It's Not About the Bread

Shandar woke to the sound of Turi yelling. He lay still for a moment, his eyes closed, listening to the loud clanging and thumping that he guessed was the sound of his friend throwing things around the campsite in a temper. “Stupid … blasted … pot!” he heard, as he sat up stiffly inside the tent. “Stupid, stupid, stupid! Why can't I remember?”

He crawled out of the warm cocoon of his blanket, lifting the flap to see Turi kicking a tree with all his might, his stumpy boots on the ends of his short legs pummeling the trunk so hard that he was standing in a shower of falling dewdrops. Through the trees and the misty air he could see that the sky was still red, the ground still damp, the day only barely begun. 

“Turi,” he said, standing up, rubbing at his eyes. “Isn’t it a little early to be harassing innocent trees like that? I fear for your boots.”

Turi tuned at the sound of his voice. “Sorry, Shandar,” he said, mournfully, trotting back to the ring of stones they had used for a fireplace the night before. “We have a long way to go and I should spare my boots. But I have failed. Again.”

“It’s probably still edible,” Shandar said, bending down and reaching back into the tent for the grey blanket which he wrapped around his shoulders. “The last one was all right.”

“Ah, Shandar, Shandar,” Turi said, shaking his head as they both sat down on the fallen log besides which they had made last night’s fire. There was still a round impression in the ashes where the pot had rested. “My grandmother got it right every night of my childhood. Every morning we would wake up to beautiful soft, fresh bread on the table outside the caravan, spread with glorious sticky white sheep fat and sour berry preserve! All I want is for it to work, once, just once, but I can’t get it RIGHT!” He lifted the lid of the pot and brought it down again, so hard that Shandar was surprised it did not break.

“Sheep fat?” Shandar shuddered. “Sounds awful.”

Turi shook his head. “It was sublime, Shandar,” he said, looking up at the sky as if it might just rain soft bread and sheep fat if he wished hard enough. “Sublime. But all I can manage is this hard lump of … burnt dough!” He reached into the pot to pull it out, holding it in his hand as if it was a dead animal. 

“I’m hungry enough to eat it,” Shandar said. “Maybe try fewer coals tonight?”

“Fewer coals,” Turi agreed, his face very serious. “And I’m going to mix some of the yeast in a jar now and carry it with me today as we ride. Maybe we can stop midday and I can mix up the dough then to give it more time to rise.”

“You try that,” Shandar said, reaching out his hand for a hunk of the unappetising “loaf”. He didn't really care what he ate. Hunger was annoying, but food was hard to get on their journey, hard to find or buy, hard to prepare, hard to swallow too these days. His grief sat like a stone in his gut some days, rising like bile on others. Every day that he and Turi rode further into the forest, further towards the mountains, was taking him further away from home, forever. He had accepted it, but that didn't mean it didn’t hurt. If Turi wanted to try to make his grandmother’s bread in his silly pot that was his business. Shandar was grateful that his efforts turned their bag of flour into something digestible, but he felt so numb and sad that he really didn't care if that meant hard, bitter biscuit or fancy cake. 

Within half an hour they were on their way again, the tall, dark-haired young man on his elegant horse in sharp contrast to the diminutive person on his shaggy pony. Turi was small everywhere, Shandar often thought, his arms and legs and fingers half the length they should be, except for his chest. It made sense, then, that he had such a big heart. There had been days on this journey when Shandar had felt that it was only Turi’s determined cheerfulness and almost motherly care for him that had prevented him from curling up under one of the thousands and thousands of pine trees, closing his eyes and staying there forever. The further they got to the border, the more Shandar felt himself hurtling towards despair. 

“You are sad today, brother,” Turi said, as the afternoon wore on. They were riding beside a stream, always west, towards the mountains which loomed closer now than they had a few days ago. Turi held the pot on his saddle in front of him. He had mixed the dough when they stopped for lunch and was feeling hopeful about this new method. “Should I sing you a song?”

Shandar smiled a little, for Turi’s sake. Shifting his face to do it felt wrong, dishonest, and he wondered when last he had done it sincerely. “No songs, thanks. Sorry, Turi.”

“You will feel better when we get to Ahrania,” Turi said. “You have far too much time now to dwell on the past. When we reach Orendal we will find a place to live, some work perhaps, some friends…”

“I had all that,” Shandar said, the smile gone. “And I have been forced to leave it all behind.”

“That’s the way, Shandar,” Turi said. “Speak it out, say it like it is. You’ll feel better for it.”

“I don't want to feel better.” Shandar lifted his left hand to stare at the blue mark on his wrist. It had healed completely in a few days, and under the dirt of the journey it already looked as if he had carried it all his life. 

“You’re not the first person who has had to leave Kalathan because of that mark, remember,” Turi said. “Others have been exiled and have made new lives. You will find new friends.”

“I know. I suppose I found you.”

Turi threw back his head and guffawed, his deep laugh echoing through the trees. “Ha ha, yes you did! Or rather, I found you!” His tone changed then, more serious. “I have lost too, you know.”

Shandar looked across at his friend. “You’ve never told me,” he said. “All I know is that you are a Tolek, and that you grew up travelling with your family, including the bread-making grandmother.”

“They all died,” Turi said. “Five years ago. From a fever.”

Shandar paused, considering the weight of that. He would never see his family again but at least they were alive.

“I was only fourteen,” Turi continued. “I’ve managed since then, somehow, but after five years of being laughed at and kicked and asked to dance as if I were a puppet … I’ve had enough. The Temple considers me cursed because of how I was born, even if my family did not.”

“Were your parents …” Shandar did not know how to ask the question. 

“As tall as you are,” Turi said. “I had a sister too. She was the sweetest thing, first to go from the fever.” Turi’s eyes filled with tears. 

Shandar looked away, feeling his own emotion well up at the sight of his friend’s sadness. “When I saw you at the inn that day, I had never seen anyone like you,” he said. 

Turi shrugged. “There are not many of us. I have only ever met two others myself. But enough of that. We are both outcasts, you and me, both cursed, both heading off to the west to find a new life. I was glad to find you. Alone, I am always suspected. At least your curse is easy to hide with a sleeve!”

“I am glad I found you too,” Shandar said, searching for gladness in his heart and finding it there, to his surprise, hiding beneath the weight of his grief. “I really am.”

A deer dashed across the path before them then, startling Turi’s pony which reared up in fright. 

“Oh no!” Turi cried, clutching in vain at the pot. Shandar watched helplessly as it crashed to the ground, the dough spilling out onto the pine needles in a pale, congealed slop. 

“My pot! Grandmother’s pot! My bread!” Turi clambered off his pony, crouching down beside the mess of shattered pieces. He lifted his distraught face to Shandar who was still on his horse. “Broken, brother! Broken!”

Shandar got down from his pony. Turi had picked up some of the pieces, his hands now covered in strings of dough as he wept. Shandar crouched down on his haunches beside his friend, not sure what to do as Turi’s cries grew louder. 

“I’m so sorry, Turi,” he said. “I have money. We can find another pot for you.”

Turi shook his head, gasping though the tears and snot pouring down his face. “It’s not the pot, Shandar!” he wailed. “It’s not just the pot! They are all gone, my friend, gone!”

Turi was silent for the rest of the afternoon. Shandar made the fire that night when they found a spot along the stream to camp, warming up the mess of beans left over from the night before in the dented tin kettle they used to boil water. He washed it out afterwards, but their tea that night tasted like beans. Turi did not complain, as he might have before. He stared into the fire, his blanket around his shoulders, quieter than he had ever been. On the next day he was the same: silent and broody. He slumped in his saddle as he rode, ate little, and slept more. When Shandar asked him if he was all right, or tried to tease a joke or a song out of him, he was answered only with shrugs. On the seventh night, after another silent meal, Shandar sat across from his friend over the fire, thinking hard. And when they rode out of the forest and over a rise to see a village on the horizon, he knew what he needed to do. 

“Turi! Wake up!” Shandar shoved his friend’s shoulder as he lay, still sleeping even though the sun was long up. “I want to show you something.”

Turi sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. 

“Come out and look. I’ve been up since dawn doing this for you.” He backed out of the tent and went to the fire to wait, feeling oddly nervous. When Turi emerged after a few minutes, shrugging on his jacket, his scruffy hair standing on end, Shandar got to his feet. 

“Look,” he said, pointing towards the fire. “It’s made of iron, Turi, not clay. If it falls it won’t break.”

Turi peered at the fire. Shandar watched his face, hoping to see excitement there. As he had hatched his plan, as he had ridden to the village and begun his search, as he had grilled the grumpy cook at the tumble-down inn he had been thinking only of Turi. It had seemed, as he had filled the saddlebags with his purchases, to be the most important thing in the world just then that he do everything he could to make Turi happy again. He did not expect immediate appreciation, but he could not help searching his friend’s expression for some hint of gladness and gratitude. 

“What is that smell?” Turi turned his face to Shandar and he was not excited, or glad. He was angry. 

“It’s … bread. Baking in the pot. I made the dough last night and it rose while we were sleeping. I think it’s really going to work!”

“Well of course it’s bread,” Turi said through his frown. He took his eyes off Shandar and turned to the fire. “What made you think I wanted bread?”

“You … wanted bread,” Shandar said, confused. “You’ve been trying for weeks–” 

“I didn't care about the BREAD!” Turi shouted, shaking his fist at the iron pot, nestled innocently among the coals. “Did you think I cared about the stupid … bread?” 

Shandar moved closer to his friend. He wanted to place his hand on his shoulder but he was afraid to touch him. He was breathing hard, his fingers balled into fists, staring at the pot. “I know. You were remembering your family. When the pot broke you felt the loss, all over again.”

Turi stepped away from Shandar, then got onto his knees beside the fire. He did not look up. “If you think you can make me feel better with this silly thing, by feeding me bread that will never be anything like how it used to be, you’re wrong. I know my Tolek bread. I know this will be nothing like it. Especially not in that ridiculous pot!”

Shandar stood still. “I’m sorry,” he said, feeling awful as he watched Turi swipe at his face, saw the tell-tale scrunching of eyes as his friend fought against tears. 

“Leave me alone!” Turi cried, burying his face in his hands. “Just go away, Shandar! Go away, please!” Shandar turned to obey, walking slowly away from the warmth of the fire and the enticing sour smell, from his hurting friend whom he had tried and failed to help. He walked down to the stream and knelt to splash some of the freezing water on his face, feeling so stupid and disappointed that he wanted to cry himself. 

He did not return to the camp for a while. He walked a little way up the bank, watching the fish jumping in the water and thinking that instead of ridiculous pots he should rather have tried to buy a line and some bait. He was hungry, and the ache in his stomach reminded him of the ache in his heart, an ache that for the past day or two while he had been making his plans had subsided. It was back now, the possible loss of Turi’s respect and friendship adding heavily to the hurt that had already been there. 

When he wandered back to camp, wondering if he would find that Turi had packed up his things and abandoned him, he could not believe what he saw. 

“It’s not bad, brother!” Turi was sitting in the dirt by the fire, the pot on the ground beside him, a large chunk of pale bread in his hand, his mouth full. He swallowed, then patted his stomach. “I was sure it would be underdone and tasteless but it reminds me a little of dumplings. Bland and too salty but filling, and that’s all we need, isn’t it?”

Shandar approached cautiously. Just like that? He sat down, still not sure whether or not to trust Turi’s new attitude. 

“Have some!” Turi reached into the pot and ripped off a chunk. Shandar took it cautiously. It did smell good. His stomach growled in anticipation. 

“Not bad,” Shandar said, chewing and swallowing. It was bread, dense and doughy but still bread. He took another bite, suddenly ravenous for the comfort of a full stomach. 

“I don't know what you used to make it rise,” Turi said, shaking his head as he held a piece up to examine it. “It’s worked its way through evenly. A little sour but good, Shandar. Well done.”

“I’m glad you like it.” He did not know what else to say. 

“You are a good friend, Shandar.” Turi put the bread down. “I have been awful. Forgive me.”

“Of course.” Shandar was so relieved. “Are you … feeling better?”

Turi’s smile faded a little for a second, then returned. “I was thinking,” he said, pulling off another chunk of bread, “that when I am old and grey and drooling, I will tell my grandchildren, if I ever have any, about my Tolek grandmother’s bread, about how delicious it was with sheep fat and sour berry preserve. And I will tell stories too about my devilclaw brother and the bread we shared on our way to freedom.”

Shandar smiled. “Will you tell how we ate it with ashes and wine?” he asked. 

“Wine?” Turi’s face lit up. “You have wine?”

“I do. The cook at the inn who told me how to make the bread must have thought I looked like someone who wouldn’t mind breaking the law. It’s in the saddlebags.”

Turi jumped up so quickly that he almost fell over. When he returned he was holding the bottle reverently in both hands. “I’ve never tried it,” he said. “I hear people in Ahrania drink it to celebrate.” 

Shandar smiled as Turi handed it to him. He pulled out the cork and held the bottle up. “To us, Turi!” he said, taking a careful sip and spluttering a little at the unfamiliar burn. “To a new story to tell.”

Turi took the bottle and drank too, his eyes opening wide as he tasted it. “Lands and seas and frozen mountains,” he breathed, staring at the bottle. “That is something.”

Shandar took another bite of the bread, smiling to himself. Turi’s heart was broken, and it always would be. So was his. This was something they both understood: that there was pain and loss and injustice and there always would be. But the breaking, and the pain, and the loss – somehow none of it had been the end, for either of them. A new life was waiting for them at the journey’s end. This sharing of each other’s hurt and also of each other’s hopes, this new day, this odd healing – to share bread and wine was a little like sharing life and blood. A little like … family.