The sky is clear, but the sunlight is cold when it should be warm. The low, constant growl of the breeze scrapes along the pocked road. The rocks in their fields are indifferent. The low-roofed house here seems to agree with that strategy.
Knock knock, knock.
The door opens, barely. A wary crack.
The young mare on the doorstep stoops, almost huddling against herself. The measured, watchful gaze only buckles her further. “Hello,” she manages to murmur.
A grunt. Barest acknowledgement.
An old tin can is proffered, like a token of admission. Her only right to be here. “I, I...I was hoping, was hoping I could, sugar, borrow some sugar?”
The smile is not a show of joy, but a plea for it.
The gaze has not changed its measure. The tin can shakes more and more in her hoof, all else is still.
“It’s, it...it’s for a cake?” Her pitch is squeezed into a question. She can’t help it. “A, a birthday cake? My fa-father’s...?”
She stumbles on the word. It’s a very big word. Bigger than rock. Bigger than house.
The breeze is full of accusation. “I’m, I’m...I’m sor-sorry. Maybe, maybe I...?”
The gaze crinkles. A thought.
“Shepherd Pie.” The tone is flat.
The young mare nods, earnest to agree. “That, that’s...that’s my, that’s him.”
“Married to Humble Pie.” Flat as shingles.
More nods, eager to please. “That’s my, my mother.”
“You’re one of his.”
She folds up, just a little. Her nod is smaller, slower.
The gaze moves her, like a stone turned over. “An awful queer colour.”
Again the fold, again the nod. Both smaller. “It’s his, it’s his...it’s his birthday? I’m going to, to, to bake a cake? It’s for his birthday,” she whispers.
The words are dismissed. Unimportant. “Got no mark. Big enough for one.”
She is, no matter how she shrinks herself. She tries not to wince.
“It’s, it’s...it’s for a birthday cake? It’s his...his birthday? We don’t have any at home. Please?”
The tin can is trembling. Its hollowness echoes the dispassionate breeze.
The gaze narrows. She’s crushed between those eyelids. “You want to borrow sugar.”
“Y...yes? Yes please?”
“For a cake. For a birthday.”
Her nod is smaller than the smallest word.
“That doesn’t happen much.”
“Just, just...just once a, once a year, I think.”
Nothing.
Her chest quivers. “I’m sorry. Please?”
The tin can is pulled from her hoof. The gaze goes away, and the door shuts.
The sunlight is cold. The breeze talks but says nothing. The rocks listen but think nothing. She waits, because she does not know what else she can do.
Those rocks will need turning soon, she thinks. It’s her calmest thought yet. And that scares her.
Her father’s always calm.
She wants to bake him a cake.
The day is cold. She shivers and hides from it best she can. She knows better than to hope to be asked inside. She won’t be.
She hopes she gets the tin can back. She doesn’t know what she can do without it.
A cake. She’s going to bake a cake. For her father.
A cake needs sugar. There can’t be a cake without sugar. Sugar is sweet. It’s very sweet. She doesn’t think there’s very much sugar in the world.
And flour. A cake needs flour. There can’t be a cake without flour. Flour was hard to get. She could turn over every rock in every field and still find no flour.
And eggs. A cake needs eggs. There can’t be a cake without eggs. She looks at them sometimes, when they have them. Eggs are strange. Different from everything she knows. So smooth. so fragile. She doesn’t really want to break them, but she will have to.
It’s for a cake she wants to bake. A birthday cake. A birthday cake for her father.
Cakes are so difficult, so strange. Different from everything she knows.
She hopes he’ll like it. That he’ll like her effort.
Hope is scary.
She’s cold.
Alone...
The rocks are bad company, they snub her. The cold breeze only says mean things. It pulls her hair, and makes her shake. The house is walls, and the closed door is another wall too.
The door opens. Barely. A wary crack.
The young mare on the doorstep is still stooped, almost huddling against herself. The measured, watchful gaze only buckles her further. “Hello again,” she manages to murmur.
A grunt. Barest acknowledgement.
The old tin can is offered back, like a ticket punched and waived. Her only right to be here is all used up. There isn’t very much sugar in the tin can. It hides at the bottom. “Tha-thank you. It’s, it’s...it’s kind, very kind.”
The tin can is cold against her chest, but she pretends it’s warm.
The door shuts. The young mare legs shake. She goes back to the pocked road. The rocks still snub her. The breeze still says mean things. It still pulls her hair.
It’s okay though, the sugar is better company.
It says: I can be a cake. I want to be a cake.
It says: I can become a cake. It can happen.
It says: I hope he’ll like me.
She’s still holding it tight to her chest. The tin can is not so cold now. She’s thinking of flour, and eggs, and sugar. They’re better friends than rocks.
The breeze isn’t happy. It doesn’t want happiness. It raises its voice. She shudders. She doesn’t like raised voices. She holds her friend tighter and keeps going.
The breeze is pulling harder at her hair. It’s angry with her. The rocks of the pockmarked road are indifferent. They don’t bother to make way for her. She struggles on.
The sugar is her friend. It gives her courage.
It says: Keep going.
It says: You can do this.
It says: It can’t stop you.
The breeze lets up. It’s gone. Her long, straight hair falls back down finally. Maybe the breeze has listened? Maybe it’s thinking? Maybe it wants to be a better friend now?
She stops and looks about, scared and hopeful.
The breeze speaks with a single, cold syllable.
It says: Rain.
Plink-plink goes raindrops in the tin can.