The first on the list of less optimal jobs was baker. There was a bakery open that needed another helper. One of their apprentices had apparently contacted some disease and could no longer work. Apparently, even with magic, that was a lot more common here.

Walking into the door, I found a homey, welcoming sight, pervaded with the smell of baked goods. Looking at what little was displayed, I saw that most of the products they offered didn’t look like ones I was used to back on earth. For one, they weren’t fluffy. They were flat, more like pancakes or unleavened bread than pastries. I suppose they didn’t have yeast in this world, or that, at the very least, it was in short supply in this town. It made sense. It wasn’t like it was widespread on earth until relatively recently, chronologically speaking.

A wide man in a stained white apron peeked his head out from behind the arch leading to what I assume was the kitchen. As soon as he saw me, a wide grin spread across his face.

“Ahh, you must be the boy Davinda sent to try out. My name’s Tom. Come on back, we’ll get you started right away”.

He reached a meaty hand out, beckoning towards me with a ‘come here’ gesture, before disappearing back around the corner. I navigated around the worn wooden counters, past a rack of still cooling, flat bread things, to the kitchen. Stepping inside, I was hit by a wave of heat. I took a step back, still processing, when I heard Tom’s voice again.

“Welcome in, laddie. We’ll get you started on the basics. Today, you’ll prepare ingredients, and tomorrow, you’ll be baking”.

I found out that day that I wasn’t a fast learner. Or naturally talented. At all. Tom, to his benefit, was extremely patient, and obviously passionate about baking. When he tried to teach me how to grind flour, I only managed to get wheat stalks and powder everywhere, and almost crushed my finger in the pestle. We moved on. He attempted to teach me to chop firewood for the ovens. He showed me how I should go about it, as well. I was not able to replicate his feat of splitting a log with one swing. I wasn’t able to split one with 2 swings. Nor 3. In fact, it took me nearly 15 swings and 25 minutes of sweating and swearing to split a single log down the middle. I started on a second. Setting it up, I swung the axe down, hard, intending to split it more efficiently than the one before it. I couldn’t be taking 20 minutes to chop a log. I would have to spend all day chopping to fuel the fire, and even then I would probably be short.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

My second log, somehow, went worse than the first. My first hard swing connected, splitting almost ¼ of the way through. Similarly, my second one hit, digging deeper. It was on my third swing which the problem occurred. With a newfound strength and determination, I swung harder than I had before. Much harder. I missed the log entirely. I missed what the long was sitting on entirely. The axe flew down, towards the ground, at a rapid pace. As it fell, I reflected. Would I end up cutting one of my legs off? Wouldn’t that be embarrassing, extremely so? Tom left me alone for a few minutes. When he came back, I’d have made myself a cripple. Not to mention anyone else who heard about it. Oh, how’d you lose your leg? It was my first and last day as an apprentice baker, and in a horrible twist of fate, it was lost. Yeah, good luck. Plus, how would I support myself? There weren’t many jobs someone with one leg could complete in a society like this. Maybe I would have to be a bookkeeper after all. Most likely, I would starve.

The axe continued on its path, uncaring of my concerns. It struck a rock. The edge of the blade shattered, sending shards of metal shooting around like tiny, evil needles. The handle of the axe wobbled and warped, and the blade dislodged from the end, spinning past my face. I barely moved my head out of the way in time. The blade took a lock of my hair, and left a thin cut down the side of my head. The axe head continued in its arc, thunking into the dirt behind me.

I stood there in astonishment for a moment, before Tom came barreling out of the bakery, eyes frantically sweeping the clearing until they settled on me. He rushed over, grabbing my shoulders, spinning me around with inhuman strength, scanning me up and down.

“You alright, lad? Tell me what happened.”

I explained that after I had split the first log, I missed a swing and the ax broke. I lessened the severity of the error, simply telling him that I had struck the stump under the log. I made sure to clarify that I was indeed ok.

“Ahh, it’s no deal. It was an old axe, anyhow. Must’ve finally reached its limit. I’ll send you home for the day. You can come back on the morrow, and we can start at it again”.

Shame washed over me. So far, I had been completely incompetent at both of the occupations I attempted. I don’t think that that spoke well to my chances.

I trudged back to the inn, head down. Would I ever be able to pay Davinda back from her help? Was I truly so useless that I couldn’t do anything?

The houses gave way to familiar streets. The walk wasn’t far, but there was a slight shift in construction. The buildings here were older, more worn down, and it showed in the chipped wood and cracked stone foundations, as well as a persistent absence of any sort of glass, be it windows or other. I finally arrived back at the inn. Stepping in, Davinda was nowhere to be seen, but the boy who I had saw earlier was sitting at a table, playing cards by himself. When I opened the door, he looked over, before sliding down off the bench.