Baker of Souls
A short story of Breath
Liana Mir
©Copyright 2012 Liana Mir. All rights reserved.
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SENETHA had never lost a soul. As one of three bakers in the Old King's city of Elerys and far fewer babes being born than ever in Senetha's long memory, her reputation earned her brew and broth, and powers help the other bakers who did not have such a blessing to gift them.
Senetha sniffed the warm dough as she kneaded it. There were few scents in all the five cities she liked better. There is nothing more precious than the task of the baker, her mother told her softly, keeping her breath from the dough while guiding her tiny daughter's inexperienced fingers. There is nothing more important than your task. Knead well.
Senetha's fingers were no longer so inexperienced. With joy she kneaded out the dough until it was just the right amount of ropey, then settled into a bowl to rise.
Good smells filled the small cottage home she lived in. Senetha chased a white cat out of the kitchen, only to be met by a grey mewing at her reproachfully when she stepped just down the hall.
"Ah, hungry? Yes?" She chucked the big grey under its chin, and it meowed back at her. "Soon, my love. I must first put the bread to bake."
She side-stepped the grey, passed three doors on the right and the tall window out onto the porch, and turned in at the basin. She washed her hands carefully, searching out every tiny bit of doughy residue. Then she pulled down a clean, white towel, fresh-washed in whiteness to retain its emptiness and patted her hands dry. This was the most important part of the process, and she must not get it wrong.
She held up one palm close to her mouth and breathed upon it until the skin just tingled, then the other. Satisfied, she turned away from the basin and crossed the tile again into the kitchen, stepping down into its warmth and comfort.
The dough had proved itself, and she punched it down. Gently, she separated one handful and drew it into her palm then shaped it carefully into a roll, making certain to coat every side against her open palm. This she did with each of the thirteen.
"Breath and air and bread," Senetha told the calico cat purring before the open oven. "That makes the finest souls."
The cat did not disagree. Nobody ever did.