.”
“No no no, have mercy! Give us but a week to repent. We truly will stop; we will make only good shoes.”
“I’m starving. Somebody dies now.”
“Then let it be him!” screamed the first brother, who pointed at the second. “For he is the one who put the sickness on the nails; had he not suggested, I never would have done it.”
“No, let it be him!” screamed the second brother, who pointed at the first. “For he is the one who set the cruel nails in the first place; had he not done it, I never would have exacerbated it.”
“You’re both admitting guilt.”
“Yes, we are! So, Tax Collector, pick who is more culpable, and let the second of us live!”
Then both brothers screamed of the other, “and let him pay!”
“Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll hear you out, since you are not equally culpable. One of you has three days to repent. Which of you made these golden shoes, that will kill a man and give you all his money?”
“I made them,” said the first brother.
“Then you are more culpable, and you have three days.” The Tax Collector said nonsensically, for he is a magician, and his nonsense is powerful magic. His claws then dashed apart the second brother and he ate him there on the spot.
“Now you will wear those golden shoes,” the Tax Collector said to the living brother. “And I will receive all the money. You have three days left alive to repent—before Shien. If Shien’s rot touches your soul, you have failed, and you’re mine. Get to work.”
And the living brother cursed and cried, for he understood the trap’s justice. He took his leather and his thread to weave a pair of blessed shoes, but could not. Miserable grief made his hand tremble and his bereaved heart could pour no joyous blessing into the work; instead he made horrible shoes, the most ugly shoes, with the most vile curse on them. And he cursed the vile shoes, his worst shoes, that no one would buy. Not even in doomed damnation would he wear these vile shoes because they were so vile. Not even the Tax Collector made him wear these shoes. He puked and he wept that he made them.
“I have failed. I have made this abomination. I am the worst cobbler that has ever lived. I made these things exist. I did this for years. Now I am dead.” And he collapsed upon saying that syllable.
The Tax Collector ate him up and gave all the brothers’ wicked earnings to the Abbot. Praise be to Czjeir and the justice of his Hound.
Lesson: The Tax Collector cannot be fooled. Next Chapter