Apples and cinnamon

Kinda long for a "short story." But anyway, let me know what u think. :)

Albern made it to the door of the bakery. Or rather, he finally made it to the door of the bakery. Though not for lack of trying, he had been balancing on a thin line of indecisiveness for at least an hour now, and finally, though mainly to prevent any undue suspicion, he passed the point of no return - from contemplation to action within a click, and without the slightest amount of hesitation he reached…

And got stuck halfway. He fell straight back through the doors of doubt, as if he had one final appointment with reason, though unable to find her. Uncertainty stepped in, wiping his mind of the previous hour of intricate planning, causing every muscle in his body to freeze to the point of failure.

He reassessed his options, realised he didn’t have many, so began shaking uncontrollably.

It wasn’t as if he was about to crinkle under the sheer weight of the task that laid in front of him, rather this sudden feeling of doubt had rendered him somewhat useless; like he had fallen from a great height, and had landed flat on his face.

He inched his now shaking hand closer towards the knob, reflecting the moonlit street back into his now fear-stricken face. He considered the possibility of Sam, the baker, greeting him as he would open the door, and came to the forced conclusion that he simply wasn’t giving Sam the credit he deserved when it came to his hospitality of midnight shoppers, and was now seriously considering the possibility of being greeted with open arms and being given mountains of bread to disperse freely among the town folk.

This made Albern feel more at ease with what he was doing. Perhaps it wasn’t as bad as he was making it out to be.

And so, with this refreshing, self-inflicted delusion, Albern blew one final sigh into the keyhole... *click* and then a *clunk*. He put on his best ‘whoops, wrong door’ smile and twisted, pushing slowly… Perhaps too slowly. *creeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek…* out into the quiet it went, and Albern was sure he saw it run up the stairs, in seek of the baker’s room.

This troubled Albern in two ways; firstly, he was unsure as to how long he would have to grab what he needed and leave before the delirious baker would wander down the stairs in search of the intruder and, secondly, the Mobile Amplifying Intruder Location Announcer that was now following him as he sprang for the kitchen; though, with no more than three swift, carefully placed steps, Albern burst through the kitchen side window and took off into the night.

This made Albern feel silly. Happy, but silly, as he took off down the street at break-neck speed, a recipe tucked tightly within his grip.

                                                                              -

 Perhaps this was foretelling of the turn of his luck, or that coincidentally Sam, the baker, had planned to bake that exact recipe – the one he was after – the morning after his planned heist. Albern suspected the latter.

And so, with his new-found (stolen) recipe, Albern, who had now slowed down to a crawling pace, took the time to breathe in the night air, and celebrate his brush with luck.

                                                                           -

The problem with recipes is that they don’t provide you with much more besides instructions and ingredients, leaving a large portion to be desired.

Those with cooking prowess use this to their advantage, often tweaking certain aspects to suit their needs or feelings on the day. Contradictory to this though, for the more challenged cook – if you could call someone who can’t tell the difference between a pot and a pan that – there blossoms a fruitful problem(s): A plot hole(s) of sorts.

Though not all recipes are like this, say, pancakes for example- extraordinarily simple and easy to follow.

But Albern was not concerned with such simplicity bordering on stupid. Oh no. Albern had not stolen but a mere pancake recipe. Rather the most complex form of apple pie known to living man!

Or so it was seeming as he skimmed over the recipe in childish delight.

He had waited until the morning to start, which proved harder than he originally thought. And like a child on Christmas, he had burst from his bed, grabbing the recipe – which was neatly folded in a draw by his bed – and ran as fast as he could into the kitchen.

Unfolding it and flattening out the crinkles he began staring.

Minutes past until he finally blinked, transfixed to such an extent that breathing took a backseat, allowing enough mental capacity to soak in the page.

Albern was making a mental note of what he had, and what he needed. “Apples,” he muttered, skimming another time over the ingredients. He considered the possibility of an apple pie without apples, hating himself just a little more for it.

After what seemed like a minute for Albern, although an hour in actual time, he folded the recipe back up and slotted it safely under his chopping block.

                                                                          -

Albern’s strained eyes didn’t welcome the day as easily as he had hoped as he stepped out into the crisp, morning air. He breathed in lavender, for he had it growing in his front garden; then came the smell of hot bread, as he stepped onto the main street. He made a note not to follow it.

                                                                           -

Mr. Adams was the owner of the fruit market, not a hundred paces north of Albern’s house.

“Good morning, Albern,” he said, a smile stretching a quarter way up his face. “Come to steal me of all my apples?”

This remark wouldn’t have troubled Albern in the slightest if his little excursion from the previous night wasn’t still lingering in his thoughts. He licked his lips and began arranging a guilt-free face, drawing coins as conspicuously from his pocket as possible.

“I have come for apples,” he began, greeting Adam’s outstretched arm with all the grace one could muster. “Though I do intend on paying you.”

The Merchant chuckled. “You’re a good customer, Albern. I would never doubt your ability to pay, nor do I ever hope you lose it.” A cunning smirk slid across his face.

This made Albern feel no better, though drew no attention to the fact, smiling instead. “I’ll take them all.”

Moments later, Albern accepted a large paper bag full of shiny green apples. He nodded appreciatively and headed back the way he came.

Friday mornings were never awfully busy in St. Melen. The hangings in the afternoon were the only event exciting enough to step out of the house for, really, and Albern had no intention of going to it. An ideal day to stay home and bake, he thought. And cinnamon.

So, he took a quick trip just south of Lilies Bridge, where a small spicery sat up against the judiciary.

“Cinnamon, please.”

A nod.

He placed the small packet with the apples. “Thank you.”

And so, now with all that he needed, he headed home. 

                                                                               -

“Albern!” came a voice, sounding as if it was at least 50 paces south of him. “Wait up.” Now 25.

He turned around enthusiastically, seeing no need in being resentful over the fact that he didn’t want to speak to anyone.

Sam, the baker, ran hurriedly to stand a pace away from where Albern stood. He would’ve given a kettle a run for its money.

Albern’s bag swayed easily, though now oddly heavier.

Sam was hunched over and puffing frantically, sounding as if his throat had constricted to a tenth of its original size.

Albern made no effort in initiating a conversation, rather watched as Sam gradually regained posture, sucking in multiple breaths through gritted teeth, clutching his sides. A melodrama, Albern thought, chuckling.

“I--.” The words got stuck somewhere up Sam’s throat, causing him to cough.

The truth of the matter vanished slightly behind Albern’s increasing amusement, as bad as he felt.

“reci--.” Yet to no avail.

“reciprocal?” Albern assisted. Or as much as one would given the circumstances.

Sam shook his head, evidently annoyed.

“Reptilian? I don’t quite understand,” fuelling the flame, hoping for relinquishment. “Listen, as much as I love playing darts, I’m really quite busy and if you don’t mind--”

“Recipe,” The word shot from Sam’s mouth, planting a full stop in front of Albern’s attempt. “Gone.”

As shocked as Albern would have liked to be, he truly couldn’t manage anything near believable enough, and certainly not within the few seconds given to him before any lack of response would be considered rude, or suspicious. He resorted to a frown.

“My beloved apple pie, gone.”

“Terrible news,” said Albern. “Most terrible.” 

                                                                            -

To say the rest of the conversation went poorly would be an understatement. The recollection of Sam’s breath brought with it a seemingly everlasting supply of questions and suspicion, helped no less by the plentiful supply of apples Albern had in his bag. And cinnamon, which, much to the disbelief from Sam, was used in a concoction for the riddance of bad breath. Albern had never been good at lies.

Upon relieving himself from further examination, Albern made his slow way home, reconsidering his previous decisions and how he could further himself from any chance of continued interrogation.

His excitement for the apple pie had worn off, leaving nothing but guilt.

He reminisced on the previous night, wishing for his opportunistic errand to be nothing but a bad dream, and that his walk home was him simply arriving back into his body, ready to start the day afresh from all that had happened. Though it was not to be.

                                                                             -

He pulled the recipe out from underneath the chopping block, looking it over before placing it into his pocket. He proceeded to take the apples out of the bag and place them neatly into a fruit bowl, polishing each as he did. The cinnamon he put on a shelf next to the oven. He then cleaned the kitchen.

After making sure the curtains were drawn, the threshold mat was straight and the gate was shut, Albern made his way back down the street.

                                                                             -

It was well and truly noon by the time he reached the door to the bakery. He felt into his pocket, making sure all was there – it was – so he entered.

The little bell perched atop the door sang Albern’s entrance; he reached and took a hold of it, silencing it as he gently closed the door.

The bakery was lit by four candles at each corner of the room. They created a sunken feeling – a void of such, where the lack of light met in the center of the room. It was almost as if the light was avoiding it. The thought didn’t register as easily as Albern would have liked, causing a great deal of unease as he inched further into the display room.

Bread was lined neatly on the countertop: white to dark, raisin to sour.

Albern made his way from the entrance to the kitchen.

He drew the recipe from his pocket and placed it neatly on the bench, in-between an apple and a knife. He sighed, if not for relief, most certainly out of annoyance.

He wasn’t usually one for resigning to defeat, though he saw no other way of manoeuvring around the problem he had created for himself. He was in no way desperate, rather quite the opposite, yet his craving had led him down a one-way road. One he was still refusing to turn back on.

He stood contemplatively for a short while, considering how he would approach the preparation.

He took the knife and held it at arm’s length; it glistened brilliantly, though that’s quite beside the matter.

He knew the hanging was only a bell away, leaving him – according to his calculations – two bells to create the base for which the apple filling would perch itself upon. Though all of this would be irrelevant hadn’t he of forgotten eggs… luckily Sam hadn’t.

                                                                                -

Conveniently his own escape from last night had left a gaping hole through the kitchen window, and since Sam, the baker, was too caught up in the recollection of his recipe, had allowed Albern to utilise it once again, much to the pleasure of himself. Minus a small cut.

                                                                               -

It was well and truly evening by the time Albern set the timer on the oven and relieved himself of todays happenings. He mended the small wound on his ankle, though decided against cleaning up the trail of blood that had followed him around the house. Saturday was a mopping day, anyway. And so, with nothing but a slight glance at the oven, sleep swept him away.

                                                                            -

The day dawned bright and full, as all days did after a hanging. People gather around the body, analysing it and working out how much pain it endured before death took them away. They were rather good at it, as one would expect, seeing as this had become a ritual of sorts – an honorary away of pronouncing the body as dead before they carried it off to the priest for its wash and dressing. A burial was conducted the day after, as it was considered appropriate for the body to lay under a statue of God for a day. A cleansing. 

Though you can forget about all this if you’re a murder, or having been caught stealing something with a label of considered importance. You can expect to be burned. Hanged first if you’re lucky.

Albern knew this to be true, as he had seen firsthand the ways of this procedure.

It was a troubling thought, truly. And was the reason he could sleep no more than three hours before waking up in a pool of sweat. And also the loud knocking on his door around midnight, too. He was not impressed in the slightest.

And nor was Sam and the attorney, as he opened his door. To say he needed to use the bathroom would be an understatement.

“Is there a problem?” He said stupidly, for there clearly was a problem, and even if it wasn’t evident at that present moment, there surely was going to be one given the growing irritation on both of their faces.

“A conveniently placed trail of blood has led us to your house,” began Sam, having the look of someone who has consumed too much coffee for it to good for them. The attorney assumed the role of the ‘nodder,’ and would affirm every inch of information about to spill from Sam’s mouth. He continued. “Which leads us to the conclusion that you, Albern, have stolen my beloved recipe,” He glanced speculatively towards the kitchen, positioned conveniently in sight behind Albern. “I’m sure you understand that that grants us the authority to inspect your home.”

Albern knew this to be true, and was in no state to argue. He gulped helplessly, nodding. There was nothing he could do; he would be placed on trial on accounts of stealing something of announced importance, then hanged – if he was lucky – and burned afterwards. He couldn’t quite believe his life had come to this, and over something of such little importance: An apple pie.

He led them regretfully inside. He then began lighting candles around the perimeter of the dining room, creating enough light for evidence to become apparent.

He began setting the table – three plates, three forks and three cups, it was only polite.

The oven timer had five minutes left, so he polished the countertop to pass the time.

Sam and the attorney were inspecting the kitchen with a certainty that comes only from being overly confident about something.

“Found anything?” said Albern with interest, leaning against the oven.

They both peered at him analytically, as if his question went further than just mere interest.

“I think the bin is evidence enough to determine the outcome of all this,” said Sam, pulling scraps of apple and cloves of cinnamon for the attorney’s inspection. A nod. “So, based on the evidence we have discovered, and from the way you have acted, it seems the conclusion of all this is quite certain.” 

A nod and the attorney began. “It is decided that you, Albern Long, will be put forward to trial on all bases of stealing an item of known importance; deceiving behaviour, fraudulent activity with the use of a property righted item in the name of Sam Walker. Your trial will be conducted today at noon. If you are late, the outcome will be decided without defense on your behalf.” 

The attorney finished with a nod of finality towards Sam, causing his face to light up in relief. “Justice is a wonderful thing.” 

Though no sooner was he filled with joy, was he trying with desperate hands to hold his throat together. It was a pitiful sight, truly. And the fact that the cleanup job would be immense. Though Saturday was a mopping day, so Albern wasn't overly concerned.

The attorney cradled Sam’s now limp body gently to the ground with all the impassiveness that comes from not actually being an attorney.

Ding. “You’re just in time,” said Albern, reaching for the mitts. “Pie’s ready.” He opened the oven slowly, and with careful precision removed its creation. “I readied three plates in case,” he said conversationally. “Though it seems it would only go to waste giving him some.” He motioned jovially towards Sam, who was still clutching helplessly at his throat.

The attorney shrugged. “He seems desperate for a taste.” He motioned Albern for a fork. “Look at him, he’s strangling himself for one.” He fed the fork down his throat, wedging it beyond reach. “Close your mouth when you’re eating.” The attorney muffled his helpless screams while Albern cut two generously sized portions of pie.

                                                                           -

“I’m not convinced its worth the effort,” said Albern, finishing his last mouthful. “The clean-up is now two-fold that what it was before.” He pointed his fork towards the body. “Why not just choke him? Save the mess.”

The man sitting across from Albern shrugged. “He had it coming for him.”

“Perhaps. Though he certainly had it coming for me; I was relatively concerned until I saw you. Which immediately directed my concern to having enough cleaning products.” He smiled.

“I’ll help you,” he urged. “Save you getting into trouble over why your home is riddled with blood.”

“You’re not busy?”

“I make time to help those in need. Especially my troublesome Brother who can’t seem keep his hands in his own pockets.”

Albern shrugged. “Sometimes you’ve just got to go that extra mile to achieve the unachievable.”

“Well from now on, stick to stealing apples, where punishment is public humiliation, and not being burned and hanged for all to see.”

“My previous statement still stands.”

“Though you won’t be if you keep an attitude like that, and I don’t want to see my Brother’s flesh dripping from his bones, especially not on a Saturday, God forbid. Though that’s the path you’re currently walking. I suggest taking an easier route. For now.

“Dutifully noted.” Albern rose from his seat and cleared the table. “Though it is late, and I’m tired. You can sleep on the lounge if you like, Aurol.” Motioning in its general direction.

“I’m afraid I have one last stop elsewhere tonight,” He rose from his seat as well, pulling his cloak off the back of his chair, whipping it over his shoulders with all the grace one would expect from a mysterious man dressed in black. “Though I shall be back.”

Albern nodded, walking to the door. “Thank you for tonight.” He said as he opened the door.

Aurol stepped out into the night, like a shadow. Though only a Brother in Albern’s eye, and he cared for him as much anything. He knew of him like an end of a story – an inevitable part of all tales, where everything seems to work itself out and prove everything beforehand pointless; all the worry, heartache and torment made obsolete by the love of a greater force: The love a Brother has for his other.

He was never overly good at analogies.

                                                                                -

Albern finally made it to bed shortly after washing the dishes and setting them to dry; after cleaning the oven, readdressing his ankle and wiping the table. He even cleaned and mopped the whole house. He didn’t touch Sam’s body, though.

Sleep came easy enough. Thoughts of yesterdays events passed through his mind like a show-reel; he reflected for a while, tending to the more troubling thoughts by replacing them with idealistic scenarios of how things came to be. It was petty work, though he valued his opinion of himself greater than most should, for he believed that the pillar of greatest first starts with the perception of your own capability of achieving it. He certainly hadn’t achieved it yet, though right as sleep relieved him of any further contemplation, the perfect apple pie seemed more tangible than ever before.

He smiled.