Hope in Ruins Book III: The Fountain and the City of Salt

The Bread

You were a widow. That's what everyone saw when they looked at you.

An old woman, sad and alone. Sadness, a young woman, silent, her arms limp at her sides, walked beside you like a friend. Your husband had been gone a long time, and he would never have approved of what you were doing now, and you were not sad. Not today.

The dough under your hands stuck to your fingers, and a pleasant yeasty smell filled the little room. It had been months since you had made bread—real bread. You hadn't been able to get flour. All you could get was corn and beans. Sometimes rice. But that day, you had flour, so sadness didn't get too close.

You hated to think what you had sold for those two precious bags of such potential, but it might have been worth it. Now, with the sticky dough underhand, the kneading was a comfort for what you had lost. Your ring finger still had an indent around it. Sadness touched her own finger, remembering the place where rings and promises had been.

Baking should have been more than comforting, peaceful even, but doubt and fear nagged at you like a fly buzzing around your head. It reminded you of what you were risking: everything. Better hurry before it was too late.

After kneading, let the dough rest and rise. Rest and rise. You put a towel over the wooden bowl and set it aside. Then you rested in your lonely bed. Your neighbor slept in a lonely bed too. A young woman. Well, your neighbor was over forty, but that was still younger than yourself, so that made your neighbor young. The young woman was just like your husband. Always so passionate and earnest to serve the Eternal Mother. That fire had been so attractive to you once when your husband had been young and determined. But now that you were an old woman and you understood the world more, you saw that fire for what it really was. You had seen that fire in your neighbor's eyes that afternoon, and you shuddered to think of it. That fire meant you didn't have much more time. Sadness came closer, her feet silent.

You had been walking home from the market when you passed the young woman on the street. You said hello, and you tried to cover the flour you weren't supposed to have, but it was too late: your neighbor had seen. Your young neighbor would surely turn you in for Adjustment, and selling your wedding ring for two bags of flour will have been for nothing. As you closed the door behind you, the flour heavy in your basket weighing on your arm, you knew your time was up. Sadness took your bare hand and touched the crease where your ring had been. So you got to work. Just like your husband, always working, never resting.

You still missed him. He would rise every morning at the same time, no time to waste, always time to work.

"Good morning," you would say.

"Yes, thank the Eternal Mother," he would respond.

You would nod and agree, but you didn't really agree. "Thank the bitch indeed," you would think with a smile.

Then he would dust the photos of the Eternals. Lovingly. You always wished he would look at you that way, but that would be in some other time, some other place, and some very different life. One where you could have children. He would be so angry with you now, buying flour with bribes and rings, but you didn't care. You would have bread.

You rested.

The dough rose.

When you rose, the dough had doubled in size. You grinned.

Carefully, with weak fingers, You split the dough in two and tucked them into heavy iron pots. You always made two, one for you, one for him. Your husband had given you those pots, but the memory made you sad. They had been a Re-Incarnate Day gift so that you could make something nice for the special day. They had not been a gift for you but for their Eternal Mother. Your barren body didn't deserve gifts, sadness whispered.

The fire crackled. The dough rested.

You rested again on your lonely bed, thinking of your lost and foolish husband. When did everyone become so foolish? You wondered. So foolish and determined and blind.

After a time, a peaceful time, you tucked the iron pots into the fire and waited. The smell of bread filled your home, your lungs, your soul. You watched the fire glow red and blue and green.

The bread baked.

By now, it was dark outside. Cold. But the fire and the warm smell of fresh bread filled you. You breathed in the smell of hot baking bread, a scent you had not remembered being so rich in memories. Your husband would not have approved.

Time to check the bread. You took the bread out of the pots and rapped on the pale underside with your knuckles. The hot crust stung your hands, but the bread sounded hollow. Done. They'd be here in the morning to take you for Adjustment. Better enjoy your last meal.

Two loaves, and no one to share them with. You sat down in front of the steaming bread but paused. Sadness, with her sunken and red, wailing eyes, looked up at you over the bread. She held out her hand for her share, her fingers trembling.

You shook your head, deciding. Your husband would not approve, but he was not there.

An old cloth, faded and thin, hung by the sink. It was dry, so you wrapped one piping loaf inside. Banished, sadness returned home to her empty mansion. You peeped out the door. The street was quiet. All your neighbors' windows were dark and closed. You were the only one up, baking in secret. The moon was bright, bright enough to cast shadows and uncover secret things. You hurried next door, the bread hot under your arm, and placed the warm loaf on the step.

A quick look up and down the street.

A quick rap on the door with your aching knuckles.

Hurry home.

The quick walk through the cold wind took your breath away, but you breathed deeply as you closed the door behind you, and your house smelled of memories you did not expect. But that was for another time.
You peeked out the window, barely moving the curtains, to watch. What was that story? The old one about a boy floating in a basket and a girl watching from the reeds? For some reason, you always imagined the little boy child looking like you. For a moment, you felt young again. Maybe this little thing, warm and wrapped in cloth, would save you. That's how the story went, wasn't it? Because there was always hope. That was something your young neighbor was too young yet to know.

The door opened, and your young neighbor peeked out. Darkness crouched behind her. Her legs were too thin. She almost closed the door without seeing the bread, and you almost cried out, angry that your hard work sat still cooling on the stone. But the young woman saw the bread and picked it up. Then she looked towards your window.

You let the curtain fall back in place and went with a smile to fill your own belly with bread.