The sun had already disappeared behind the ridge, leaving only the red glow of the stone stove in the clearing before the cabin.
Adrian leaned against the doorframe and watched Oliver crouch beside the stove, clumsily prodding the fire beneath the clay pot with a stick blackened by flames, while Lucy carefully arranged the dry firewood one piece at a time.
Although her movements were slow, she worked with great care.
These minor chores, which had once demanded Adrian’s personal attention and consumed most of his evenings, had now been placed entirely in the children’s small hands.
Freed from these tedious tasks, Adrian experienced a long-forgotten sense of leisure as a lord.
He did not waste it; his gaze moved around the cabin before settling on the newly purchased clay pot.
He had traded ten catties of venison and several pieces of scrap leather for it, and it was currently the only container they possessed for boiling water and cooking soup.
A single clay pot could not endure endless use, especially in an outpost where even bowls had to be carved from bark and scraps of ash wood.
If it broke, they would be forced to return to roasting everything directly over the fire.
Moreover, as the two-acre rye field and the small cabbage patch developed, they would eventually need many more containers for storing grain, pickling vegetables, and carrying fresh water from the river.
Pottery at the market was extremely expensive because merchants had to transport it from distant towns on mules and horses.
Trading valuable venison for such fragile goods was clearly an inefficient arrangement.
Adrian remembered the layer of red clay he had uncovered downstream while gathering mud to plaster the walls several days earlier.
He walked to the stone bench, picked up the iron-shod wooden shovel, and headed toward the shoal where the mountain stream joined the river.
The light was already dim, but he found the clay deposit from memory.
Pressing his foot firmly against the shovel, he drove its iron edge through the surface and turned up a large clump of dark-red earth that was fine, sticky, and heavy with moisture.
He pinched off a piece and kneaded it repeatedly in his palm.
Warmed by his hands, the clay softened like dough, and even when he stretched it into a long, narrow strip, it did not break easily.
“The texture is pure enough, and there isn’t much sand.
It should be suitable for pottery.” Adrian filled a small sack with clay and carried it back to the cabin.
He washed a flat slab of bluestone, placed it beside the stove, and spread the clay across it before patiently removing the remaining pebbles, roots, and fragments of grass.
Oliver continued watching the soup but occasionally stole curious glances at Adrian.
As far as he knew, pottery was something produced only by skilled craftsmen in towns equipped with proper kilns.
Adrian knelt beside the stone slab, his hands covered in sticky red mud.
He rolled the clay into a ball and slammed it repeatedly against the stone.
Thwack.
Thwack.
The dull blows echoed through the valley.
Adrian was using the simplest possible method to compact the clay and remove any air trapped inside it, knowing that hidden pockets could cause the vessels to crack or burst during firing.
Once the clay had become denser and more elastic, he pressed his fingers into its center and began forming a hollow.
He did not hurry, while images of simple kiln designs passed rapidly through his mind.
He could not construct the great kilns used by professional potters, but it should be possible to build a crude earthen kiln against the rock wall using clay and stone.
With enough fuel and careful control of the airflow, it might generate sufficient heat to fire coarse pottery.
The clay beneath his fingers gradually began drying, forming a darker skin across its surface.
Adrian stared at the rough vessel taking shape on the slab while listening to the meat soup bubbling nearby, already imagining several wide-mouthed storage jars that could protect their supplies during the coming rainy season.
In this lawless forest, being able to create their own jars and containers was a far truer form of self-sufficiency than depending on distant merchants.
Adrian remained crouched in the shadow beside the stove, both hands coated in dark-red clay.
The coil-building method seemed the most reliable option, so he pinched off part of the kneaded clay and rolled it across the stone until it became a long cord roughly as thick as his thumb.
“Watch the fire.
Don’t let the soup boil over.” At Adrian’s instruction, Oliver immediately withdrew his gaze and concentrated on the pot.
Adrian wound the first clay coil into a flat disc to form the bottom of the jar, pressing the joints together until no gaps remained.
He then placed a second coil around the edge, followed by a third, slowly building the vessel upward one ring at a time.
Without a potter’s wheel, the walls were uneven in places.
Adrian did not care about appearances, however; in the wilderness, strength and usefulness mattered far more than beauty.
He found a short piece of ash wood left over from building the roof and carved one end into a flat scraper.
Supporting the inside of the vessel with one hand, he used the scraper to smooth and compress the outer wall.
Under the pressure of the wooden tool, the clay became smooth and slightly glossy, while the visible lines between the coils gradually disappeared.
Adrian worked slowly, making sure each seam was thoroughly joined, since even a weak line could cause the entire vessel to split during firing.
After completing two small, deep-bellied jars about the size of his palm, his hands grew more accustomed to the clay.
He then began shaping several wide-mouthed bowls.
The cabin had become hot and stifling from the stove, causing the clay to dry rapidly between his fingers.
Whenever the surface began to harden, he dipped his fingertips into the waterskin and moistened it again.
“My lord…” Oliver finally gathered the courage to speak.
“Will this soil really hold water once it dries?” “Drying it in the sun isn’t enough.
Until it is fired, it remains only mud and will dissolve when water touches it,” Adrian explained without taking his eyes from the vessel.
“It must be baked at a high temperature until it becomes hard like stone.” He had already decided to let the vessels dry slowly in the shade for several days.
Once they were ready, he would dig a pit in a sheltered area outside the cabin and attempt to fire them using pine wood and charcoal.
A simple pit kiln would not produce fine pottery, but it might reach a temperature high enough for rough, usable containers.
Adrian arranged the finished vessels neatly beneath the overhanging rock wall, far enough from the flames to avoid drying too quickly but close enough to benefit from the stove’s remaining warmth.
The dark-red firelight gave the unfinished jars a solid, weighty appearance.
He studied them while planning to send Oliver to gather more clay from the river the next day.
In addition to water jars, they would need larger storage vessels with lids for preserving the rye once it was harvested.
Sweat and flecks of clay clung to Adrian’s forehead.
He finally stopped working and washed his hands beside the stove, his fingertips rough and numb from repeatedly kneading and shaping the clay.
The venison soup had boiled until the broth turned pale, and its rich, salty aroma lingered between the earthen walls.
Adrian leaned back and watched the pottery slowly lose moisture in the shadows, feeling a deep sense of satisfaction at having created something essential with his own hands.
The approaching rainy season no longer seemed quite as threatening.
He picked up a wooden bowl and glanced at Oliver.
“The soup is ready.
Serve it, then prepare for bed.
Tomorrow, besides working on the fence, you’ll bring back two sacks of red clay.” Oliver answered promptly and began distributing the food with practiced movements.
Adrian continued staring at the unfinished vessels, silently calculating how many containers they could produce before the rye harvest arrived.