Five

[theonecalledwander]

The bread tastes nearly as good as it smells, which is an accomplishment. Bread is like coffee: best when fresh, but never as good as it smells. This bread is warm and rich and coarse, though not gritty, and leavened slightly with garlic, garlands of which hang from hooks among the other baking supplies.

“You like it, then?” she asks. “Not everybody cares for the garlic… it’s just something new I’ve been trying. My mother always said garlic was healthsome..”

“It’s fabulous,” I say. “Your mother was obviously very wise.”

“Yes,” the baker says. “Where’d you come from, then?”

“Up the road,” I tell her.

“Where are you heading?”

“Further down it, eventually,” I say.

“We don’t get many travelers on foot,” she says.

“Do you get any on horses?”

“Not through town,” she says. “Not any more. They give us a wide berth… word gets around.”

“What word is that?”

“Haven’t you heard?”

“Oh… well, you know, I don’t really pay attention to local gossip.”

“Then why are you so curious now?”

“Because sometimes it’s not just gossip.”

The baker leans down over the counter and crooks a finger for me to lean in, as well.

“Is this a terrible secret?” I ask.

“It’s terrible, but everyone knows,” she says quietly. “Still, some things are just too ridiculous to say out loud in the full light of the morning sun. Some things make me feel silly just thinking about them, much less repeating them.”

“Something’s happening in this town, and I don’t think it’s silly at all,” I say.

“You’re right,” the baker says. Even so, her voice drops into a whisper. “Horses… won’t drink our water.”