The rock’s sharp edge cut through the molten like a knife through butter. Cerené rolled the blowpipe on its axis while Shew shaped her imagination into existence. She found herself creating what looked like a cup. When the molten began taking reasonable shape, she cut a bit too deep. A sticky part of the mixture thumped like thick mud onto the floor.
“Ooops,” Shew stepped back, watching the molten crawling on the floor like lava from a volcano.
“Ooops?” Cerené raised a single eyebrow. “I like the way you invent those silly words. “Ooops, sounds like someone suffering from a hiccup,” she amused herself one more time. “Don’t worry. You’ll learn how to do it. I have made the same mistake.
“Other artists think that at some point when the new creation is hot, for the shape to hold it needs to cool down, but I know better,” Cerené said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean this is my Art, Joy. I don’t need to cool it because when I breathe into it, it becomes alive,” Cerené said.
“Alive? You mean this glass is alive?”
“You haven’t seen anything yet. This is only the beginning,” Cerené said.
“Are you aware that you’re literally playing with fire?” Shew couldn’t help but wonder if this was the reason for Cerené’s wounds. Maybe she just burned herself playing with fire.
“Playing with fire!” Cerené jumped in place, shaking the mold. “Never thought of it like that. Isn’t it enchanting?”
“It is,” Shew said, staring at the piece of the molten she’d shaped into a cup.
“Now, come hold the blowpipe so I can show you the real magic,” Cerené handed her the pipe.
“There is still more to show than this?”
“You have no idea. Hold the pipe about one third away from my end for balance. I will blow into it now,” Cerené said. Then she took a deep breath closing her eyes. She squeezed her fingers and took an even deeper breath. “If I pass out, don’t worry,” Cerené said.
“Pass out, why?”
There wasn’t enough time to get an answer. Cerené blew into the pipe with all her might, eyes closed again. Her face and ears reddened, and her cheeks bubbled like shimmering light bulbs. It looked like she was blowing into it with her very essence, with her own soul.
Soul? She said the third part was the Soul! That’s her talent. She completes the magic with her breathing.
While Cerené breathed into the pipe, the molten grew increasingly bigger like a balloon about to explode, except this one was getting more flexible like warm clay she could shape with her breath.
Cerené blew harder without stopping for a breath. The molten color changed from orange slowly to blue. It was a lovely light blue like the color of clear skies, waving like a ghost among the darkened walls of the cellar.
Shew struggled to hold tightly to the blowpipe. Cerené’s mouth was fixed on the other end of the pipe, eyes still closed as if she were shaping the mold with her imagination.
The blue changed into lighter shades, almost transparent with a glittering surface like some kind of see-through diamond.
Isn’t it beautiful? Shew remembered Cerené saying about the furnace. The furnace was as ugly as the witch who owned it, but the molten was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. It was mesmerizing to see evil fire assist the glowing molten mix take shape and turn into something more resilient and sparkling.
“Cerené,” Shew uttered, lost in the beauty of the transparent diamonds sparkling inside the witch’s hellish basement. “This amazing Art of yours I’m looking at, what is it exactly? “
Cerené stopped blowing for a moment. She took a deep breath, eager to reply, “This is glass, Shew, the Forbidden Art, and I’m a glassblower.”
15
The Forbidden Art
Shew didn’t quite understand what Cerené meant by the Forbidden Art.
She only knew that glass was more popular in this time in Sorrow and the rest of the world. Glass was as precious as gold or diamonds was in the Waking World. It was so precious that people killed each other for it.
Why would it be a Forbidden Art? Shouldn’t glassblowers like Cerené be cherished?
The molten glass at the end of the blowpipe took the shape of a flower with seven petals in the middle of Baba Yaga’s cellar. Shew was in awe.
How did the petit ashen girl acquire such a gift? Why did she live the life of a Slave Maiden when her name should have been praised all over the world for her talents? No wonder the Queen of Sorrow spared her. She must know something about this.
The stunning, flaring, glass flower shone bright in the cellar. Shew noticed it produced an irresistible aroma, like lilies.
Finally, Cerené opened her eyes, inhaling all the air she could into her lungs. The pain in her chest didn’t matter as much as her masterpiece. She took the blowpipe from Shew and plugged her mouth into it again, blowing even more. She looked like a pied piper playing a huge flute. Instead of melodies waving out of the other end, it was Cerené’s magic in the shape of precious glass.