The Baker of Nest
(A Half-baked Allegory)
Once Upon A Time, when folk could still see the seasons dancing naked in the sky, there was a Baker. He lived in a village, perched on the shoulders of the purple-grey Mountains of Between. The village was called Nest.
Now, for many years traders had passed through Nest. They came from the East, where people chipped away for sapphires and rubies but dreamed endlessly of gold. And the West, where people mined for gold but yearned for gemstones in all the colours of the rainbow. And so, though the folks of Nest were cold-seeming and tough as mountain goats and their tiny cottages seemed to grow from the hard, grey slate of the mountain, the village prospered: because it was where it needed to be.
Our man the Baker, was kind and humble and a good neighbour. He worked from the early hours of starsleep to the late hours of moondance; mixing and kneading and rolling and plumping and watching and counting and smelling. Day after day, his hands crafted sweet, delicious magic for traders from the East and the West. They would queue solemnly to buy warm bread for their bellies; delicate spiced pastries for their wives and sweet, sweet honey buns for their lovers.
If the Baker did not become fabulously rich, he did become comfortable. He bought a fur hood for cold days and a silk shirt for fine days. His meat was fresh and his wine was old. His cottage was always warm. Eventually, he hired a boy to mind the shop for one afternoon a week. He would anoint his black hair with spicy Eastern oil and pull on good, thick Western boots. Then, he would stroll around the village taking gifts to his relatives and greeting his neighbours with smiles and kind words.
And always always, he searched, quietly, for love.
There were girls in the village; wide-eyed and red-cheeked. There were crones in the village; faces as grey and chiselled as the mountain itself. But of young maids, ripe for courtship, there was no sign. They had drifted West or ridden East; seduced by the beguiling yet vague promises of an endless cavalcade of traders.
And so, despite the goodwill of his neighbours and the fine regard of his customers, our hero started to feel the creeping coldness of being alone. It nipped his fingers like frostbite and then seeped through his bones. At last, when it reached through to his heart, the Baker despaired.
One night, when the moon was bright and full and likely to listen, the Baker locked up his shop and made his way, up the mountain to the high places where he felt sure she could hear him.
‘Moon, oh Moon!’ he cried. ‘Please help me. I work hard and I have a kind heart. I am a good baker and I would try to be an even better husband. And though I do not have the face of a prince, neither does it curdle the morning milk!’
He sighed then, and in a quieter voice asked, ‘Is there really no-one for me to love? If not... how can I carry on?’
The Baker lowered his head into his hands and began to sob.
‘She can’t help you, she never does. But don’t you mind that. Don’t you mind at all, because I can. And I will. Always happy to help,’ a voice piped up.
The Baker almost leaped out of his own skin. For there, on a nearby rock, was a bluebird.
Now, in all the years that the Baker could remember, no-one had ever seen a bluebird in the purple-grey Mountains of Between. And yet there it was basking in the moonlight and chattering as merrily as the Baker’s own mother.
The Baker gulped and said in a hushed voice, ‘Bluebird, I pray that you are speaking the truth. Tell me, what must I do?’
The bluebird, who had started to pick ticks from under his wing, turned his head and regarded the Baker with sparkling eyes.
‘The answer is simple, my friend. If there are no suitable wives to be had, you must make one. That is to say, bake one!’
The bluebird hopped a little nearer and then started to sway slowly as he spoke.
‘The recipe for love is simple and true. Listen close Baker, here’s what to do. Take ginger and cinnamon and all kinds of spice. Add sweet honey syrup and flour made from rice. Almonds for lips and sultanas for eyes. Then prove in moonbeams, for love to arise. Back to the oven, in the gentlest heat. Then just wait an hour for the sweetest of treats’
When he had finished, the bluebird shook his head as if awaking from a trance and looked, cheerfully, at the Baker.
‘Compadre, that is how it is done. And let me tell you this, not only will your wife be sweet and spicy and ever so nicey, the traders from the West will adore her. You wait and see, your profits will double, treble, fly through the roof!’
The Baker started to dance and whoop all around the high place.
‘Most loyal friend, most trusted ally, thank you from the bottom of my humble heart,’ he cried.
But the bluebird had gone.
‘Strange!’ thought the Baker, but his blood was on fire, so he put his doubts into a little box in his heart and started off back to the village.
For the next few weeks the Baker worked all the long hours of the day. Measuring, sifting, mixing, stirring. His neighbours became a little worried about the greyness around his eyes His customers became a little worried about the lack of delicacies in the shop. But the Baker just smiled and promised that all would be well.
Finally, it was time for another full moon. The Baker had followed all the bluebird’s instructions; lovingly sculpting a wife, round here, smooth there; with pale almond lips and golden sultana eyes. He’d even added some cardamom seeds for good luck.
As night approached, he hefted his creation up to the high place and set it down to prove in the moon’s magical glow. The Baker kissed his bride gently and lay down next to her full of hope and joy.
In the morning, she did indeed look plumper, rosier; somehow, fuller of life. The Baker carried her back to his shop and in the gentlest of his ovens set his love to bake.
An hour passed.
The Baker pulled her out and put her down on a pallet in his parlour. To ease her awakening, he covered her with a silk sheet and put a pot of gentians next to her head. Exhausted from his labours, the Baker sat in a chair by the fire and drifted off to sleep.
When he awoke, his wife was sitting in the opposite chair, sipping tea.
The Baker shed a small tear of joy.
*****
Her name was Misti and she was delicious. Early every morning, she would arise and set to helping the Baker in all that he did. She danced around the bakery, folding just the right amount of mountain air into the bread, pinching just the right amount of spice into the spiced pastries and anointing the honey buns with just the right amount of sweet, sweet honey.
Soon, word spread. Day after day, a line of traders, waiting in hope and reverence, would stretch around the shop and half way down the dusty mountain road. All agreed, that the Baker’s delicacies, and a glance of his sweet wife, were well worth the wait. She, her heart full of love for the Baker, would serve each customer with a small smile; often sprinkling a little extra sugar on the spiced-pastries-for-wives. The boy now looked after the shop for a whole day every week. Misti would help the Baker anoint his hair and pull on his boots. Then, she would pack a basket with the most moist and mouth-watering treats; cover her shoulders with the silk sheet and accompany her husband around the village.
The Baker and his wife became rich and happy.
One summer’s morning, the sky was big and blue and the sun was getting ready to blaze gloriously over the Mountains of Between. The Baker looked up and declared it was going to be a heavenly day. As he prepared for his visiting, the Baker saw that the traders were already fanning themselves and sipping lemon water in the longest queue he’d ever seen.
‘So many customers!’ he declared to his wife. ‘Don’t misunderstand me, my love, such a sight is a treat for my simple baker’s heart! But, my word, how are we to manage?’
Misti, quietly removing her silk sheet, touched his cheek with her slender fingers and disappeared into the shop. The Baker then thanked the Moon and the Stars for such an understanding woman and headed off to see his mother and her equally garrulous neighbours.
*****
In the days that followed the tragedy, it was agreed (particularly among the Western traders) that the Western traders could not be held wholly responsible for their actions.
‘How,’ they cried, ‘could any man resist the heady magic of a warm summer’s day mixed with a beautiful woman mixed with the slight scent of cardamom?’
The Baker could not answer this conundrum. Ever since he had returned from his visits to find his wife gone; devoured; reduced to a pile of crumbs that the boy was desperately trying to sweep away with a pan and a brush: he had been busy screaming.
For six whole turns of the Moon, the shop remained shut while the Baker’s scream stormed around the Mountains of Between; an aching, black echo of grief.
And then, he was quiet.
And then, the shop was open once more.
And then, the traders re-appeared.
*****
Though it could not be said that the Baker made a speedy recovery - tottering, toddling, wobbling, waddling, he did at least move. Forward. Towards the future.
After a while, he and his ovens began to produce their old baked magic. And, not much longer after that, to a man, the Baker’s customers, from the East and the West, concluded that it was best not to dwell on the unfortunate demise of Misti. They agreed, that as a man of commerce, he needed the kind of comfort that only their coins in his coffer could provide.
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