The Baker
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย In the mountains above Zugang there was a tiny cottage, nestled amongst the craggy foothills, its rough stone walls blending in amongst the tumbled boulders. The thatched roof grew moss and strange mushrooms, unbothered by the cold climes, and a rickety post and rail fence encircled a small, rough pasture for a herd of sheep and a shaggy mule. Above the door hung a huge great axe, a truly mighty weapon. For all the years it had hung there the weather had made no mark on it, and no spot of rust dared sully its razor-sharp blade. In the cottage lived an old man. How old he truly was, no one could say โ at least a hundred, some said, though he walked upright still as though even the weight of his years couldnโt subdue him. And yet even so he was human only, and everyone expected each passing year to be his last. But he lived alone, accepted no aid and refused to come down from the hills to the city where he would be safe from the ravages of the cold mountain storms and the beasts that came hunting down the slopes in winter.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Once a month, when the moon was waning, and the cold winds blew off the mountain sides, he saddled his old mule with large wicker panniers and made his way down the steep, rough paths to the town. Both he and his mule were sure footed as mountain goats on those rocky, narrow trails, never so much as turning their heads towards the endless falls into jagged ravines below. And as dawn broke over the mountainsโ sharp unruly crowns, there they would find him in the market square, painstakingly unpacking the panniers onto the little table set aside for him. The city would wake to find him there, as the markets came to life around him, and people came to marvel at his wares.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย For the hermit was famed throughout Zugang for his baking, and as the moon grew slim children started to clamour to their parents, begging to be allowed to visit his stall. And always he produced the most incredible array of baked goods, the pastries light and crisp, the muffins soft and fluffy. Danishes with rich, fruity filling and custard centres, biscuits with the perfect amount of crunch and a savoury centre. Custard tarts with pastry so fine it melted in the mouth, cakes dense and gooey and bread with the most perfect ratio of crusty outside to soft and light inside. The people of Zugang marvelled at the perfection of his goods, and he traded them for flour, and sugar and jars of pickled fruit โ the ingredients for next monthโs baking. And as he sold his cakes and tarts and beautiful pasties, he told stories โ stories that kept the children rapt and breathless, the adults leaning closer to listen in despite themselves, rapt and distracted from their shopping. Stories of far off places and great adventures, of amazing and terrible monsters and beautiful forests and tumultuous oceans. Of mountain peaks and deep, dark caves, of treasure and loss and victory. And in the evenings sleepy children asked their parents as they were tucked into bed
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Mama did the baker really fight a dragon do you think? Do you think he really knew a giant?
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย And smiling parents would pull the blankets up to their chins and smile and kiss their brows
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Of course not, darling, theyโre only stories, and heโs just an old man. Now go to sleep.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย But a childโs curiosity is stronger than their propriety, and one afternoon in late winter, as the weak and watery sun sank from the sky and the shadows crept out from the mountainsโ feet, as the baker packed his bags of flour and sugar and jugs of butter carefully into the muleโs panniers, a girl lingered by the stall. A dwarf girl caught somewhere between the bright vivacity of childhood and the awkward shyness of adolescence, she hovered, her thumbnail clenched between her teeth as she summoned her courage. He caught a glimpse of her from the corner of his eye, turned towards her with a small and friendly smile, held fast in a web of wrinkles.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย โWell hello there. Iโm sorry, all the pastries are gone,โ he said, looking across the square, where the last of the market folk were packing up, hurrying home before the nightโs chill crept in, searching instinctively for friends or family who might have sent her. The girl shook her head, her eyes wide at being addressed so. The baker tilted his head, then slowly bent his aching knees to crouch down on the hard cold stones, to be on her level. He was tall despite his years, and his eyes as clear and bright as a summer morn. She blinked owlishly for a moment, then extracted her thumb from her mouth.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย โWho are you?โ she blurted, then her cheeks flushed rosy red at her own words. For a moment, the baker looked startled, and then he smiled and lent a little closer.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย โItโs a secret,โ he replied in a low whisper. The girlโs eyes widened, and she leant towards him further, the mystery only deepened by her probing.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย โAre all your stories true? Did they really happen? Was it you in them all? Why do you live alone up there?โ the questions tumbled out fast and furious, tripping over each other, head over heels. A flicker of something dark crossed the bakerโs features, a glimmer of a cold and bleak loneliness, a shadow of memory usually hidden behind simple smiles and guileless tales of wonder and adventure, the dark parts filed away, the sharp edges worn soft by time. Memories taken out and handled so often they had lost their bite.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย โAll stories are true,โ he said as the moment passed, and the girl stared at him as if his every word were vital air and she couldnโt get enough. The baker looked across the square again, into the deepening shadows, and a door once locked deep within his soul creaked open, pried asunder by a childโs innocent question. Behind the door were all the stories he didnโt tell. The ones too dark and cold and scary, the ones that hurt too much. The ones with edges still as sharp as the axe that hung above the cottage door. He looked back at her, โThese stories are mine. They really happened, once upon a time, when I was a young man, when my friends and I travelled the land, seeking adventure and glory and to make the world a better place. We fought monsters and evil people. But one of us . . . one . . .โ his voice faltered for a moment, and the grief was too raw to articulate, even after all these years. โOne day we met a monster we couldnโt defeat, and She . . . well.โ A smile as brittle as winterโs first frost. The baker placed his hand on the girlโs shoulder. She was too young to understand. To appreciate the pain of seeing someone who held your soul in their hands lose their own. To know that death was not the worst fate that could greet a person. For a moment his secrets hung in the balance, years of holding this truth close to his chest. Perhaps this little dwarf girl reminded him of someone, someone long ago. Someone he would always share his secrets with. โWould you like the secret?โ
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย The girl, eyes so wide, her mind racing to all the things she could tell her friends, the impossible edge sheโd gained through being brave enough to ask, the superiority she had in her extra knowledge, nodded eagerly, hungry for more.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย โYou mustnโt tell anyone, do you understand? It is the biggest secret I have,โ the baker said. โThe secret is this. My name is Araedi Harsong, Breaker of Chains,โ he paused as the weight of those words fell around his neck like stones. An identity long left behind. โNow run along, and keep that secret always.โ A squeeze of the shoulder and he was on his feet, stepping to his mule and turning towards the path back into the hills, never once looking back.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย And the girl stood and gaped at the weight of the secret she had been granted, the context for the stories she had listened to since she was a small child. The stories of the great son of the Harsong family, who had freed slaves and fought for equality, who had brought freedom to the oppressed, a fearsome warrior with a kind heart, renowned for his bravery and goodness. The man who had stood against the most powerful families in the land without fear. The man who, one day, at the height of his fame, had simply vanished, never to be seen again.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Perhaps one day, when the girl was older, she would understand what had happened. Perhaps once day she would recognise the flicker of pain she had seen that day. Piece together the puzzle, the oft-discussed mystery of where the great Araedi Harsong had gone, why he had one day walked away from everything he had achieved. Perhaps.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย But for now, she was young, and filled with the bubbling excitement of a weighty secret, and she turned and ran home, and didnโt look back into the fading dusk, where the shape of a tall man slowly vanished into the darkness, head bowed into the night.
