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"
First
of
all
,
"
said
Mitsima
,
taking
a
lump
of
the
wetted
clay
between
his
hands
,
"
we
make
a
little
moon
.
"
The
old
man
squeezed
the
lump
into
a
disk
,
then
bent
up
the
edges
,
the
moon
became
a
shallow
cup
.
Slowly
and
unskilfully
he
imitated
the
old
man
’
s
delicate
gestures
.
"
A
moon
,
a
cup
,
and
now
a
snake
.
"
Mitsima
rolled
out
another
piece
of
clay
into
a
long
flexible
cylinder
,
trooped
it
into
a
circle
and
pressed
it
on
to
the
rim
of
the
cup
.
"
Then
another
snake
.
And
another
.
And
another
.
"
Round
by
round
,
Mitsima
built
up
the
sides
of
the
pot
;
it
was
narrow
,
it
bulged
,
it
narrowed
again
towards
the
neck
.
Mitsima
squeezed
and
patted
,
stroked
and
scraped
;
and
there
at
last
it
stood
,
in
shape
the
familiar
water
pot
of
Malpais
,
but
creamy
white
instead
of
black
,
and
still
soft
to
the
touch
.
The
crooked
parody
of
Mitsima
’
s
,
his
own
stood
beside
it
.
Looking
at
the
two
pots
,
he
had
to
laugh
.
"
But
the
next
one
will
be
better
,
"
he
said
,
and
began
to
moisten
another
piece
of
clay
.
To
fashion
,
to
give
form
,
to
feel
his
fingers
gaining
in
skill
and
power
–
this
gave
him
an
extraordinary
pleasure
.
"
A
,
B
,
C
,
Vitamin
D
,
"
he
sang
to
himself
as
he
worked
.
"
The
fat
’
s
in
the
liver
,
the
cod
’
s
in
the
sea
.
"
And
Mitsima
also
sang
–
a
song
about
killing
a
bear
.
They
worked
all
day
,
and
all
day
he
was
filled
with
an
intense
,
absorbing
happiness
.
"
Next
winter
,
"
said
old
Mitsima
,
"
I
will
teach
you
to
make
the
bow
.
"
He
stood
for
a
long
time
outside
the
house
,
and
at
last
the
ceremonies
within
were
finished
.
The
door
opened
;
they
came
out
.
Kothlu
came
first
,
his
right
hand
out
?
stretched
and
tightly
closed
,
as
though
over
some
precious
jewel
.
Her
clenched
hand
similarly
outstretched
,
Kiakimé
followed
.
They
walked
in
silence
,
and
in
silence
,
behind
them
,
came
the
brothers
and
sisters
and
cousins
and
all
the
troop
of
old
people
.
They
walked
out
of
the
pueblo
,
across
the
mesa
.
At
the
edge
of
the
cliff
they
halted
,
facing
the
early
morning
sun
.
Kothlu
opened
his
hand
.
A
pinch
of
corn
meal
lay
white
on
the
palm
;
he
breathed
on
it
,
murmured
a
few
words
,
then
threw
it
,
a
handful
of
white
dust
,
towards
the
sun
.
Kiakimé
did
the
same
.
Then
Khakimé
’
s
father
stepped
forward
,
and
holding
up
a
feathered
prayer
stick
,
made
a
long
prayer
,
then
threw
the
stick
after
the
corn
meal
.
"
It
is
finished
,
"
said
old
Mitsima
in
a
loud
voice
.
"
They
are
married
.
"
