CHAPTER NINE

After the quiet intensity of the drive, Janey’s place was a shock to the system. Dogs bounded up and frolicked around the car, leaving me so petrified I’d run one over that I had to come to a full stop and hit my horn.

On the third long honk, Janey could be heard coming down the lane. “Quincy!!!” – she pronounced it, naturally, “KWIN-zy” – “Maddy! Jackson! Here!!! Here, now!!!” The dogs – lab, shepherd, and some type of long-legged mutt – broke off and bounded her direction.

I looked at Jacob. “Tell me that was all of them. Only three, right?”

“Pretty sure,” he said. “Hard to tell, with how they were jumping around.”

“Can you hop out and check? It’s hard to be certain with the trailer. There were at least four, last time I was here. Might’ve been five.”

He flashed me a smile and hopped out, walking toward the rear of the truck.

The sound alerted the watchers, because the shepherd was loping back, ears at full attention.

“Jackson!! Jackson!! Dagnabbit!” Janey emerged from around the bend in the tracks, the other two dogs at her heels.

Jackson streaked past my door and caught Jacob as he came into view in the side mirror. But when the dog reached him, it stopped, looking uncertain.

Jacob was still, but not frozen, holding himself in a loose, ready stance. Rather than make eye contact with the dog, he glanced forward and to the right, unconcerned, as if the dog posed no challenge.

The dog whimpered, unsure of what to make of the human who was not providing the expected fear signals.

“Now, Jackson!” Janey hollered. Sticking two fingers in her mouth, she let out a piercing whistle.

The dog turned, tucked its tail down, and trotted back.

“Crap, I’m sorry about that!” Janey was striding forward, her dirty gray hair as always a riotous bird’s nest, her pale eyes full of fire and her spare frame fence-rail thin.

I hopped down from the cab and gave her a hug. “Damn, woman! Aren’t witches supposed to have cats?”

“Whaddya mean?” She pushed me back to arms’ length. “You sayin’ they aren’t cats? Well, fuck me dead!” She looked over to where Jacob stood, waiting calmly. “C’mon over, son. Once I pass you, you’ll be jake.”

“Janey, this is Jacob Harmon, a . . . well, the connection’s otherwise complicated. He’s my friend. Jacob – Janey Townsend. She might be annoyed if you call her Calamity Jane, but everyone does.”

“Usually once.” Her pale eyes twinkled. “Don’t recall anyone was ever dumb ’nuff to say it twice.”

Jacob smiled. “I’d offer you a hand, but I think you’d better make those other introductions first.”

“Too right,” she said approvingly. “Maddy. Quincy. Jackson.” She snapped her fingers. All three dogs were sitting at attention, looking at her. She reached over and gripped Jacob’s shoulder. “Friend. Friend.”

Six eyes watched. Three tails wagged approval.

She released his arm and snapped her fingers again. “Good dogs!” She pulled some treats from a well-worn pouch on her belt and made appropriate distributions.

When they’d gotten their treats, they circled back to Jacob and gave his legs a thorough sniff.

He ignored them and reached out a hand in greeting. “Good to meet you, Janey – and your Praetorian Guard!”

“Likewise,” she said, her raspy voice still warm. She looked over at me. “Didn’t know you were bringing someone, Kez. The rooms’r all spoken for.”

“Not an issue,” I assured her. “It was a last-minute thing, but Jacob’s going to pitch a tent by me. I thought we could use the extra help, and he knows his way around bisqueware.”

She smiled broadly. “Fantastic! You a potter?”

“No ma’am,” he said. “But my mom was, back when, and I learned some things.”

“Wait . . . your name’s Harmon?” Her eyes narrowed. “Trixie’s boy?”

Jacob looked uncharacteristically confused. “Ah . . . no. My Mom’s . . . .”

She cut him off. “Patricia Butler. I know. I can see her in you, now I know to look. Harmon, when she was married.”

“Yes. I, ah . . . I didn’t know she had a nickname.” He smiled, a bit warily. Janey can be a bit of a stormwind.

Janey positively cackled. “Christ on a cross! Trixie was one of her more socially acceptable nicknames! We met in art school.”

“Small world,” he said.

Janey’s face shifted out of antic mode, seeing something in Jacob’s posture, or maybe catching something in his voice, that alerted her to the potential for shoals. She reached up and gave his arm a squeeze. “Well, you’re welcome three times over – once for Kez here, once for my old buddy, and a final time just for yourself. I know things got tough for your ma. I’d love to hear about her sometime . . . but I understand if you’d rather not.”

Jacob visibly relaxed and laid a hand over hers. “I’d like that . . . . And I’d like to hear some of your stories too, if you’re comfortable ratting her out! But maybe later?”

“Sure thing, Hon.” She turned back to me and said, “I’ll keep this lot back. Go ahead and drive out to the kiln; we’ve got tables under the tent for the wares. I’ll be along in a bit.”

“Sounds good.” I hopped back in the cab and Jacob joined me. Fifty yards down, the road split, with the left fork going to Janey’s home and studio. We went right and down slightly, emerging onto a meadow which held Janey’s primary kilns – an older-style gas kiln and her big train kiln. The area to the left of the train kiln currently housed a large open tent with lots of eight-by-two folding tables, some of which already held an impressive amount of bisqueware. On the other side of the tents were massive, carefully stacked bins of split wood. Our fuel supply.

Jacob helped me unload the trailer, working to put my wares in with the rest, segregated by area of the kiln, and within that, by size. Jacob was even better in his handling than he had been the prior day, and the work went quickly. He was helping me unwrap my monstrous amphorae when Janey rejoined us.

She marveled at it. “Well . . . damn, Kez! I mean, I get it! I do! But . . . what on earth you gonna do with it?”

I pulled myself to my full – and not very impressive – height. “Do with it? Madam, it’s Art! It doesn’t do! It simply is! In all its . . . ah . . . ya know . . . artistic splendor!” I held my pose for maybe three seconds, my face a mask of faux hauteur. I couldn’t make it to four before I cracked up.

Janey laughed uproariously. “Oh, Kez! I really want to see what our dragon here’s gonna do to that thang!”

“Me, too! Been waiting five years! But . . . We’ll see. I know you’re running light, but it’s still a bear’n cubs, and there’s only one place for it.”

She patted my shoulder. “You’re the boss on the load, Kez. I trust you more’n anyone. More’n me, even.”

I smiled my thanks and looked at the tables. “I see lots of Tatiana’s work, yours and Jem’s, Bill Frost’s usual acres of mugs . . . Sug’s sculptural pieces . . . and look at Gary’s covered pots! Wow, he’s improved! The underglaze pieces must be from Janice, and the pitchers are Mike’s. I don’t recognize that series of tall cylinders. Interesting work.”

“Paul Sylvester – that studio in Boston I’ve been trying to lure up here.” She sounded a little wary.

“Huh,” I said. I expected I’d get the story later. “Who’s stuff’s still out?”

“The NHTI kids Debbie’s sending; they should be here by 7:00. Kelly’s in for six k; I expect her any time. I leaned on Travis Morton, and he said he could scrape up three k or so, but he can’t be here ’til the morning. He told me to tell you not to worry, it’s all middle-middle so it’ll load last anyway.”

I nodded, playing a game of high-value Tetris in my mind. “How much from NHTI?”

“Deb wasn’t able to give me hard numbers. Could be three; could be eight.”

I shrugged. “We’ll just have to see. Who’s helping the load?”

“You on the inside; me, Jacob here, Sug, Janice, and Sylvester.”

That sounded good. “And everyone’ll be there for the pow-wow tomorrow night?”

“Yep. All confirmed. Now if you’ll excuse me, I want to finalize the schedule. Tatiana and Sug are both staying up at the house, and they’re working on some food. Should be ready in an hour or so.”

“Perfect. I’ll move the trailer and we’ll get our tents up.”

She waved and walked briskly back toward the house.

Jacob and I pitched our tents in the meadow, about thirty yards from the kiln. I’d had lots of practice, but Jacob’s was up in half the time. It was light-weight, low, and unobtrusive. Mine was taller – ironically, given our relative heights – and I was embarrassed to fill it with a battery-pumped air mattress.

“I’m such a wuss!” I said, as the air pump whirred away.

Jacob had just thrown a small, thin, self-inflating cushion on the floor of his tent. “I’m a ranger, Kez. This is, like, my day job. You have enough trouble keeping limber, doing what you do.”

“Thanks . . . I think!”

While we were setting up, I heard dogs barking again, and Kelly Clifford’s big SUV trundled toward us. She parked by the tent and started to unload her wares.

I waved.

We wrapped up our work, then walked up to the house, pausing to ask Kelly if she was coming up.

She bussed my cheek. “Hey Kez! Nope, I’m staying in town with the lunk this time. I’ll be back tomorrow night for the Pow-Wow, and I think Janey’s gonna want me on door building first shift.”

Up at the house, Tatiana and Sug had made a wonderful fish stew of some sort, and there was fresh bread, and plenty of spring water. We were still eating when the two college students arrived – late – having already eaten on the road. Brice and Tawney (who, name notwithstanding, had dark brown hair). Janey took them down to the unloading area, since she had to get both of them straight with the dogs anyway.

It was a pretty subdued gathering; everyone had worked hard to get things ready and were ready for some sleep. Jacob and I, as the late arrivals, sent the rest off to their beds, washed and dried the dishes, cleaned the kitchen, and headed down.

“Long day,” I said.

Jacob appeared to chew on this pedestrian comment as we strolled down the dirt road. “It’s an interesting life you have.”

I made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a snort.

“Do you like it?”

The moon was up, and the meadow opened up before us. My decadent air mattress beckoned. I shrugged. “Keziah Brown, Potter. It’s who I am. I wouldn’t even begin to know how to be anyone else.”

“But Kara comes before even that?”

I smiled. “Always.”

He touched my shoulder lightly. “Good night, Kez.”

“Good night. And . . . Jacob?”

He turned back to face me.

“Thanks for coming. I’m glad you’re here.”

He smiled and ducked into his tent.
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CHAPTER TEN

I began the day with a personal ritual. I wear my hair fairly long, and that’s not a good thing for working around fire. The sensible thing to do, then, is to put it up somehow. Girls do all sorts of things, from simple braids to up-dos.

However, one of the more experienced potters at my second or third wood firing was a Sikh. On a lark, I asked him to show me how to put my hair in a front knot and wrap a turban over it. It was fun, and the firing had produced some of my first truly professional wood-fired art. So it became something of a good luck totem for me. It had the added advantage of hiding how truly grimy and awful my hair was by the time a firing was finished.

So I stood outside my tent in the morning air, my hair in a coiled braid above my forehead covered by a thin patka, wrapping a gauzy cloth around my head, one end in my mouth.

Jacob was already up and wandering about, but naturally he chose that moment to return. His dark eyebrows went sky high, but he waited until I was done, the cloth no longer in my mouth, to say, “please tell me that’s not a required part of the uniform!”

“Well of course it is,” I said earnestly. “I mean, you wouldn’t want to bring shame upon the craft, or draw the wrath of the kiln gremlins!”

He chuckled, and it bubbled over into a long laugh. “Are all potters crazy?”

“No.” I shook my head emphatically. “I wouldn’t put the percentage any higher than 92. But I wouldn’t guess it’s much lower, either.”

We started the loading at 9:00 sharp. I’d fired with all of them except Paul Sylvester, a spare, intense man with thinning hair and pronounced opinions. Janice Ramsey, in contrast, was pleasantly plump, with apple cheeks, merry eyes and an easy disposition. Her underglazes tended to pop in the firing, producing colors that were unusual for wood-fired work. Sug Sealy was an old friend. We’d taken workshops and classes together years ago and discussed life, art and pottery deep into a lot of nights. Ethereal and willow-thin, she made abstract sculptures and achieved dramatically different results in different parts of the kiln.

“Okay, alla ya,” Janey said with a clap of her hands. “Welcome, in your case,” she smiled at Paul, then Jacob, “and welcome back, everyone else. Here’s how this is gonna work. We’ll load the front first, then the back, then the middle. Same as usual. Like the last two firings, I’m putting Kez on the inside. And let me be clear what that means. Once the pot crosses the kiln wall, I don’t want anyone’s hands on it, other’n Kez. We got space for one person in there, and Kez is the best. Clear?”

Everyone nodded. Nothing unusual, really.

“My pieces and Jem’s are already wadded; the rest’ll have to be done as we go. For now, I want Paul to help me get the pieces to Kez in the right order, and glue the wads on them. Sug and Janice, if you could roll more wads that’d be the biggest help for now. Jacob, let’s put that strong back of yours to work. Kez will need posts” – she pointed to an area of wooden shelving with different sized fire bricks – “and shelves” – here, she pointed to stacks of heavy silicon carbide sheets – “as we go along. Everyone good?”

More nods. “Okay! Let’s get cracking!”

It all sounded terribly efficient, but reality bit almost immediately. I was inside the kiln, doing some measurements. Janey leaned over the kiln wall – the top was off, suspended overhead by a heavy chain raised on a crank – and said, “What are you thinking, Kez? How much height do you need under the first shelf, if you put the monster up front?”

I re-checked my measurements. “Only way to fire it is on its side, and even there, it’s eighteen inches at the widest part. We’d have to start the other tall pieces further back.”

She whistled through her teeth. “Oooh . . . Ouch. It tapers a lot, though . . . Couldn’t we orient a shelf front to back, so we can get a few more talls up front?”

I scratched my head, thinking about it.

“Excuse me.” Paul Sylvester joined Janey. “I couldn’t help overhearing. Look, my tall pieces really need to be front-front. It’s what they were designed for . . . Why I came here.”

Janey said, “Now hold on! We got to be fair to everyone!”

“Well, if I understand right, if this piece goes in, we’ll have limited space right by the firebox. How’s that fair?” His intense eyes were troubled.

“Now c’mon, Kez’s been waiting for years for the chance to fire that thing . . . and, besides. If we don’t put it in, the whole kiln’s gonna be short!”

Paul looked stubborn. “Like I said . . . .”

I cut in, “Paul, sorry for interrupting. I think you’ve raised an important point, and I’ve got an idea.”

He looked at me hopefully.

Janey, on the other hand, looked suspicious. She knew me too well.

I popped out the side, which would get bricked up when we were done loading. “Paul, why don’t you get your pieces wadded.” I looked back at where they were in the tent and added, “The two tallest ones’ll need to be fired on their sides. I’ll be back in just a couple. Janey?”

She followed me, still looking suspicious. When we were out of earshot, she said, “Dammit, Kez!”

I put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s fine. Really. It was only a ‘if possible.’ And Paul’s right about his pieces; you know it. He’s looking for the same gnarly, heavy look I am.”

“Why him’n not you?”

I laughed. “’Cuz I’ll be back, regardless, and he’ll only be back if he gets what he’s looking for. You want that studio’s work, Janey. C’mon now. It’s a business, like it or not. I get that.”

She growled, sounding suspiciously like her dogs. “If you fire it further back, you won’t get the effect you want. And if you don’t fire it at all, there’ll be too much space between pots. We need that volume!”

“I’d agree with you,” I said, smiling, “If I didn’t know you were holding out on us. You’ve got eight big refires on the shelves off your kitchen; I saw them last night. If we need more pots, you can put some of them in.”

“Refires!”

“They’ll do great. Looks like most of ’em just were underfired a bit. This time, we’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.”

She threw up her hands. “Fine. Damn, Kez! I really wanted to see that piece!”

“Me, too. Someday. But I’m thinking I’ll have more luck with an anagama firing.”

We went back, the problem solved. The work proceeded pretty efficiently. Paul and Janey were keeping me with a steady supply of pieces, each on little wadding “stilts” so that they didn’t rest on – and get fused to – the shelves. As each space filled, Jacob brought me another shelf, and we decided the size of the posts to use for the next area. I set each pot, each post, and each shelf, with an eye to ensuring airflow from the front of the kiln to the back.

It took a couple hours to load the front, then we took a short break. I was chatting off to the side with Jacob, explaining a bit more how placement worked, when Paul came over. “Look, I’m sorry I was such a prick. It’s just . . . .”

I smiled. “You're an artist, you know what you’re looking for, and you came a long way. Don’t worry about it. I’ll get that beast of mine fired someday, but there’s no rush. The chance that anyone will ever want to buy it is remote.”

“Well . . . thanks, anyway. I really appreciate it – and your loading looks awesome!”

He wandered off.

Jacob gave me a look, and I smiled, shrugged, and rolled my eyes. “All in a day’s work!”

After the break, I placed the pieces on the floor of the back of the kiln by the sutema – relatively tall pieces. So I used nine-inch posts to hold the first set of shelves. Jacob was handing one of the first slabs to me when Travis Morton arrived and started unloading his pieces on the tables reserved for the middle section of the kiln.

We had a good rhythm down, and the rear section went faster than the front. We broke for lunch at one, and everyone was glad for the break.

Jacob sat across from me at one of the picnic tables, after having acquired big glasses of ice water for both of us. “Damn – that’s some thirsty work!”

I guzzled a full third of the glass, smiling my appreciation. “It is! But it’s easier when it’s cooler out. Janey won’t fire the train over the summer because it’s just too hot.”

“Seems pretty well insulated,” he said. “Heavy-duty firebricks and all.”

“It is, absolutely. But we crank it up to 2300, 2400 degrees, and you have to open it up every few minutes to stoke it. You can get through a shift feeling plenty warm when there’s snow on the ground. Well . . . not your feet, but everything else.”

“I plain hate those shifts!” Janey plopped down beside me, a paper plate with a sandwich and chips in her hands. “Getting too old, and too ornery, to walk into the house with toes gone numb with the cold, while I’m near dyin’ of heat stroke.”

“It’s not that bad, Janey,” I laughed.

“Try it when you're sixty, punk!”

“That’s the plan,” I said affectionately, giving her a one-armed hug. Janey’s a character, but she’s a mentor as well as a friend. And I knew it meant something to her, that I was just as committed to this enterprise, and this art form, as she was.

We got back to work, now filling in pots in the area where I had stood while we’d loaded the front and back of the kiln. The middle took longer, as we had more, and smaller, pieces. Mugs and small cups, tiles and some plate stacks, as well as some of Sug’s smaller sculptures. We finished up around 4:30.

Everyone was there at 6:00 sharp, up by the house. Janey had, with mock reluctance, given Tatiana her secret recipe for North Carolina barbecue. Might not be world famous, exactly, but sure’s hell, it was well known in the small world of ceramic artists! Amidst the pulled pork and the chicken, there was a tangy coleslaw, buttery cornbread, and everything you could drink.

Every kind of water, straight from Janey’s artesian well.

After a day of physical labor on a late spring day, everything tasted as perfect as sunrise on a beach in Maine. Janey finished with some pecan pie, on the theory that some flavors just go together. While we were all sampling that, she stood and clapped her hands.

“All right, I’ll keep this part short. Most of you know the rules, but some o’ ya are new here – and others could damn well use a refresher!” She glowered at all and sundry.

“So, first thing. I’m in charge from 8:00 am to 8:00 pm. You got a question, concern, whatever, you get me. If I’m not down at the kiln, you call me – took a while, but we finally got some cell service up here.

“8:00 pm to 8:00 am, Kez is in charge. Same deal. You got questions, you ask Kez. Tent’s not far from the kiln. And when I say ‘Kez is in charge,’ I mean it. I’m old and mean and I need my frickin’ beauty rest, especially after a day of dealin’ with you lot. So do not – DO NOT! – make me come down there! Clear?”

She waited until she’d seen a nod from everyone there.

Or, in my case, a broad smile.

“All right. Next. No alcohol, no drugs, no exceptions. And get the rest you need when you aren’t on. I mean it. You need to be sharp and alert. Worst accident I’ve had was some idiot who scorched both eyebrows putting his head too close to a peephole. Stank to high heaven. But I run a safe firing, and it stays that way.

“Oh – reminds me. Closed-toed shoes. Wear ’em. I know it’s warm and sandals feel more comfortable, but some of the wood we’re throwin’ in there’s pretty heavy. Break a toe easy, you drop it. And there’s alway spilled embers when we rake the coals.”

Again, she looked around and got visible affirmations. “Alright, that’s the big stuff. You’ve got your shift assignments, so if you’ve got questions, ask ’em this evening or tomorrow while we’re bricking up the door. And Kez or I’ll go over things with you at the start of your shifts.”

She looked around. “Any general questions? Stuff everyone might be interested in finding out?”

Bill Frost, the King of Ugly Mugs™, looked up thoughtfully. “Janey, I’s wondering if you might be able to tell us whether there’s life after death. Been thinkin’ it over some, and I figured, you’re the boss.”

Amidst the laughter, Janey said, “Can’t say I’ve looked into Bill, but if you're that curious, you kin go straight to hell and send us an email about what you find there!”

He laughed along with the rest of us.

“If there aren’t any relevant questions” – Janey gave Bill a look as she stressed the modifier – “I’ve got a bit of a treat lined up. I leaned on ol’ Travis here to come join us, mostly because we needed the pots. But, he also brought his fiddle. And as you know, he’s even better with the bow than he is with the wheel.”

There was much clapping and laughing, and amid sounds of general approval, Travis got up and played. Back country, mostly, high and fast. Some of it was suited for dancing, and most everyone was up and spinning, clapping with the rhythm and having a good time.

To my surprise, Jacob joined in with gusto; I expected a man with such reserves of quiet to hang back, to seek the shadows at the edges of the gathering. But there he was, stomping and clapping, twirling the gals and me, and to all appearances enjoying himself immensely. He looked particularly good with Sug, who was a surprisingly good dancer and looked sweet in a lavender sundress.

The sun set – late, as it does in June, this far north – and Travis began to slow his tempo, choosing quieter pieces. Before long, we were all seated at the picnic table or on the grass, listening. I found myself a tree to lean against, my legs out straight on the short grass.

Jacob wandered over, once again bearing glasses of water.

I gazed up at him. “You born in early February, maybe?”

He smiled. “September. That tree trunk big enough for two?”

I took the cup he offered. “Dunno. Pretty broad back you got. Give it a whirl.”

He bent and sat, surprisingly graceful for someone so large. Leaning against the tree, 6:00 to my 3:00, he took a long drink of water and sighed. “Sooooo good.”

The silence enveloped us again, easy and companionable. Travis paused, looked around, and said, “all right folks, last one, and I’m for bed.”

“Here it comes,” I said quietly, so only Jacob could hear. “I’ll cry, but don’t mind me. I always do.”

Travis paused, gathering the silence himself, then he began, and the haunting strains of the Ashokan Farewell, slow and stately, filled the night air.

I stared at the moon, transported. Travis always played this piece last, and it always pierced my heart, filled me with longing. For what, I never knew.

The music held us transfixed. I was acutely aware of Jacob’s presence at my side, sharing the moment of such otherworldly beauty.

I wept. I always weep.

The party broke up, and Jacob and I walked alone, down the road to the pasture. The night insects were loud as the sounds from the house faded behind us. With the sun down, the temperature dropped and it was delightfully cool.

I could hear my boots as they connected with bits of gravel and old leaves. Jacob, as before, seemed to move in silence.

“You surprised me, with the dancing. Thought you were an introvert.” My tone was light, and I let my voice rise at the end, making it a question. Inviting a response.

He walked a bit, thinking. I was used to that now. Even appreciated it. Words are better . . . truer, maybe . . . when silence surrounds them. I found myself wondering, irrelevantly, whether Brea appreciated that silence, or even noticed it. So full of life, of buoyant, passionate energy. Was there a silence, anywhere, that Brea couldn’t fill?

Finally he replied. “I am, sure. And I expect I’ll need some deep sleep to recover. I like people. Really. They just . . . tire me out, you know?”

“Amen, brother!” I said, fervently. “Though this group’s easier for me. I know them, they know me. My peeps. But . . . I most definitely need downtime, when firings are done.”

We reached our tents and I touched his arm lightly. “Good night, Jacob.”

“Good night, Kez. Quiet dreams.”

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CHAPTER ELEVEN

Janey had assigned herself the task of supervising the bricking up the door and lowering the top of the kiln into place. “You two got the day off tomorrow Kez,” she’d told me at dinner. “I’ll do the chimney pre-heat this afternoon, and you can start the kiln pre-heat when you come on at 8:00. Make sure you rest up.”

But I was already up and dressed when she wandered down with Tatiana; Kelly was parking and joined them directly.

“Morning, Kez,” Tatiana called out. “You recovered from all that fun last night?”

I laughed. “Give me a day. All those people, you know!”

Janey snorted. An extravert and damned proud of it, she has to deal with a lot of my kind in our business. “Your friend’s been up and about a while. Not sure where’s he got to, but I ‘spect he’ll turn up.”

“He knows where to find me.” I smiled. “Besides . . . I’ve got the keys to the truck.”

I watched Janey for a bit as she got her door crew going. I didn’t hear Jacob come up behind me, and I jumped a bit at his good morning. “Damn, how do you do that?” But I smiled a greeting nonetheless. “Sleep okay?”

“Always do,” he said easily. “But I’m used to it. How’s that decadent air mattress doing for you?”

“Superfine, thank you very much!”

Janey glanced our way. “Only idjit kids like you could imagine an air mattress being some kind of fine. Give me a real bed any day!”

“Well, Janey,” I said judiciously, “We can’t very well fight you for it, since you own the joint.”

“Gotta love the golden rule,” she agreed. “There’s coffee up at the house, and a loaf of somethin’. Couldn’t tell you what.”

That got a smile from Tatiana. “Zucchini Bread,” she told me. “Janey’s not into it, but most people like it – especially given the alternative.”

“Which is?” I asked, for curiosity’s sake. Tatiana really has a touch in the kitchen.

“Go hungry,” Janey said cheerfully. “Well . . . there’s always kibble, I s’pose. Though even the dogs don’t exactly turn cartwheels at it.”

We laughed, and Jacob and I walked up to get a nibble. Unsurprisingly, the bread was excellent. When we were done, I said, “We aren’t needed here until the preheat starts tonight. I’ll want to bank a bit more sleep this afternoon, but we’ve got some time. Want to go see the sights?”

“Seems like we’re pretty damned close to the middle of nowhere,” Jacob replied. “So, yeah – count me in. Those are most definitely my kind of places.”

We left the trailer and took the truck into . . . and through . . . town. Pittsburg is in the very heart of the Great North Woods, on the border between New Hampshire and Quebec. Staying on Route 3, we went past Lake Francis, then followed the road past the series of Connecticut Lakes. It’s beautiful country – evergreens, New England’s signature hardwoods, and lots of pure, cold northern lakes.

Jacob, characteristically, soaked it all in quietly. We had the windows down, the better to enjoy the fresh, clean scent of the forests around us. “Are the lakes the source of the Connecticut River?” he asked.

I nodded. “Technically, I’m pretty sure the Fourth Connecticut Lake is the ultimate source, but they’re all connected, one kind of flowing into another.”

We drove a bit more, and Jacob fished out a map. I tend to keep one of the big Rand McNallys in the car, since I’m as likely to be driving in the back of beyond as anywhere with cell towers. After a few minutes’ study, he said, “Looks like there’s a short trail to that fourth lake. What do you think?”

“We’ve got plenty of time. I figured we could see whatever struck our fancy, then catch lunch back in town. Not that there’s a lot of options that way.”

He gave me directions, and we ended up at a trail head that was only fifty feet or so from the station marking the international border, where the Maple Leaf of Canada and the Stars and Stripes fluttered side-by-side in a light morning breeze.

Soon we were back in his element, and silence seemed to flow from him as we walked. The trail wound its way up a wooded hill, and it did not take us long to reach our destination, though Jacob made frequent stops to take in some unusual sight that had piqued his interest.

Unlike the lower lakes, the Fourth Connecticut Lake was just a small glacial tarn, a couple acres total. The Connecticut River, flowing out from the lake’s edge, was barely more than a brook. Jacob took a knee, cupped his hands and splashed water from the brook across his face, a smile of pure delight lighting his features. “The Mighty Connecticut!” He laughed.

I smiled in return. “Yeah, doesn’t look like much up here, does it?” Seeing a likely stone, flat and round, I bent, ran a thoughtful finger over it, and sent it skipping across the tarn. “Five!”

Jacob chuckled. “You’re not going to count that little dribble at the end, are you?” He shook his head ruefully. “Three, Kez. I’ll give you that. But five?”

“Ha! You try!”

He eyed his options and selected a missile. Rising, he bent his knees, and with a fluid twist of his body and a whipping wrist motion, sent the wafer of granite bouncing. Five . . . six . . . and . . . dribble. “Six!” He looked at me in challenge, a grin on his face.

I nodded. “Six.” I found another, and tried to match him. It was better than my last cast, and the stone was superior. I managed a tie . . . generously construed.

We tossed a few more, then lapsed again into stillness, just enjoying the quiet and peace of this remote and secret place.

I touched Jacob’s arm, light as a feather.

He looked at me, a question in his eyes.

Careful to move slowly, I pointed across the tarn where, fifty yards away, an enormous bull moose stepped lightly from the surrounding woods. It paused, looking right and left, raising its nose up to sniff the morning air.

We stood still as the trees around us, barely breathing.

The moose resumed its motion. How can such a massive creature move without sound? It continued its walk until the fetlocks of its front legs were fully in the waters of the lake. Again it paused and tested the air before slowly and gracefully lowering its head to drink.

The moose must have been thirsty. It took its time drinking before raising its head and scanning the area again. Then, without warning or sound, it flowed back into the surrounding woods.

It was easily a minute before either of us moved. I became aware that my fingers were still resting on Jacob’s arm. Suddenly self-conscious, I lowered my hand and said in a low voice, “that was amazing!”

He turned to look at me, the magic of the moment lingering, a look of wonder and delight on his face. “That right there? That was worth the whole trip, regardless of what else might happen.”

“Never saw one before?”

He shook his head. “Never. Didn’t think I’d ever get that lucky, either.”

We headed back down, silent once again. When we got back to the car he touched my shoulder gently and said, “that was very special. Thank you.”

On the way back, we stopped at the Buck Rub Pub for some lunch. There are, like, four places to eat in the whole town, and two of them aren’t open for lunch. So it wasn’t all that surprising that we ran into Gary Severs and Bill Frost, who were just leaving as we arrived.

Bill stopped and smiled. “Kez! And . . . Jake, right?”

Jacob returned his smile easily. “Jacob, but don’t worry about it. Given how much everyone was drinking last night, it’s a wonder we all remember our own names.”

He played it so completely straight that Bill and Gary both looked bewildered, until suddenly Gary chuckled, then guffawed. “Damn, you had me going, and I was there!”

Bill joined in on the joke. “Hell, yeah, that’s some potent water Janey’s been brewing!”

“Artesians. Gotta watch out for ’em, or they’ll getcha every time." I nodded at the restaurant at their backs. "I don’t ’spose they changed the menu?”

“Why ever would they up and do something like that?” Gary asked, rhetorically. “That’s just crazy talk.”

“Yeah,” Bill agreed. “It’s like that pope – you know, the one who only liked one type of architecture? – told the guy he hired to preserve all the churches in Rome.” He looked at us expectantly.

Knowing his penchant for really bad jokes, I said, in my most resigned voice, “All right, Bill. Go ahead and hit us with it . . . you will anyway.”

Bill pretended to take offense, but before he could deliver his punch-line, Jacob beat him to it. “If it ain’t Baroque, don’t fix it?”

Bill laughed out loud, slapping his thigh in delight. “Got it in one!”

Gary, who’d known Bill forever, just rolled his eyes.

I gave him a sympathetic look and said darkly, “art humor. Don’t let it happen to you.”

Everyone had a bit of a laugh, then Gary said, “We’re gonna catch a bit of a nap this afternoon. See you at midnight?” They had the second shift together.

I nodded. “Yep, see you then.”

I had the door open to enter, when Bill looked back at Jacob. “Hey, you're from down south, right?”

I shot him a bemused look. “Northern Pennsylvania’s not exactly Dixie, Bill.”

“Spoken like someone who hasn’t lived there,” Jacob corrected me. “Trust me, there’s a big ol’ stripe of ’Bama that splits the state right up the middle.”

“Well anyways,” Bill said, “long as you're up here, you oughta try the poutine.”

Jacob assured Bill that he’d give it a go, then followed me inside. “What did I just agree to try?” he asked me. “Isn’t that some kind of rotgut moonshine?”

I shook my head. “No such luck.” He raised an eyebrow, and I shivered. “It’s a Canadian thing. Don’t ask.”

Despite my warning, Jacob ordered the poutine, which mercifully came as an appetizer. After the waitress walked away, he gave the concoction a careful look. “Well . . . I, ahh . . . I mean, I do like french fries. In moderation. So, there’s that.”

“Uh huh.” I was determined not to help.

He tried again. “And . . . nothing wrong with brown sauce.”

I shrugged. “Kinda on my ‘take it or leave it’ list, but, you do you.”

He looked at the dish again. Opened his mouth, then closed it again. Then he sighed and shook his head. “Okay, yeah. Even I can’t find something nice to say about cheese curds.”

I snaked out a hand to snag a fry that had somehow retained its purity, untainted by sauce or curd, like a virgin in a debauched seraglio. Performing my extraction with the precision of a surgeon, I said, “I think this poor puppy should be permitted to die chaste, like one of those female martyrs.” I popped it in my mouth.

“What female martyrs?” He sounded disbelieving.

I waved a hand airily. “How should I know? I didn’t exactly major in religion.”

Sidetracked, he asked, “What did you major in?”

“I didn’t.” I grinned. “Look, I know you have a Ph.D. I respect that. But this is what I do, you know? Pottery. All a four year degree woulda given me – that I don’t already have – is a shitload of debt. I’ve taken plenty of classes. Ceramics, mostly, but honestly, anything that grabs my attention. Wine making. History. Statistics. Haiku. There’s a lot you can find online – good stuff, not just the crap – at a decent price.”

“Haiku? Seriously?”

“Why not?” I replied. I closed my eyes and thought for a moment.

“Vision of stillness,
power and grace. Delicate.
King of the North Woods.”

I opened my eyes to see him looking at me strangely. “What?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. And everything. You just did that, right?”

“Sure, though I’ll be the first to admit it’s not art. Still . . . I was inspired, just now.”

“It’s what I noticed most as well,” he said, sounding distant. He stared away, his eyes unfocussed. “It was huge – way bigger than I’d imagined. Not that I’ve spent all that much time thinking about moose, but . . . you know what I mean. Anyhow, I was just floored by how quiet it was. And the movement – you’re exactly right. It was delicate – even dainty.”

We were silent, sharing the memory.

Then I shook my head and broke the mood. “Brea’ll never believe it, you know. ‘Pics, or it didn’t happen!’”

His expression was hard to read. Speaking slowly, like he was teasing out a mystery, he said, “What we saw today . . . that’s not something I think Brea could really appreciate, pics or no pics. She’s . . . I mean, I love her to death. I do! But, quiet? Stillness? It’s just not her.”

I weighed my words carefully, hesitant to intrude. But he had probed my feelings about Kara and Brea pretty deeply, and I felt a rare closeness to him. “Jacob – it’s not Brea, I mean, like, at all. You’re obviously right about that. But . . . it’s the heart of who you are. How do you make that work?”

He thought about that briefly, then shrugged. “The way people usually do, I expect.” He looked at me, and the smile touched his warm brown eyes. “Magic, you know?”

“Magic?” My smile matched his. “Okay, yeah. I’ll buy that!”

“You gonna finish that?” The waitress stood over us, looking at the “appetizer.”

We gazed at the congealing mass between us.

“I actually don’t think we’re going to start it,” Jacob replied, sounding like he was giving the matter deep and considerable thought. “We might ruin the aesthetic.”

Or our entire digestive tracts, I thought.

To be continued . . . .