# Hubris. #2 Writinggroupchallenge

Author: geneseepaws
Tags: Apprentices, Fire, Hubris, Leopard, WritingGroupChallenge

#2 of WritingGroupChallenge

Short version, closer to 1400 words than the 2000 I had before.

This weeks writing challenge is:&nbsp; "It was a trite platitude, but that didn't make it any less accurate."&nbsp;

&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; Among the Ancient Greek peoples, they say that the gods have only one unforgivable sin;&nbsp; and that the only sin unforgivable is: Hubris.&nbsp;

&nbsp;&nbsp; Please, Good Gentle, you asked me a question, "Why is there a ding or blemish on each pot, clearly put there intentionally by someone?"

&nbsp; &nbsp;My&nbsp;bone fides: I&nbsp;was a good well behaved pup,&nbsp;was schooled,&nbsp;apprenticed here&nbsp;in the midlands.&nbsp; I am a potter, I have a pottery, though I can neither aver nor avow the small details, I have a story to tell about a potter of great renoun; my Master, a leopard born "Restive and Carries a Ball," who signed her pots Lurie.

&nbsp;&nbsp; Lurie was apprenticed at an early age, as punishment for not being like her sisters.&nbsp; They were both&nbsp;dainty, demure, and quiet, as befits daughters of a leopard of rank; State's Counselor to the King.&nbsp; Lurie was the opposite; a wild cub, active and impulsive as a raccoon!&nbsp; Always too curious, always trying to understand, always asking questions -- some "Indelicate." In frustration Lurie's father took her away, and sold her as apprentice to a Master Potter.

&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;She learned too well, instead of six years making Journier,&nbsp;she learned everything in three, hmmm,&nbsp;maybe four.&nbsp; Instead of four years as Journier&nbsp;she finished, some say in two, others say she&nbsp; was already a master potter before finishing her apprenticeship.&nbsp; With no proof either way; those with love say 'yes,' those with envy say 'no,' those who both love and envy her are potters today.

&nbsp;&nbsp; Lurie made pots, lots of them.&nbsp; Before her elevation to Master of Pottery she was already&nbsp;teaching at a university in the Midlands.&nbsp; Customers waited two years for affordable pottery -- not pottery made by Lurie, herself, --but from us: her Assistants and Journiers.&nbsp; The pottery she made was bought at prices unheard of.&nbsp; Museums would beg her for, "A thing, just a thing, any pot at all that you have made, that we might display?" &nbsp;

And that was it, you see?&nbsp; She kept improving, struggling toward perfection.&nbsp; She refined building kilns, compounding new glazes, she fired&nbsp;the kiln keeping the greens bright and vibrant and the reds not bleached by over-firing.&nbsp; And that's very difficult. &nbsp;

&nbsp; She yearned- burned- for perfection.&nbsp; We all marveled, "She will make the perfect pot," we said to ourselves.

&nbsp;&nbsp;Some say, "It was pride, or "It was revenge."&nbsp; I think that, hmm, maybe she was trying to work off some Kharmic debt?&nbsp; She was our Master but her creativity was beyond our understanding.&nbsp; We all marveled at her vision and it's forms.

&nbsp;&nbsp;That led to trouble. &nbsp;

&nbsp;&nbsp; She worked impossibly hard at her wheel, was driven to.&nbsp; We took over her teaching, for her to invent, develop her skill, -- still she strove for the perfect form, the most perfect pot.&nbsp; Working all day and then late into the night.

&nbsp; &nbsp;Her pottery was fabulous, we could look at a piece, stare at it, trying to understand it.&nbsp; Why did it draw one's heart so?&nbsp; It was magical!&nbsp; Whatever she had - it was past our ability to copy.&nbsp; Then the glass blowers and the tilers guilds' Journiers started to come to her.&nbsp; And the other Masters were so angry, having their students come to her for knowledge... There was 'talk'. &nbsp;

&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;And still she drove herself.&nbsp; One day at work, wedging clay together&nbsp;I asked, "Master, why do you strive so hard? &nbsp;There is nothing your pottery's equal. &nbsp;They are&nbsp;perfect?"&nbsp; She answered me, "Not perfect, yet, but I will create perfect pot."&nbsp; She&nbsp;turned away,&nbsp;going to her wheel,&nbsp;skipping&nbsp;lunch, working&nbsp;until late.&nbsp; As that story got around, two students; a Darwist, the other a Satyrist, got into it -- teeth and nails -- arguing about mans' and gods' perfection.&nbsp; And if the search for perfection would offend them, or not.&nbsp;

&nbsp;&nbsp; We had made&nbsp;pots to fire,&nbsp;but I had earned a pause to go visit my father who was ill, as the oldest child ought to.&nbsp; So I was away&nbsp;when it happened, but I was told this by my comrades when I returned:

&nbsp; &nbsp;Lurie came in&nbsp;before lunch one day, and announced, "Oh, rejoice, I have thrown the perfect pot.&nbsp; Not even the gods could make a pot this perfect.&nbsp; We will not fire the kiln until it is ready."&nbsp; So they waited for her -- the kiln was loaded, full, and ready.&nbsp; But a place was cleared for her near the top center, for the pot.&nbsp; She went into her studio asking for water and fruit.&nbsp; Then taking some, she locked her door.&nbsp; For a day and a half no sound was heard but the grinding of the muller&nbsp;and splashes of water.&nbsp; Apprentices posted by her door say there was no word until noon the next day. &nbsp; She came out bringing the pot - carefully carried, and loaded it into the top of the kiln herself, and bricked the door closed sealing it off with clay.&nbsp; She placed little clay dragons atop the kiln to watch over the firing.&nbsp; Then she started the fire, standing there, and loading&nbsp;wood. &nbsp;

&nbsp; &nbsp;She stood, or sat, or ate watching, until it was finished firing and left to cool.&nbsp; She went to bed then, and slept late the next morning. &nbsp;She stood so proudly, to know that it would be perfect, for she ordered a large display pedestal; gilded and painted.&nbsp; They say it was magnificent, all celadon green and gilt, -- but she waited on opening the kiln, first putting her ear against it, then muttering.&nbsp; When the time was right, she opened the kiln smiling. Remember, this is the story as I was told, for I was away&nbsp;and so I missed unloading the kiln.

&nbsp; They babbled, "It was magnificent,... magical," describing it to me!&nbsp; They look far away into the distance, close their mouths and smile quietly.&nbsp; Then say, "It was Perfect, just ... beautiful." &nbsp;

&nbsp;&nbsp; She unloaded the kiln, herself.&nbsp; Apprentices were stunned, Jouniers speechless!&nbsp; She held the most perfect pot up over her head, then&nbsp;cradling it in her arms carried it into her shop.&nbsp; She carefully placed it on the pedestal in the middle of the studio. &nbsp;Plopping herself down, the apprentices likewise sat down around her and marveled.&nbsp; Though some of the apprentices said it was an "affront to the Greenman" to make something so perfect, still they sat wondering at its beauty.

&nbsp; &nbsp;The day turning into evening,&nbsp;the apprentices' tummies all growling, like bears, she declared&nbsp;a party, commanding short beer for the apprentices, ale for the Journiers, rum for herself, leading the&nbsp;singing and dancing into the early hours.

&nbsp; &nbsp;Dawn was bright and hot in a clear sky, when suddenly screams from apprentices and cries from the Jouniers, "Fire!&nbsp; Fire," pointing to the smoke billowing from the studio and sheds, scurrying, running for buckets of water.&nbsp; The assistants went in dragging her from her room sleepy and unsteady on her feet.&nbsp; The older ones still trying to put the fire out, and failing it was so hot and well underway, they stood shaking, crying, watching their workshop burning to the ground.&nbsp; As it burned the sides gave way, the huge ridge pole crashed down across the conflagration.&nbsp; Soon only hot ash was left, blowing in swirls. &nbsp;She never sat at the wheel again, but taught her classes using the assistants and Jouniers. &nbsp;

&nbsp; &nbsp;The fire "cleansed her arrogance," say those that envied her, &nbsp;"She offended the gods - only the gods may create something that perfect and they were angered."&nbsp;   
&nbsp; &nbsp;Those who loved her say, "No. The gods loved her.&nbsp; The smoke rising from the devastation carried off her spark..."&nbsp;&nbsp;

&nbsp; &nbsp;But those who know, know that she grieved the loss of the studio that was as her child, it was not the loss of the pot that hurt her so.&nbsp; For she knew what she had made, and knew that it was perfect.

&nbsp;&nbsp;Still, just in case her detractors were correct, I carefully put a little ding or dent in each pot, to insure that it is not quite&nbsp;perfect.

Source: https://sofurry.com/s/RnowJl6n
Part of the series WritingGroupChallenge
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