CHAPTER TWELVE

It was probably close to ten at night before Jacob asked why on earth Janey had assigned us both to work the preheating shift. “Barely enough work for one person, much less two.”

I carefully slipped a chuck of wood through the left-hand opening, closed the door, and repeated the process on the right. “You should ask her,” I said. “My guess, she likes having back-up. Once this gets underway, you need to keep it going smooth.”

“So it’s not just that I’m a complete nube-child?” he asked. “I was kind of wondering.”

I sat back on the wooden bench. “Nah. Bill and Gary’ll be doing the same thing during their shift – slow, steady ramp-up, about 100 degrees each hour, and build up some coals. Each of them’s been doing this longer than I have.”

After a bit, he stirred and said, “Don’t think I’m complaining. It’s kind of peaceful. I’m just surprised . . . and I guess I was worried that Janey felt she had to come up with some make-work for me.”

I watched the numbers on the pyrometer creeping up as the wood I had added hit its peak combustion and began to release its stored energy. 193 . . . 194 . . . 195. It hovered at 195 for a long while before finally ticking over to 196. “Your turn,” I said.

Jacob rose and fed a single piece of wood through each of the openings, being careful to drop them as vertically as possible. There was no barrier inside the kiln between the firebox and the area where the shelves of pots were placed. You could clearly see Paul’s big pieces in the light of the glowing coals. Jacob called them the “Paul Potts,” but I’m afraid he had to explain the joke.

193 . . . 192 . . . 191 . . . . The drop was expected. Opening the doors allowed the cooler night air in, and the new wood had to consume some heat energy before it released its own.

“Should I get more wood?” he asked.

I looked at the wheel barrow and smiled. “It’ll take us half an hour to go through what’s there. Relax.”

“That I can do,” he replied.

We sat, and watched the gauge, and fed the flames, bit by careful bit raising the temperature, preparing the pots within for the ordeal to come, when they would be bathed in searing flame and transformed, becoming hard, strong, and impermeable. When their clay bodies and any glazes would interact with the gathering wood ash, flashing into startling colors and patterns. Some of the pots, of course, would not survive. The heat and flame would find every weakness, every imperfection, and when the kiln was opened the artists would find some pots, transcendently beautiful, yet cracked, broken, and beyond saving.

“You’re younger than almost everyone here,” Jacob observed during one of our periods of waiting, of watching the pyrometer. “But you’re clearly Janey’s number two. How does that work?”

“A lot of potters aren’t that interested in the technical side of things.” I got up and added some more wood before rejoining him on the bench. “Some of them love throwing, or hand-building. Some really enjoy decorating their pieces, although there’s less of that in a wood kiln. But . . . this part, I guess, feels more like science than art. There’s a schedule, and a method, and we all need to be on the same page.”

Jacob chewed that over while he had some water. “I would have pegged you as the artistic type, too,” he said after a while.

“Oh, I am! I get lost in throwing – I mean, you saw me. So you know. But, like I told you before, I’m an artisan first. A craftsman. I want to know about my materials – where they came from, how they were processed . . . everything. I want to know why porcelain throws one way, and stoneware throws another. The origin of the techniques that we use. So, yeah . . . I want to understand the kilns where I fire. Who invented them? How did they evolve? Which kilns best suit particular pieces, and why. How to fire them properly.”

He nodded. “I can see that.”

I chuckled. “Put it this way – no one fought me for the ‘honor’ of supervising. They’re more’n happy to let me and Janey fuss with all of this. They’ll do their shifts – it’s the only way it all works – but they’ll leave it at that.”

It was Jacob’s turn to feed the beast. When he resumed his seat, he said, “Mom was the artist type too, I think. I don’t think she was into the technical stuff.”

I studied his profile carefully. Whenever his mother came up, he seemed to withdraw into himself, and his handsome features seemed more guarded. “What happened, Jacob?” I asked softly. “Why do those memories hurt so much?”

He was silent for so long that I would have thought he wasn’t going to answer, if he had been anyone else. His eyes, ostensibly looking at the pyrometer, were unfocused, lost in memory.

“It was . . . bad. When Dad left.” He didn’t turn to look at me. “One day, we were just living life, you know? Like we always had, just assuming that’s how it would always be. And then, suddenly, everything changed. I guess he’d fallen out of love with Mom and in love with someone else. Within a couple months, he and Mary Pat moved down to Jacksonville to start a new life together . . . .”

“Leaving the rest of you to try to figure out the old life?” I kept my voice gentle.

“Pretty much,” he said. “Mom . . . like I said, she was an artist. She made beautiful things. But . . . when he left, it’s like she couldn’t find the beauty any more. She’d sit at her wheel, and start to throw, and . . . it just wouldn’t come. And she’d rip the wet clay off the wheel, all flopped over, and she’d be so frustrated . . . so hurt. You know? It’s like, the things that made her life worth living, that defined her, were just gone.”

My blood ran cold, listening to his description.

He continued. “Anyway . . . I heard her screaming one day, and I ran into her studio. She was crying, shrieking, smashing things with a stick. I . . . I had to grab her tight. I was as big as she was, by then, and stronger. I held her until she stopped. Tried to tell her it would be alright.”

Lost in the memory, he lapsed into silence.

I touched his shoulder in quiet sympathy, then added more wood to the kiln before resuming my seat.

He sighed and straightened up. “I was an ass. It wasn’t ever alright for Mom. Not really. The next morning, she got up early and cleaned the mess. She made some calls, and sold all of her stuff. Wheel, tools, glazes . . . everything. Deirdre tried to talk her out of it – my sister’s a sweetheart – but Mom told her art was a game. A luxury we couldn’t afford anymore. And that was that.”

“What did she do?” I asked.

“Got a job at a restaurant, waiting tables. Worked her ass off, and came back exhausted every night. After maybe two years of that, she met Kevin and they started dating. He had money – way more than we ever had, even when Dad was with us. So, I thought, maybe she could afford her ‘luxury’ again. But . . . I think . . . she was too afraid. Afraid she’d lose Kevin too. So his interests are her interests, and art’s not on that list.”

I had nothing to say to that, nothing that seemed remotely adequate. Finally I reached over and squeezed his hand as it rested on his knee. “Jacob, I’m so very sorry.”

We sat staring at the pyrometer, silent, until Jacob asked, “Did you two ever consider having kids?”

“We wanted to, at first. Had some fun trying.” I smiled at the memory, briefly. “Turns out, I can’t, and Kara wasn’t interested in adopting. She’d known some folks who’d had really bad experiences. And . . . a lot of adoption agencies wouldn’t accept me.”

He watched the kiln a bit longer. “You’d be good at it.”

I shrugged. Maybe yes, maybe no. A road not taken.

We sat there for a few minutes, silent once more, until we saw the flash of headlights coming up the access road, followed by the muffled sound of car doors shutting, and male voices in low conversation.

I rose. Bill and Gary were coming down from where the cars were parked, a flashlight guiding their steps. “Evening boys,” I said with a smile of greeting.

“Hey, Kez,” Gary replied. “How’s the beast?”

“Everything’s right on schedule,” I told him. “Pretty routine.”

“Not like last time,” Bill said. “Now that was a storm!” The last firing had been challenging, with crazy winds that shifted direction every few minutes, and rain that varied from “moderate” to “torrential.”

“Yeah,” I said, “but you’ll be telling the story of that firing for years, Bill!”

Gary grinned. “Oh, yeah! And each time he tells it, the wind gets rougher and the rain gets colder. Couple years, and you’ll think Bill had survived the great flood!”

We laughed.

I went over our stoking pattern with Bill and Gary and gave them notes on the settings for the primary air and the dampers. Then Jacob and I left them to it.

We walked out into the field in the direction of our tents, a pale, gibbous moon providing enough light. Fifteen yards out, and with our backs to the low lights around the kiln, the night sky opened up. It had been a clear day, with relatively low humidity, and the stars of the far northern sky flared in jewel tones, imminent and awe inspiring. Spica close to where the moon hung . . . Vega and Deneb . . . the stars of the Great Bear, the dipper, pointing to the Pole Star, dim only by comparison . . . .

I felt a hand on my elbow, and heard Jacob’s voice, low and amused. “Kez? You still in there?”

I shook my head. “I . . . yeah. I guess.”

“I didn’t want to disturb you, but after five minutes or so I wasn’t sure you’d make it back to earth on your own.”

In the moon’s faint light I couldn’t see his smile, but I could hear it in his voice. “It takes my breath,” I confessed. “Every time.”

He put an arm around my waist and guided me forward. When we got to our tents, he reached up and gently brushed away the tears that I had shed, lost in the magic and wonder of space and time, of planets, stars and galaxies. “Good night, Kez,” he said softly.

“Good night, Jacob,” I replied.

* * * * *

My phone buzzed me awake at ten minutes to four. I slipped cargo pants over my boy shorts, a fleece over my tank top, and boots onto my bare feet. The moon had set, and the night sky was even more spectacular, if that were possible.

But I was on task, and so managed to restrain my desire to gawk and gaze. Using a small flashlight, I made my way across the field to the kiln. I stepped into the pool of light that surrounded the workspace, and spoke quietly. “Hey guys – how goes?”

I heard the rumble of wheel over uneven ground, and Gary joined me in the light, a full load overflowing the sides of the wheelbarrow. From the other side of the kiln, Bill’s head popped up. “No issues, Kez. It’s all burning well, and the coal bed’s looking good.”

I checked the readings on the three pyrometers, confirming what Bill had said. “No change for the intake or the damper?”

Gary shook his head. “Nope. No need to; everything just chugged along.”

We were all keeping our voices low. While it’s possible we were thinking about Jacob, sleeping a relatively short distance away, I’ve noticed the same thing at every firing. There is something about the hush and stillness of the predawn hours that seems to compel a response, command a measure of restraint and respect, from people who find themselves awake.

Bill stomped his feet, restoring some circulation to his extremities. “C’mon, guys,” he muttered. It was 4:00, and their relief should have arrived.

“Go on, you two,” I said. “I’ve got to go over the drill with them when they show up anyway, and you’ve left me plenty of wood.”

“You sure?” Gary asked.

“Positive. I’m sure they’ll be here in a minute or two.”

“Well . . . okay, then,” Bill said, relief overcoming his reluctance. “Thanks, Kez!”

I waved them off. “Good night guys . . . sweet dreams!”

They chuckled and departed, and soon I lost the sound of Gary’s truck making its way to the main road.

I was a bit surprised that Mike Swyderski and Paul Sylvester hadn’t already arrived, but I wasn’t worried about it. I was awake and alert, and I was enjoying the rare moment of solitude in the midst of the firing.

My conversation with Jacob last night had left me wrestling with an undertow of deep sadness. How could a father just abandon his children and their mother? Even if, for whatever reason, the love he had felt for his wife had faded?

No wonder, I thought, that Jacob found solace in the silence and stillness of nature, the movements of the animals and birds, the mysteries of the things that grow in the wild. It was his nature too, of course. But I imagined that the call of the silence, of the simplicity of creation itself, would have been irresistible in the face of a human world that had lost its center.

But his story unsettled me on even deeper levels than that.

I shivered, though the night wasn’t really cold. What would it take, to crush my very desire to engage in my craft, to rise to the challenge of my art? I had said that I would give it all up for Kara, but . . . would I ever have given my heart into her care, if she had been the kind of person to ask me to do that? And, could she have loved me in the first place, if she hadn’t cared for that part of me? Pottery isn’t just a hobby, or even a job. It’s who I am. Keziah Brown, Potter.

At the thought of Kara, my eyes misted over. The love we shared was the bedrock of my existence. Could I continue to live, if one day I looked into her lapis lazuli eyes and saw, not the warmth and love that had always been there, but a tepid indifference?

And could my own heart ever turn, as Jacob’s father’s heart had turned? I shook my head, unable to imagine such a thing. Without my love for Kara, I wouldn’t know myself. Wouldn’t want to know myself.

I was reminded of a podcast I’d listened to once while I was cleaning my studio. A woman was talking about her favorite piece from her favorite opera. She’d sung it – amazing voice! – and even without understanding the words, it had captured me. I stood stock still in the middle of my studio, work forgotten, crying my soul out. The woman said the title of the piece translated as, “I lived for art; I lived for love.”

That's me, sure enough.

My phone buzzed, and I saw it was Gary. “What’s up?” I asked.

“Hey Kez – we just passed Paul and Mike on the road; they’re in a dead spot for coverage and couldn’t call. Mike had to swerve to avoid a deer, and he popped a tire. They should have the spare on soon; they’ve already got the truck up on the jack. So I expect you’ll see them in five or ten.”

“No worries. If you guys have the juice left, could you just make sure they’re good to go before you head back to town?”

“Don’t worry, Kez! We’re on it. See you soon.”

“Thanks for the heads up, man.”

I went back to my silent contemplation. On the eastern horizon, the faintest hint of approaching dawn began to dim the brilliance of the stars. My art . . . but first, always first, my love.

“You are my Day Star and my Pole Star,” I said softly, Kara’s lovely smile vivid in my mind’s eye. “My wellspring and my heart’s desire.”
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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I was back at the kiln at ten of eight to do the hand-off from night shift to day shift. Janey was down as well, and everything seemed to be going pretty well. Jacob and Janice were doing the 8-12 shift with Janey supervising; I was going to try to catch some sleep. We saw Mike and Paul off and the new crew got to work.

When I woke again, I could hear Janey’s voice, and occasionally Jacob’s, coming from the direction of the kiln. I couldn’t make out the words, but the overall tone sounded relaxed. Janey was probably saying five words for every one that came from Jacob. Knowing them both, that wasn’t at all surprising.

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, rolled over and rummaged through my bag for a change of clothes. Panties, shorts, tank top, unbuttoned work shirt, sneakers. Then I stepped out of the tent and redid my turban before heading across the field.

“How’s it looking, Chief?” I asked Janey.

“Right on schedule – hittin’ close to 1600 degrees.” She took a drink from her water jug, then added, “We’re going through the wood a bit faster than usual, though.”

I looked at the wood piles, which were in fact a bit lower than I would have expected. “Do we have enough?”

She waggled her fingers. “Prob’ly. But I’d be happier if we had another cord ready. Any chance I can draft you to do some splitting this afternoon?”

“Of course,” I assured her. “Just as soon as I get a bite.”

“I can give you a hand as well,” Jacob offered.

I gave him a grateful look. “That’d be a real help – the wood splitter’s a lot easier to manage with two people.”

“There’s some sandwiches and such up at the house. Tatiana again – coddlin’ alla you like a momma hen!” Janey grinned to take the sting out of her words. She wasn’t much for food herself – I often thought she’d killed her taste buds with cigarettes – but she understood that the firing could be expedited if there was some ready sustenance on hand.

“I’ll go up and see what she’s got.” My phone said it was a bit before noon, so I said to Jacob, “Come join me once your relief shows up.”

He waved an acknowledgment, and I wandered up to the house.

“Shri Keziah!” Tatiana gave me a grin to go with the Sikh honorific she had dredged up to honor my turban. “Ready for some food?”

I smiled in return. “I’m famished. Jacob’s coming in a couple as well, and I expect Janice too. What miracles have you achieved today?”

“Nothing special. Some chicken salad for sandwiches. Some nice olives I brought along. Pickles. Local hothouse tomatoes. Janey’s contribution was a really nice cheddar. And, of course, lots and lots of fresh water.”

Tatiana’s idea of “just” chicken salad was pretty amazing, involving freshly cooked and shredded chicken breast, quartered red grapes, walnuts, and a hint of dill. I got to work slicing the sourdough bread and getting place settings ready.

Sug came down while we were getting ready. “I like your friend,” she said, conversationally. “Seems nice.”

“He’s been a real help, too,” I agreed. “It was good of him to come.”

“How do you two know each other?” Tatiana asked.

“Kara and his girlfriend go way back,” I said. “The two of them are having a ‘girl’s week,’ and Jacob drove Brea up.” All of which is true, I thought, if ever so slightly incomplete!

Tatiana looked surprised. “You mean you two just met? Damn! I’d have sworn you’d known each other forever!”

That’s an interesting observation. “I think we kind of operate on a similar frequency,” I said after a moment.

Sug said, “I’d always thought of you as a ‘water’ person. Jacob’s all ‘earth.’”

Tatiana’s eyes rolled. “She’ll be talking about chakras next!”

“Oh, I’m sure their chakras match perfectly,” Sug replied with a grin. “Which is so cool. You know I’m all in on New Age spirituality!”

I laughed and threw a dish towel at her.

She caught it deftly, folded it, and put it back where it belonged.

Jacob and Janice came in just as we had everything set out, and Janice gave Tatiana a big smile. “Janey’d get a lot more volunteers if you were here for every firing!”

Everyone was hungry and we dug in with enthusiasm. No one said much until we were left to nibble on olives and cheese, the truly excellent chicken salad completely gone.

“I hope Janey didn’t push you too hard on your mom,” I said to Jacob. “She can be a bit of a bulldog when she gets going.”

He shook his head. “No, it was fine. Mostly, she did the talking. She knew mom back in her early twenties. Sounds like she was lit, back in the day.”

Janice giggled. “I’ll say! And I thought Janey was the wild one!” But then she subsided and looked at Jacob more thoughtfully. “It must be strange, seeing your mom through a contemporary’s eyes. They would have been younger than you are now.”

Jacob nodded silently, selected an olive with undue care and popped it in his mouth. Finally, he said, “I suppose. But . . . I couldn’t see my mom in Janey’s stories. At all. She might as well have been describing a complete stranger.”

Janice reached over and touched his hand lightly, her kind eyes crinkling with concern. She rose and started stacking plates, and we all moved to help.

Jacob and I spent the next few hours with the big log splitter and a pile of ash, precut in 30-inch segments of trunk and branch. The splitter was a noisy bastard, making speech difficult. But neither of us found silence oppressive, so we worked quietly and efficiently. After three hours, we had a sizeable pile of wood that could be used late in the firing if it was needed, so I decided to declare victory and shut it down.

The transition from a loud, chugging gas engine to complete silence was startling. I shook my head to clear it, then wiped my brow with the bandana from my back pocket. “That was hot work!”

Jacob wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his workshirt, a smile of accomplishment on his face. “I don’t know about you, but I could drink a gallon of water right now.”

“Me too. Look, we’ll need to get all this down to the kiln, but that job’ll wait until tomorrow. Right now, we need to get some water, grab a bite and rest a bit before our shift.”

“Sounds good to me,” he responded, his smile growing broader.

As we walked toward the house, I said, “That seemed to get you all kinds of happy.”

“I’m a simple soul,” he replied. “Good honest work, and you can see the results right away. What’s not to like?”

“I don’t know. Sunburn? Heat stroke? Early onset hearing loss?”

He laughed. “Didn’t happen. All that happened was, a pile of wood we couldn’t use is gone, and a pile of wood we can use is there. Instant gratification. Sometimes I wish my whole life could be that kind of simple.”

“Might get kinda dull?” I suggested.

“Oh, it might,” he agreed, easily. “Still, every now’n then, I’d like to give it a shot. Just to see.”

“And then you go and fall in love,” I teased.

That got a laugh. “Yep! And all thoughts of the simple life go ‘poof!’”

We went inside and got some water.

* * * * *

As expected, the contrast between our prior night’s 8-4 firing shift and this evening’s could scarcely have been more dramatic. As we arrived, Janey was overseeing Mike and Kelly as they completed an hour of intense, low-oxygen firing at 2000 degrees. The oxygen reduction caused the smoke billowing from the chimney to be inky black – completely opaque. And wood was going in through a side stoke hole as well as the two back doors. More importantly, large chunks of wood were being heaved into the upper firebox, which was separated from the wares by a heavy metal grate. Activity was brisk.

“How’s your girl?” I called to Janey.

“Screamin’ hot!” Janey looked excited, as only a pyromaniac with her own fire-breathing dragon might. “Damn, I love this part!!!”

We took a turn around the kiln, and she showed me where the dampers and intakes were set. “You been in reduction for the full hour?” I asked.

She nodded. “Will be, by eight. You can give it more oxygen then. Just bring her up to 2100 and let it soak there a piece.”

“Got it.”

Mike and Kelly, a bit winded from their exertions, were happy to turn it over to me and Jacob, and soon we were almost as busy as they had been.

The upper firebox was a particular challenge, since the person doing the loading had to have a face-shield and helmet on, and needed to heave hefty chunks of wood through big doors that were more than five feet off the ground. After watching me a few times, Jacob said, “Look, I don’t want you thinking that I doubt your ability . . . you obviously can do it. But, my frame is a bit more optimized for this particular task.”

I closed the big door, dropped the latch, and pulled the helmet and face-shield off. “Delicately put, kind sir!” I grinned. “But I’ve always enjoyed the challenge of loading the top chamber.”

“I do recall your saying something about older potters having a variety of joint and muscle problems . . . .” He returned my grin with interest.

I clapped his shoulder. “I’ll let you get the next few, anyhow. But I can’t let myself get too soft.”

Through a goofy grin, he said, “If you say so.”

We settled into a good rhythm where we would first feed the back of the kiln, then the small side stoke hole, then the upper firebox, before waiting for a few minutes to begin the cycle again. Every fifth or sixth cycle one of us would go to the woodpile to fill up the wheelbarrow. Once we had the pattern down, it was just lather, rinse and repeat.

Probably half way through our shift, Jacob returned to our earlier conversation. “Kez . . . shouldn’t love be simple, too?”

I took off the welding gloves long enough to scratch my nose and unscrew the cap on my water bottle. “Why?”

“Because it’s so basic . . . so fundamental. Like breathing.” His eyes stayed glued on the pyrometer, judging when we would need to begin the next cycle.

I thought about his question carefully. After a minute of watching the slowing movement of digital numbers, I said, “I think love is simple. Relationships are complicated, because they involve other people who have their own needs. Love is what allows us to navigate the complications.”

He took a swig of water and looked at me. “Time?”

“Time,” I agreed, rising. We put our welding gloves back on. Jacob moved to the back of the kiln and I moved to the side. “Go ahead,” I said.

I heard the sound of first one door, then the other, opening and closing and Jacob fed in more wood.

“Clear,” he said, as he closed the second door.

I removed the blocking brick from the kiln wall and set it down on a metal plate, hot-side down. Then I carefully fed a couple narrow sticks straight into the hole and replaced the brick. By the time I was done, Jacob had the helmet and face-shield on. “Ready?” I asked.

He hoisted his first log and said, “ready!”

I unlatched the big top door and pulled it open, staying behind the door as a gout of flame shot out. Jacob tossed in the log, then reached down, grabbed two more, and tossed them in. “Done!” he said.

I slammed the door shut and dropped the latch, and we sat back down.

“So,” he said, picking up where we had left off, “your relationship with Kara is complicated because she has her own needs and desires – Brea being just one example – but love makes it simple?”

“Yes. Love tells me what I need to do – gives me a nice, clear answer.”

“An answer that – forgive me – causes you a whole lot of pain?” He gave me a searching look.

I shrugged. “I said it was simple, Jacob. I didn’t say it was easy.”

The rest of our shift passed in silence, the quiet efficiency of our synchronized movements requiring no conversation. And we had, each of us, plenty to think about.
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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The two kids from NHTI, Brice and Tawney, showed up a couple minutes after midnight. Late, but not worth making a big deal about. Jacob and I had just finished a cycle, so I took a few minutes to orient them.

“Good evening! Welcome to the inferno!” That got a tentative smile from Tawney, though Brice’s face was hard to read.

“Grab yourself some gloves.” When they had fitted themselves out from Janey’s bin, I continued. “This’ll be a busy shift – you’ll be hopping! – but it’s also pretty straightforward. We’ll walk you through the drill, I’ll watch you go through it once or twice, then you just keep doing it until 4:00. Cool?”

So I explained our cycle, then watched the pyrometer until it was time to start. This time, I was with Jacob when he fed the back firebox. “Notice how he’s making sure the wood drops straight onto the coal bed. Don’t toss it in, or you’ll hit those pots.” I pointed to Paul’s tall forms, which were now glowing a deep, luminous red and showing lots of gorgeous ash build-up.

I walked them over to the side-stoke hole and showed them how to feed the wood in without touching the pots on either side of the opening. “Line your head up with the hole, or you’re likely to misjudge the angle.”

Finally, we demonstrated loading the top chamber. Tawney gave an “eeek!” of surprise and involuntarily jumped back as the flame shot out from the open door, but she was calm enough once we had everything closed up again. “It’s safe,” I assured them, “but you need to do it just like Jacob and I did: the person who’s got the door stays behind it when opening, and the loader has the helmet and face-shield. Sometimes there’s no fireball, but you can’t count on that, okay?”

I clapped Jacob on the shoulder. “Grab some sleep; I’ll just hang for a couple and make sure they’re set.”

“We got it,” Brice assured me.

“Janey pays me to worry.” I smiled. “My air mattress is calling, so I won’t be long.”

Brice shrugged – a bit ungraciously, I thought – then sat down, eyes on the pyrometer. Tawney wandered over and sat close beside him. Ah. A couple.

Jacob sketched me an ironic salute and went off into the darkness, heading toward the tents.

I watched Brice and Tawney go through a stoking round. Brice seemed a bit overconfident; Tawney was a bit skittish.

They did alright.

I gave a couple pointers, stayed to watch another round, then said goodnight. They didn’t seem sorry for me to leave.

Back at my tent, I went through my usual routine. I took off my turban and let my hair loose, stripped completely, then put on some fresh underwear – briefs and a thin tank top. The night was warm and I didn’t want anything else. Shirt, shorts and boots were laid out where I could grab them in a hurry if needed. I set my alarm for 3:45 and fell asleep to the sounds of the night, punctuated by the regular sounds of metal doors opening and closing as the firing continued.

* * * * *

I woke suddenly with a feeling that something was wrong.

What?

I could hear the kids talking, though I couldn’t make out the words. Brice’s voice – low, urgent – followed by Tawney’s higher register, sounding . . . annoyed? Petulant? I couldn’t tell. Not my business, probably. But I wasn’t sure when I had last heard the sounds of the fire being stoked. Probably what woke me up. The dog that didn’t bark.

I listened for a minute or two longer, then finally cursed and sat up. I pulled up my shorts, slipped into my boots, and got my work shirt on without bothering to button it up. Halfway to the kiln, the smell hit me. Shit!

“Brice, I don’t want to,” Tawney whined. “Can’t we just chill?”

“Fuck,” he said, frustrated. “Why . . . .” As I stepped into the light around the kiln, he whirled to face me, hair wild, shirtless. He glared. “Get lost!”

I ignored him. The pyrometer was showing about a hundred degrees lower than it should, and was dropping fast. I grabbed gloves and immediately began to feed the kiln. Two pieces on the back left . . . two pieces on the back right . . . .”

Brice was staring at me. “We got it, okay? Jesus!”

Over to the side stoke hole. Remove the brick. Check. Coal bed definitely a bit low here. Slip in one stick . . . another. Three. Four. Close it up.

“Fucking fairy! This is our shift!”

I grabbed the helmet and face shield and put my hands on the latch of the upper chamber. I paused to look at Brice, his face a mix of emotions, with anger – rage, even – dominant. This close, I could smell the alcohol. “Step back.”

No fireball this time – the wood inside had burned down too far for that. Two . . . three . . . four chunks of heavy wood, heaved into the chamber. That should hold it for a few. I closed the door with a ‘clank,’ dropped the latch, then walked over to Tawney, for the moment ignoring Brice.

Squatting down next to where she was sitting, I pulled off my helmet and mask to see her more clearly. Brown eyes unfocussed. Pupils dilated. “Tawney . . . you okay, hon?”

“I’m . . . sure . . . I’m good,” she said, vaguely. “No worries.”

“Janey was real clear, though. No drugs.”

“It’s not drugs – just weed. Isn’t it legal now?” Her whine was back.

“Leave her alone!” Brice was behind me, still sounding angry.

“Tawney,” I said gently, “the kiln’s a dangerous piece of equipment. You can’t operate . . . . ackkk!” I flew backward and landed on my ass, my shirt ripping as Brice pulled me back by the collar.

“I said, leave her alone,” he snarled. “Now fuck off!”

Dealing with angry drunks was not something I had a lot of experience with. I scrambled to my feet and said, “Brice. You can’t operate the kiln like this. Period.”

Tawney was crying. “Brice, c’mon, we’re gonna get in trouble!”

Brice was putting welding gloves back on. “I got this,” he snapped at Tawney. He took two steps to the back of the kiln, opened a door, and grabbed a piece of wood. Based on his angry, jerky motions and how he was angling it to the opening, he was about to throw it in, hard. Straight into all of Paul Sylvester’s pots.

“No!!!” I shouted, launching myself. I hit him at an angle and he spun, dropping the wood on his foot.

“Agggh!!!” Brice hopped on his uninjured foot, swearing. The idiot had taken his shoes off.

I took the opportunity to close and latch the door so we didn’t lose more heat, but turning my back on a now-enraged drunk was a mistake. He grabbed my left arm with both of his hands, jerked me off balance, then spun me in a wide arc before letting go. I tumbled painfully, struggling to keep control of my flailing arms and legs.

“Let’s play ‘fairy-go-’round!’” he sang out as he stalked over to where I had fallen, just outside the pool of the kiln’s lights.

“Let’s not.” Jacob’s voice was calm as he took a step forward into the light and buried a rock-like fist in Brice’s solar plexus. Brice doubled over, gagging, and Jacob put a hand on the back of his neck, holding him down. He looked at me. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Can either of them drive?”

I sat up. “Not Tawney, for sure. Don’t know about this one.”

Brice was sputtering, trying to say something, but he hadn’t gotten his wind back. He vomited, weakly.

Jacob was still looking at me, assessing my condition. “Can you manage here while I run them into town? Or should we call Janey?”

Brice started to shake, but Jacob just tightened his grip and pushed the boy’s head down further.

“I can manage,” I said.

I got back on my feet and went to where Tawney was crying. Sitting next to her, I put an arm around her shoulder. “Honey, are you two staying in town?”

“Ye . . .es” she stammered. “But . . . I don’t want to go with him. He’s . . . he’s . . . .” She couldn’t finish.

“We need to get him into town. But you can sleep in my tent while I do the shift. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said, her voice small and frightened.

“I can drive,” Brice finally managed to say.

I stayed next to Tawney and let Jacob deal with him. Handling drunks, it turns out, is something Forest Rangers need to know how to do.

“Prove it,” Jacob said. “If I let go, will you stand up, stand still, and do what I say?”

Mumble, mumble.

“I can’t hear you,” Jacob said, keeping his grip intact.

“I said ‘yes!’’”

“Yes, what?” Jacob asked.

“‘Yes,’ faggot!” Brice sneered.

“Not helpful,” Jacob explained patiently. “I need to know that you can control yourself before I let go, or I’ll have to hurt you some more. So . . . what will you do if I let go?”

“I’ll stand up and stand still.”

Jacob just waited, his hand heavy on the young man’s neck.

I looked at the pyrometer. Still rising, but clearly slowing.

“I’ll do what you say,” Brice ground out, finally. Jacob removed his hand and the boy came more-or-less upright, still somewhat hunched from the body blow. “Happy?”

Jacob examined his eyes closely. “I need to give you a field sobriety test,” he said.

“Why? You’re not a cop!” Brice argued.

Jacob cut him off. “I’m not, but I’ll call them, if I’m not reasonably certain you can drive back to town safely.”

Brice glared at him, but Jacob remained impassive.

“Fine!” Brice said, with less heat and more disgust.

“Jacob,” I broke in, “Can you do that up by the cars? I’ve got to stoke again.”

He nodded. “Let’s go,” he said to Brice.

“C’mon Tawn, we’re outta here,” Brice said, looking over to where she was sitting. Clearly he had not heard our earlier conversation. When he saw me with her, he said, “Stay away from her, freak!”

Jacob warned, “One move that direction, and I’ll drop you like a dead tree. Understand?”

Brice whirled back to face him, but something in Jacob’s expression and stance caused him to change whatever he had been planning. He looked back at Tawney, but wisely didn’t move his feet. “I said come on, Tawn!”

She shook her head, not looking at him.

“Bitch!!! Fucking bitch! Fine! Stay with Tinkerbell!” He stomped off toward the cars, Jacob following carefully behind.

I gave Tawney’s shoulder a squeeze. “Give me a minute, okay?” I rose, donned the gloves, helmet and face shield, and stoked the kiln, back, side and top, adding extra wood at each step. She was crying softly when I came back.

“I’m in trouble, aren’t I?” she said, through her tears.

I gave her a hand to get back on her feet. “You made a mistake tonight, Tawney. Bad things could have happened. Mostly, they didn’t. Don’t fret about the consequences right now. Just get some sleep, okay?”

She nodded. I put my arm around her and led her back into the dark, keeping her stumbles from turning into outright falls. When we got to my tent, I said, “sorry for the mess. But the sleep will help, I promise.”

“Okay,” she whispered. She climbed in, kicked off her shoes, and flopped down on my mattress, looking like a lost kitten.

I gave her a last look. “You’ll be okay?”

“Yeah . . . I guess.”

“Okay, hon. I’ll see you in the morning.” I walked back into the night, towards the kiln. I heard an engine come to life, then saw headlights cruising along the entrance road. Praise the Lord, he’s gone.

My feet were dragging as the adrenaline of the encounter faded. I felt all of the scrapes and bruises, and my eyes felt rubbery with lack of sleep. But I put one foot in front of the other, got to the kiln and checked the pyrometer. Just about back where it should be, and still climbing strongly. Crisis averted.

Jacob stepped into the light, moving silently as always. He took one look at my face and closed the distance between us. In an instant, I found myself wrapped in a powerful embrace, my head against his chest. Bless the man, he didn’t feel the need to say anything.

We stood like that for what seemed like a long while, though it wasn’t. I could feel every beat of his heart, firm and steady, and there weren’t that many of them. “Thank you,” I said.

He didn’t let go. “I’m sorry. I should have seen to you first.”

“No; that’s why I’m thanking you. For behaving like an adult, and for treating me like one. You kept your head, the firing isn’t ruined, and the kids are dealt with.”

He chuckled, the sound magnified by my ear against his chest. “You’re a strange woman, Keziah.”

Ummm. Assuming I’m a woman at all? Which is a questionable proposition. Isn’t it? But sometimes? And . . . maybe . . . just at the moment? I kept quiet. Honestly, it felt good to be held, and my own heart rate slowed as the danger receded. He felt warm and solid.

It dawned on me, probably more slowly than it should have, that Jacob was hard as a fire brick. Given the disparity in our heights, I could feel his erection from a bit south of my belly button to quite a bit north of it.

I stilled my instinct to jump back. I would need time to process what was going on – and how I felt about what was going on – but I was not going to freak out about it. Jacob didn’t deserve that. Instead, I remained still, listening to the whirl of my thoughts and the strong, steady beat of his heart.

I sighed, pulled back, and glanced at the pyrometer. Turning my eyes back to Jacob, I said, “We need to stoke the fire.”

His eyes were warm, and a smile played at the edges of his lips, equal parts merry, knowing, and rueful. “If you say so.”

To be continued . . . .