Hamish trudged through the snow that blanketed the streets of Wobik, a black-clad figure against the pristine white. His nose and ears were turning numb from the cold. Under his dark coat, he clutched the tiny, precious bundle wrapped in cloth, turning it between his fingers to reassure himself that it was still there.
It was Christmastide, and nothing was growing - the soil was hard and cold. Between the wooden houses, the vegetables patches stood empty and frozen, and the branches of the little orchard were stark naked. Few villagers wandered the streets seeking companionship and conversation, and most were huddled inside their homes for warmth. The only sounds were the flutter of the snowfall and the occasional snapping of brittle twigs.
A dense flurry of flakes whipped Hamish’s face. He lowered his head, shielding his eyes beneath the broad brim of his black hat, and focused on his boots until he reached the threshold of his wooden house. Icicles clung to the eaves and gables, and glancing up, he could see a bird’s nest in the thatched roof. He knocked on the door.
“It’s me!” he called, and kicked the snow off his boots while waiting for an answer.
The door opened a crack, and young Renardette peeked out. She was dressed in winter woollens, and her long brown hair was pinned up out of her way.
“I’m back,” said Hamish Goames. His facial muscles struggled with the unfamiliar task of smiling.
The child didn’t smile back. Saying nothing, she opened the door wide to let him in.
He stepped inside, hurriedly shutting the door behind him. The rafters were hung with pine cones, wreaths of pine needles, and garlands of holly. A fire was lit in the brick-lined oven, filling the small cabin with warmth and flickering light; and another was lit under the stove. Standing in front of the crackling flames, he warmed his hands until he felt a tug at his sleeve. Renardette was standing by him, looking at him expectantly.
“I have it,” he announced.
He pulled the bundle out of his coat, and unwrapped the cloth to reveal its coveted contents: a glass phial of dried, powdered ginger root, finely ground with a mortar and pestle. The girl’s face brightened.
“I always make good on my promises,” Hamish said. “Now we won’t have to show up at Mathilde’s door empty-handed.”
He hung up his coat, then pulled off his boots and placed them by the door. Removing his hat, he placed it on Renardette’s head.
Will you help me bake?”
She nodded.
“Excellent. Let’s get to work.”
Laid out on the table were a large, ceramic bowl, a wooden rolling pin, and all the ingredients they needed: a stick of butter, a jar of molasses, a small bag of flour, and two eggs. Hamish surveyed the prospect, trying not to consider the fact that he’d never baked anything in his life.
“Let’s see…”
Pulling out his journal, he flipped through until he found an old, yellowed page tucked inside, ripped from another book long ago. At the top was written the words: How To Make Gyngere Breade. He placed the journal on its back so that it stayed open, then drew a deep breath, rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt, and got to work.
Renardette - silent as always - stood at his elbow, watching as he measured out the quantities needed.
“It’ll be a hard winter,” he told her. “But at least we’ll have company.”
He heated a small copper pan on the stove, then dumped in the butter and several dark, thick globs of molasses. With a wooden spoon, he mixed them together until they melted into a sweet, rich blend. He delicately tasted the spoon, grimacing at the sweetness, then shrugged.
“It’s tolerable.”
Removing the pan from the heat, he poured the sweet, buttery mixture into the ceramic bowl, and gently folded in the flour.
“I expect your mother used to bake for you,” he said, and regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t pry about these things.”
The child’s silence weighed on him, so he pretended to be absorbed with reading the recipe. With great care, he uncorked the little phial and tipped in the aromatic powder, and mixed until it disappeared.
“Want to try?” He offered Renardette the spoon, but she recoiled. “With any luck, it’ll taste better than it looks.”
He cracked two eggs into the bowl and kept mixing. It seemed to take an age, but after much labour, he achieved a smooth, thick consistency with only a few lumps of unmixed flour remaining, which he crushed away with the back of the spoon.
“Now, it needs to rest.”
He covered the bowl with a cloth, and placed it near the window to chill. He tweaked the brim of his hat as it sat on Renardette’s head.
“You should get changed for supper, little fox-cub. Something neat, so Mathilde doesn’t scold me again.”
Renardette nodded and disappeared into her bedroom, closing the door behind her. Hamish retreated behind the makeshift curtain that delineated his sleeping area, and took stock of his meagre wardrobe. He changed into a slightly cleaner shirt, and swapped his plain white neckerchief for an embroidered black one - a gift from Yvon. He briefly brushed his dark hair, wincing as he tore through the knots. He looked at his warped reflection in the imperfect surface of the mirror, and sighed.
“I look like a man, at least,” he murmured to himself, “Not a wild animal.”
Renardette emerged wearing a newer dress than before, her hair hanging loose.
“There we go,” said Hamish, “Now we look like two perfectly civilised people.”
He retrieved the bowl from by the window and dumped the soft dough out onto the tabletop. Pushing up his sleeves, he kneaded the dough until his arms grew tired. With the solid wooden pin, he rolled out the dough into a semblance of a rectangle, rolling past the edges to make sure no bumps remained.
“Here lies the peril.”
With a small knife, he began to cut the dough. His brow furrowed in deep concentration as he attempted to cut out the shape of a man, with a circular head and four stumpy limbs. Halfway through, it occurred to him what a childish and pointless task this was, but he persevered for Renardette’s benefit. When the dough stuck to the blade and tore, he muttered a curse under his breath, then glanced at the girl.
“My apologies.”
He proceeded with more care, until he had filled a tray with two-dozen or so dough cut-outs. At last, he slid the tray into the oven, closing the door with relief.
“Now we wait.”
They sat in front of the oven, staring side-by-side into the flames. Every few minutes, Hamish would rise anxiously to peep through the iron bars before returning to his seat.
“Renardette,” he said suddenly, “There is something I’ve wanted to say to you, but never found the appropriate moment. Perhaps the festive season has put me in a sentimental mood, and perhaps I’ll sound an utter fool, but…I want you to know how dear you are to me. I never thought I would have a child, not after…Well, fatherhood isn’t something I thought my future held. I know I’m not a good father, but - ”
She placed her hand on his arm to stop him.
“No,” she said firmly.
He considered her for a moment, then continued more softly:
“What I want to say is…You might not have the life you deserve, but you will have the best life I can provide. I won’t always say the right things or do the right things, but I promise to do my best for you. Anyway, those biscuits must be done by now.”
He rose, wrapped a thick cloth around his hands, and opened the oven. Carefully, he removed the tray to reveal a batch of over-baked gingerbread men, slightly burnt at the edges.
“Well…” he said, “At least they’re done.”
Renardette didn’t reply.
As Hamish placed the tray onto the table, the cloth slipped aside and his fingertip brushed the hot metal. He inhaled sharply through his teeth. He instinctively sucked on his reddened finger, but his warm mouth did nothing to cool the burn. Trying to ignore it, he gave the tray a shake to check if the biscuits would dislodge, and found that most of them were stuck in place. He began to search for a utensil delicate enough to scrape them off the tray without breaking them; while the initial pain settled into a dull but insistent throb of discomfort.
Renardette rose. Grabbing his shirt-sleeve, she pulled him across the room to the window, and drew back the ragged curtains. Unhooking the latch, she pushed ajar the glass panes, and held Hamish’s hand out into the cold winter evening. The snow was no longer a bitter squall, but a gentle flurry that danced silently through the air; and for a minute, the pair of them simply stood there, enraptured by the sight. The delicate flakes melted into droplets as soon as they touched his warm skin; but the longer he stood there, the colder he grew. Finally, he shivered.
“Alright, that’s enough.” He shook off the snow that clung to his sleeve, and closed the window.
Returning to his work, he drew a clean knife and began to pry the stuck gingerbread men off the tray, wincing every time an arm or a leg snapped off. Finally, he managed to keep one intact.
“Here - the best of the bunch,” he said, offering it to Renardette, who regarded it with caution before accepting.
She took a bite, chewed it once, and paused.
“You despise it, don’t you?” Hamish sighed, “I knew it would be futile.”
Renardette smiled slightly, popped the rest of the biscuit in her mouth, then grabbed another and held it up to him. Hamish tentatively nibbled the edge, and his mouth filled with the pleasant taste - first the sharp spice of the ginger, then the soft sweetness of the molasses, neither overpowering the other. The exterior was crisp and a little burned, but the interior still had the spongy consistency of a cake.
“Perhaps not a disaster, then,” he said, “Do you think Mathilde will like them?”
Renardette shrugged without a word.
“Only one way to know. Shall we brave company?”
They transferred the remaining gingerbread men to a platter, and covered it securely with cloth. Hamish donned his black coat, and Renardette her cloak, pulling up the hood to cover her head from the cold. They went to the door - she bearing the platter in both hands, he keeping his arm around her for warmth - and together they stepped out into the falling snow.
