Short Stories
The Potter and the Pot
A short story by Jamin C. Shepherd
“An oath, an oath, an oath in heaven, and heaven known in the bright oath itself…”
Charles Williams -- Descent Into Hell
The sculptor was surprised and slightly alarmed when he took out of the kiln a newly formed pot and it spoke to him. It said, “Thank you for making me.” After a moment, which seemed to last forever, and with a hint of curiosity and sarcasm, he replied, “You’re welcome, little pot.”
He was full of bewilderment. It was a pot. It was a plain pot. And yet it had spoken. Or had it? The little pot spoke again, this time longer than the last.
“I wasn’t aware of myself until you made me alive,” it said. The Sculptor looked at the little pot inquisitively.
“Well, what a philosophical little pot you are!” he exclaimed. He looked harder at the pot. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Amazement is often times followed by doubt.
“I am how you made me,” replied the little pot.
The sculptor felt an opposing mixture of disbelief and desire to believe. Was he dreaming? Or was this small pot indeed alive and speaking to him? He mulled over the little pot’s response in his mind. He spoke: “I wonder how there has never before been another one of my pots that spoke to me.”
“You made them different than me,” said the little pot without a second to pass.
The sculptor thought for a moment. He was puzzled. He asked the little pot, “But how come I have yet to see any special qualities in others, such as your ability to speak?” He hoped deeply that this little pot might have an answer to his query.
It did.
“Perhaps each one possesses qualities that are unnoticeable to the observer on the exterior.”
“For instance?” questioned the sculptor.
“For instance,” said the little pot matter-of-factly, “hearing, seeing, smelling, thinking, perceiving, pondering, wondering, wishing, tasting…”
“But,” said the sculptor hastily, “I do not make pots with ears to hear, or with eyes to see, or brains to think, perceive, wonder, and wish. I just make ordinary pots.”
“Ah,” the little pot replied, “but what says eyes are necessary to seeing, or brains are necessary to thinking, or a mouth is necessary to speaking?”
At the mentioning of this last phrase, the sculptor began to remember he was having this conversation not with another human being but with a little clay pot. A clay pot which, in fact, he himself had molded, formed, and finished with fire. He recalled taking the clay in his hands, dampening it, and beginning to work it out of its solidified form. He remembered placing it upon the spinning wheel and working it into the shape it now stood before him on the table. He knew he had sculpted the two handles onto it and put it into a burning hot kiln. He couldn’t resolve the probability that he may be having psychological delusions possibly resulting from loneliness and depression. He missed his days of teaching philosophy and theology at the college. He was very old now, his wife and friends had passed, his remaining family was far away and never visited, and all he had left in this life were his tiny sculpted figures and clay pots. He thought it would have been more appropriate for the small animal or people sculptures that he made to talk to him, not one of the clay pots. He thought also how distinguished and eloquent and wise the little pot seemed.
“I’m sorry. I forgot what we were talking about,” he said, restarting the dialogue.
“I was saying how you feel it necessary to believe that, as with a human being, ears, eyes, brains, and mouths are necessary for hearing, seeing, thinking, and speaking, but…” The little pot trailed off as the sculptor interrupted.
“Ah, yes,” said the sculptor, “but you are also implying that outside of my capacity of thought is the likelihood that those appendages aren’t needed for those ‘physical’ operations.”
The sculptor realized he was enjoying this discussion very much which then took a metaphysical turn.
“Tell me this,” he said, “If I brought you into being, do I possess some kind of power over you? Do I get to decide whether you speak or do not speak?”
The little pot was silent.
“Speak, little pot, answer the question.”
“Firstly,” said the little pot, “what shall I call you?”
The sculptor thought for a moment and replied, “Call me the sculptor, for that is what I am.”
“Great sculptor,” continued the little pot, “indeed you do have all power over me and are in total control as long as I remain serving your purposes. If someone else takes possession, then you shall have to get me back.”
The sculptor remained silent. He began to consider what a great task it would be to take on to try and locate and purchase all of his prior pots. Purchase or perhaps reclaim if that was possible. He wondered what all of his pots could “do”. He wondered if any of the others did anything at all. His mind was lost in a whirlwind of thoughts regarding the many pots he had made and discarded or broken. “Would I be the only one able to recognize their abilities?” he thought. He decided to question the little pot on this matter.
“Do you think I am the only person able to hear you speak?” he asked.
“I do not know,” said the little pot and added, “I suppose that is for you to decide.”
“What if I decide you can talk to me and you can also talk to another pot?” he further inquired.
“I would say you must give the other pot the ability to hear.”
“Valid point,” said the sculptor.
“I would much like to have another pot to talk to,” said the little pot.
The sculptor let forth a boisterous laugh. This was the first time he could remember laughing in many months. He began now to truly assess his sanity. Surely this little pot was not speaking; his imagination had gotten the best of him. He was talking to a little clay pot. How ridiculous! He was much more complex and much more powerful than this little pot. He could, if he wanted to, destroy it at any moment. He picked it up off of the table, stood up, and thought to let go, but he could not bring himself to drop it. His frail hands pulled the little pot in close to his body, and he found himself embracing it, not as one would embrace another adult but like one would tenderly hold a child. In just a few minutes conversation following its creation the little pot had come to be his favorite creation he had ever created. He set it carefully back on the table. His eyes were damp with tears.
“Little pot,” he whispered, “I am the sculptor and I will not destroy you, but only do me this one favor always.” The little pot waited for the rest of the thought. “Please never forget that I created you. And do not call me the sculptor. Call me friend. This and only this I ask of you.”
“Friend,” said the little pot. “Friend,” it repeated.
“Yes,” said the sculptor, “friend.” It had been a long time since he had used that word. Then a thought came to his mind.
“Friend,” said the little pot again.
“As for another pot to talk to,” said the sculptor, “I should think perhaps the best way to assure that you and it were able to communicate would be to use the same piece of clay.”
“Yes, friend,” acknowledged the little pot.
“Only I used all of the clay in making you.”
“Then you shall use a part of me with some new clay,” the little pot suggested. The sculptor was amazed at the little pot’s willingness to sacrifice.
“I shall remove one of your two handles as only one is necessary,” said the sculptor.
“Very well then,” the little pot replied.
The sculptor tenderly broke off one of the two handles he had molded onto the sides of the little pot. The little pot made no sound of pain or discomfort. It remained silent and still until, a few hours and much anticipation later, the sculptor took out of the kiln a newly formed little pot.
The new pot did not speak. It only sat on the table. It did not give any sign of life at all. The sculptor waited and waited and waited. He was confused, even sad.
“Speak to me, little pot,” said the sculptor finally, after much silence and deliberation.
Then the new pot uttered its first words. “Do forgive me for not speaking earlier,” it said, “but I will do nothing without it being in your desires.”
The new pot could speak! It was as if, at his speaking, the sculptor had given it its voice. He was dumbfounded. The elegance with which the new pot spoke and the words it had spoken! Not only that but because, with its first words, it had transformed into a beautiful and exquisite creation. It became the most magnificent looking little pot ever to be created by the sculptor.
“Little pot,” he said humbly to it, “You will serve my purposes for you, and in exchange I shall give you the gift of living. Only never forget that I created you.”
The new pot paused for a moment and simply replied, “I am yours to do with what you will. Thank you for life.”
As he admired the little pots, the sculptor was full of thanksgiving for his new friends and felt a deep, newfound love towards them both. His existence again had meaning.
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