The baker who bakes for the moon

In a small town in the hills there was a baker named Olin who worked at night, while everyone else was sleeping. Most of what he baked went to the townspeople in the morning, warm loaves and rolls and little braided buns with seeds on top. But one loaf each night was different. That loaf was for the moon.

No one remembered how the custom had started. It had simply always been so. Every night, when the moon rose over the hills, Olin baked one round loaf especially for it, and when the loaf was done he set it on the sill of the high window at the back of the bakery, where the moonlight fell. In the morning the loaf was always gone, and the sill was always dusted with something soft and silver, like flour but finer.

Tonight the moon was full. It rose slowly behind the hills, large and pale gold, and its light came through the bakery windows and lay across the wooden table in long bright squares.

Olin tied on his apron and washed his hands in warm water. He took down the big wooden bowl, worn smooth from many years of use, and measured the flour into it. It fell in a soft white heap and sent up a little cloud that drifted in the moonlight like mist. He added warm water, and a pinch of salt, and a spoonful of honey, because he thought the moon might like a little sweetness.

Then he began to knead. He pressed the dough away from him with the heels of his hands, and folded it back, and turned it, and pressed again. It was slow, steady work. The dough was sticky at first and then grew smooth and soft and springy, like something sleepy and content. The bakery was quiet except for the soft sound of the dough on the table, and the tick of the oven warming, and far away, a dog giving one small bark and then settling.

When the dough was ready, Olin shaped it into a round and laid it in a basket lined with linen. He covered it with a cloth and set it near the oven to rise. While he waited, he swept the floor and made himself a cup of warm milk, and sat on the stool by the window, watching the moon climb.

The bread rose slowly, round and pale, a little moon of its own.

When it was time, he slid it into the oven. Soon the whole bakery was filled with the smell of baking bread, warm and golden and a little sweet from the honey. It was the smell of kitchens and mornings and being looked after. Olin closed his eyes and breathed it in.

When the loaf came out, it was perfect. Its crust was deep gold and crackled softly as it cooled, a small sound like distant rain. Olin carried it up the three wooden steps to the high window and set it on the sill in the moonlight.

“There you are,” he said softly. “Still warm.”

He stood a moment watching the moonlight fall across the loaf, turning its crust to silver. Then he went back down the steps, and set the other loaves to rise for the morning, and sat down again on his stool by the oven.

The oven ticked as it cooled. The warmth wrapped around him. The moonlight moved slowly across the floor.

Olin’s head nodded. His hands rested in his lap, still dusted with flour.

The moon looked down at its bread. The bakery was warm and still.

And the baker slept.