Sect Year 8 · third month · night of day 3 · the silent life: the terrace road and the halfway stone, his forty-fourth year
The shed was still dark when Ossel came down to it on the ninth day, but his father was already awake. Tobin sat on a stool in the open doorway with his hands in his lap. He hadn’t lifted wet clay since the spring. The hands lay on his knees with the knuckles knotted and the nails cut short by someone else’s care, and he watched his son cross the yard without a word.
“Lower wheel’s ready,” Tobin said.
“I’ll take it.”
Tobin nodded at the wheel, and Ossel sat down at it. The clay was a grey lump in the bowl. He wet his hands and centred it, pressing down until it stopped wobbling under his palms. He pulled the first wall up too fast and felt it shiver. He didn’t look at his father, and Tobin did not look at him. The treadle creaked and the lamp hissed on its hook. Then Ossel slowed his foot and brought the wall up again, gently, until it stood by itself. Tobin’s eyes were on the bowl and not on his son’s face. When the cup was finished, Ossel set it on the drying board. His father said nothing about it, and Ossel said nothing back.
