Page 16 of A Winter Crush
“What are you doing?” Ori asked.
“Trimming,” Wareth said. “You don’t need to worry about it.”
Ori pressed his lips together. “I know you don’t like me touching your precious pottery.” That was what Sariah had said, and Ori had seen the truth of it the past few days.
Wareth’s bushy brows drew down into a frown.
“I was just curious,” Ori said. “I don’t understand all the stuff you do.” He gave a wave of his hand around the studio. “I was kind of hoping you might explain some of it.”
Ori held his breath. For a second, Wareth didn’t move or speak. With a kicking motion, Wareth continued to power the wheel, the vessel turning on the centre. Then he picked up a tool. It had a wooden handle and a metal knife bent at the top. His hand dwarfed it.
Ori’s body deflated. It seemed Wareth had done enough explaining. Disappointed, he looked around and tried to find something else to keep him occupied.
“Trimming is when you scrape off the excess clay,” Wareth said. “Gives it its shape and form.”
Ori perked up. He walked over to Wareth, hoping he’d keep talking.
“Earlier, I threw these. They’ve dried enough. So I can trim them.”
“Threw?”
“Threw. It’s what we call it when you make something on the wheel. You throw a bowl. A mug. A pot.”
Wareth moved the tool towards the form. It touched the greyish clay, and a strip came off, a thin ribbon becoming longer and longer as Wareth continued. He moved the tool around, fingers nimble. More and more clay flew off. The spinning of the wheel, the motion of his hands, and the carving of clay were hypnotic and strangely satisfying to watch. Slowly, the vessel changed as Wareth worked, taking shape and becoming more refined.
“Done,” Wareth said. He brushed away the strips of clay and held it up. “It’ll be a mug.” He put it back on the board and grabbed the next one.
“Should it have a handle?”
“That comes later,” Wareth said as he started the process again.
“Do you mind if I keep watching?” Ori asked.
Wareth’s brows furrowed. “Why?”
Ori shrugged. “I like to watch you work.”
Wareth didn’t respond.
“There’s something about it that’s…calming.”
Wareth looked at him, dark-brown eyes assessing. Then he gave a brisk nod.
Smiling at the victory, Ori grabbed one of the chairs by the stove and pulled it up next to the wheel. At first, Wareth’s arms and shoulders seemed a little tense, but his body relaxed as he became absorbed in the work.
Ori watched the man’s hands move, large knuckles bending and extending. Fine hairs stood out on his wrists and forearms. A thin, almost white scar ran down the back of Wareth’s left hand.
I wonder how he got it.
Wareth trimmed each vessel one after the other, before placing them onto the board. More and more clay peeled off, piling up around the wheel. Ori fell into a trance-like state watching the smooth, fluid process.
“These are finished.” Wareth placed the last one back on the wooden plank.
“Oh,” Ori said, feeling surprisingly disappointed that it had ended.
“Can you…” Wareth covered the mugs with the linen cloth.
“Yes?” Ori prompted, leaning toward him.
