“That’s not
fair,” he said, pointing to the lump of clay spitting, cursing, and scratching
at the Master’s hand which held him tightly. “You made that little clay man. It
isn’t right for you to destroy it. It isn’t fair, I tell you, saving those
others and fixing what was wrong with them. Why don’t you do the same for this
one?”
The Master had
formed the little clay figures, and before our very eyes he had worked such
magic as none of us had ever dreamed. Breathing gently on his work, the clay
suddenly came to life, small creatures now animated, running about the
workbench, and singing, dancing, and exploring the world, albeit from their
very limited perspective. The Master had made one a little larger. He was the
leader of the group, and when the head clay man ventured near the candle
burning on the bench, the Master gently but firmly warned, “Don’t go near that.
Stay away. The day you try to take it, it will take you, and you will die.” For
a moment the clay man paused and all his clan with him. He seemed to think
about it. The candle was so beautiful, its flame so bright and wonderful. What
right did the Master have to give orders? What could be wrong about it?
Resolutely the clay man turned his back on the Master and reached out to grab
the flame.
Something
changed. The change was not obvious at first. The clay man did not melt or
burst into flame. But a stirring began among the clay figures on the workbench,
a grumbling, cursing murmur. Suddenly one figure grabbed another and, before you
could blink, wrenched its head clean off! Many were fighting now. Gangs of clay
men attacked the smaller ones, ripping them apart and laughing at their
screams. Others ventured to the edge of the workbench, determined to find a way
down. Another group stood at the edge and looking up at the Master’s face,
cursed and shook their fists, angrily protesting the injustice of his work,
mocking and spitting at him.
The Master
ignored their curses. He reached down and firmly grasped some of the figures, a
few here and a few there. Again he drew them toward his face and breathed upon
them. Something changed again. They became quiet, gazing into the Master’s
face. A few wept. Then they began singing for joy, praising the Master and
dancing as he placed them back upon the workbench.
Now the Master
addressed the rest of the clay figures, the ones who remained rebellious. He
picked them up, one by one, and began casting them from the bench into the fire
burning on the hearth. It was then that one of the observers with us spoke up. “It’s
just not fair, I tell you. You can’t save some of them and destroy the others.
They have rights, you know. It just isn’t fair.”
The Master
turned to look at his critic, and as he did so the rest of us did as well. The
dissenter stood on a shelf across from the workbench along with the rest of us.
He was standing just where the Master had placed him after breathing a second
time on his face and rescuing him from the fire. The Potter’s critic was made
of clay. -JME
