The Map of the Somewhere Bread
The sun was going down, and the big hollow oak tree glowed amber from the inside.
That was the bakery. Its door was small and round, like the door on a burrow, and above it hung a sign that smelled of cinnamon.
Inside, Wren was rolling dough. Wren was the baker. She had flour on her nose and a curl of dark hair stuck to her cheek. The oven was warm. The bread on the shelf tasted of autumn — of apples and wet leaves and the first cold morning.
Sitting at the little wooden table in the corner was Cob. Cob was the cartographer. That means he made maps. But Cob's maps were special. He could only draw places that no one had ever been to.
His map today showed a river made of something silver, and a forest where all the trees grew upside down, their roots reaching up into the sky.
"Have you ever been there?" asked Wren, nodding at the map.
"No," said Cob. "Nobody has."
"Then how do you know what it looks like?"
Cob looked at his map for a long time. "I just wait," he said quietly. "And then I know."
Wren put a small loaf of the autumn bread on the table. Cob tore off a piece. It tasted like apple and cold air and something else — something he couldn't name.
Then Wren noticed it. The oven had gone quiet.
She felt a little worried. The oven in the hollow oak was never quiet. It hummed all the time, like a sleeping bee.
She opened the little iron door and looked inside. The fire had gone very small. Just one tiny orange ember, no bigger than a button.
Wren bit her lip. She looked at the shelf full of bread. She looked at the long tongs and the pile of kindling. The kindling was on the far side of the oven, and the oven was hot.
She felt a little scared.
But she picked up the tongs. She reached in, slowly and carefully, and lifted one small piece of kindling. She laid it right on top of the little ember.
She waited.
Nothing happened.
Cob watched. He did not say anything. He just watched.
Wren laid one more small piece of kindling on top. She waited again.
Then — a small curl of orange. A crackle. The fire came back.
The oven began to hum.
Wren stepped back. She was breathing fast. Then she laughed, just a little.
"There," she said.
"There," agreed Cob.
The bakery filled up with warmth again. The bread on the shelf let out a long, slow smell of apples.
Cob looked down at his map. He picked up his pencil and drew something new — a small door in the upside-down forest, round like a burrow, with a little sign above it.
"What is that?" asked Wren, leaning over to look.
"A bakery," said Cob. "In a place no one has ever been."
Wren smiled. She put the last small loaf in the oven and shut the iron door.
Outside, the sky had gone from orange to the deep blue that comes just before dark.
The two of them sat at the little wooden table and did not say much. Cob drew his map. Wren listened to the bread.
After a while, Cob's pencil went still. His eyes were heavy.
Wren took the last loaf from the oven. It was the colour of honey, and it smelled of apples and something else again — warmer this time, like a blanket, like just before sleep.
She set it on the shelf to cool.
The oven hummed.
And in Cob's map, in the upside-down forest, the little round door in the bakery glowed amber from the inside.
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