Schifflebein's Folly

PROLOGUE: THE STUDIO

In the oldest and most perfect pottery studio in the universe, the walls glowed with ethereal light. The ceiling was high enough to be hidden by clouds. The only flaw in the studio's splendor was its single door, which was narrow, wooden, plain, and scarred. Through that door bustled a peculiar, small person sporting a cocked stovepipe hat. He closed the door and waited politely for the Potter to acknowledge him.

The diminutive visitor looked like a 19th century sidewalk newsboy, or he might have been a taller-than-average leprechaun. Truly, he could be both, either, or neither, as the situation demanded. He was older than he looked by several million years, but he could pass for middle-aged on any planet. His name was Orkney.

Orkney watched in silence as the Potter fashioned a teapot and then its lid. He watched the Potter paint the raw clay and then set the two pieces into a kiln for firing.

A glance at the nearby workbench revealed a freshly painted vase, an urn, some candelabra, cups, saucers, a platter, but no other teapots.

When a minute had passed, or it may have been a year or a decade (time having no meaning in the studio), the Potter lifted the fired teapot from the kiln and set about painting a face upon it. Orkney neither moved nor spoke during all that time.

"Good to see you, Orkney," said the Potter, at whose smile Orkney nearly floated with happiness.

"You called, Guvnor?" Orkney said, sounding like a London street urchin—which he could be if called upon.

"Time to go to work again, my son," the Potter said, putting the finishing touches on the teapot's facial features. "It's been thirty-two years, seven months, four days, and six hours since the last job, by human reckoning."

"Human. So it's to be earth again, sir?"

The Potter put down his paintbrush and stepped back to evaluate his creation. He produced a neon green card from among the folds of his robe and flipped the card toward Orkney. Orkney remained absolutely still while the card wafted across the room and lodged itself securely in the band of his stovepipe hat. "That's the name and address where you'll deliver this teapot," said the Potter.

Orkney retrieved the card from his hatband and read it. He blew out air. "Coo! This bloke? They think 'e's bonkers already, Guv. This'll get 'im locked up for sure!"

"Just deliver the teapot."

Orkney looked at the teapot with its newly painted face. "But i's still wet!"

A gust of wind swept through the studio, billowing fabrics and rustling small items on the workbench.

"It's dry now," the Potter said. He placed the lid on the teapot then handed the pot to Orkney.

As Orkney accepted the teapot, it grinned and winked at the Potter.