FINALLY the day of firing was upon them. The potters had not slept the night before, and Tupa was in a particularly foul mood as the success or failure of today’s firing would be laid at her feet.
This was the most precarious stage. If the clay had not been properly dried, or if air pockets existed, those days of previous effort would be rendered worthless. The women gently laid their rain jars on the stone racks in the kiln while Tupa oversaw the building of the fire underneath. Then heavy leather covers were laid over the top of the stone oven to intensify the heat inside.
They prayed and chanted and watched the kiln, nervously listening for the telltale sound that meant a pot had exploded. Finally, Tupa lifted the cover to peer in, saw the ash and dying embers, and declared it to have been a successful firing.
One by one the new vessels were brought out into the light—dazzling white bowls and jars and pitchers painted with stark black designs. Yani’s pitchers, Yellow Feather’s bowls. All perfect. Tension mounted with each new ceramic lifted from the ash, for a broken pot would be the worst omen.
Hoshi’tiwa’s was the last to emerge from the kiln. The women held their breath as Tupa reached in with wooden tongs, for this was the piece made of homely gray clay, and it was created by the new girl, who was untried in the guild. Tupa placed the jar on the yucca mat and gently brushed away the ash.
Everyone stared in shock, for the ceramic was not white like the others, but had turned a beautiful hue, the orange-gold of a summer sunrise, and the design was not black but red, like a blazing autumn sunset.
There was not another like it in all of Center Place.