Sunday, August 27, 2023

Chapter 10: The Potter (new cover!)

 

What does the god of fire demand of Brendan?

 The problem isn’t his pottery skills. No, the problem lies with his backyard kiln. Every vessel Brendan fires in it ends up shattered. His fault? Oh no!

A commanding voice tells him every attempt he makes will fail … unless he does as it asks. Brendan ropes in his mate Johnny, if only to tell him he’s completely bonkers. They end up in a place they thought never to visit again, a place of nightmares from their childhood.

 Ha, maybe there is a fire god. How does one deal with that?


CHAPTER 10

ENTRANCE

  

MORNING. Gear puddles around us. Rucksacks with food, water, and medical stuff. Rope. Torches. Spare batteries. Phones are charged. Ha, looks to me as if we intend doing more than scouting around the entrance, but I say not a word, allowing Johnny to gather what he regards as essentials. He sent a message to his Janet, telling her he’s helping a mate out today, and is now all business. Most unlike Johnny.

While he mutters away, I go into my studio. Staring at my failures, I know this needs doing. I need to get back to normal. I need to feel supple clay under my questing fingers. I am a potter, not a penitent to some god with delusions. Right? Too right.

Feeling better, decision made, I rejoin Johnny. We’ll drive out to where the road peters out, and hike the rest of the way, a matter of half an hour at most. No long walk into twilight this time.

We’re on our way within minutes, neither offering conversation. Soon enough, we abandon the car, load up and start walking. The morning is fresh, still damp after the rain two nights ago, and birdsong accompanies us. Weaving through the trees on a track only animals now use, we come to the jumble of rocks, and there we stand, mouths agape.

Whatever barrier the local authority put up twenty years ago is no longer in place. The chains that, by all accounts, fenced the area, lie forgotten in the mud, rusting away, barely discernible. One sign remains on a listing and rotting wooden post, but the words are indecipherable. In fact, other than for that sign, the place looks exactly like it did on the day Harriet went in, never to come out with eyes able to see.

“No one remembers,” Johnny grunts.

Harriet’s parents do, I want to say, but don’t. “We’ll make a stink about this when we go back,” I promise instead.

Nodding, Johnny moves forward. We then commence a dedicated search of the area. Other than deer tracks, we find little. No one has been here in a long time.

Around ten, sitting on a boulder with thermos coffee to hand, I look at my mate. “We’re going in, aren’t we?”

He shrugs, sips his brew.

Yes, we are. We don’t wish to come here a second time. Do it now and be done with it. On the flipside, that means, if successful, I’ll have time enough to fashion a host of planters in the interim. Won’t make my deadline, but I’ll only be a week or so late. The tester will go in the oven when ready and if unbroken after, the large firing can commence. Shaking my head at my mercenary thoughts – gotta eat, dude, relax – I again give attention to Johnny.

His eyes have narrowed. “Look there. There, to the left. Do those rocks look pulverised to you?”

They do. It looks as if a giant trod there as he entered. Fanciful? Maybe, but my heart suddenly thumps against my ribs.

* new cover not yet live online


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