Each day a new adventure

New shoes have magic in them. Not the magic of bewildered bunnies spilling out of top hats or lovely assistants being sawn in half, but one deeper, older, true. You pore over the unopened box as if it is a locked chest marked ‘secret codes’, or a covered cage with some exotic beast trapped inside. You lift the lid and there is a hiss as life is breathed into twin creatures. You pause as you sense movement beneath the thin paper covering them – was that the stirring of consciousness or just your breath disturbing their shroud? You peer closer and then their scent hits you; it’s pocked cricket balls with unravelling seams lying in freshly cut grass; it’s brown Kiwi polish just as you open the tin; it’s a khaki uniform sweaty after a day at school when the corridors slingshot you around corners, into teachers, away from girls, onto fields at tea break; it’s glops of mud mixed behind the tennis courts to throw at little brothers. You pull back the paper carefully and there before you are your glowing, magic shoes. They are a rich brown, of earth and adventure, and they shine like the crown of your uncle’s head. They appear unmarked to anyone else, but their tag and instructions are plain to see, written into their form and character like a secret message: Here be the vessels to adventure. Never be hindered by any puddle, tree or grownup. Wear deliberately.
You lift them out of the box and rub the smooth leather with your fingertips, introducing yourself to the friends who will carry you on many adventures. You get the new socks out of your cupboard, kept aside for this very moment, and slip them onto your feet, followed by the first shoe, and then the other. You tie the laces tightly and meticulously, even making sure each one is exactly the same length, the bows the same size. And then you are ready to take your first steps. Seated on your bed, this is not a moment to rush into. You wiggle your toes around and gasp; there’s so much room and yet they fit so snugly!
You stand up very slowly, being sure not to move your feet a millimetre…
… and then you’re off, shooting through your door, down the passage, out the back door, through the gate, down the road, the new soles slapping the hot summer pavement joyously. The croak and rasp of leather harmonises with the strain of branches under clambering limbs as your feet scrabble against bark. You jump down with a thud only new shoes know how to make, and all around the neighbourhood old men cock their heads and think of being young again, and the boys trapped behind their eyes dream once more of cops and robbers, hide-and-seek and footraces.
The bell clangs noisily in the distance and you’re the last one through the gate and into the hall for assembly. The headmaster, the one you and your friends giggle at for his red face, walks past you, takes a look at your shoes and gives your head a pat of approval. The boy next to you is asked to report to his office with clean shoes straight after assembly. You can’t help but smirk in triumph. Your shoes squeak pleasantly against the floor all through maths, and you experiment with making them creak at different pitches during English and Afrikaans. They carry you through history and geography flawlessly as you rub off the day’s smudges and almost-scuffs with the sleeve of your shirt.
And the bell tolls one last time, and this time it is a wonderful sound. Before a girl can try to talk to you or the teacher carry on past the lesson’s end, you’re out the door and the classroom catapults you into the afternoon. None of your friends can run as fast as you, catch snakes like you can, climb to the highest branches with your skill this afternoon. They’ve allowed the magic to seep out of their shoes; some of them never had it in the first place. But the magic yours possess is powerful, the bright leather sparking energy and sending it through your feet to rattle your body alive as it’s never felt before.
With dusk heavy in the air you disband your ragged group and scamper home towards warm supper, a reluctant bath, the threat of homework and a soft bed to gather you up when your swollen head hits the pillow, your dreams carrying you far away, in a pith helmet and steaming jungle one minute, crouched in summer puddles cupping frog princes in your hands the next. And all night your shoes prowl in their box-cave, their growls and shuffling filling the night air with the rumour of pirates, of Jock of the Bushveld, of old maps rustling in a decrepit backpack.
Tomorrow will bring with it new adventures. As will the next. And the next. And the…