As the seasons turned, the Baker’s story turned too, page by page. The queues returned. The business began to swell like proving dough. Eventually, he packed a basket and with a determined gulp set out on a visit.
At last, he felt in his heart and his bones that it was time to admit that he no longer wanted to be alone.
His mother and her friends, whose clickclacky needles wove baby-prayers tirelessly, were gladdened and relieved when one snow-bright night, observed carefully from behind a curtain, the Baker locked the shop and started off, once again, for the high places.
This climb took somewhat longer than the first as his heart was somewhat heavier. Nevertheless, when he arrived at the top, bathed in sweat and moonlight, he lifted his head to the Moon and called quietly, ‘Hello Moon. It’s me again.’
The Moon sat aloft in a black winter sky freckled with stars. The Baker thought of the way Misti lovingly coated their honey buns and turned slowly allowing himself to be basted thoroughly in silver light.
‘There,’ he prayed, ‘you have seen all of me. Inside and out. I’m afraid to say that the lonesomeness is starting to nibble again. Well actually, it’s gnawing. In fact, if I’m being totally honest Moon, it’s gobbling me whole. You know why I have come.’
The Baker took a deep breath and quickly, before his courage failed, he added, ‘Please, please may I have another wife? I promise with all my heart... I’ll look after this one. And,’ he paused, ‘definitely no cardamom this time.’
And with that, the Baker fell to his knees in the snow and closed his eyes in hope.
‘Blippin heck, matey-boy, what a palaver! What a loony moony carry-on! Want my advice?’
The Baker, opened his eyes to behold the fiery eyes of a hawk eagle staring at him intently.
He felt it should have surprised him to see a hawk eagle sat on a Mountain of Between rock as they usually lived in the distant Mountains of Elsewhere. ‘But,’ he thought, ‘the world has been a bit jumbly just recently. And surely a bird of such mystique and majesty must speak ancient, albeit arcane, truths.’
So, he hoisted himself up and then sat himself down, cross-legged in front of the bird.
‘Oh, great eagle! Surely one as wise and mysterious as yourself can help my poor aching heart in its moment of direst need. Tell me, what must I do. How can I make a true, true love?’ And to himself he added, ‘One that won’t be snaffled up by those greedy devils from the West.’
The hawk eagle shook his black head slightly so that his crest stood up proudly, like a wise-man’s head-dress.
‘Well me ole muckerji, here’s what I think. Seems best not to tempt those Westerners to any more nibbling, gnawing or, indeed, gobbling.’
The Baker agreed entirely.
‘So, here’s the plan. We bake a creamy dream, a cookie queen! The Easterners, I’ve heard it said, are a little partial. But they’re a quiet lot. Polite lot. Wouldn’t say boo to a goose.’
The Baker sat enthralled, enraptured, entranced. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘Go on.’
And then with hooded eyes and a drawl soaked in magic, the hawk eagle began to sing.
‘Baker, oh Baker, most desperate fellow, here’s how you bake a wife; warm and mellow. Molasses and chocolate and pecans and cream, a pinch of desire, a dollop of dream. Method for proving, just like before. Method for baking, add half an hour more. Garnish with jellies and peanuts and lime, then love and be loved by Lady Sublime.’
The hawk eagle blinked twice and lowered his crest. ‘Holy moly,’ he muttered, ‘Where did all that come from?’
The Baker did not know, or care. He stood up, threw his arms in the air and then twirled on his heels joyfully; but when he stopped to thank the eagle, it had disappeared.
‘Must be the way with these magical birds,’ he decided, capering down the mountain to begin the bake.
As before, the Baker lovingly crafted his wife. Jellies, chocolate and cream were not natural commodities in the Mountains of Between, but he found a trader who, quite besotted with his poppy seed buns, was willing to deal and soon he had all he needed.
The Baker’s instincts trembled a little at the endless bags of sugar he had to stir into the mixture. He soldiered on however, telling himself that every spoonful would make her kisses sweeter.
By the next full moon, his new wife was ready. As a finishing touch he couldn’t resist a sprinkle of cinnamon; and then there she was – ready. He hauled her up the mountain and laid her out under the Moon’s light. Her sugar coating glistened like ice and her green jelly eyes shone like emeralds.
‘Thank you, Moon’ he whispered as he fell to sleep by her side.
In the morning, our man could hardly believe his eyes. His new wife had almost doubled in size.
‘Oh, my word!’ thought the Baker, ‘Must be all that sugar.’
Down to the shop and the oven they went.
The Baker only just managed to squeeze her into the oven; and he only just managed to pull her out again; but when he had, he settled into his chair feeling exhausted but rosy with hope.
He awoke to the rumble of the deepest, sweetest laughter he had ever heard.
There she was. He smiled the smile he’d been waiting for his whole life.
*****
Her name was Candy and she was scrumptious. The Baker loved the way the bakery felt like home again, full as it was, of Candy. He would gaze with quiet delight at her strong, round arms kneading the dough; at her wide, swaying hips as she rolled around the shop like a boulder and the way her dark, shiny hair bounced as she laughed.
And, oh, how she laughed. It burst out of her and boomed around the Mountains of Between, filling all who heard it with joy, desire and a subtle craving for cake.
It was no surprise, that once again the number of traders outside the Baker’s door began to grow and grow, double then treble. Every morning they would wait quietly for the shop to open: whispering sweetly; muttering quiet, sugar frosted mantras. As if in prayer. Candy met each and every one with a hearty chuckle that made her bosom heave and her eyes shine. Every evening the Baker and his wife shut the shop having sold every single morsel that they had managed to bake.
The Baker’s mother loved Candy with all her heart. As he approached her house one afternoon, he was surprised to hear the familiar roar of Candy’s laughter mixed with the tinkling merriment of his mother and her entire circle of wise and ancient friends.
As they walked home in the moonlight, he smiled at Candy and said, ‘I think she wants us to bake up some nippers!’
Candy just giggled and, later, held his hand as they went upstairs.
The following morning, the Baker turned to his wife and said, ‘Honey bun, I’m just popping out. Most Important Business!’
He left her and the boy chortling with great gusto as they frosted gingerbread, ready for the day ahead.
The Baker scuttled around to his Mother as fast as a mountain hare.
‘Mother,’ he cried ‘It’s time! It’s actually blippin time!’
She cuffed him round the ear for language and then grabbed him to her in the fiercest hug she could manage,
‘Then take them son,’ she said softly ‘And where’s there’s one, may there be many!’
From an old pine chest, which sat next to her hearth, she pulled out a bundle wrapped in a soft woollen blanket and tied with a slender silk ribbon.
The Baker hopped and skipped back to the shop, his heart as big and bright as the blue sky above.
As he pushed past the usual row of expectant traders, he didn’t notice that their perpetual humming had fallen silent. And as he opened the shop door, he didn’t notice that the shop was empty.
And then, the woollen bundle and the ancient baby robes within, fell to the floor as the boy’s words cut through his reverie.
‘Oh Sir, there you are. So sorry Sir. But it’s happened again!’
*****
Whether the Eastern traders were just too peckish to feel meek that day or whether it was the fiery magic of cinnamon, the Baker did not care. This time his grief was too big for sadness. It erupted with pure, red-hot violence. Leaving the boy to scrub away the molasses that smeared the shop floor, the Baker surged up the mountain to await the Moon.
As the day gave way slowly to deep velvety night, the Baker ranted at the sky with all his might.
‘Come on, come and face me, you vile old crone!’
With fists raised and body shaking violently, he screamed.
‘You black-hearted hag. Come and face the man you have broken!’
His head twisted incessantly from side to side and his eyes burned.
‘No, you do not dare, do you? You loathsome old witch!’
On and on he railed. Until, as the Moon passed its zenith and headed for the horizon, he dropped to the ground in despair.
Beaten at last by his own anger, he whispered, ‘I hope you’ll be as lonely as me. Forever.’
And with that he closed his scarlet tear-drenched eyes.
And fell to sleep.
An old lady had been watching him from behind a rock.
Moon’s long, silver hair glimmered slightly as she walked over to the prone Baker. Without a sound, she sat by his side and stroked his face with skinny fingers. Icy tears fell from pearly eyes. Then, she lifted his head gently and rested it on her lap.
‘My poor, poor boy,’ she sighed. ‘Just look what they’ve done to you!’
With the hem of her silk sleeve she wiped his face dry.
‘Sleep now, sweet man. For in your dreams you will hear my words and when you awake, you must be a man of action: a strong man, a man apart from other men.
Seek not the wisdom of men from the East or men from the West. Their words are merely recipes for women without words. They desire only visions. Ideals.
Flee the dreams of others. The nearly-but-not quite women. The ghosts.
Find a place where you need to be. Find a true love. A real love. One of flesh and bone and dirt and blood. One who is hot as the Sun and cold as mountain snow. One who is loving and angry, gentle and wild. And don’t take any notice of any more traders.
They’re a blippin nuisance, if you ask me.
I’ll be with you, dear Baker. Always.’
And with that, she kissed the top of his head, stood up and walked away.
*****
In the morning, the Baker awoke, arose and left the Mountains of Between forever.
Comments