Chapter 1

Donovan woke to the smell of warm plainbread on the air. He yawned, stretched his limbs, and then climbed out of his straw bed. He walked to the nearby wash bowl upon his bedside table and began to wash his face. He used the warm water to flatten his hair, as well as sweep away the remaining sleep still within his eyes. He stretched yet again, and took another breath of the scents on the air.

He turned to see his younger sister still lying in his bed. Since she had no chores to do this morning, she blissfully remained asleep. Bettany was halfway through her fifth year. Her hair was sizably long, and was colored a mixed hue of orange and bright red. Small little wispy curls could be seen at the ends of long entwined strands of hair, each tied with a small faded yellow ribbon. Her ears appeared slightly large for her peckish face, and had two large front teeth as well. Donovan often made references to her and rabbits in the nearby field. She didn't take kindly to them in spirit, but adored the comparison secretly. Still asleep, she wriggled a bit in bed, hugged her small little pillow with all her might, and turned towards the wall.

Donovan was not much different than his sister. He was almost in his tenth year, of a similar scrawny build, and had autumnal colored hair as well. His mother had trimmed his hair fairly short and so all that was left was a messy tuft of orange, burgundy, and blond. His shoulders and forearms were covered with hundreds of tiny maroon freckles. His cheeks had a few specks of color as well with his chin sticking out at a similar length to that of his nose. Donovan wasn't cursed with the large ears his sister was, those ran through his mother's side, but he did have fairly long fingers. Almost spider-like at this age, they almost made him seem taller than he really was. As it happened, those long fingers made him an especially good asset to have in the bakery below.

The bakery that Donovan's family resided in had been in his family for several generations. His great-grandfather had given it to his grandfather, who in turn gave it to his mother. Both his mother and father ran the bakery below. The two children helped of course, and the entire family lived in the lofts above. One of the benefits of living in a bakery is that one rarely goes cold. The house is usually warm due the fact that the brick ovens are always being heated. Even during the coldest spike of winter, all one really needs is a thin blanket if one such desires.

Donovan got dressed in his work clothes: a cotton undershirt, a simple faded stone-blue smock which was covered in flour, tweed pants, and a pair of soft leather shoes. He lifted his nose and waited to taste the air again. In addition to the smell of plainbread he had awoken to, he could also smell some saltbread as well as the distinct odor of long pretzels.

Plainbread was the staple bread of the town; it had a bland taste and an ultimate versatility in its use in any part of a meal. Saltbread had the usefulness of being sturdy, and being able to withstand long periods of time before being eaten. Saltbread was especially handy for travelers and those wishing to sail upon the seas. Long pretzels were the specialty of the bakery: a foot long braid of soft boiled bread, covered in coarse salt. They were quickly baked to increase the crispness of their golden skin which then was brushed with a bit of olive oil for flavor.

While Donovan loved to eat long pretzels, he favored the sweet breads that the family would make. Those breads containing bits of honey, breads covered with small amounts of sugar, and breads that were dipped in fruit purees were more to his liking. To him, the sweetness of the bread was a good method of waking someone up. The tartness of their tastes along with the sugary scent would instantly heighten anyone's senses he assumed. A personal recipe that he had invented a few months ago, and was well liked by his friends, was his spearmint-honey bread. In a small half-loaf pan, he would combine traditional bread dough with several spoonfuls of honey and cinnamon. He would then mix the concoction well, and let it rise for several hours. He would then pick fresh spearmint from a nearby household garden, which took a small bit of thievery to retrieve, and top the loaf with the mint leaf and plenty of sprinkled sugar. The finished bread not only was sweet and light, but also had an aroma that could be smelt throughout a house. He'd often share it with other kids in the town when they attended church ceremonies.

The church was a large part of the townspeople's lives. Attendance to at least one church session per week was required by the law of the land. Often these ceremonies lasted one to two hours, and dealt with not only the day-to-day news of the town but also pressing matters regarding the outside world. Gestalt was a fairly self-sufficient city. The town of Gestalt was surrounded by a large wooden wall that circled the entire village. It was several meters tall, almost as tall as three large persons and amongst the wall was three large entrances. Each of these entrances was protected by a heavy iron gate and was watched day and night by members of the Holy Protectorate up upon its walls. Only recognized travelers were allowed to enter any of the gates, and whenever not in use they were closed shut and blockaded with large wooden beams. Even though the populace was constantly surrounded by this large protective wall, daily life was carefree and free from worry.

As Donovan climbed down the stairs into the bakery's storefront, he saw his father working at the front counter selling several loaves of round oatbread to Mrs. Boncing who lived a few houses away. His father was a large broad shouldered man with a scruffy blond beard. His chest and upper forearms were quite wide, his large status mostly due to time spent working in the lumberyards of the nearby forest.

Mrs. Boncing was a large rotund women having been a housewife most of her adult life. She had given birth to all six of Mr. Boncing's sons and feeding a family of eight took a significant amount of food. Oatbread was a hardy, tough, and stringy bread. As four of the six Boncing sons worked long, tiring jobs at the family blacksmith, this bread would stick in your stomach for several hours between meals helping keep one's hunger down. Add a little bit of jelly or jam and the bread didn't taste half-bad either.

When Donovan reached the kitchen he saw his mother mixing a batch of dough which was obviously for several loaves of plainbread. Plainbread consisted of just the breadmaking basics: flour, milk, yeast, with a pinch of salt. Mix the bread, let it rise, lay into long bread pans, score the tops, and bake for about an hour. His mother motioned for him to walk over to her.

"Donovan, I need you to knead the sesame bread over there on the counter. Once you are done with that, we can go ahead and get started on breakfast," she said.

Since he had to make sesame bread this morning, he had to prepare. In order to make the bread, the sesame seeds had to be rolled slowly into the dough as it was being kneaded. Sesame seeds were a local delicacy and a rare find. He went over to a small cabinet containing different spices and flavorings. The cabinet was quite old and made from tarnished hardwood. Cobwebs and dust-balls could be seen stretching along its top. Amongst the numerous jars and shelves sat many different ingredients. Sea salt, thyme, peppercorns, pumpkin seeds, powdered sugar, and sunflower leaves could all be found in the cabinet alongside a multitude of others spices. He reached for a tiny glass jar containing a few hundred sesame seeds and took it off of the shelf.

He walked over to the table containing the dough his mother had made earlier. He gently tossed flour on top of the counter, and then he scooped the dough out of the copper bowl it had been mixed in. He split the dough into two halves and began to knead half of the dough between his long spindly fingers. Donovan took pleasure in the texture of the dough. He liked how it was sticky, smooth, and spongy at the same time. He began to roll the dough into a long cylinder, rolling it back in forth with his hands through the flour.

He then prepared the sesame seeds. He opened the cork upon the glass jar containing the seeds and set it aside. He next dipped his left hand in a small bowl of water that was upon the counter, which was then sprinkled with some sugar making his left palm sparkle in the morning sun. With his right hand he grabbed a pinch of seeds from the jar and laid them across his sugary left palm. Clasping the seeds in his left hand, he then began to roll the bread back and forth with his right. He then slowly shuffled the fingers in his left hand and began to sprinkle the sweetened seeds into the dough. As it rolled, it picked up an occasional seed which was implanted into the loaf. He continued this until both dough halves had become large rolls of speckled tanned bread.

The bread was then looped together to make two medium sized circles. This was baked on a flat pan on the highest rack of the brick oven for only a few minutes. It was then removed, and the residual heat around the oven was used to finish baking the bread in the air.

"Nice job with those loafs, Donovan. Now it's time to make the morning bread. You know the recipe", his mother said from across the kitchen.

Of course Donovan knew the recipe, except on the rare occasion that the family had some bacon or ham for their morning meal, each breakfast had consisted of some version of morning bread. In fact almost all meals had some type of bread, one way or the other, which is the curse of being a baker. While he didn't mind the taste of morning bread: an egg poached on top of a stale, unsold loaf had its certain charm. The moisture and juices from the eggs helped to soften and season the underlying bread; whatever kind of bread that might be that day. He walked up to the storefront to gather a loaf of bread that hadn't been sold within the previous week from his father.

"Dad, I need a loaf of old bread to make morning bread..." he let out with a sigh.

"Ah, morning bread yet again. Let's see. Let's try to make something interesting today". Donovan's father scrounged around the multiple storefront racks that held all the family's wares. He scanned through the many different breads displayed in the case. "Here we go. Five-day-old pumpkin bread. That should make things slightly interesting."

With a slight smile he took the bread and walked back into the kitchen. The family's stovetop was situated along one of the main windows. The flume for the main smokestack led up along the wall and up through the roof. The window was dressed quite plainly, and was open on this morning. It had four glass panes amongst a wooden frame. It had been painted an off white, and small ruffles of faded lace were hung from the top valance. The window led out into the main road between the shops and houses of this district. The road was a dusty brown with patches of thin grass along its sides. Deep grooves from the wheels of wagons could be seen dug into the dirt.

The building directly across from the bakery's window was the library of the town's scholar and school teacher. An oak tree had been planted alongside the building many moons ago and even looked older than the building itself. Its branches stretched into the sky taller than even the highest tip of the library's fireplace. It had unfortunately been planted so close to the building that the tree had over time shifted the bricks within the wall of the library. A window that at one time had been found along this wall was removed due to growth of the tree, and numerous single bricks lay amongst the base of the wall. The tree's roots and limbs had so entangled itself with the library walls that if anyone had wished to chop down this one tree, that person would essentially be tearing down a wall of the library. So the tree stayed, protecting its own longevity by entwining itself into the wall. It was autumn, and so the leaves of the oak were a deep musky orange. Each leaf appeared as if they were made of thin, tanned leather; and many of them littered the roadway below.

As Donovan began to cook his family's breakfast he could hear the laughter and screaming of children outside. They were chasing each other, with some of them playing the forces of good and some playing helpless citizens. The rest were acting as monsters; fingers curled like beastly claws, mouths open trying to show little teeth.

"Oh no… run! Here come some Pontia! Get out of the way!" cried a little girl as she ran pass the window. She hid behind the large oak.

Two boys who were hunched over and skipping, growled after her. They made braying sounds as if they were going to eat her. "Rawr!" one howled. They ran past the oak and did not see the hidden little girl that they were chasing.

Next came the premature knights. Each had a weathered plank, knots and all, for a shield. A white circle had been quickly painted on each to symbolize the mark of the town's Holy Protectorate. Thin switches torn from a tree branch made due as their swords. "We will vanquish you!" three of them said in unison.

While these children were younger than Donovan, he still wished he could play with them. Unfortunately for him, bakers, innkeepers, and those delegated with tasks of providing the morning services of the town had to service the villagers first. They themselves had to first care for the townspeople before being able to enjoy breakfast and go about their days. That meant that Donovan and Bettany were always a little late in getting to play time.

Donovan finished making the morning bread, five in all, and his family gathered for breakfast. His father temporarily closed the storefront as was accustomed, his mother set the table, and his sister came down from the loft. Once they had finished sitting, all four pressed their hands together, palms facing up, and closed their eyes. Donovan's father began their small traditional prayer, a moment of silence was held, and then they began to eat.

The next day was almost exactly the same as the first. Donovan awoke to the familiar smell of the daily breads, although this morning he could smell the distinct scent of molasses. "Pumpernickel. Someone must be having a wedding today," he thought to himself.

He got up to wash, but so did his sister this morning. His sister was a bit too young to cook in the kitchen with himself and his mother, but she had chores nonetheless. Her duties of the day included getting ingredients from numerous places amongst the town. Eggs, milk, butter, spices; whatever the bakery needed for that day. She put on her little sun dress, didn't bother to wash, and raced down the stairs. Donovan could hear his father mumble, "Please wash first before fetching the goods Bettany." Small little footprints could be heard slowly waddling up the stairs.

Bettany kicked Donovan as he went downstairs. It wasn't an aggressive act, merely an act of frustration.

As it happened the morning before, Donovan's job was to knead some more bread. This time just some simple saltbread was on his task list. Just as he had done before he split the dough his mother had previously made; this time separating it into four parts. Each part was rolled into a ball, and then flattened. The flat dough balls were then scored with a cross pattern design and placed into a pot of boiling water, one of top of the other. After cooking for fifteen minutes, they were removed from the boiling bath. A glaze of vinegar was splashed across their tops and then sea salt was encrusted on the top of each. A final hour back in the oven would finish these loafs of saltbread.

His mother began to speak to her son from across the kitchen, but he had already gone up front to ask for a loaf of old bread before she was able to get any of her words out.

"Dad, we need another morning bread loaf."

"Ah, yet again. Lemme' find something interesting," his father said as he looked in the racks. After a minute's worth of searching he handed a loaf to Donovan. "Six-day-old pumpkin bread, this should make it interesting."

With another sigh, Donovan walked back into the kitchen. He sliced the pumpkin bread into several thick slices. He cracked a few eggs into a clay bowl, and then placed dollops of egg onto each of the pumpkin bread slices already on the griddle. The sound of the eggs hissing and popping could be heard as they oozed off their perches onto the hot stovetop.

He gazed outside the window as he had done yesterday. He could hear the screaming of children just like the morning before.

This time several little boys and two little girls could be seen running past his window. They didn't bother to say anything to their play-time adversaries as they ran.

A cry could be heard. "Help! Help! It's chasing me!" The child's voice wasn't in a playful tone. The child was truly afraid. The small boy, no more than five years old could be seen running down the dusty street.

Just as he reached the kitchen's window, he tripped on one of the roots of the oak across the street. A stray root had always lay intruding into the middle of the road, but most people had noticed it on their travels and avoided it.

A small blackish weasel-like creature could then be seen leaping through the air. Only a few feet long, and very thin, it almost glowed even though it was only black. It appeared to have no eyes, and only two small little limbs. At the end of its leap it landed directly onto the belly of the child on the ground. Donovan's eyes went wide and he stood frozen.

The child let out a horrifying scream as the creature began to bore its way into his tiny stomach. Blood could be seen spilling onto the roadway as the boy writhed back in forth on the ground on his back. He tried with his little hands to pry the creature away, but it was like grasping at oil. The body of the beast slipped through his fingers regardless of how strong he held. He moaned helplessly.

A clanking noise could be heard coming down the street. Several church soldiers had been following the group of children and the creature. Each of them was wearing the standard Holy Protectorate armor. One of them drew his sword mid-step. It was a large broadsword, several inches wide and a few feet long. Even though the boy was writhing wildly on the ground, as the warrior approached in a full run he took a swing at the beast. The warrior kneeled to the ground with the finishing arc of his blow; nearly missing the chest of the young boy.

The body of the creature was sheared into two with the tail portion flying into the air. The portion that had been eating its way into the child tumbled lifelessly to the ground. The boy rolled back and forth along the path howling in pain, clutching his bloody midsection.

Two of the knights picked up the boy, and quickly began a run down towards the end of the street. Donovan could hear the boy's screams and the knights' armor clanking as he was taken into the center of town.

The one knight that had shorn the black weasel into two reached into his pocket. He drew from it a small amount of red powder. He sprinkled it on top of the remaining pieces of the beast. The tail section still had life in it and was slithering along the ground aimlessly. Once the powder reached both sections, a bright green flame could be seen as the beast's remains were consumed. Almost instantly the creature's body was nothing but ash and dust, the ground scorched from where the powder had done its magic. A swift breeze came down the path and the ashes blew away in a small gust of green smoke.

The knight that had killed the beast turned back down the path the way that he had came and calmly walked back to his post. The spilt blood of the child on the path began accumulate dust from the roadway. A thin layer of dirt could be seen floating upon the tiny red pools.

Donovan still completely frozen with his mouth agape from what he had witnessed, said to himself. "Oh God! That was a Pontia!"

Continue to Chapter 2