Keys of Heaven by Adina Senft Read Free Book Online Page B

between the Yoder place and this one.
    He needed some inspiration from the flowers and fields on this warm summer evening—in that way, at least, he could put some truth into the marketing copy.
    *  *  *
    There was something beguiling about moving water. Henry climbed down the slope into the creek bottom, where a path meandered along a grassy bank. Alders, maples, and willows leaned over the water, which chattered and bubbled along in its course, turning rocks over and cutting the channel infinitesimally deeper every day. Clusters of purple flowers grew among hillocks of wide-bladed grass, and hummingbirds and sparrows flitted among them. Two swallows dove and swooped after mosquitoes, no doubt with the aim of taking them back to a barn somewhere to feed hungry young before night fell.
    The water had scoured the soil from a couple of wide, flat stones, and as Henry sat and leaned back on his hands, he felt the warmth of the afternoon sun stored in the granite permeate his skin.
    With a shock of recognition, he looked up into a maple above his head and saw a rotted old piece of rope tied around a branch. This was where he’d gone into the creek that December day, egged on by Michael Yoder and his brothers. The rope had broken and dropped him into the swimming hole right over there, and it had been a good thing they were having a green Christmas, or he might not have survived the experience.
    Or so he’d thought at the time. Somehow it didn’t look quite as deep and scary as it had when he was a boy.
    The breeze and the whispering rush of the water calmed him the way the voice of a trusted friend might—a friend you could count on to be there no matter what the season or circumstance. The creek eddied and swirled, always in motion, always changing—yet still the same, all these years later.
    Motion. Liquid motion.
    Henry sat up and pulled his sketchbook out of the breast pocket of his shirt, along with a number eight Micro pen. He sketched in the outline of a batter bowl. Liquid poured from the spout, but if he treated the handle as the source and the motion went from here to here…
    No, that wasn’t right. Too obvious. Like giving the baker instructions on how to use his tools.
    He tried again, the swirl and eddy of the creek in his mind—the stillness of the rocks—the sound of wind and the way it moved through trees—
    Five bowls appeared on the page now, none of them quite right. Six.
    Birds. The swoop and dive of the birds against the light as they sought to feed their families—the way a baker wanted to feed his or her family—sky, water, bird, light, all in motion—
    That was it.
    The seventh bowl came into being under his pen, a line at a time, a shadow here, a curve there, a swirl and a dive, light as air and brilliant as water. He could use one of the delicate shades of blue he’d already developed in his glaze recipe book, but there was more to it—the luminescence of water, a pearly, swirly effect—he had the ground minerals on hand to produce that, he was sure of it, somewhere in the boxes he hadn’t yet unpacked.
    It was unusual. It suggested light and movement, whether at rest or in use.
    Down the margin of the page, he made notes. Oh, this was going to be good.
    He had to get back to the barn right away.
    Over the rush of the creek, he heard voices around the bend, and scrambled to his feet. But before he could get across the path and up the slope, three people came around the curve. He recognized Priscilla Mast’s blond hair and glasses right away. But who were the two city kids with her?
    “Hallo, Henry,” she called, relief in her voice.
    “Hi, Priscilla.” Teenagers wouldn’t expect him to stand there and visit. He’d be polite and then they could all be on their way.
    “What are you doing down here?”
    “Taking a walk. How are you?”
    “I’m well, thanks.” Her gaze pleaded with him to do something.
    And then he put one and two together. “You okay, Pris? These kids