Amber and Clay by Laura Schlitz (phonics books txt) 📕

blade.

I lifted my hand. Nip-slash for the horse’s ear.

The curving descent down the neck.

The back. The rump. The complicated legs.

The taut belly. Back up to the head —

a straight line down the muzzle,

the sharp angle of the jaw, the beautiful cheek;

I’ve groomed so many horses,

passed my hands over their bodies,

I know the shape of a horse under my hand.

“There, Phaistus! What did I tell you?”

“Who taught you to draw, boy?”

“Nobody.”

“Nobody did a good job.”

What did that mean? Was it a joke?

Clunk. He set a wine jar before me,

peeled the clay off the plaster slab,

and flipped it upside down.

“Copy that. Line for line.

Not the jar. Just the picture in the middle.”

It was a hard picture,

with no horses in it. There was my old friend Akhilleus —

the greatest of warriors,

the one with no luck.

On the jar, he was fighting the Amazon Queen —

a she-wolf, a warrior in her own right —

but she was no match for Akhilleus.

He pierced her heart with his spear;

she gazed at him in her death throes,

eye to eye,

and at that moment, as her life ebbed away

he was shot by Eros, god of love,

and he loved her.

She loved him. But by then it was too late;

she was bound for the House of Hades,

and he couldn’t undo what was done.

I told you he had no luck.

That was what I had to draw. I remembered Menon’s javelin,

the weight and threat of a spear.

I slashed the spear into the clay.

Then fierce Akhilleus, masked by his helmet,

his broad shoulders, his narrow waist,

meaty thighs and half-moon buttocks.

That part wasn’t too bad. I started to enjoy myself.

but the Amazon Queen —

collapsing

with her knees coming forward

— I couldn’t figure out those knees,

or the love and grief in her face.

“I can’t, despotes.”

“No, you can’t, yet. But it’s not too bad.”

He opened a jar of slip,

found me a pot that had cracked in the kiln,

and handed me a brush. “Try it again.”

This time was the worst of all. I’d never used a brush.

The hairs bent,

and the slip oozed in falling beads.

The pot was curved,

and my hand wouldn’t obey me.

“I can’t, despotes.”

“You will.” Zosima set her hand on my shoulder;

my flesh twitched, like a horse

shuddering off a fly. “You just need practice.

Phaistus, don’t you agree? Some god has taught this boy,

or given him a gift — ?

Won’t he be a help to you?

Aren’t you glad you chose him?”

Phaistus went to the doorway,

checking for customers. His back was to me.

“Someday, perhaps.

Right now, I don’t need another painter.

There’s not much call for fancy work.

What I need is a second donkey:

a boy who hauls clay,

and gathers brushwood,

and does what he’s told.

Still, you were right to tell me.

Now that I’ve seen what he can do, I’ll have to teach him.”

He turned back to me, his brow knotted.

“You keep working. Copy that drawing.

Once you’ve got the hang of using the brush,

I’ll give you a bowl to paint. What’s more, I’ll fire it.

It won’t look like much,

but later on,

you’ll be able to look back

at the first thing you did

and see how far you’ve come.”

Zosima went and stood behind him.

She slipped her hand into his. He squeezed her fingers,

and went back outside. Zosima turned toward me,

her face glowing. It was as if she were proud of me,

though what right she had to be proud, I don’t know.

I scooped up another lump of clay

and began to knead it.

Zosima stood by, watching.

I pretended she wasn’t there until she wasn’t.

Though I haunt him, I cannot make him see me.

What do I know of slaves? Not how to free them.

I would help if I could

but I am helpless.

I’m a ghost. If our eyes meet for a moment —

He’s afraid; he forgets me,

like a nightmare.

I am mute,

so there’s no communication,

and I have no idea of what to tell him.

I was young when I died. Forgive me, Thratta —

I can’t do this. Your son is like a fortress.

Neither magic nor mother-love can reach him —

I can set free a bear, but not a boy.

After that day, I practiced.

Each day, Phaistus gave me a piece of broken pot

and a jar to copy.

I worked to make my brushstrokes strong,

decisive as a cast spear.

I never liked Phaistus better than when he taught me.

He didn’t praise me,

but he gave me his full attention.

If we skipped a day, I missed it.

Kranaos hung over us with a glint in his eye.

He didn’t like me painting. I ignored him,

which was stupid,

because I know how it feels to be ignored.

There came a day —

Kranaos and I were out in the courtyard —

there was a pot the master had covered

with a damp cloth.

Kranaos said, “Hand me that cloth.” I reached for it —

and stopped. The cloth twitched.

Something warned me. I lifted the edge:

a scorpion

bigger than the palm of my hand,

the jointed tail clear yellow —

ugly, deadly, and symmetrical.

That was what Kranaos wanted —

for me to grab the cloth

and the scorpion to sting!

Rage rose in me.

I seized the cloth

and flicked the scorpion at Kranaos —

at his bare feet.

He gave a yell

and tottered to one side —

even as he stumbled, I saw from his face

I’d made a mistake. He hadn’t known.

The scorpion skittered under a bush.

Neither of us were stung.

I had time to feel relief —

but not to explain. Through the air

whistling

the old man’s stick! I yelped —

he aimed;

I leapt back,

banged into two pots, shattering them both —

he fisted my tunic,

yanked me to my feet;

I kicked —

knocked over a jar of slip —

Slip. I have to tell you: slip

is only clay and water,

but skimmed and sieved

and rinsed and strengthened;

it takes hours

and buckets and buckets of water

to make one little jar of slip. So —

overturning a whole bowl —

I was in trouble.

Kranaos lost his mind. He pulled my hair,

smacked my back with his horny old hands,

scratched and beat;

I put up my arms to shield my head.

I hadn’t been beaten since Menon.

Phaistus came from the shop. He bellowed at us both,

and I tore myself away.

The rush of the wind

— the streets — people who stared —

a goose honked and flapped aloft —

the dogs barked.

I leapt like Zeus’s lightning.