Angel Biscuits - A random story (Tasty Tuesday... tenuously?)

Edna lit the paired candles on the mantle, enjoying the fire's warmth on her shins, logs blazing in the hearth below. Holly and ivy entwined about the windows and festooned picture frames, mistletoe hanging hopefully above the front door. She surveyed the decorations, wondering if they would be as green, as red or white a month from now, mid-winter.

She twitched her heavy drapes, shutting out the draughts trying to whistle under the shrunken, ill-fitting frames. They brought the scent of pine, of icy air which stayed with her as she moved about the room. The snow was deep, deepening, would perhaps be above her sills by morning. A day to stay home, to bake, to prepare for the long haul to spring, and long it could be, out in the mountains, far from the village, where her family had tended goats since forever.

She enjoyed the season. The ground became pristine, virgin, ready to be ploughed anew. It lay under white blankets, sleeping, restoring strength, and all about was hushed, whether in respect or expectation she couldn't have said with certainty. Beneath that frozen crust, far from the dripping icicles and silenced waters, life slumbered. All that promise, the hushed stillness barely containing the spark of renewal, it gave her a sense of well-being she had never really been able to explain.

Edna made her way up the narrow stairs to her bed under the eaves. Settled, nestled deep beneath her blankets, the fur her late husband, Nathaniel, had treated her to, she watched the soft, encompassing blizzard slip by her window. Nat had loathed her habit of leaving the bedroom window open, but it had been one of the few battles she'd fought.

The expanse of night, stretching further than any eye could see, the moon and stars sailing an unknown ocean of darkness, somehow lulled her. She thought maybe it played a part in making her realise how small her life was, how insignificant her problems. Out there a universe was fighting for every star birth and death on a scale beyond her imagination and that was comforting. She let the emptiness send her to rest.

In a month the local children would be arriving, expecting their traditional angel cookies. Edna didn't really know when the practice had started, but her family had baked, decorated and given away thousands of the tiny, sweet angel cookies for at least a hundred years. She wasn't about to let them down, although she did allow herself a small moment of fretting as she mixed and rolled dough. She had no kin, no-one to take over. Would the habit die or should she choose someone from the village to take over the legacy.? Would they?

Perhaps that was for another time. The baking of the biscuits needed to be done with a light hand, a lighter heart. Edna mixed icing, red and green, found her multi-coloured sprinkles and got to work. Beneath her practised hands faces came alive. Chubby cherubim winked, serene seraphim smiled and archangels appeared to give voice. Each angel biscuit found a home in a carefully wrapped square of silver or gold tissue, sealed with an icing kiss.

The noise bypassed Edna at first. Concentrating on a particularly recalcitrant cherub who wanted to blink rather than wink, she assumed the faint scratching to be the wind in the shrubs by the front door. Only when a low moan reached her, accompanied by the scratching did she lay down her piping bag and approach the door. She was old, but no fool, her hand hesitating on the latch. She snatched up a sturdy walking cane from the basket by the door, then opened it.

The bite of the wind was ferocious, and she had to squint against the blast of snow which tried to blind her. She stepped back sharply at the feeling of pressure on her foot and instantly realised the hump of snow there was no drift, but a person, a man to judge by the hand, blue and clawed.

It took all her strength and the remainder of his to drag him over the threshold and to get the door slammed shut on the weather which had tried to claim him. He lay at her feet, slowly puddling snow onto her freshly swept tiles, barely conscious. Edna knew she couldn't lift him and he surely couldn't move himself. With a sharp straightening of her apron, a look of resolute determination on her face, Edna got on with the task in hand. That was something she was good at.

Over the next hour, Edna used just about every cushion in her home to prop the man into a semi-upright position, slipping them under his head and shoulders one at a time. Once she had him that far she started warming pans, filling them with hot coals and packing them around him. He began to steam gently, but seemed no closer to consciousness. Edna steeled herself, widened the ring of warming pans to allow some room, lowered to the floor on popping knees, and began to strip the stranger out of his clothes.

Parts were frozen solid, the cuffs of both trousers and coat almost brittle, covered in a layer of ice. By the time she had him down to what appeared to be a woollen undergarment, Edna decided to let modesty kick in. She hung the clothes on a rack close by the hearth and went back to work. This time she layered a couple of blankets over him, placed two warming pans on top and then added more blankets. She was gratified to see the faintest tinge of colour coming back to his lips. She felt that meant he wasn't going to die on her. What she would have done with a dead body she didn't want to contemplate.

Aware she was now in for a waiting game, Edna began her secondary assault. She lifted the lid on a pot on the stove. The scent of herbs and meat flooded the room. Edna's winter stew was legendary, a recipe handed down from her grandmothers over generations. It was rich, thick and Nat had always said just a single spoonful could cure all that ailed you. Time to test his theory. She filled a bowl, grabbed a spoon and carefully lowered herself down beside her unexpected guest.

It took her three days in the end. From those first dribbles, Edna prising his mouth open with her fingers and dripping sustenance into him, to the day he looked at her with clear eyes and asked where he was, she fed him stew, porridge laced with honey and cream, and bread so soft and white it was surely the origins of ambrosia. The ice thawed out of his veins, his skin, and finally his mind. He sat beside her hearth for two more days, explained he had been hunting, become turned around in the storm. He'd slipped, banged his head on a hidden rock, lain on the mountainside for a day and night. He'd finally dragged himself to her door through the storm.

She shrugged aside his fulsome praise, his protestations that he should do something for her, he owed her his life. She told him to go home, relieve the fear of his family, bring his children for angel biscuits in a few days time. She wrapped him in Nathaniel's old coat, second best scarf and extra socks. She gave him a flask filled with stew – and a little something warming, she'd winked – and sent him on his way with his thanks still ringing in her ears. She chuckled a little a his foolishness. What had he expected? That she leave him on the doorstep to freeze to death?

A week later children began to arrive. A steady stream came to Edna's door, always with parents and she remembered them all. It seemed strange to her that those little faces, expectant and innocent had grown to bring new faces, just as eager, whilst she felt time had almost stilled, her changes invisible, unnoticed. She handed out angel biscuits and hot chocolate to the children, hot wine to the adults. Most of them wanted angel biscuits too, the polite adult refusing to ask, the child eager behind eyes lined with age.

On the last day came the largest group. Twenty children ran to her door and she could not hide her surprise. Each carried great bouquets of winter blooms tied with ribbons which flew bright and red against the snow. Coming behind were the adults, led by her mid-winter visitor. She was puzzled to realise he was the only man. Mothers followed him, their children running back to hide in their skirts, overcome by the excitement of events. She paused under the mistletoe, frowned slightly at his approach. His grin was broad. In his hands, hands he held out to her, was a book. Leather bound, heavy, more paper than she had seen in her life. Why was he offering it to her?

Did she know she talked in her sleep, he asked. He'd dozed beside her during those long days of his thaw, but once she had slept, he waking. She'd seemed distressed, her mumbled words hard to decipher, but he had. He had brought her the answer. When he had told the women of the village that there would be no-one to continue the angel biscuits they all begged to be given the honour. It was not for him, but for Edna to choose, he had said. So they had brought her a book, a book for her recipes, her stew, her porridge, her angel biscuits, written down so they could not be forgotten. And the women came forward, asking her to teach them.

Overwhelmed she accepted his strong arm about her waist, allowed herself to take strength, one so used to giving it, and she had smiled, bemused, but joyful. He had glanced up, taken a wicked twinkle to his eyes and kissed her cheek before she could bat him away. 'And a kiss you shall have every day, though they will never pay my debt.' he had whispered.