Meg considered the list for a moment. The items these people had requested were common and the quantities doable—except for the order signed by Bull-leg Ben, a gypsy.
It was for jugs. But not normal-sized, these jugs had to be as small as her thumb. She had never tried to make doll-size things. It certainly was possible—she could pinch from lumps of clay by hand. Still, what use did a gypsy have for so many of them?
Lanni pointed to the bottom line on the order. Meg was startled. The jugs were an odd request, but at the price Bull-leg had agreed to pay, she would be a fool not to make them.
* * * *
Snow banked up against the sides of the cabin and swirled across the floor of the workshop as Lanni came in from the yard, his pants crusted with ice, a freshly slaughtered chicken clutched in one hand. “I sure wish I could catch up with one of those snowshoe hares, so we could have something different to eat,” he said. Then he glanced at the order Meg had taken from the top of the stack. “So, you're finally going to make the jugs?"
Meg looked down at the paper. Perhaps today she should begin them. It wasn't as if pinching them was going to be difficult ... But right now, she could feel the wheel waiting, almost hear its voice: fast and slow, gentle and demanding, mesmerizing, entrancing.
She shoved Bull-leg's order to the bottom of the stack.
* * * *
A week later on Candlemas eve, Lanni came into the cabin carrying a crock of clay. “It's about time you try your hand at making a few of those jugs for Bull-leg,” he said to Meg.
Dredging up a yawn, Meg shook her head. “I'm too tired."
Lanni raised an eyebrow. “Think of it, two more months and the caravan will camp across the stream. Their pockets jingling, their hearts set on jugs.” He put the crock on the dry sink, and then sat opposite her at the table.
Noticing a hint of hoarfrost on the lip of the crock, Meg thought fast. “If you got that clay from the shed, it's too cold to work,” she said.
"My mother used to put pieces of clay under her breasts. It warms up quickly that way,” Lanni said.
As if the room were suddenly lit by a thousand candles, everything flared into focus. “Your mother used to make Bull-leg's jugs, didn't she?” Meg's face heated, her voice shook. “Your mother died so you had to find someone else to do the work."
Lanni's eyes narrowed.
Meg stared back. “Well?"
Without the slightest uneasiness in his voice Lanni replied. “The jugs were important to my mother. They are important to me as well.” His eyes studied her face. “They are talismans. When I am finished they will contain magic—the four elements."
Meg swallowed. Magic? What was he talking about? And why did she feel so angry? She had known he was up to something. She needed to calm down, to forget the pain that clawed at her heart. She was not his selkie. She was Meg. It was all right if he used her, if it meant her potworks would survive.
Breathing deeply, she looked away from him to the darkening window. For a moment, she focused beyond the depths of the night, imagining the snow-covered yard, the moonlit clay pit and the shrouded river. The fact that he had replaced his mother's skills with hers made sense. The danger to the potworks rested in the fact that he had involved her in some sort of gypsy sorcery. She needed to know more. Talismans, magic: maybe his own words could be used against him. “A magic talisman, I thought you were Catholic? You wear a cross,” she said.
Lanni's face darkened. “Part of the talisman is holy water from the Church of Notre-Dame in Montreal. One of the Fathers there blesses it for me. He knew my mother before my parents were married, when she studied at the Ursuline monastery.” He was silent for a second. “I am not a heathen,” he said, his eyes daring her to answer back.
She wanted to retort—perhaps an argument against using holy water in a talisman. Her mind rushed to what she remembered from Sunday School: a pale blue dress the Minister's wife had given her, the letters and sums she had learned before and after worship ... and there were the sweet biscuits they had with tea. All the children from the pottery had stolen biscuits.
A chill shook Meg and her voice went hoarse as she said, “I guess I don't know much about religion. It just doesn't seem right—magic and Christianity."
The frown lifted from Lanni's face. “There is no shame in not understanding. I'll teach you."
Meg's stomach twisted. Suddenly pinching jugs seemed preferable to talking. “A warm rag will heat the clay enough that you'll be able to wedge it,” she said, rising to get the kettle and a cloth.
Lanni kept talking. “The clay represents earth, and in the form of a jug, it encases the other elements: the blessed water, the air.” Meg glanced over her shoulder. Lanni gestured at the fluttering curtains in the window he had cracked open earlier.
It seemed that, even without her prodding, Lanni was coming clean. But Meg wondered if he would have told her these details if she hadn't caught him when he slipped by mentioning how his mother warmed the clay. Either way, it was a relief. At least now she knew what he was up to, and why he was interested in her. From this point on, as long as she listened to him closely, it would be difficult for him to get anything past her.
Lanni cleared his throat and spoke louder. “And the fourth element: fire..."
She knew this one. “The heat of the kiln,” she said, before he could finish.
"Not exactly. Fire is the passion, the feelings the potter puts into making the jug.” He made a point of catching her gaze. “It is why I must stay with you when you make them. You should never work the clay alone, like you do."
Meg's cooling anger flushed. He had nerve suggesting she shouldn't work alone. “This is a load of rubbish,” she said.
"Haven't you ever known a potter who lost their mind?” he asked in a serious tone.
Hattie Savage flashed into Meg's mind. She brought her fingers to her lips to stifle a gasp.
Lanni nodded. “It happens if you give too much of yourself, too many of your feelings to clay. The earth is more than willing to suck you dry. It takes away feelings, Selkie, but it does not return them."
Abruptly Meg rose. Though she had no thirst, she hurried to the cupboard, and took out the teapot and a jar of dried wintergreen. In silence, she crumpled the leaves and watched them fall into the darkness of the pot.
Lanni came up beside her, resting his hand on her shoulder. “I'll ready the clay,” he said.
Meg did not answer. Motionless, she listened as he picked up the crock and left: his footsteps echoing through the shed chamber, the workshop door opening, closing. Letting out her breath, Meg took the kettle and poured water into the teapot. From beyond her thoughts came the rhythmic pound of Lanni wedging clay.
Whether the clay was warm enough to work before Lanni started wedging it or not, Meg was not sure. But when he returned and she took a piece from the crock, the clay was the perfect consistency to pinch.
While Lanni strummed his mandolin, Meg rested her elbows on the table, closed her eyes and felt the clay with her fingers—smooth and supple, giving and warm. In her mind she pictured the shape of the jug she wanted, and with her fingers and her potter's pick, she worked to make the image real.
Meg opened her eyes and set the tiny jug on the table. She took a sip of tea. Though she hadn't wanted it, the wintergreen seemed to calm her. In fact as she took a second lump of clay and began to pinch another jug, she felt so tranquil she couldn't remember why she had been worrying about Hattie Savage or religion.
Lanni put down his mandolin and poured wine into his empty teacup. He smiled at her. “Don't you want to ask what the talismans are for?"
Meg shook herself alert. That did seem like a question she should have asked.
But before she could say anything, Lanni answered. “They protect against death,” he said.
Startled, Meg said the first thing that came to her mind. “But your family?” She let out her breath ... they were back to his mother again.
"My mother
made the jugs for the money. But, as you pointed out, it isn't a very Catholic thing to do.” Lanni pursed his lips and scowled. “She never kept any.” He stared at the little jug that Meg was making. “A Rom, a gypsy, should never work the earth as much as my mother did. The clay is too eager for the feel of us."
* * * *
By the end of mud season, when the ice stopped forming on the edge of the river and the ruts dried and the Post Road became passable, Meg had a warehouse full of pottery.
Including two hundred and eighty-eight little jugs, wrapped in hay and packed in crates that Lanni had made.
* * * *
One morning in April, just as the sun reached over the mountains, Meg heard the grind of a wagon's wheels and the clink of shaft bells in the yard. She hurried to dress, but by the time she got outside she caught only a glimpse of a gypsy and his cart trundling away, disappearing into the fog-capped hemlocks by the shallows.
"You just missed Ben,” Lanni said, picking up a pair of empty mugs from the chopping block. “The caravan arrived last night.” He pointed across the stream to the gaudy wagons and tents barely visible in the misty light. “Ben came over to get the jugs. Midday, I'm going to the camp to bargain."
"But he already agreed to a price. We'll tell him there's no haggling,” Meg said.
"We are not going. This is between Ben and me. It's tradition.” Lanni looked down, pretending to wipe dirt from his pants.
So he didn't want her to read his expression. Two could play this game. Meg feigned a sigh. “If it's the only way,” she said in compliant tone.
But when afternoon came and Lanni went out and climbed into his wagon to change his clothes, Meg brushed her hair and grabbed her shawl. Making sure he was still out of sight, she went to the shed and harnessed her pony. She had just brought it around to where Lanni's saddle horse was tied, when he strode down the wagon-steps.
Any thoughts she had of going with him fled.
The man before her was not the man she knew: the man whose skin had glistened from shoveling clay, whose hands had blackened from picking butternuts. This was not the same man at all. His dark hair was pulled back tight, the scarf around his neck as smooth as the blade of a knife, his pants taut, his crimson vest embroidered with pheasants and beaded with jade—every gold chain, cross, ring, and earring that she had ever seen him wear, he wore now. And the keen glint in his eyes ... Could he see into her soul? How much magic did he really know?
She lowered her eyes. Why wasn't he moving? Why didn't he say anything? She glanced up.
His face was expressionless.
A shiver ran up her spine.
Lanni's lips twitched, then he broke into a laugh. “I look pretty swank, eh?"
Still taken back by his appearance, Meg could only muster a faint smile.
Lanni nodded at her pony. “You know you can't come with me,” he said. “This isn't just for show.” He touched his slicked hair. “This is part of who I am—a Roma.” His face softened. “Tonight, we'll both go, meet Ben and his kumpania."
In a practiced swagger, Lanni abruptly returned to the wagon. “I almost forgot,” he said, reaching inside and taking out a paper-wrapped bundle. In three strides, he was beside her, pushing the package into her hands. “This is for tonight. I bought it last winter in Montreal."
She could tell by the package's limp weight that there was cloth inside—something for her to wear.
Meg's heart thumped as hard as if she were digging clay. It had been years since she had new clothes. Even when she planned her passage to America, the only clothing she had purchased was a used cloak. Almost every coin she had ever saved had gone into buying this property.
For a moment she imagined Lanni in Montreal considering the color of her eyes, her hair, the shape of her body, as he picked out this gift. Meg flushed.
Then something else occurred to her and her flush heated to anger. He had bought the gift with her money—from selling her pottery. The paper crinkled as her fingers tightened. She thought about shoving it back at him, telling him how it made her feel: angry, cheated, confused. “Lanni, this gift...” she started to say.
But he had already swung up onto his horse, and was waving back at her as he headed down the muddy path toward the shallows.
Meg did not wait to watch him cross the stream. She headed into the cabin and tossed the package onto the table. If Lanni saw it there, unopened, when he returned, maybe that would tell him how she felt.
A memory fluttered through her mind. Before he had gone to Montreal, he had held his hands around her waist. As if he wished to memorize her size? She picked up the package, pressed it to her face: wood smoke, cedar, wintergreen.
Meg closed her eyes.
She could refuse to open it. Refuse to put on the clothes he had chosen. She could choose to never do anything for him again.
Or she could let this last night spin as it would, let it turn like her potter's wheel until all was finished. He'd be back soon, bringing home the coins—please, Lanni, bring home coins, not things. And, tonight she could go with him to the caravan, drink the sweet wine, listen to the gypsies’ songs, watch them dance, feel their fire ... feel Lanni, his hands, his lips, one last time.
In the morning she would send him off. It was spring, and she would once again be alone with her wheel and her clay—no richer or poorer for having met him. With a handful of clay and the kick of her wheel, she could begin to build her life again.
Meg slipped off her chemise. She washed her hair and sponged her body. Gooseflesh rose as she dried in the cool air.
Her fingers fumbled with the string that bound the package. The paper fell open. In waves of blues and greens, a skirt tumbled into her hands. Folded within the skirt was a white blouse and a brocade jacket, with pockets deep enough to hide her knife as well as her calloused hands. The fanciful clothes were not like anything she had ever gotten from the minister's wife, but they were delightful.
Once she was finished dressing, she brought a chair outside and set it in the scattered sunlight, to wait for Lanni.
On the western horizon, clouds banked gray against the new-green hills, and across the stream the gypsy women scurried to lug in laundry that had been drying on the cedars. Close to her, from the clay pit, came the steady drip of melting snow and the gurgle of ground water rising to join the runoff. Most of the clay had thawed, but when the sunlight darted from between the clouds, here and there in the pit, the last patches of winter's ice glittered like Lanni's eyes, like his gold rings. With these new clothes it would have been nice to have a bit of gold to wear.
The clouds choked the sun and the air cooled. Meg folded and unfolded her hands in her lap. It was odd—even with the clouds shading the sun her forehead was damp, her back hot, her breath a shallow pant, as she waited ... The water rippled down the clay ... It would be nice to have a gold ring ... Mr. Clew wore a ring. It bruised her lips when he held his hand over her mouth. The blood in her mouth, she could taste it. Her father had bruised her lip once...
The chair fell backwards as Meg staggered to her feet. She hunched over, her hands on her knees. She couldn't catch her breath. The workshop. Her wheel. Her clay. If she sat at her wheel, her skirt pulled up over her knees, she could force these ghosts to flee her mind, to go through her fingers and into the clay ... but she couldn't do it, not in this new skirt and jacket, not even with an apron to cover them.
Meg picked up the chair and sat down. Her hands fidgeted in her lap. Her fingers dug at the fabric. A patch of snow broke loose and slid down the clay into the river, bobbing in the current.
As she stood again the coarse dirt of the yard crunched underfoot. Unlike the yard, the clay was satin smooth as she stepped onto it. It felt so good. Meg closed her eyes and crouched. Her skirt swirled out around her taking up the earthy scent, the moisture of clay. She knelt, and bent forward until her cheek rested on the earth. She spread her arms out, her hands flat. She was so close to the trickle of water, the beautiful voice of
the clay. It was so cool against her hot face. If she lay down maybe she'd disappear...
"Selkie!” Lanni shouted.
Panic surged though her. She opened her eyes and scrambled to her feet.
"What are you doing?” he yelled.
Meg spun around. The clay pit. The yard. What was she doing?
Lanni grasped her wrist. It hurt. A potter needs her wrists.
His voice hardened. “Inside, now.” He pulled her toward the cabin.
Meg yanked free.
His eyes narrowed, a nerve twitched in his cheek. “Go inside,” he said.
She felt the dampness of her clothes. Her hands fell limp at her sides. Her stomach twisted. Clay crusted on her face. Lanni stood still, silent. She knew he was waiting for her to explain, but how could she explain something she didn't understand herself?
She groped for an excuse. Had she been chasing the last chicken from the pit? Was she watching for him and slipped? It was best to change the subject. He was back from the caravan. She didn't see any new things. He must have coins. “You're right, we should go inside. I want to know what Ben said, and see the coins,” she said.
Lanni paled.
A rising sense of dread cleared her mind. “You did get coins?” She asked.
"We will have them,” Lanni said, taking a step towards her.
Meg opened and closed her fists.
He held his arms out. “What was I to do? It was a bad winter in Montreal. Ben is honest, generous. This fall..."
"What do you mean: this fall?"
"He'll pay us then. You don't need to worry.” Lanni's brow wrinkled. “You'll get a bonus, for waiting."
Lanni was trying to trick her. He had taken her pottery, and returned empty handed. A bonus. Mr. Clews had given her a cottage as a bonus, so he could visit her discreetly.
A wind came out of the west. It rattled the windows of the cabin, and the chimney of the kiln cried from its force.
Meg glared at Lanni, her voice gathering volume. “I don't want a bonus. I want coins and if you don't have them, then you have nothing I want.” Every muscle in her body tensed. “Do you hear me? You have nothing I want. Leave me, let me live in peace."
Challenging Destiny #23 Page 14
