SRθ: Grim Inquiries (2023-2024)

YEAR TWO | Sit.7: The Bakery

EXHAUSTED

I don't have much feeling
on matters that rock
my mind, still it's reeling
from whatever in the fock

rhymes are too much work
when thoughts won't sit aligned
my memories are scattered mess
to fate's new grand design

I could have been much more
I should have just stayed home
nay, never do I think again,
I'll ever try to roam.

* * *

In the morning, The Huntress saw what I did to her father, and wept. They weren't tears of joy. The drunken guards gave us space, thanks to The Prince's diplomacy – he'd explained to them that whatever was The Chief's now belonged to his daughter, which included their unfinished fortress.
I knelt to the ground, next to The Huntress, and rubbed her back. "I'm sorry," I spoke softly.
She could barely speak. "It's better than what he deserved. But I deserved more."
The Prince wasn't doing much better. He was leaning on a wall, shaking his head.
"She got away," he kept whispering to himself. "All of this, and she gets out clean."
I looked to him. "But wasn't your mother sold?"
He closed his eyes. "To her, all marriage is sale. Nothing will change for my mother, not a damn thing." Then he sighed, and opened them again. "You have my respect, you finished the job."
"You needed help," I replied.
He cracked a smile. "Now I see why you wear that skull. You are patient and quiet, like death. A shadow in wait, elusive."
I still felt sick, but what he said made my heart glow a bit. "And I see why she calls you The Prince," I replied.
His brow furrowed. "What do you mean? I AM a prince."
"Yeah, but... never mind." I kept rubbing The Huntress's back, and asked her, "Do you want me to stay?"
She rasped, "No, you don't belong here. You have to go back home, or you won't be soft anymore."
"It's what you're good for," The Prince finished.
I felt rejected. "So what, we tell the kid I was out getting milk?"
"They won't be lonely," The Prince offered. "I'll make them a brother."
She shot back, "Or sister!"
He laughed, low and melancholy. "No, I always make boys. I am strong."

Three days later, I was ready to return to Morocco to sail back to Europe. The Huntress had mended my scythe herself, using glue made from bones and tight leather wraps – it was good as new, and even gave my hands a soft spot to hold it, no longer to chafe on the wooden snath. My riding horse and supplies prepared, I walked over to my friends to say goodbye. The Huntress, or should I say The Princess, smiled at me with tears in her eyes, and I saw that a bump was finally forming in her belly. I kissed her, and rubbed her belly, and bent down to kiss it, too. Then I offered The Prince a hug, but instead, he made me kiss him on each cheek, then the lips. Then on the back of his hand.
"Now, my feet," he commanded.
"Yeah, I'm uh... not doing that," I remarked.
He rolled his eyes, "No respect," and grinned. "Go then! Let's hope our greatness has rubbed off on you, eh?" He waved me away, towards the horse.
"Let's hope," I nodded.

It took me a week to get back to the city in Morocco known as Tangier. I rode the horse as long as I could, through light and dark – another thing The Knight had shown me. Now, my ass was sore, and not for any fun reasons. I dunno, I was in another flushed mood, wondering what it'd be like to go further with The Prince and his wife. Call me crass. Then again, maybe when I returned home, The Knight would be there. But if he were alive, he ought to have found a wife by now. My altered perception of myself was a shock that many others had delayed, but as I looked at the people bustling in the city of stone and sand towers, dotted with holes in grid for windows, I saw that none of them looked like me – nor felt like me to look at. Men were harder than me, women were softer. Sure, some women were tough, and some men were skinny and pretty of complexion, but I was my own kind of animal. As I tied up my horse next to the bank, I noted that because of my thin facial fuzz and round hips I was easy to mistake for a woman from some angles, as well as a man from others. I was both, and neither. I might look down forward and see my manhood, but as I adjusted my cloak and pouches, the greasy vagabonds behind me looked down and snickered at my blossoming bottom. They whistled at me, and when I turned to face them in mask, they ooh'd.
One, with a sweaty mustache, growled, "Oh, I like 'em mysterious! Come 'ere, woman, sit with me. Sit in my lap!"
Another hollered, "IS THAT YOUR LAST BOYFRIEND, THERE? THAT SKELETON ON YOUR FACE? HAHAHA!!"
I gritted my teeth, flipped up my mask, and gestured to my fuzzy upper lip like I was sealing an envelope.
They sneered. "Is that it? My wife has a thicker beard!"
"That don't scare us!" one called out.
I shook my head, and walked into the bank. Then I searched my pockets for coin to exchange, and found them empty of any metal at all. I'd spent it all getting here, had little to trade, and needed fare to sail, or risk being thrown overboard for stowing. Given the way my body had been changing, worse could yet occur, and I knew from trying how ill-suited I was for it. I walked back outside.
The greasy men clapped. "She returns! Girl, let me break you in, it's only a little blood. There's more where that came from, isn't there?!" They cackled like hyenas.
I rubbed my brow, in awe of how uncharming these people could be. I guess the pleasantries I'd witnessed here before were seasonal. It was winter now, at least back home, though in Northern Africa it only meant another layer of clothing, and some fog.
I untied my horse, and left it at a stable. I told the hands they could have it for a small sum. They gave me a few coins, but not enough for the quartermasters' fee. For how tired the horse was, I was lucky they took it. I wandered the city, looking for signs of a struggling shop-keep who was over-worked and understaffed, my boots dangling at my back in rhythm like always: ba-dunk, dunk, dunk, ba-dunk. I bought a pair of sandals using the coin I'd just got, to protect my feet from broken glass in the sand, though many other pedestrians simply ignored it and walked around, or pretended they were never cut. Opportunity for me wouldn't look like it did for others: I was too weak for hard labor, and too strong for social callings. I came to a quieter part of the city, looking mostly for refuge from the crowd. There, I spotted a bakery, and was lured in by sweet smells. I saw loaves and rolls of wheat and barley, oats decorated on top. They were shiny with oil, some with glaze, some with seeds and sliced nuts layered over them, and some with toasted meat poking through. Everything looked delicious. The Baker herself, middle-aged but unwrinkled, was hurrying from one task to the next, dropping spoons and cursing at herself for it. Flour was spilled, buns were burning in the stone oven, and boxes were too heavy for her. Perfect.
I smiled, and leaned on the counter. "Need a hand? Because I'm looking for work."
She didn't hear me, and said, "Just one minute, sir, I'll be right with you." She turned away, her curly brown hair in ponytail dangling behind her. She was Polish, I think, maybe Slavic, although Morocco and Mauritania both suited her short nose and large lips, as well as her thick, dark eyebrows, pointed like knives. A mixed moor, like me. Her baggy blue eyes darted from one spot to the next, and she rushed herself to dig for a small measuring cup in a wooden box of many. Her curves rounded her on all sides below the neck, but her form suffered none, and was actually quite appealing. Her butt somehow ate her dress in a way that put me off, but made passersby stop and gaze, and her apron did nothing but frame it. Not my taste, exactly, but I could see that her business relied on more than just her baking. Still, she was stressed, and running low on finished goods, her puffy cheeks red with shame at herself.
I knocked on the counter, "Sorry, I said I'm LOOKING FOR WORK, ma'am."
She faced me with a sneer. "I don't need a reaper, I buy flour from the ships."
I responded quickly, "By trade, I reap, but I'd like to try baking. You look... overworked, and I need fare to sail home."
She scoffed, "Honey, this ain't for the faint, nor a man like you. It's women's work, honest and true."
"I'm neither man nor woman," I shrugged. "And I don't eat bread, so you won't lose any to me."
She actually laughed. "So how're you gonna know if your baking's any good?"
"I'll follow your instructions, and let you taste it."
She paused. "Well... my daughter just quit, tell the truth. Ran off to Portugal with some dupek I've never seen, fuckin' pirate or something. Had a mask like yours there, a skull. Are you him? Are you a pirate?" She looked me dead in the eyes.
I put my hands up, defensively. "I'm not a pirate, and I don't know your daughter. May I bake with you?"
She squinted, and stuck out her tongue. "Fine, come in around the counter, put an apron on. And take off all your black shyte, you won't want it stained cloudy."
I discloaked, wrapped it around my scythe, and put them both in her pantry along with my pouches. Then I tied an apron on.
She froze, finger in air. "Not a girl or boy, what is that?" She was looking in the distance, trying to search her recall. "Are you a lady-boy? Do you dress up for fun, like a stripper?"
"Uh... no, I've never done that. I'm just somewhere in-between, that's all."
After that, we got baking. She showed me how to measure, which ingredients made dough dry or wet or rise, how many eggs to use and for what. How to whip sugar, cream, and egg into frosting, and how to spread it. At each step, she'd dip her finger in and lick it with only slight caution, and decree:
"Yep, it's good. To the letter, not bad."
Except, of course, when I did something wrong, and she'd sigh and wrestle the spoon and bowl from me to do it herself. Then she'd hand it all back, and say, "Like that, love. Don't slack now, put your arms into it."
"You want me to put my arms in the bowl?" I posed, confused.
"NO!" she cried. "Smartass. Use your strength, put in the effort, now. We don't have all day."
Then, while she lined the wooden trays on a shelf, I was to count coins and bag orders. I couldn't believe how hard it was to count under pressure quick, nor how much the stress of it all made my hands fumble coin, paper, and buns, despite them having drawn vicious blood not a couple weeks prior. Our most popular item was the beet-roll, a pink swirly ball of baked dough with a drizzle of white icing. The color attracted customers of all kinds, who'd then look for loaves and snacks to take home to their families. On my break, I was allowed to eat a few boiled beets, after cutting the mold and squishy sick from them. I noticed there were no other food stalls next to us, no shouting and no dreary slave auctions. This was a calm, peaceful neighborhood full of people, who lived on all other sides of the street. The Baker was like a mother to them, kindly holding their hands when she took their coin, smiling as she bid them a good day. Men, women, and children alike met her at the counter's gate for a big, long hug, and she'd pick up the children and soothe them with her voice. Then she'd give them a baked scrap from a basket of failed confections, their recipe or shape improper for sale, and the grateful neighbors would bite down with an 'mmm', and be on their way. Curious, I tried a piece, figuring I could withstand the rash for a few hours. Even the scraps, salted and buttered, were as heavenly and hearthy as anything could be.
I stocked a firewood shipment into a box next to the stove. The Baker was rolling leftovers into paper, putting them into boxes, and storing them on the shelves in the pantry. Next, we swept the place up and washed all of the dishes, and left them hanging or resting to dry. Finally, after some more prep work that she'd been putting off, we sat for a few minutes and enjoyed a cup of tea. Hers was had with a couple biscuits, mine with a spare ziziphus – the rest of the apple-like fruit, she planned to use the next day as pie filling. After that, she counted up her take in the strongbox, and I felt my nerves wrack as I heard the coins clink together, not knowing what to expect for my work. When she paid me, I was astonished by how much: a whole pouch, filled to the brim!
I gaped as I peered into it. "Are you sure?"
She laughed, "Oh, honey, we made three times this today. I owe you, you saved my knickers from twisting beyond sight."
I laughed at her joke, and smiled. "Thank you! I really appreciate this." I put all of my gear back on, and pocketed the pouch, turning to walk away and look for a hotel.
She stopped me. "Oy vey, bit rude! No hug?"
I blinked. She held out her arms, and I went in to hug her. She was soft, and it felt nice. It reminded me of my mother, a bit.
"There you go," she said. "You looked like you needed that.