Making the ink went much smoother than my fumbling attempts at baking and glazing pottery. The walnut fruit or drupes only had to be boiled down to a warm, dark brown ink. A few days later, I showed off my ink to Agnes along with the birch paper and a feather quill.
Agnes readily recognized the ivory shade of the birch bark and small quill. She touched my stained fingers, which were dyed from squeezing the dregs from the boiled fruit. As a healer, she spent much of her time in the forest and instantly knew the identity of the ink from a shrivelled drupe. What she spent the most time studying was the small, lop-sided pot.
"Where did you get this?"
I mimed shaping it.
"Can you show me?"
I nodded.
Helen immediately got up from her canvas, where a deer had been doodled in charcoal. She took my hand and led me out the door before Agnes could utter a word. She let go of my hand and began helping her mother down to the creek. First, we showed her where the clay had come from. Next were the remnants of the two earthen ovens, which were deteriorated from the recent rainfall. One of the ovens still traces of ash and bits of charcoal left. The interior of the other oven were scarred from the heat of the fire.
Once Agnes was satisfied, we returned to her home, where we finished the lesson to Helen's chagrin. Even more to her chagrin, Agnes had us practice writing with ink and quill. The lesson felt longer than usual after enduring Helen's glare.
(written 09/08/19)
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