Once upon a time there was a lump of clay in Hungary. It was dug out of the ground, cleared of sticks and stones, and processed till it was pure and smooth, ready for the potter.

At the same time, there was a school class preparing for a field trip to the nearby craftshop. One little boy in particular, with big grey eyes, was excited. His great-grandfather had been a potter in Budapest, and his mother had told stories of the old days, of the pots and vases and bowls he crafted and that she still had. But when the mother tucked her child inside his water slicker that morning before school, and kissed his little face sticking out of the hood, she told him, "No matter what you make, I will love it!" He nodded obediently, but didn't say aloud that he wasn't so sure about that.... Mothers have to like what their children make, but what if he made something really ugly? Who would want to tell stories later about that?

He worried about this through the first few classes, and only ate half his sandwich at lunch. He made a face at a nearby pigeon and informed it sternly that if he wasn't going to eat his food, the pigeon couldn't either. He stuffed the other half inside his lunchbox and stomped off, feeling a little braver. He held on to that thought during the bus ride into town and refused to think about anything else. When he stepped carefully through the rough wooden door of the pottery barn, though, he was too intrigued to remember the lunch or his bravery... there was too much to see. Wheels and stools and shelves and mud everywhere!

He soon learned it was not actually mud... it was clay. Sometimes very wet clay, with extra water, called 'slip' that potters rubbed around their pots or with a sponge... sometimes very dried and flaky clay that had fallen or been rubbed away. Before he knew it, he was sitting on his own small stool at his own spinning wheel and waiting for the pottery instructor to hand him his very own lump of clay to work with. The first girl in the row got hers, and then the second girl, and then a boy, and another girl, and so on... but when the instructor got to him, she paused. By that time, the assistants and other children were busy beginning with their clay, and the air was filled with a whirring noise.

The grey eyed boy looked up curiously at the instructor. She looked down at him a moment thoughtfully, but instead of giving him the lump of clay she held in her hand, she reached past him to a shelf and handed him another instead. He looked at it silently. At first he couldn't tell what the difference was, but then he saw that the colour was a little different. He picked it up and held it closer. It was black. He looked down the row, and saw red, brown, light tan, and everything in between. But no other black. Even the smudges on the wheels and floor (and walls) were the other colours.

When he looked back at the instructor, unsure if he was allowed to ask questions, she just nodded at him reassuringly. "The first lump of clay I was ever given was black, too." Normally he would have had so many questions, even if he kept them in his head. But somehow, her nod and few words made it all better. Content, he turned to the challenge of making something from what sat on his wheel. Soon he was spinning it with the foot pedal, and trying gently to shape the clay with his fingers. Sometimes it leaned too much one way and he had to correct it hastily. Sometimes it collapsed altogether and he had to stop the wheel, squish all the clay together again, and try again. The noise of the other wheels, other students, and the voice of his teacher giving a brief history lesson of pottery all faded away. It was just him and the clay and his wheel, spinning together....

When he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, he slowed his wheel done and reluctantly pulled his hand away from last touches to his creation. He had no idea how long it had been since he'd started, and as he stretched he realised he was stiff from sitting so still, so long, and that the room was quiet. He looked up and saw the other students were gone, though he could hear them faintly in the next room. The instructor was standing by him. "It is beautiful." He looked down, and felt that what she said was true. It was beautiful. He was glad she let him carry it to the shelf where it would wait until it was ready for baking.

He waved goodbye politely with the other students, and spent the rest of the day in a happy daze. His mother asked him three times at dinner if he'd had fun at pottery (and gave him two helpings of broccoli when he accidentally said yes to that too). The next day was a blur until the pottery van showed up with the finished pieces. He had been so eager to see his, but suddenly felt almost shy, and hung back. The assistant handed out the pots to the students one by one, and the grey eyed boy gave polite congratulations to all his friends as they showed off theirs. All the while, though, he kept his eyes out for his, and was just starting to get worried when he saw his own special instructor walk up to him with a carefully wrapped package. He opened his hands to take it, but instead she knelt down, jean-covered knees in the dirt, and held it so he could unwrap it himself. He knelt down too, which made her smile, but he could tell from her face that she knew how important this was. Oh so slowly he pulled away the brown paper... and then, there was his bowl. Smooth and black and curvy-- and beautiful. He could see that one side was the tiniest bit slanted, and as he turned it over it looked like a half finger smudge on the bottom, but you could hardly tell.

Over his head he could hear his teacher going on about such an *unusual* colour and how much talent he had and thank you so much for the pottery class the children really enjoyed it.... He supposed she was talking to his instructor, but the instructor looked like she was paying more attention to what he was saying with his hands as he ran his fingers over every centimeter of his bowl. When his teacher finally paused for breath, he finally looked up at the instructor. He realised she had grey eyes too, and smiled at a private thought. Maybe there was a magic to black clay that only grey eyed people could bring out? She nodded at him as if she had heard what he was thinking, all of it, but just to make sure he added, "And thank you. Very much for the grey clay, and helping me make my bowl. I love it."

And so did his mother.

The End.