Nell and the Moon-Flour Loaf

At the bottom of the hill, below a small grey castle, there was a water mill by a slow stream. Nell lived there with her dad, the miller.

Nell baked the best bread in the kingdom. She was very firm with dough. She talked to it the way a sheepdog talks to sheep. “Stay,” she said, when it tried to slide off the table. And the dough nearly always did as it was told.

When the moon shone on the mill wheel, something funny happened. The grain came out as moon-flour, pale and shining. Bread made with it floated off the plate.

Dad kept the moon-flour in an old pillowcase. If he put it in a sack, it leaked out of the top and drifted away over the stream.

Every night, King Bram walked down the hill. He was very old and very kind, and he could not sleep. He wore his nightcap, and on top of his nightcap he wore his crown, so it would not slip off on the way down. He sat on the millstone step and listened to the wheel go round. Sometimes Nell brought him a crust, still warm.

Today was King Bram’s birthday.

“I’m going to bake him a birthday loaf,” said Nell. “A warm one, for tonight.”

The grain bin was empty. The flour sacks were empty too. There was only the pillowcase, glowing on its hook.

Dad looked at his boots.

“I milled all the grain last night,” said Dad. “I was singing, and I forgot to look out of the window. The moon was out the whole time.”

“So it’s all moon-flour,” said Nell.

“Every bit,” said Dad. “I’m sorry, Nell.”

“Never mind,” said Nell. “You go to bed.”

Dad gave an enormous yawn and went up to bed. Dad snored exactly like the mill wheel going round: rumble-splosh, rumble-splosh.

Nell rolled up her sleeves. She would just have to be very firm.

She untied the pillowcase. A puff of moon-flour floated up like steam. Nell mixed the rest with water into a big bowl of dough.

She baked the first loaf in a tin. When she opened the oven, the loaf rose straight out of the tin.

“Down you come,” said Nell.

The loaf did not come down. It floated up the stairs to her bedroom under the roof. Bonk, it went, against the wooden rafters. Then it stayed, bobbing.

“Hmm,” said Nell. “It needs a lid.”

She baked the second loaf with the heavy stew-pot lid on top. When she opened the oven, the lid wobbled. Then it lifted. The loaf rose up out of the tin, wearing the lid like a hat.

“Down you come,” said Nell.

Up went the loaf, lid and all. Bonk. It bobbed beside the first one.

“Hmm,” said Nell. “It needs a stone.”

She fetched a stone from the stream, as big as a potato. When the third loaf rose out of the tin, Nell caught it in both hands. She tied the stone on with string.

“Down you come,” said Nell, and she let go.

Up went the loaf, and up went the stone, dangling underneath. In the rafters it swung slowly to and fro, like a bell that swings and swings and never goes ding.

Now there was only a little dough left. King Bram would be on his way.

Nell did not sit down and sigh. She fetched the broom.

She swept every corner and every crack between the boards. In the very last crack was a small grey heap of ordinary flour. It was plain, heavy flour, just one handful.

Nell kneaded it into the last bit of moon-dough. She was very firm indeed. She baked a little loaf. It rose out of the tin, and Nell held out a plate.

“Down you come,” said Nell.

And down it came, nearly all the way. It stopped a thumb’s width above the plate, and it hovered there, warm and shining.

Tap, tap, went the door.

There stood King Bram, crown and nightcap and all.

“Happy birthday,” said Nell.

King Bram sat on the millstone step, and Nell set the plate beside him. He tore off a piece and ate it slowly. Then he ate another.

“Every year the castle cooks bake me a birthday loaf,” said King Bram. “It is so big that two cooks carry it in. This is the first birthday loaf that carries itself. And it is the best one.”

Nell was so pleased she went pink.

Then King Bram gave an enormous yawn, just like Dad’s.

“My goodness,” said King Bram. “I think I might sleep tonight.”

Nell wrapped the rest in a cloth for his breakfast. King Bram walked back up the hill, yawning all the way, with the loaf floating above his hand.

* * *

Nell blew out the lamp and climbed the stairs. She looked in on Dad and pulled his blanket over his toes. Then she got into bed.

Over her head, the three runaway loaves bobbed against the rafters. One was plain. One wore a hat. One had a stone swinging underneath. They glowed softly, like three little moons.

Dad snored, rumble-splosh, rumble-splosh. Outside, the mill wheel turned, rumble-splosh, rumble-splosh. Nell could not tell which was which, and she did not mind one bit.

She yawned and looked up at the loaves.

“In the morning,” said Nell, “down you come.”

Then she shut her eyes. The wheel went slowly round, and Nell fell asleep, as pleased as could be, under three little moons of bread.