THERE WAS THIS BOY who walked the threadbare path between his hamlet and this small, lively town at the end of the path. People called the boy Bread because he never spoke or read or played with the other boys, but stayed home with his mother and baked bread to sell at the market. They made angel bread, black bread, silver bread, devil bread, pine bread, and three-river bread. All were delicious— sweet where they were supposed to be and bitter or savory in the right places. It was always warm, even up to the third day. People, animals, and gardens—even gardens—loved it, ate it up in their roots.
The boy’s job was to sell pine bread to the townspeople at the end of the threadbare path. He must do this every Friday afternoon before the threadbare path grew too dim for travel back to his hamlet. The people of that town used the bread—braided and dusted with black sesame seeds—in a ritual that went back to the beginning of days, and they needed it warm and fresh no later than one hour before sunset. Naturally, many baked their own bread, but the bread the boy and mother baked hummed like a gong. The 200 or so loaves were swept off his cart in less than half an hour. He and his old blind horse usually made it home just as the sun was setting.