For our outing, I wore the only attire I never baked in: a moss-colored, tiered skirt that brushed my ankles, and a clean, white tunic with subtle embroidery about the neck. I tied my hair up atop my head, leaving a few stray curls dangling along my hairline. He wore the clothes he worked in that day, but he washed up at the well, and somehow managed to look scrubbed and fresh.
Conversation came hard as we made our way into town, but the fault was not his. I was nervous, remembering our first encounter, when everything I'd said and done had been wrong.
But as we walked, he asked about Golden Valley and how my family had come to settle here. He inquired about Mama and Papa and Stephen, and then myself. Soon my tongue loosened and I forgot about my fears of sounding like a fool. I talked and talked, and he listened, with genuine interest, always ready with another question.
We explored every business in town and I introduced Jeremy to all the proprietors. He was unfailingly polite and found something on which to compliment each person he met. They all grinned and made sure to shake his hand when he left.
The sky was the deep blueberry shade of night by the time we finished our tour. We ended up sitting, chatting easily, beneath the bows of a pear tree on the edge of the wheat field. The workers had gone home, and in the distance I could see the lights of my house, small squares glowing yellow in the blue night.
"What do you like to do?” Jeremy asked me, leaning back against the tree. “I mean, besides work."
I frowned. “I don't work all the time. I like to do lots of things."
"Like what?” He was smiling, but it was a clear challenge.
"Well ... sometimes I help out in the fields, and I always visit with people when they come to pick up their orders."
He laughed, and the sound disturbed something living in the tree, which skittered nervously above us. Jeremy stood and picked two pears, handed one to me. “You don't have to be ashamed,” he said. “If work is what you love, then you'll be happy for the rest of your life. You'll always have work."
I folded my arms over my chest and turned my face away, feeling that I was the butt of a joke I didn't understand.
"Me, on the other hand,” he went on, “I'm not sure I know what I love. I've worked the lines at sea; I've been a laborer; I apprenticed under a blacksmith; I even joined a traveling show once. I was a juggler, but I couldn't juggle more than two apples at a time, so that didn't last long.” He sighed and turned his face to the open sky, linking his arms behind his head and leaning against the tree trunk. “Grandfather keeps talking about settling down and growing roots. He says there's no better place than here."
He looked at me and his eyes were darker, as though they'd absorbed the color of the night. “I envy you,” he said. “If I had what you have, I could stop moving, grow some roots."
He let his words trail off and reached over to take my hand.
* * * *
Weeks passed, and summer closed in on fall and the harvest festival, when the best of the corn would be brought in for a feast, to be roasted over spits in the center of town while the folk of Golden Valley drank and danced and celebrated another year of plenty.
Since that night under the pear tree, Jeremy and I talked every day. My parents made jokes that my work had suffered since I discovered boys. I didn't find these jokes particularly funny and, surprisingly, neither did Stephen. He cornered me one day after I burned a batch of sesame rolls, which I had to bury in the yard, an offering of contrition for the waste.
"Too busy thinking about that boy to concentrate on your work?” Stephen said as I dug the bread grave with a trowel.
I ignored him. In truth, I hardly heard him.
He grabbed my arm and I dropped the trowel. When I looked at him, his face was changed, no longer the impassive face of a boy. “I don't like him."
I yanked my arm away. “Go and fetch another bag of flour from the shed. I'm tired of doing your work for you."
I had not encountered Spiridon since meeting Jeremy, but the day after Stephen made his feelings toward Jeremy known, I ran into my old friend at the butcher shop. He greeted me warmly, but I couldn't help feeling awkward, wondering if he was aware how much time Jeremy and I were spending together. Also, his appearance startled me. His white hair, always so thick and wild that he tamed it with a bit of cord, was undone, and seemed to have thinned and lost its slivery sheen. His arms trembled as he gave me a brief, fatherly hug.
"Spiridon, have you been ill?"
He offered a tired smile and squeezed my hand. “Not ill, dear, just old. I thought Jeremy would have told you. It's why he came to live with me. I need a strong back and a good pair of hands around the house. Can't seem to make do on my own anymore."
So he knew that Jeremy and I talked frequently. But did he suspect that we'd formed something of an attachment? I searched his hooded eyes for some clue to whether he approved, and as though he guessed what I was looking for, he said, “I hope my grandson's earning his wages over in your parents’ fields, not loafing about like boys his age do these days."
I shook my head. “He's been a great help. My parents like him very much.” I watched Spiridon's face for a reaction. His weathered face remained expressionless.
"He's a good boy,” Spiridon said. “I'd like to see him make a home for himself here. A boy that age won't be content long living with an old man like me."
A smile grew on my face and kept growing until I had to turn away and pretend to cough so that I could hide it with my hand.
* * * *
I was still too young to have an official escort for the harvest festival, but it was understood between Jeremy and me that we would meet there. On the evening of the festival, I dressed carefully in a newly made dress that fit me perfectly, as none of my other dresses did anymore. They were all too short in the legs, too tight in the chest, and most were saturated with flour. This dress was of white linen instead of cotton; its plunging neckline revealed the slight dip between my breasts. This was not a dress for work.
In town, the streets were alight with the fires of roasting spits, and rows of candles burned in lines on long tables set with bounteous fare: roast chickens, pyramids of buttered corn, cinnamon baked squash, bowls of mashed potatoes, glazed honey cakes, all provided by the townsfolk. My family, too, had worked tirelessly for days to provide our addition to the feast. It took three carts to transport it all. We brought every variety of bread you can imagine: corn bread, biscuits, rustic bread, cinnamon bread, bread made with zucchini and carrots, bread with nuts and seeds, dark bread, light bread, loaf after loaf, rolls by the bushel. We outdid ourselves.
But in the rush to compile such copious provisions, I'd had no time for Jeremy in nearly a week. I longed to see him. The moment we arrived in town, before my father could bring the cart to a complete stop, I hopped down and began searching the crowd. But I did not see Jeremy, and so, with half a heart, I helped unload the carts and set out our fares on the tables, taking far less pleasure than usual in the compliments I received.
The feasting and celebrating was well underway and most of the townsfolk were helping themselves to second plates before I saw him. I knew him by his silhouette, lit by the blaze of the bonfire. He and Spiridon walked side by side, very close and very slow. Jeremy wore gray pants and a white, collarless shirt with a blue vest. His hair was washed and fresh; it still looked damp.
"Spiridon! Happy Harvest!” I hugged the old man. He felt like a sack of bones. I was glad Jeremy was here to help care for him, and I thought for a giddy moment of how well we could care for Spiridon together, Jeremy and I.
Spiridon returned my hug, then held me at arms length and studied my face. He opened his mouth to speak, but Jeremy said, “Grandfather, let's get some ale in you.” The two of us led him to one of the long tables and pulled out a chair for him.
When the feasting dwindled, the music began. Couples wheeled into the street, spinning and clapping. Jeremy and I joined the fray, though neither of us were much go
od at dancing. Still, our rhythms fell to matching, as though we were performing steps only the two of us knew. We laughed and danced through so many songs they all seemed to blend together, one continuous blur of sound. As the hour grew late, the tempo of the music slowed and Jeremy and I moved closer. I circled my arms around his neck, and he rested his hands on my hips. We didn't talk as we danced, so when Jeremy leaned close and spoke urgently into my ear, it startled me. I wondered if I'd been dozing against his shoulder.
"Do you want to be alone?” His tone was concerned, as though I'd done something to give him the impression that this was what I wanted.
"Do you?"
In answer, he led me away from the dancing couples. After pausing on the outskirts of the crowd to look left and right, he gave my hand a little tug and we disappeared into the wedge of space between the alehouse and the general store. Jeremy was my guide now, and I followed where he bade, hardly realizing until we reached the edge of the wheat field that we were heading in the direction of my house. But when I asked about this, he smiled and said only, “Your parents will be at the festival for hours yet."
"They'll know I'm gone,” I protested.
"Not if they've had as much ale as the rest of the townsfolk."
We entered through the backdoor. The house was silent in a way a busy household rarely is, so that it seemed to be listening. Our footsteps on the wood floor made heavy, dense noises, like we were on a stage.
We drifted into the kitchen, where the warmth of the oven lingered from that day's baking. I was used to its constant heat, but for some reason, it made my head feel swimmy, my whole body fevered, and I wanted to fall back on something I knew would catch me and hold me. Then I grew scared, and I turned from Jeremy and placed my hands down on the baking table where I stood most days, for hours at a time, carefully mixing, kneading, testing. This was where I was comfortable, where I was in charge.
Jeremy came up behind me and reached his arms around me to place them on top of my hands. I could feel his breath through the heavy curtain of my hair. I felt that fever all through my body again, a sick feeling that was somehow pleasant. I leaned into him, so I could feel his chest against my back.
"Show me what you do,” he whispered. “Show me what you love."
I tried to turn and look at him, but his arms were firm over mine, holding me in place. “I—I don't know what you mean,” I said.
"I want to see you work,” he said, and then I felt his lips, warm on my neck.
I said nothing. What could I say? At that moment, the meaning of the word “no” was foreign. Why not show him how I worked? The ingredients were there on the table, right in front of me: the flour and sugar, egg and milk, the salt and oil and the bowl of warm, clean well water. And the other ingredient, which we kept in a small, sealed pot—the secret dust that made bread rise, the other half of the Master Baker's magic.
But I didn't have to tell him our secrets. If I only let him watch ... what could it hurt? He would see me soon enough, either way. If we were to have a life together...
I admit, I was already thinking about marriage, though I was barely sixteen. Before Jeremy, I never understood the way my parents looked at each other, or why, sometimes, they disappeared into their bedroom when there was still work to be done. Now I understood and more: I wanted what they had.
I measured out sugar, and a bit of the secret powder, and poured it into the bowl of warm water to dissolve. We waited as the water became cloudy, and I felt Jeremy's breath in my hair, his lips pressed to the skin of my neck.
"What are you doing?” he asked.
"Shhhh. You can watch, but you mustn't speak."
Next I added the milk and oil, mixing; and then the flour, a bit at a time, always mixing, and last, the salt. It would be the most basic of breads, a simple wheat with no variations, no seeds or nuts or fruit.
Then came the kneading, my fingers buried in the soft, pale dough, my knuckles protruding white and strong, the creases of my skin filling with whitish paste. As I kneaded, Jeremy moved my hair aside and kissed my neck, my ears. His hands, which had rested near my hips as I worked, slid down my arms, and then over my hands, until mine disappeared beneath his.
When the dough was smooth and elastic, when my new white dress was covered with flour that blended into obscurity, when his hands and mine were white to the wrists and our breath came in little gasps, I smoothed the dough with oil and covered it with a damp cloth.
I turned in his arms.
"What happens now?"
"It rises,” I said, and our mouths met for the first time.
* * * *
Jeremy was gone before my parents and Stephen arrived home. I did not realize until the following day how gone he really was.
The harvest was over, and so when I didn't see Jeremy in the field and he didn't come to call, I made a bold decision and sought him at Spiridon's house. I knew the moment Spiridon opened the door that something was wrong.
"He left in the night,” Spiridon told me, his eyelids drooping at the corners. “Didn't bother with a note, but all his things are gone. I shouldn't be surprised. His mother warned me not to not to expect much from him in the way of reliability, but I wanted to give the boy a chance. I don't suppose he told you he was leaving, did he?"
I shook my head numbly. I couldn't manage a word.
The old man reached out and squeezed my shoulder. “Don't worry, Harper. There are other boys in town. Maybe not as handsome, but I'd like to think most of them are courteous enough to say goodbye before they take their leave."
I nodded and mumbled my own goodbye, and when I was out of Spiridon's sight, I began to run. I let the tears come and drain from my eyes. I ran until I reached the wheat field, where I lost myself in the slender stalks, letting them beat against my arms and face. I stopped somewhere in the middle and sat in the dirt and sobbed with the abandon of a child who doesn't understand pain.
It was after dark when I returned home, and the air carried the chill of fall. Mama and Papa were in the kitchen, rolling out dough for cinnamon buns and talking of the festival. Stephen was there too, sitting in a chair by the fire, doing his best to remain uninvolved in the work.
"Where have you been?” Mama asked, giggling at something Father had just said. “We could use another pair of hands here."
I stood there in the doorway, the skin of my cheeks feeling tight from the tears that had wet them. Then I took a breath and smiled and joined in the work.
* * * *
In the first days after Jeremy disappeared from my life, my heart felt like it had been cinched. Some days I couldn't force down so much as a glass of milk; others I ate sweet rolls and mashed potatoes until my stomach swelled and I was uncomfortable but comforted. I cried every night before I went to sleep and woke with my eyelashes full of dried, crusted tears. And I worried, about what he'd seen, what I'd shown him.
Stephen didn't tease me; he didn't speak to me at all. But sometimes the way he looked at me said he knew what had happened between Jeremy and me, or maybe he only guessed. When Papa asked what became of the blond boy from the field, I had to run to my room and shut the door.
The days dragged by and became weeks, and I stopped entertaining the hope that Jeremy would return with some fantastical explanation, maybe that he'd gone to seek his mother's blessing for our marriage. One day I woke up and felt only a twinge of sadness. It felt wrong not to be miserable, and I called up Jeremy's face in my memory to drive away this seed of contentedness. But I found that Jeremy's face, his lovely eyes and inviting hair, had faded to an impression, a silhouette. He was a traveler who stopped for a night, but who was never meant to stay.
I was walking by the general store one day when I overheard a group of women gossiping about news of a young man traveling the land, trying to make his fortune selling the secrets of the Master Bakers. My heart turned to ice, and I ran home immediately. I found my mother alone in the kitchen. Papa had taken Stephen fishing. I confessed all to her
. I expected her to be angry, but she only held me.
"I broke my promise,” I cried. “I've ruined everything. Now the whole world will know our secrets."
She rocked me and smoothed the hair on my brow. “There is more to our trade, to any trade, than a few secrets,” she said. “It takes a lifetime of work and devotion to become a Master Baker. One night can't change that."
I looked at her and saw that her eyes were shining. I hugged her fiercely. I felt clean and empty inside, ready to be filled.
"Do you know,” Mama said, “there is a recipe for a bread filled with jam and fried in oil that your father's never heard of?"
I smiled and shook my head, ready to learn.
* * * *
Jennifer Bosworth graduated with a degree in English, and went on to teach courses on writing horror, fantasy and science fiction at the University of Utah. She worked for several years as senior copywriter at a marketing company before she decided she'd had enough of convincing people to buy things they didn't need. She has completed two dark fantasy novels, and her short horror story “Shelter” is forthcoming in Midnight Times. She currently lives with her husband and puppy in Los Angeles, and doesn't spend as much time at the beach as she should.
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The Message by Richard R. Harris
"Charlie, it's time to wake up."
Warm, velvety soft, her voice caresses me out of Sleep. I look out on hard starry darkness, the warm lingering fingers of her words gently easing me to full awareness.
"My dear, we have a crossover."
She does not need to say it. An unnatural coldness ... as though someone just outside the ship was screaming ... the wail unable to penetrate the hull ... something tickling the delicate magnetic field of the central nervous system. A deep shiver passes through me as I check the instruments.
"Do you have him yet, my dear, or must I come out there myself?"
I can't help but smile, despite the unnatural chill. Lucy's timing is perfect, as usual. Though Sleeping, the link kept me fully aware of my ship's status. Twenty days out of Ganymede, her voice still requires time to reach me from Phobos Base even with the enhancement. But she has the uncanny knack to time her transmissions to arrive at just the right moment.
Challenging Destiny #23 Page 6
