Whilst on my walkabout just the other day, I came across a man quite odd in his ways. Oh he seemed a rather nice, fanciful chap with a pen between his teeth and a feather in his cap.
He dribbled and he drabbled this way and that then placed his tablet beneath his hat.
I say what’s that you’re doing there kind old chap, I asked beside myself my curiosity a chagrin.
He smiled up at me, or down I’m not quite sure and said to me straight-faced his words did not slur.
I’m the Keeper of the Post, I am that’s for sure. Been doing it nigh on one thousand years.
That’s absurd I said with a smile, you’re not a day over 50 I can tell by the shape of your shirt, the tilt of your head and your lack of beguile.
Absurd or not, I tell you it’s true but it doesn’t really matter to me or to you. I check and I follow and I mark these old paths, for travelers like you to get where they are going on their little pitty pats. He looked down at his own shoes worn through and thin, then sighed ever so forlornly, oh no not again.
I’ve walked and I’ve walked until now these shoes too, can carry me no more to deliver the news.
What have you news of that needs be delivered, I heard myself ask without even a thought. And with that I was wrought with such news galore, the sun nearly sat on that old gentlemen’s shores.
He railed me with tales of El Corozon, how the sign was off by one toenail long. Though Quililanda was marked quite correctly, the arrow it pointed quite temperamentally.
I felt this man of great deed deserved the respect only men like him need. I gave him my shoes and he gave me his pair, then it was time to go with a wink and a stare.