A Kiln-Fired Warning

Ben carefully lifted the ceramic crow. It was heavier than it looked, solid, with a satisfying coolness against his palms. The craftsmanship was undeniable. Each feather was individually carved, the posture captured with a tension that made it seem ready to take flight. He’d found the first on the co-op’s doorstep two weeks ago. The second had appeared on the hood of Agnes Brewster’s car. This one, tucked into the flowers, felt like an escalation.

The summer tourist season was in full swing, and the small town of Lunenburg was bustling. The co-op should have been thriving, its shelves of colourful mugs and bowls drawing in visitors. Instead, a cloud of uncertainty hung over it. Agnes, the board chair, was convinced that selling their prime waterfront building to a Halifax developer was the only sensible path forward. The rest of the members were heartbroken.

“Another one?” The sharp voice of Agnes herself made Ben jump. She was standing on the sidewalk, a severe woman in a linen pantsuit, her arms crossed tightly. Her gaze was fixed on the crow in Ben's hands.

“Morning, Agnes. Yes. It was in the window box,” he said, trying to sound casual.

“This is not a charming local quirk, Benjamin. This is a threat,” she snapped, marching up the steps. “It’s intimidation. I’ve filed a report with the constabulary. They laughed at me. ‘A pottery pest,’ they called it.” She unlocked the front door with a vicious twist of her wrist. “I want you to figure out who is doing this. Check the kiln logs. See who’s been using the salt glaze. I want them out. Membership revoked.”

Ben followed her into the studio. The large, open room smelled wonderfully of damp clay, glazes, and brewing coffee. Wheels were arranged in one corner, shelves of drying greenware lined the walls, and finished pieces gleamed under the track lighting. It was a home to a dozen local artists, a place of community and creativity. A place a condo developer would gut without a second thought.

“The salt kiln hasn’t been fired in two weeks,” Ben said calmly, placing the crow on the front desk. “And anyone here knows that a firing is a community event. No one could do it secretly.”

“Then someone has their own kiln,” Agnes countered. “This is childish, a tantrum in stoneware. That developer’s offer is the only thing keeping this place from going bankrupt. These little… toys… are jeopardizing our future.”

She swept off towards the small office in the back, leaving Ben alone with the crow. He picked it up again, running his thumb over its smooth head. Agnes was wrong. It wasn’t a toy. It was a warning. And whoever made it was a potter of incredible skill.

Reading the Clay

Cathy was in the back, wedging a massive lump of porcelain on the concrete floor. She was one of their youngest members, a recent graduate from the art college in Halifax, and her work was delicate, ethereal. She looked up as Ben approached, wiping a smear of white clay from her cheek.

“Another bird landed, huh?” she asked.

Ben nodded, setting the crow down on a nearby table. “Agnes is on the warpath. She wants me to find the culprit.”

Cathy picked up the crow, her potter’s hands assessing it instantly. “Wow. This is seriously good. Look at the control in the glaze. No drips. And this clay…” She scratched at the unglazed bottom with her fingernail. “It’s not our standard stuff. It’s got a high iron content. See the little black flecks? Almost like a wild clay.”

Ben leaned in. She was right. The co-op bought its clay pre-mixed from a supplier. Using a wild, hand-dug clay was a lot of work, something only a purist would do.

“Does anyone around here process their own clay?” he asked.

Cathy shrugged, returning to her porcelain. “Not that I know of. Old Man Hemlock used to, I think. Before my time. My grandmother said he had his own pit somewhere out past Blue Rocks. Said the clay there was black as sin.”

Old Man Hemlock. The name was vaguely familiar. He’d been one of the co-op’s founding members, but had left after a bitter falling out with the board—a board led by a much younger Agnes Brewster—years ago. Something about artistic differences.

“He was forced out, wasn’t he?” Ben asked.

“That’s the story. He wanted the co-op to be a proper guild, for dedicated artists only. Agnes wanted to open it up, offer weekend workshops for tourists, sell mugs. She won.” Cathy grunted as she slammed the clay onto the table. “Can’t say I blame him. Sometimes I feel like I spend more time teaching tourists how to make lopsided pinch pots than doing my own work.”

Ben looked at the crow again. An artist who was forced out. A fight over the soul of the studio. A unique, local clay. The pieces were starting to drift together. He remembered seeing some of Hemlock's old work in the dusty storage room—powerful, rustic forms, all finished with a distinctive, shimmering salt glaze.

His eyes fell upon the wall of member photos from the last thirty years. He scanned the older, black-and-white images from the co-op’s founding. And there he was. A severe-looking man with a wild beard, holding a large, dark vase. And standing next to him, beaming, was his young apprentice. A girl with bright, intense eyes and clay-dusted hands, who had left the co-op right after Hemlock did. A girl Ben knew. It was Elspeth, the quiet woman who now ran the town’s bookstore, who had barely spoken two words to him since he’d arrived.