The Ceramicist’s Apprentice

     Osiri cut herself a wedge of clay, filled a basin of water, and positioned herself at the wheel. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a quiet moment. Dawn break was when her creativity swelled and she worked most deftly. Running a pottery shop was no easy task. The popularity of her pieces waxed and waned with the seasons and swiftly changing fashions. Business unfortunately took a slow turn in the last few years. Once or twice Osiri had to pawn off a few pieces of her beloved head jewellery to keep the lights on and the materials flowing. But it didn’t matter. This was Osiri’s greatest calling. She would forgo food before forsaking the wheel.

     With a splash of water on her wedge of clay, Osiri began to work. Carefully balancing the pressure between her hands, she gently pushed the material in tandem with the image that popped up in her mind just moments ago: a delicate bowl in the shape of a water lily.

     Osiri could still recall the first time she laid her hands on a piece of ceramic. It was a beautiful cream-coloured vase. Smooth as silk, cool to the touch. ‘Momma,’ she recalled saying. ‘I want to be a crafter.’

     And craft she did. Osiri took to the wheel like a Wadjet to the Lost Desert sands. By the age of ten, she had captured the attention of the Ceramicists’ Guild of Neopia. She had begged her mother to let her train with the guildmaster. He was a stoic craftsman, tough but fair. Osiri can still recall with clarity their first lessons. ‘To center the clay is to find calm in chaos,’ the old Desert Gnorbu had said. ‘Find your balance, let the distractions spin away. You are in control.’

     As Osiri worked, she lost track of time. When she finally looked up, the studio was fully bathed in the glare of sunlight, and a pair of glistening black eyes were staring at her through the window.

     Osiri frowned, but the visitor was gone as soon as he was noticed. Must be another scraggly urchin of inner Sakhmet. Sometimes they caused a ruckus in the neighbourhood. She paid him no heed; it was time, after all, to open the shop.

     —

     It was another predictably slow day. Customers trickled in as sparsely as rain during a Lost Desert summer. Osiri passed the time by painting her freshly fired batch of vases. Intricate gold leaves were a hallmark of her design, although in recent years the trend had been bold colours and abstract shapes. Osiri didn’t care about following trends. She created for herself, not to please others. Even though this didn’t always make for good business.

     At half past three, the bell on the door finally rang and a jaunty couple entered. “Good afternoon,” the Faerie Elephante said cheerfully as she walked up to the counter and flashed a sweet smile. “We’re looking for a set of plates to take back to Faerieland. Something tasteful, plates that perhaps you would reach for if fancy guests came over.”

     “Welcome,” Osiri smiled back. “I have some new pieces that you might find agreeable. Fresh out of the kiln. Let me fetch them for you.”

     “It doesn’t matter what you pick,” the Faerie Eyrie said gloomily as Osiri darted into storage. “We have a better chance of flying all the way to Kreludor than pleasing your mother.”

     “Will you give it a rest?” the Elephante snapped, smile wiped from her face. “At least I’m still trying. Maybe my mother was right about you, Eris. You’re always so melodramatic.”

     Osiri swallowed a sigh before turning back to face her new patrons. She could spot difficult customers from a mile away. “Here are those plates,” she managed another smile. “The designs are inspired by the Star of Paradise flower. You won’t find a more brilliant shade of blue anywhere else. I used the rare lapis lazuli -”

     “This won’t do,” the Elephante fervently shook her head. “We’re supposed to be bringing back souvenirs from Sakhmet. These look like they could be found in the Neopia Central General Store.” Beside her, the Eyrie rubbed his temples in exasperation.

     “Let me check in the back for some traditional Lost Desert designs,” Osiri said, smile frozen on her face.

     An hour later, the counter was covered in three towers of rejected plates. Another group of customers came and went, but Osiri’s demanding Faerie clients took all her attention. As yet another plate, an obsidian-coloured piece engraved with runes from Coltzan’s Shrine, was announced as unsatisfactory, Osiri felt her last wisp of patience slip away.

     “Ma’am,” she tried to keep her voice steady. At that moment, the bell on the door rang again and two Desert Krawks walked in. As the door was closing, a young Desert Korbat slipped in after them.

     “I must attend to these new guests,” Osiri said quickly as she turned to the new patrons, not bothering to hide her relief.

     “C’mon Eris, let’s leave,” the Faerie Elephante said haughtily. “Clearly our business is less valued here.” The tip of her trunk flicked upwards and she sauntered out the door, with the Faerie Eyrie trailing after her, muttering “Thank goodness”.

     The Krawks quickly found what they were looking for and with a cheery wave, Osiri sent them on their way. Although it was still early in the day, she decided to flip the “Open” sign on the door to “Closed”. Osiri heaved a sigh. The pile of rejected plates was still waiting to be returned to their shelves.

     As she reached towards the first pile, she stopped. Something was different. The obsidian plate was no longer there. She could have sworn she laid it on top when the Krawks came in. They only looked at vases, so it would have remained untouched.

     Osiri looked around the counter, behind it, under it, and scoured the nearby shelves. It was nowhere to be found. Did the Elephante take it out of spite? Osiri banished the thought as soon as it popped up. She was snooty enough to not be the type.

          Frowning, Osiri returned to cleaning up the rest of the plates. She probably misplaced it somewhere due to her fatigue. That must be it.

     —

     The next day began in the same way as the previous. Osiri rarely slipped from her well-oiled routine. In ten years of keeping the studio and the store, she holidayed twice, once to Terror Mountain and once to Faerieland. While the rest of the tour group ooh-ed and aah-ed at various landmarks, Osiri composed new designs in the back of her mind. Small talk during dinner danced around the latest locations in vogue and where everyone was planning to holiday next. When the others tried to include Osiri, she managed to always turn the conversation back to pottery and saw, with a sinking heart, a glazed look over the other Neopians’ eyes. So Osiri drifted from those groups, keeping to herself and aching to get back into the studio.

     With the waning popularity of pottery in Lost Desert, Osiri sometimes felt a pang of wistfulness. One day when she’s gone, will there be others to pick up the mantle? Or will pottery eventually become a lost art. The Ceramicists’ Guild closed down a few years prior due to lack of membership and her old teacher went into retirement.

     As Osiri prepped the materials for a new day’s work, she pursed her lips. As long as she could work, the studio and the store would remain open.

     Center, cone up, cone down, open up the center, bring up the walls…

     The ease with which Osiri slipped into a flow state pushed the troubling thoughts out of her mind. Creating a piece was a multi-step process and wheel throwing had always been Osiri’s favourite.

     Gently guide the walls to their final shape…

     Clank! A sharp cascading clatter outside the window broke Osiri’s concentration. Her hand twitched and the clay spun off center.

     With a tut of irritation, she stomped to the window. The shadow of a wing slipped just out of sight as she peered her head out. The stack of spare clay planters she kept next to the wall was in pieces. A tail disappeared around the corner as she wiped her hands on her apron, ripped it off, and discarded it on the floor.

     She was tired of the miscreants causing trouble in Sakhmet. The piece she was working on was to be a delicate teapot, now she needed to start from scratch. Osiri decided that it was time the urchin was taught some manners they hadn’t learned on the streets. She pushed open the studio door and rushed after the trespasser.

     From the back, she could tell it was a Korbat. Desert, from the look of his blue wings, one of which was bandaged. He was scurrying away in the alley on foot. It seemed he couldn’t fly.

     Osiri picked up her pace as the chase led them deeper into inner Sakhmet. They turned a corner and she spotted the Korbat fumbling through a makeshift door.

     “Hey!” Osiri called out. The Korbat scrambled through the door and tried to slam it shut, but Osiri stuck her foot out and wedged herself between the doorframe and - was this cardboard?

     She wiggled herself into the small room. It was no more than the size of her studio broom closet and looked as though it was dug out from the wall. A single lightbulb hung from the low ceiling and a clutter of knick-knacks sat in the corner: scraggly clothing, pots and pans, bottles of water, and an obsidian-coloured plate.

     The Korbat shrunk into a corner and stared at her through his wide, dark eyes, an expression of poorly concealed terror reflected in his face. His bandaged wing twitched slightly as he watched Osiri pick up the obsidian plate.

     Osiri looked at the plate and then back at the terrified Korbat. Her resolve to scold suddenly softened and she felt a pang of pity.

     “This belongs to me,” she said, not unkindly. “If you want a plate, you are allowed to ask. I have old ware that could use a new home.”

     He stared at her and said nothing.

     Osiri looked around the room again and spotted a small pile of soft clay in another corner. Slightly squashed and dotted with paw prints along the ridges, they resembled misshapen pencil holders. Osiri felt a lump growing in her throat as she shifted her eyes back to the Korbat, who was still cowering in his corner.

     “What’s your name?” she asked.

     He didn’t answer.

     “I’m going to take this back now,” she held up the plate. “If you come again, don’t hide in the shadows. You’re allowed to come say hi.”

     She shifted towards the cardboard door, pausing momentarily to cast one last glance in the Korbat’s direction. Then with a gentle push, she let herself out and headed back to the studio.

     —

     Osiri rose a touch earlier the next morning. She lay in bed for a few extra minutes and mulled over the events of the previous day. Oddly enough, the young Korbat stirred a sense of familiarity within her. Not that she ever resorted to pilfering dinnerware from a store. The little pencil holders in the corner…

     As Osiri prepped her studio, she retrieved an extra wheel from storage and set it outside in the sun, just beneath the window sill. Yes, this old wheel needed a good dusting. She filled a basin of water, planted it beside the wheel, and wiped it down with a damp towel. It just needed a bit of sun to dry it off.

     She took a packet of soft, moist clay from storage and sliced it into even wedges. After kneading one wedge slightly, she placed it on her wheel. Gathering up the remaining wedges, she carefully wrapped them up in the packet once more and placed it outside, beneath the window. The clay was a little too soft, it could also use a little sun.

     Osiri then set to work.

     Center the clay, cone up, cone down…

     A subtle whirring sound came from outside and Osiri glanced surreptitiously at the window. A flutter of a Blue Wing appeared and disappeared in an instant. The corner of her mouth quirked upwards as she steadied her hands and gently pushed down on the clay.

     The next fortnight passed in a similar fashion. Osiri woke slightly earlier each day to prepare two wheels. Her visitor never showed his face, but she knew she could count on him to show up. She began verbally recounting her techniques, as though to remind herself of the steps to wheel-throwing.

     “Push forward with the left hand, push downward with the right,” she said aloud. “A balance of opposing forces is what centers the clay.”

     Sometimes she left plates of biscuits outside in the morning. There was never a crumb left by the end of the day when she went to tidy up.

     After a month of furtive training, Osiri decided it was time to switch gears.

     The familiar whirling of the wheel outside alerted her to the Korbat’s presence. She took her foot off the pedal of her wheel, wiped her hands, and stepped out.

     “What did I say the first time I saw you?” Osiri said, standing in the doorway and looking down at him.

     The Korbat jumped and his piece flew off the wheel and spattered into the wall.

     “Don’t hide in the shadows, you’re allowed to come and say hi,” Osiri said. “I think it’s about time we formally introduced ourselves, don’t you? If you are to be my apprentice now, I should know your name.” She held out her hand.

     The Korbat wiped his hand on his pants and tentatively shook hers. “I’m Kairo.”

     “Kairo,” she smiled. “Welcome to your new life as a ceramicist.”

     The End.