Upon the arrival of her father in Rhydin so many weeks before, Piper had retreated to the studio. Her sanctuary. Those few disastrous times she had gone to the Inn were still blighted upon her mind. Her pride.
Wincing under the memory, she reached for the sculpting tool as the wheel spun faster and faster under the furious pump of her foot. Alone and uncensored, she cursed within the confines of that small room, if only to give vent to the madness she felt creeping closer. Yet she knew, she knew she was not crazy. Yet the all too familiar scent of clay and candles burning only served to mock and ridicule her thoughts, her wavering beliefs.
Absently, she bent back to her work, not paying close attention to the details which was adamant for a potter. As a result, the sharp edge of the molding tool clipped her thumb. As she jerked her hand away, the clay wobbled unsteadily before falling inwards, collapsing upon itself.
She stared at the mess in disdain then looked to her hand. A ruby red drop of blood sped to the surface of her flesh to drop upon the wet clay, which in turn pooled outward and spread across the rim of the vase in a black stain as the wheel came to a slow stop.
As her eyes held to the drop of blood spreading viciously across the clay, she recalled the play she'd read, the play she'd seen about evilness?" Whispering softly to the room' "By the pricking of my thumb, something evil this way comes?"
Lifting the thumb to her mouth, she suckled the torn flesh, allowing for a minuscule moment her mind to drift"to open to the past, grasping at a lost name with a whisper as her teeth grazed against her thumb?"Cally?"
Serenity washed across the landscape of Warpara as families sat to dinner and welcomed the individual tales of each person's day.
But in the distance, on that lone hill set far apart from the rest of the village, sat The Potter's Studio. No warm candles glowed in the windows, welcoming curious travelers or late customers. All was dark as evening fell. Yet behind a door secreted behind a potter's wheel, voices were raised- one in anger and one in supplication.
A nine-year-old child knelt upon the stones behind that certain deacon's pew nailed to the floor, polished to an lustrous shine and positioned before an altar that no living soul that believed in the forgiveness of Christ could look upon without weeping in hopelessness.
A life-sized and crudely made figure of clay held dominion in the small room; the halo above his head covered in wax and further painted with the ocher of crushed daisies. The mouth forever turned down with a disapproving frown and impossibly black eyes focused upon the occupant of the lone pew set before it.
Still, the child prayed reverently as her father stood vigil with reproach, judging if her prayers were worthy of The Almighty! Of salvation.
"Again!" He roared with a feverish glow in his eyes as he stepped closer to the child. "Once more, with feeling. Believe! Believe!!"
With her elbows braced to the sharp edge of the pews backrest, those tiny fingers caked with clay were clasped fiercely together to meet her bowed forehead. Not that she could move those arms. Her wrists were wrapped with thick straps of leather, bounding those praying hands together. To add insult to the lesson, the other end of the strap was tacked to the wooden planks of the floor on the opposite side of the pew, holding her arms in place and preventing collapse or retraction. Escape was not an option.
Shifting upon her bruised and bloody knees, another splinter pierced her young skin, embedding deep. She bowed her head further, speaking louder in a vain attempt to convince her father of her sincerity; "I renounce living my life by only my decisions. I invite You to control my life, I willingly give up my life to Your loving hands, to use me for Your glory and honor. I know that Your unlimited forgiveness and mercy will save me from myself."
Tears had long dried from her cheeks. The words were croaked forth, harsh and rasping from a parched throat, unpleasant upon a sensitive ear.
The father approached his pupil with an outstretched hand which he finally placed upon the bent head of his daughter. The seventh daughter of a seventh daughter. "I will pray for you my child, for you are one upon whom God has laid his hand. But your soul is in peril, for Satan and his angels seek to prey upon those whom God would claim. I see the potential for great good in you, but for great evil also, and there is a dark cloud circling the skies of your life even as we speak."
Wincing under the memory, she reached for the sculpting tool as the wheel spun faster and faster under the furious pump of her foot. Alone and uncensored, she cursed within the confines of that small room, if only to give vent to the madness she felt creeping closer. Yet she knew, she knew she was not crazy. Yet the all too familiar scent of clay and candles burning only served to mock and ridicule her thoughts, her wavering beliefs.
Absently, she bent back to her work, not paying close attention to the details which was adamant for a potter. As a result, the sharp edge of the molding tool clipped her thumb. As she jerked her hand away, the clay wobbled unsteadily before falling inwards, collapsing upon itself.
She stared at the mess in disdain then looked to her hand. A ruby red drop of blood sped to the surface of her flesh to drop upon the wet clay, which in turn pooled outward and spread across the rim of the vase in a black stain as the wheel came to a slow stop.
As her eyes held to the drop of blood spreading viciously across the clay, she recalled the play she'd read, the play she'd seen about evilness?" Whispering softly to the room' "By the pricking of my thumb, something evil this way comes?"
Lifting the thumb to her mouth, she suckled the torn flesh, allowing for a minuscule moment her mind to drift"to open to the past, grasping at a lost name with a whisper as her teeth grazed against her thumb?"Cally?"
Serenity washed across the landscape of Warpara as families sat to dinner and welcomed the individual tales of each person's day.
But in the distance, on that lone hill set far apart from the rest of the village, sat The Potter's Studio. No warm candles glowed in the windows, welcoming curious travelers or late customers. All was dark as evening fell. Yet behind a door secreted behind a potter's wheel, voices were raised- one in anger and one in supplication.
A nine-year-old child knelt upon the stones behind that certain deacon's pew nailed to the floor, polished to an lustrous shine and positioned before an altar that no living soul that believed in the forgiveness of Christ could look upon without weeping in hopelessness.
A life-sized and crudely made figure of clay held dominion in the small room; the halo above his head covered in wax and further painted with the ocher of crushed daisies. The mouth forever turned down with a disapproving frown and impossibly black eyes focused upon the occupant of the lone pew set before it.
Still, the child prayed reverently as her father stood vigil with reproach, judging if her prayers were worthy of The Almighty! Of salvation.
"Again!" He roared with a feverish glow in his eyes as he stepped closer to the child. "Once more, with feeling. Believe! Believe!!"
With her elbows braced to the sharp edge of the pews backrest, those tiny fingers caked with clay were clasped fiercely together to meet her bowed forehead. Not that she could move those arms. Her wrists were wrapped with thick straps of leather, bounding those praying hands together. To add insult to the lesson, the other end of the strap was tacked to the wooden planks of the floor on the opposite side of the pew, holding her arms in place and preventing collapse or retraction. Escape was not an option.
Shifting upon her bruised and bloody knees, another splinter pierced her young skin, embedding deep. She bowed her head further, speaking louder in a vain attempt to convince her father of her sincerity; "I renounce living my life by only my decisions. I invite You to control my life, I willingly give up my life to Your loving hands, to use me for Your glory and honor. I know that Your unlimited forgiveness and mercy will save me from myself."
Tears had long dried from her cheeks. The words were croaked forth, harsh and rasping from a parched throat, unpleasant upon a sensitive ear.
The father approached his pupil with an outstretched hand which he finally placed upon the bent head of his daughter. The seventh daughter of a seventh daughter. "I will pray for you my child, for you are one upon whom God has laid his hand. But your soul is in peril, for Satan and his angels seek to prey upon those whom God would claim. I see the potential for great good in you, but for great evil also, and there is a dark cloud circling the skies of your life even as we speak."