Walk a Mile in These Clodhoppers

The old clock perched atop the town hall groaned—midnight. An hour past acceptable. Ctibor should have been home, nestled in his bed with naught but overambitious dreams of comedic stardom to trouble him. Instead, he stumbled through the cobbled streets of Dudince, clutching his side and gasping against the stitch, a trail of crimson drops staining the stones behind him. Each strangled breath painted a picture in his mind – the alley, the flash of sharpened tooth, the creature that wasn’t quite a wolf, and the laughter, guttural and horrifying, that had echoed in its wake.

He should be terrified. Yet, a manic grin tugged at his lips, his eyes glinting in the dim moonlight. “Brilliant…” he choked out between ragged breaths, “Tragic backstory… check. Now, where’s a damsel in distress when you need one?”  A crash ahead, a woman’s scream – well, wasn’t this convenient? He lunged toward the sound, already weaving a tale of his heroic triumph, one he’d share on every stage from here to… well, wherever they’d tolerate his presence.  A monstrous shape lunged from the shadows, and Ctibor braced himself.

But just as the claws descended, his foot caught on a loose stone, sending him sprawling with an unheroic yelp.

That was when the laughter started. From above, from the creature… a cackle, high and mocking. He’d been the punchline all along.  It was all so perfectly, horribly hilarious.  And just like that, a flicker of ambition ignited within him. First comedic knight? Nah. He could be something far more entertaining.

He scrambled back to his feet, a new light in his eyes. This wasn’t destiny, this was his origin story. Forget punchlines, let the screams ring out. Dudince had a new brand of hero in the making, and it was time for the show to begin.

“Sit,” his mother, Matrigalia, said one evening, her voice tinged with a seriousness Ctibor rarely encountered. Her presence in any room was formidable, her posture reminiscent of the sturdy oak just outside their window. Tonight, though, age had woven subtle threads of vulnerability across her stern features.

In the flickering candlelight of their modest living room, Ctibor obeyed, his customary smile fading. His mother’s eyes, dark and discerning, held a history he’d never been privy to.

“It is time you knew, my son,” she said, her voice softening. “The women of our family bear a… particular burden.”

Ctibor blinked in confusion. The women of their family had always seemed as resilient as they were stubborn. He thought of his grandmother, her booming voice chasing geese from the village square. Surely, there was no burden she could not best.

Matrigalia let out a long sigh. “It is a curse, Ctibor. One passed through generations, mother to daughter.” Reaching beneath her chair, she pulled out a plain wooden box, its surface worn smooth with time and untold handling. She opened it, revealing a pair of leather clogs—old, scuffed, yet radiating a strange energy that vibrated against Ctibor’s skin.

“Each daughter must inherit her mother’s clogs, lest…” Matrigalia paused, as though searching for the right words, “lest misfortune find us. Or rather, a creature of misfortune finds us.”

Matrigalia explained further—a tale older than Dudince itself. Daxrythex, the family legend went, was an ancient demon who thrived on chaos and found particular delight in the humor of the foolish. For centuries, the women of their lineage had worn their mother’s clogs, an act that held the creature at bay. But now, with Ctibor being the first and only son born in generations, the tradition faltered. And his mother’s fading strength meant time was running out.

“I can’t… I mean, I don’t…” Ctibor stammered, staring down at the clogs as though they were serpents preparing to strike. This wasn’t funny; this was absurd. Yet, a familiar tingle ran down his spine, a distant whisper echoing that time he’d tried juggling live chickens at the market fair – chaos was coming.

“The clogs, son,” Matrigalia urged. “They are our only protection.”

With a hesitancy that brushed his skin with the faintest echo of anticipation, Ctibor tenderly fitted the clogs onto his feet. The leather lining welcomed him, unexpectedly intimate, radiating a warmth that was both ancient and exhilarating. As they snugly embraced his feet, a wave of unanticipated pleasure washed over him, coaxing an impromptu laugh to spill forth, deep and melodious, like a secret shared in the dark. His mother’s sigh, woven with layers of complex emotions, drifted towards him, tinged with a concoction of resignation and an indistinct glimmer—was it pity interlaced with pride, or perhaps a sliver of amusement, teasing at the edges? The air around them tingled, alive with an absurd, electrifying undercurrent of mutual understanding, as if they hovered on the cusp of an unvoiced jest, teetering towards a moment of delightful revelation.

News of his transformation from village dunce to guardian, swiftly nicknamed ‘The Cackling Hag of Dudince’ by the eager village gossips, erupted across the town with the ferocity of a tempest. Ctibor’s usual shenanigans, though often merely tolerated, occasionally sprinkled a dash of mirth into the mundane; yet, this spectacle unfurled into an entirely novel spectacle. He danced through the streets, defying gravity and logic, his feet betraying him over the mere whisper of air. A comically mistimed sneeze turned the blacksmith’s bellows into a fiery spectacle, while an uncontrollable fit of giggles seized him amidst the apothecary’s grave counsel on alleviating his mother’s fever. Each misadventure, wilder than the last, wove into the fabric of Dudince’s lore, casting Ctibor in a light as bewildering as it was irresistibly thrilling.

Word reached Priznickia long before he did, igniting a curious anticipation within her. Her laughter, typically a bright melody in their shared moments, now carried a nervous edge, laced with an unmistakable undercurrent of excitement. Yet, when she met him that evening, it was not with ridicule but with a determined smile that held a deeper intensity, reminiscent of the one that had once spurred him to conquer a particularly vicious-looking thistle patch in their youth. In her eyes, alongside the warmth of years of companionship, simmered a newfound lust, a bubbling cauldron of desire that seemed to draw him in, promising adventures of a far more intimate nature.

“Well,” she said, surveying him from the doorway of her herb shop, where the scent of lavender and chamomile battled the lingering smell of smoke from his earlier mishap. “Looks like you’ve got quite the challenge on your hands, Ctibor Jokeson.”

“Priz…” he began, but she held up a hand.

“Don’t fret. You want to break the curse, right? Don’t those old stories always have a loophole?” Priznickia’s eyes flashed, more mischievous than worried. “Tomorrow, we start finding yours.”

There was a strength in her, a fierce loyalty that was like a beacon against the growing whispers in the village of ‘bad omens’ and ‘cursed families’. She’d always believed in his ridiculous dreams, and Ctibor found, even now, the thought of letting her down was far worse than any demon.

Throughout the night, Ctibor lay in his bed, the clogs clung to his feet like chains, their uncomfortable embrace a constant reminder of his dread for the consequences should he dare remove them. Yet, amidst his restlessness, a realization dawned on him—his mother had never explicitly stated that the clogs must remain on at all times. This omission plunged him into a deeper well of confusion and anxiety. Here he was, bound by shoes that seemed to mock him with every uncomfortable shift, wrestling with the uncertainty of his actions. What had he truly gotten himself into? The weight of the decision to wear these clogs, coupled with the ambiguity of their rules, left him oscillating between fear and a desperate quest for clarity, wondering at the absurdity of his predicament and the unknown path that lay ahead.

His girlfriend’s plan, seemingly as absurd as his own erstwhile dreams of knighthood, gradually began to resonate with a profound clarity in Ctibor’s mind. Thus unfolded the scene under the increasingly luminous sky of Dudince: the villagers found themselves beholding an extraordinary sight—their traditionally clumsy Ctibor, now marching with purpose into the town square, the clacking of his clogs echoing boldly, a determined gleam shining in his eyes. Determined to evoke laughter, his intent was clear: he would no longer be the unwitting subject of the curse’s cruel humor. Instead, he aspired to master it, transforming himself from its victim into their champion, a herald of laughter in defiance of the darkness.

And with that, Ctibor began his new, truly comedic, journey.

The Weight of Whimsey

The news that Daxrythex the Unimaginably Malevolent or whatever ridiculous title the demon had chosen – wasn’t content with a simple buffet of bad jokes and petty chaos hit Ctibor like a bucket of icy water. Suddenly, the world held less laughter and more pointy bits. The village, once a backdrop for his pratfalls, now pulsed with fear.  He still tripped over his own feet – old habits die hard – but the resulting gasps of horror echoed louder than any appreciative chuckle.

Daxrythex, it seemed, took being summoned personally. And, from the ominous rumblings echoing from the usually serene forest, the demon did not appreciate being fed the comedic equivalent of stale bread. He wanted spectacle, suffering, and most importantly, to prove that not even the most cursed clown could out-jest a creature fueled by centuries of resentment and a truly terrible sense of humor.  Ctibor felt a sudden urge to invest in a shield. Or a very fast horse. Maybe both.

Priznickia’s herb shop, with its tangle of drying plants and jars twinkling with mysterious concoctions, became their refuge. Here, the weight of the curse seemed lighter, pushed aside by the comforting smell of ground rosemary and the warmth of Priznickia’s smile.

“There has to be a way! Stories always have an escape clause,” she declared one evening, her brow furrowed in a way that Ctibor found endearing.

Priznickia’s dusty tomes weren’t exactly known for light reading. Yet, as desperation gnawed at their usual humor, they dove headfirst into the musty pages, a jumble of cryptic diagrams and tales that made little sense. Days melted into a bleary haze broken only by shared sighs and the occasional stale biscuit sacrificed to the cause.

Then Priznickia gasped, “The Laughing Leaf! This might be it…” Her cheeks flushed a delightful shade of pink. “But…uh, Ctibor,  the description is… unusual.”

He leaned over, squinting at the faded sketch. It…well, it could be interpreted as a rather adventurous new position. Ctibor, despite his usual clumsiness, suddenly felt quite warm under the collar. Priznickia had a determined glint in her eye: “For the curse, right? We can do this…”

Later that night, amidst a tangle of limbs and more than a few stifled giggles, they reached a breathless conclusion. Ctibor felt…undispelled. And more than a bit disappointed for reasons he couldn’t quite explain.

With the dawn came the mortifying truth. Nestled among the tangled sheets was a leaf-shaped illustration. “Priz…I think it’s an actual leaf,” Ctibor groaned, burying his head in his hands. This quest was getting absurd, even for him.

Priznickia, bless her, burst out laughing. “Well,” she said between giggles, wiping a tear from her eye and pointing to their sprawled position, “at least we got the ‘laughing’ part right.  It says here, on the next page that it blooms only in the depths of the whispering forest, but its essence can dispel even the most stubborn demons.”

The Whispering forest – that foreboding expanse of ancient trees bordering Dudince. Legends painted it as a place where paths shifted with the wind, and the laughter of unseen spirits echoed between the leaves.  Fear prickled Ctibor’s spine, but a flicker of defiance grew stronger.  He’d never run from a challenge, even if this one wore a demon’s grin instead of a knight’s helm.

“We find this leaf,” he said, meeting Priznickia’s gaze, “and we break this curse once and for all.”

Word spread, but this time with a different edge. It wasn’t just the cursed Ctibor anymore; it was Ctibor the defiant. And he found he was not alone. In the darkened corners of Dudince, whispers grew of other burdens borne. There was the baker whose hands, gnarled with a tremor no medicine could soothe, could no longer knead the dough for the town’s famed honey cakes. An old shepherd whose failing eyesight transformed his loyal sheep into monstrous shapes in the twilight. Each curse, each burden, a silent weight carried with stoic resignation.

And so, it was an odd parade that assembled one misty morning at the edge of the whispering forest.  Ctibor in his mother’s clogs, Priznickia beside him, a basket of herbs and a glint of determination in her eyes. There was Marta, the baker, her hands trembling, but clutching a worn rolling pin; and grizzled Filip, the shepherd, leaning on his crook, eyes narrowed in suspicion at the rustling leaves.  A dozen others joined, drawn by the promise of hope, however faint, that perhaps this time laughter and defiance would be louder than the echoes of doom.

The forest swallowed them, sunlight melting into dappled shades of green. Ctibor, curse be damned, found a peculiar rhythm with each unsteady step. The path was uncertain, branches shifting, forcing them to rely on instincts as much as directions.

They encountered creatures both whimsical and unsettling – a flock of sparrows that chirped insults with surprising eloquence, a pond filled with fish that spoke only in riddles, and a bridge troll who wouldn’t let them pass unless they could guess the answer to: “What is heavier, a sack of stones or a sack of whispers?”

Clogs or no clogs, Ctibor’s mind whirled as he stumbled and bumbled through these tests. It was Priznickia who cracked the troll’s riddle, her smile gleaming: “Whispers, for they carry the weight of secrets.” The troll, startled and impressed by this quick wit, lowered his club and let them pass, grumbling about clever humans.

Deeper they ventured, the air thick with anticipation and the ever-present echo of rustling leaves. They drew strength from each other, sharing snippets of songs, stories, and even a hesitant joke or two from the ever-morose shepherd. Ctibor found his laughter didn’t always bubble forth, but the act of trying, of pushing back against the gloom, ignited a warmth in him that fear couldn’t extinguish.

After days that seemed to loop into each other, a clearing unveiled itself. Bathed in dappled moonlight, a single willow stood, its branches shimmering with dew.

“Could this be it?” Marta whispered, her voice strained with hope. A hush fell as they stepped into the open.

Suddenly, the ground gave way beneath them, and they tumbled into a hidden pit! Laughter turned into startled cries as they landed in a jumbled heap. Gloom descended, a darkness deeper than the forest canopy. Then, a voice slithered through the silence, cold and mocking.

“Foolish mortals, to think you could escape me.”

Priznickia fumbled in her basket, fingers brushing past dried leaves and vials before settling on something. With a determined flick of her wrist, she tossed it into the darkness. A flare of blue light erupted, a concoction of fireweed and crushed moonstones.

Revealed in the harsh light was an ancient witch, her skin like gnarled bark, her eyes sharp as flint. The others recoiled, but Ctibor, remembering tales of hidden guardians, held his ground.

“We seek the Laughing Leaf,” he declared, his voice stronger than he felt. “To help us break our bonds, and end the suffering in our village.”

The witch’s gaze swept over them, lingering on Marta’s trembling hands, Filip’s furrowed brow, and finally, the clogs on Ctibor’s feet. A flicker of something like understanding passed over her wizened face.

“The Leaf blooms tonight, in a clearing guarded by spirits who value laughter born of hardship. But know this,” she warned, her voice echoing in the pit, “there waits a final guardian, one who knows your darkest fears and turns them against you. Defeat that, and the Leaf is yours.”

They emerged, blinking in the sudden moonlight, battered but unyielding. With renewed determination, guided by the witch’s words, they pushed forward.  And as they stepped into a second clearing, where the air thrummed with expectant energy, they found not a flower, but a spectral figure that shifted to mirror each of their deepest insecurities. Ctibor saw himself mocked, a failure as a knight, as a son, as a friend.

A wave of despair crashed over him, and his usual laughter felt frozen in his throat. But then, Priznickia stepped forward, her gaze shining.

“You want to break us? Show us our worst? Well, look around!” she gestured to the others, to Filip’s narrowed eyes, Marta’s clenched fists, and Ctibor’s trembling legs. “This is our life, with curse or without. But we are choosing a different path!”

She turned to Ctibor, the moonlight catching a tear on her cheek. “So yes, maybe he’s right. You’re clumsy, you’re loud,” her voice cracked slightly, but then she rallied, “and damn it, sometimes you smell like cheese! But you have the bravest heart I know, Ctibor.”

In that clearing, he felt something change.  It wasn’t the disappearance of the curse, but the recognition of a different kind of strength. He took a faltering step forward, then another. And where fear had been, laughter began to bubble – a shaky, hesitant laughter, but laughter nonetheless. With each laugh, with each ridiculous stumble and half-baked joke he flung at the guardian, the spectral figure dimmed. Others joined in, a discordant chorus of laughter against despair. And when the final echoes faded, the Laughing Leaf shimmered into existence, bathed in moonlight, a defiant beacon of hope.

As Ctibor plucked the delicate leaf, he felt a shift. He was still the same Ctibor, curse or no curse.  But he carried with him the echoes of the baker’s gentle laugh, the warmth of Priznickia’s belief in him, the flicker of defiance in old Filip’s eyes. He’d found in the heart of darkness a truth worth fighting for –  laughter wasn’t just a shield; it was a bridge, a connection forged in the heart of adversity.

Daddy Daughter Dances

Daxrythex, it seemed, wasn’t one for drawn-out confrontations. Whether from overconfidence or an overdeveloped sense of the dramatic, the demon appeared in the town square in a whirlwind of leathery wings and smoke just as Ctibor, with the Laughing Leaf clutched in one hand and Priznickia’s hand in the other, emerged from the forest.

The villagers, who’d gathered with fearful curiosity, gasped as the creature took form. Daxrythex stood tall, yet perpetually hunched, with gleaming eyes and teeth far too numerous for comfort. There was an odd theatricality to him, as if he always expected an audience.

“So,” the demon drawled, tilting his head with mock curiosity, “the cursed clown returns with a… flower?”

He didn’t get a chance to finish. In a move that surprised even himself, Ctibor thrust the leaf forward and started trying to say something, the words tangled in his throat like overcooked noodles. “Uh, we – well, I… if the shoes fit?” He stumbled, searching desperately for the eloquence that always abandoned him at crucial moments. “Apples?” He squeaked, feeling a blush creep up his neck. “Fall from, uh… trees? But not me! I choose, uh, something…with wings? Wait, no…” He trailed off, defeated, the Laughing Leaf trembling like a small, confused bird in his hand.

It was cheesy, almost absurdly so. There were no trumpets, no shining swords, just the trembling of his own hand and the echo of his voice in the hushed square. The leaf glowed brighter, casting a strange luminescence over the onlookers.

And Daxrythex… well, Daxrythex deflated. Not with a bang, or a curse, but with a long, shuddering squee, like a baloon.  Claws retracted, wings drooping, and that mocking grin melting into a pout. “Well, that wasn’t nearly as fun as I hoped,” he whined, a petulant note in his voice. With a resigned shrug, he dissolved into swirling smoke, leaving a faint smell of sulfur and disappointment hanging in the air.

A hush fell over Dudince, then erupted into cheers. The curse, the fear, broken with such anticlimactic ease.  For Ctibor, it felt… incomplete.  Where was the grand battle, the witty retort? He glanced at Priznickia, whose smile, while bright, held a flicker of uncertainty.  They’d won, but at the cost of the story they’d prepared for.

Life in Dudince didn’t magically transform. Some whispered that Ctibor had tricked Daxrythex somehow, that the demon was surely lurking, awaiting revenge. Others held fast to worn traditions, their smiles cautious, tinged with disapproval. It was in the parish hall, with its towering arches and stern-faced priest, that the true scope of their victory was revealed.

“This is a disgrace!” Father Jozef thundered, his finger jabbing towards Priznickia’s barely rounded belly. “A child without wedlock?  An affront to tradition, to all things holy and decent!”

Priznickia stood straight, her chin tilted upwards.  “Love needs no permission, Father.  Nor does it disappear to suit outdated rules.”

A new curse, it seemed, descended upon them. Unlike Daxrythex, it wore no guise of the fantastical. It was the curse of whispered gossip, disapproving glances, and doors once open now firmly shut. The curse of being seen as different, a threat to the comfortable rhythm of tradition.

The birth of their daughter was a moment of defiance and unbridled joy.  They named her Mirja, for her laughter was bright as the morning sun, a sound that seemed to echo through the very stones of their small house. But she was more than a symbol. Mirja inherited a strange mix of traits—her grandmother’s fierce eyes, her father’s unruly hair, and an ear-splitting shriek that could silence a flock of crows.

Then came the second revelation.  Mirja, with her toothless grin and impossibly loud burps, attracted… Daxrythex. The creature, drawn to the absurdity of it all, materialized one evening beside Mirja’s crib. He didn’t attack, but curled up at the footboard like an oversized, disgruntled cat.

“She’s… hilarious,” he grumbled, then, as Mirja emitted a particularly impressive drool bubble, burst into manic laughter. “Absolutely cursed, that child. Well, I suppose a deal is a deal.”  From then on, he was a shadowy presence, feeding off mirth while they kept him at bay, a strange, symbiotic truce.

It was Priznickia, always the practical one, who wove the threads of their reality into a plan as bold as any Ctibor had ever proposed. Word of the demon-loving child spread, at first in fearful whispers, then with a grudging amusement. People came to witness the spectacle – Mirja with her milk-tooth smile, Daxrythex reluctantly rolling his eyes as she toppled over, and Ctibor, in the center of it all.

He told stories, not of gallant knights (though his embellished tales grew more adventurous with each performance), but of clumsy heroes and laughter-filled quests.  His stumbles were no longer a source of pity, but the heart of his performance. The stage became his battlefield, coins tossed into his hat a shield against despair.

The shows were a hit. Taverns in neighboring towns clamored for the ‘cursed comedian’ and his cackling child. Daxrythex, fed on a diet of laughter, grew complacent, a disgruntled theater critic lurking in the shadows.  And Mirja?  She thrived amidst the chaos.

There were still harsh words, nights where laughter felt too heavy a burden.  Tradition does not yield easily, and some hearts remained stubbornly closed. But others opened. The baker, whose hands had found a new rhythm kneading bread for their growing family, the shepherd, no longer alone in his evening watch, and countless others touched by the spark of defiant joy Ctibor and Priznickia had ignited.

Years passed in a swirl of laughter, love, and the occasional hurled vegetable from a displeased audience member. Mirja grew, her shrieks evolving into witty quips that sent Daxrythex into fits of giggles. Ctibor’s fame spread as a force different from anything the annals of knighthood had recorded.  And Priznickia, her apothecary overflowing with remedies and laughter, remained the unwavering anchor amidst the swirling storm of their extraordinary lives.

Their story doesn’t end with a neat happily-ever-after. Life is rarely so accommodating. Yet, there were moments—a stolen hour on the porch as Mirja wove tales, her laughter ringing louder than Daxrythex ever could—when it felt almost right. Doubt, of course, remained a persistent shadow, whispering questions of other paths, of a world without curses or cackling demons. But those moments were swept away by Mirja’s growing confidence, her defiance a vibrant, undeniable force.

One crisp autumn evening, as the trees surrounding Dudince blazed with defiant color, Ctibor offered his mother’s clogs to Mirja. It was tradition, of a sort. And yet, as her eyes lit up, as she slipped the worn leather onto her feet, there was a shift. Mirja didn’t stumble or laugh. Instead, she looked out at the darkening sky, her voice ringing out with chilling clarity.

“Daxrythex,” she called, as the demon stirred beneath the house, “I hear your whispers. And I accept.” There was a beat of silence, then a rumble that could be approval, or perhaps indigestion. “The world treated them with fear,”  she continued, her hand curling into a fist, “but I see only opportunity. I accept the your hand in marriage, the laughter, and I choose you as my mate. Together, we shall forge a new world – one built on chaos, where no one will dare to stifle a joyful shriek, or silence the humor of the damned.”

Priznickia’s grip tightened on his arm. But Ctibor, the cursed comedian, simply smiled. After all, hadn’t he always known punchlines could bite back? He leaned back, the distant echo of Daxrythex‘s crazed laughter barely a whisper against Mirja’s bold proclamation. This wasn’t victory, nor was it a defeat.  Just the start of a whole new act, one filled with darkness, absurdity, and the promise that the final curtain was a very, very long way off.