The kiln stands in the shed behind Marguerite's house,⏎
cooling since the middle of the night. At nine in the morning the air⏎
inside that shed is still warm and dry. Marguerite sets her mug of tea on⏎
the bench and reads the small screen on the kiln door.⏎
Ilan, her next-door neighbour's son, crosses the wet grass with one arm⏎
still hunting for its sleeve. He is 11 years old, and he has waited nine⏎
days for this one morning. He asks, "Can we open it now,⏎
or is it still far too hot inside?" Marguerite shakes her head and points⏎
at the screen with the blunt end of her pencil. She says,⏎
"It has to come down to 80 degrees before I'll lift that lid."⏎
She opens the firing log, a well-used notebook with a soft cover and a⏎
taped spine. Every firing has its own page, and this one is headed with⏎
yesterday's date. The kiln began heating at 4 in the afternoon and climbed⏎
for 11 hours. She turns the book around so that Ilan can read the middle of⏎
the page. She says, "I held it at 600 degrees for 20 minutes,⏎
then let it climb again." Ilan reads the last line out loud:⏎
the top was 1222 degrees, reached at 3 in the morning. He asks,⏎
"Why stop at such an odd number instead of a round one?"⏎
Marguerite laughs and taps the line twice with the pencil.⏎
She says, "This clay and that glaze agree there, and they argue much higher⏎
up." The screen blinks and settles on 80, and Marguerite unclips the⏎
catches on the heavy lid. Warm air rolls out, carrying a smell like clean⏎
stone and hot summer dust. The shelves are thick white slabs that⏎
Marguerite bought many years ago. Inside, the pots stand in three rows on⏎
two shelves, close-packed but never touching. Ilan leans over the edge with⏎
both hands behind his back, because that's the rule. He asks,⏎
"May I lift one out, or would you rather go first this time?"⏎
Marguerite passes him a pair of soft cloth gloves and steps back to give⏎
him room. She says, "Take the one nearest the front, and hold it with both⏎
hands." All night the shed had been quiet except for small pings from⏎
inside the kiln. Glaze and clay shrink as they cool, and they don't always⏎
shrink at the same speed. When they pull apart, the glaze makes a tiny⏎
sound, and a hair-fine line runs across it. Marguerite likes that sound,⏎
and she calls it the pot settling into its own skin. Ilan puts his ear near⏎
a tall jug and waits, and after a moment he hears one. He grins and holds⏎
up one finger to show Marguerite that he caught it.⏎
Marguerite has heard that sound since she was younger than Ilan is now.⏎
She says, "That's called a crackle, and some potters plan the whole pot⏎
around it." Ilan glazed three bowls himself two weeks ago,⏎
at the long table by the window. The first he dipped in a grey glaze called⏎
Old Ash, mixed in Marguerite's blue bucket. The second he brushed with a⏎
green called Meadow, and the third with pale blue. He lifts the grey bowl⏎
out and turns it slowly in the light from the doorway.⏎
The grey has gone glassy and deep, with tiny brown spots where the iron⏎
gathered. He shouts, "It worked, and it's far better than that dull bucket⏎
promised!" Marguerite holds the bowl up to the window and tips it one way,⏎
then the other. She says, "That's an even coat all over,⏎
and you didn't rush the dipping." The green bowl comes out next,⏎
and it isn't glassy at all. Its surface is dry and soft-looking like the⏎
skin of a ripe pear. Ilan turns it over and wonders aloud why the two bowls⏎
came out so different. He asks, "Did I paint this one too thin,⏎
or was it the wrong shelf?" Marguerite runs a thumb across the rim and⏎
thinks for a moment before she answers. She says, "Some glazes melt into⏎
glass, and some stay dry however hot they get." The pale blue bowl is the⏎
real surprise: the glaze ran down and pooled in the base.⏎
Where it gathered thick it went deep blue; where it ran thin it went almost⏎
white. Marguerite lifts the pots onto the bench one by one and counts them⏎
out loud. The tally comes to 27, which is two more than the last firing⏎
held. There are 9 mugs, 6 bowls, 5 jugs, 4 small jars and 3 wide plates.⏎
Ilan says, "That's the whole firing, and not one pot stuck to the shelf!"⏎
Two of the mugs came out with a rough, half-dry patch near the handle.⏎
Marguerite sets those two aside for the garden shelf,⏎
where they will hold seeds. She says, "Every firing keeps a few for me,⏎
and I stopped minding that years ago." Ilan writes the numbers in the log⏎
while she reads them out from the bench. His handwriting is neat;⏎
the columns line up far better than hers ever do. Back on the first page of⏎
the log is the plan she wrote before the firing. A firing schedule is a⏎
list of steps: climb, hold, climb again, then cool slowly.⏎
The first hour is the slowest, because damp clay can't be rushed at the⏎
start. She held the kiln at 1222 degrees for 15 minutes at the top of the⏎
long climb. That hold is what gives a glaze time to melt flat and close its⏎
tiny holes. Then she switched the power off and let the whole 11-hour climb⏎
run backwards. Cooling takes longer than heating; that surprises almost⏎
everybody who asks about it. Marguerite keeps every firing schedule she has⏎
ever used and lets Ilan read them. She says, "I write it all down because I⏎
forget what I did last time." They carry the pots into the kitchen on a⏎
tray with a folded towel on it. Ilan lines his three bowls up on the table⏎
and looks at them for a while. He asks, "Can I try the grey glaze again,⏎
but on a taller shape next time?" Marguerite says the next firing is in two⏎
weeks, if she has enough pots ready. She needs about 25 to fill the shelves⏎
properly (the kiln holds 30 at a squeeze). Ilan says he can make 4 bowls in⏎
a week if he starts on Saturday morning. Marguerite writes his name at the⏎
top of a fresh page in the log. She says, "Then we'll open this lid⏎
together, and you can count the pots out!"