The Baker's Paradox

Rutaa wiped the sweat draining off his bald head like a stream before drinking an entire goblet of water. The water wasn’t cool, nothing in his bakery was cool at the best of times, but the festival wasn't the best of times for a baker. He appreciated the humble reprieve none the less.

Normally he wouldn’t bake by day, the sun being oppressive this time of year, but the most holy festival of Mayului began at sundown. Rutaa stared at the wicker baskets full of flatbreads filling every nook and cranny of the mudbrick room. It wasn’t nearly enough, and the festival needed bread. Without the bread, there could be no festival and with no festival Mayului’s blessing might pass over their humble village for an entire harvest. With a sigh and another goblet of water, Rutaa set about his labors. As he pressed another doughy loaf into the stone, there was a knock at the small window that faced the alley.

Was it that time already? Ignoring the persistent knocking, he rounded the dough into a flat circle before shoveling it into the oven. “One moment! One moment! Hamma, relax,” Rutaa shouted over the crackling flames and vainly tried to clean the sticky dough off his fingers.

“What took you so long?” The beggar boy below the window looked up at Rutaa with mousy eyes as he did every day at this time.

Rutaa pinched a flatbread, still warm but no longer scalding, off the nearest basket and tossed it down to Hamma. “Should ask you the same. Isn’t it nearly midday?”

“Oi it’s well past it! I got distracted by the festival stalls. A lot of things to pinch in the square right now.” Hamma nibbled greedily at the edges of the flatbread.

“Gods above and below! When did it get so late?” There was so much work to do still. Still, Rutaa rested against the brick window, watching the boy scarf down the flatbread held delicately between his fingertips.

As he chewed, Hamma looked up quizzically. "Well it got so late when the sun got higher. Did they not teach you that in the baker's academy?"

“Why must you do this to me every day?”

“Because you give me bread!” Hamma said as if commenting on the weather.

“Well you got your bread. Now begone!” Rutaa said. He needed to get more dough going. They’d light the festival flames soon and once the sun went down...well if there was no bread there was no festival, and–

“Say what’s it like being cursed?”

“What did you say, you street rat?” Rutaa’s blood rose at the insult.

Hamma’s eyes never left the piece of flatbread. “Well, I was outside Mayului’s temple and the priest there said anyone who doesn’t bring festival alms to the temple is cursed. Since you can never make it down to the temple I assumed you liked being cursed.” Hamma took another bit, chewing with his mouth open.

The day was hot, too hot. Rutaa bypassed his water goblet and drank straight from the jug. He passed his full goblet down to Hamma. “I make the bread that everyone eats during the festival. If they don’t eat the bread, they don’t get the blessing of Mayului. Since I’m the only baker in this village, it falls to me to keep the oven burning all night…” Rutaa’s voice trailed off. He’d lost count of how many years he’d spent at his oven churning out flatbread while the streets descended into the revel. Most festivals only Hamma visited him at the ovens, but the masses gladly devoured his bread all night long. Such was the life of the baker.

Hamma chewed his lip. “I could bake yer bread for ya. Might steal some of it. But I could bake it. Then you could go to the festival and not be cursed for once! That priest seemed pretty certain anyone who didn’t go was cursed and he seemed pretty smart.”

“And let you poison half the village? No way those dirty fingers of yours are allowed near my flour, boy. Have another piece and be gone! I have work to do.”

“Ahh well, suit your cursed self then. Oooo maybe that’s why you never can leave your ovens! You are cursed, Rutaa! You're cursed to that oven! Same time tomorrow?”

Rutaa sighed and tossed Hamma another flatbread. “I said begone!”

Yes the festival needed bread, and yes it was said that curses befell all that did not attend, but what was he to do about it? Rutaa was a baker; he made the bread, but if he was the only baker, who’d make the bread so he might find his salvation?

With the large paddle he pulled the most recent loaf from the oven before kneading the next proof with a little more pressure than he normally applied.

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A/N:

My take on the Barber's Paradox for Liam Storm's challenge below:

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