Once upon a time – it might have been last week or last year or last century – it doesn’t matter exactly when.
What matters is that this story is as real as the taste of whipped cream.
A woman named Cinnamon worked as a potter in a village by the sea. She was as thin and graceful as a willow. Her hair and eyes were the color of the spice. Cinnamon could often be seen standing by her pottery wheel in the yard of her cottage. Her long robes would flow with the wind but she would stand still, her hands working the wheel, spinning out interesting shapes and useful vessels. She had always known she would be a potter. She learned her craft in childhood from her mother who had been a potter before her.
One spring afternoon, Cinnamon fell asleep beneath the pear tree that grew by her cottage door. Her head rested on a piece of tree root as if it were a pillow. This was not unusual, for Cinnamon stayed awake long into the night – studying pottery design by candlelight, almost as often as she would skip night rest, she would find herself napping in unlikely places In her sleep, Cinnamon heard a voice coming from the direction of the pear tree. “Kind people find happiness,” the voice said. Cinnamon couldn’t see anyone in the tree.
She stared at the pear blossoms wondering why the person was hiding. “Am I kind?” she asked. “Only you know the answer,” the voice replied. The smell of sliced peaches filled the air. “Where are you?” Cinnamon looked around. There was no one in sight. A pale pink blossom fluttered toward her.
All at once a womanly creature appeared. She was a woman. She had pale pink wings that kept her from touching the ground. When she moved silver dust fell in her path. She held something that looked like a magic wand. On the tip of the wand was either a star or a little man, walking, Cinnamon couldn’t tel1 which. The creature seemed to glow with love Cinnamon was sure this must be a fairy – but she stopped believing in fairies the year she turned nine. She wished she had her sketchpad.
“Work intensely and you shall succeed,” the fairy said.
“I do,” Cinnamon said.
“Is there anything missing in your life,” the fairy looked toward the wheel.
Cinnamon took a deep breath and said she was lonely. “I’d like a family of my own to share my time,” Cinnamon closed her eyes as she spoke. “A man, a child, and they would have to understand my work. That would fill my heart.”
The fairy smiled. “I wish you luck,” she said.
Cinnamon woke up, hoping the fairy’s luck would give her an understanding man and his baby. She gathered firewood for her kiln as she thought about the dream. She didn’t understand the meaning but she knew she should make a piece of pottery to capture the vision.
“If only I could get the wand as it really was,” she whispered as she began to turn the wheel.
Day after day, she molded clay in to shapes that resembled parts of her dream. Sometimes she would create heart-shaped dishes, remembering the necklace of hearts the fairy wore. Sometimes she would paint the figure on rounded bowls. Once she managed to cast the shape of the fairy as a teapot. The cover was the head. One arm served as handle. The other – with its wand – was the spout. It wasn’t as lovely as the fairy. But Cinnamon kept trying.
And people loved the dishes and pots. Her fame grew. Months passed. Cinnamon continued to practice her work. Sometimes she would worry that while she gave so much to her work she would always feel lonely. Her work sold well. She used the money to try new dyes on the clay. She designed a special shelter for her pottery wheel a roof that kept out the elements – but without walls – because walls would close in the dust. She wondered if she should travel to seek her love.
Eventually people started to talk about her pots as magic. They said they held love. Cinnamon didn’t understand this. She continued experimenting, always she remembered the dream of the fairy.
One day a young man came to her cottage She was inside making tea to stain a vase she planned to that would look something like a tree. He knocked upon her door although it was partly open. Cinnamon blushed when she looked at him. He looked like the man she imagined she would marry. He was tall. His head reached the top of her doorframe. His hair was brown and curly and his eyes shone with gentleness. Behind him, waiting in the roadway was a dark blue coach decorated with the coat of arms of the royal family.
“I have come to buy a piece by Cinnamon,” he said, smiling. “Where is the lady with the magic hands?”
Cinnamon laughed as softly as a purring kitten. “I am the lady you look for. Come in and see the pottery on the walls.” She trembled as she spoke but he didn’t seem to notice. He stared at the pottery. Fear jabbed her stomach as she imagined her wish coming true.
It felt too good to be true.
The young man, whose name was Fitzhugh, explained that he worked as a page in the court of Queen Azeala and King Dermot. Sometime ago he found a teapot crafted by Cinnamon at a shop in the city of the king. He brought the teapot, molded in the shape of a fairy, to the palace where the queen chanced to see it. The queen thought anything that lovely must contain magic and so she had sent Fitzhugh in search of the potter.
“She wants you to create a special piece for her,” Fitzhugh said.
Cinnamon filled with pride and anticipation at the thought of winning the notice of the queen. She sent the young man to wait in the coach while she tossed her sketching materials into a bag with a few skirts and capes and blouses. She wondered whether the palace had a pottery wheel and kiln. Surely somewhere in the city she would find what she needed for the work, she thought. She didn’t wonder at all whether she should rush off to the palace. After all, her dream might come true if she took the chance.
Cinnamon and Fitzhugh bumped along in the coach for the next two days as they traveled to the city of the castle. Most of the time Fitzhugh told stories about life in the royal court He described a world where men and women did little all day but listen to fine music, eat elegant foods and gossip about the feelings of Queen Azeala and the king.
“Not long ago, the king and queen had a tiff Fitzhugh said. “It began when the queen found the king with a young woman alone in a garden. “The queen was sure there was a great deal more to the situation,” Fitzhugh repeated the tale, winking at Cinnamon. But the poor girl had been giggling because her mother – thinking it fashionable – had stuffed her underwear with feathers. The feathers were tickling her in the most embarrassing places.”
Cinnamon laughed at the story. She listened to every word Fitzhugh said as if he were a teacher or a master magician. Fitzhugh was a page in the court. He told her his life held little meaning. What he really wanted to be was a cook. Running errands and otherwise waiting upon the royal pair seemed purposeless to the young man. He was a page because his father had been a page before him. Cinnamon understood. She tried to think of what her life would be like if she had to do some work she couldn’t love. A lump of pity stuck in her chest.
She reached toward Fitzhugh and touched his cheek. He blushed. Cinnamon and Fitzhugh moved slightly toward opposite sides of the coach. Neither said a word for some time. Cinnamon wished she could take back the gesture. She felt like she was waiting to be picked for a team game when most of the choices had been made. Fitzhugh fidgeted. But after awhile he broke the silence, talking of the meals he wished he could make at the palace. He told her about a dessert he wanted to try with cake and pudding and layers of fruit and icing. There would be chocolate and raspberries and lots of sugar. When Fitzhugh talked of ingredients and preparation details, his eyes would light up.
Cinnamon felt hungry as she listened. She was relieved that he seemed the same as before her small aggression. Fitzhugh said all his desserts would include choices.
“Choices are important in a dessert,” Fitzhugh said. “People have different preferences.” By the time they reached the castle Cinnamon wag sure she was in love. She hadn’t had the courage to talk about her dreams but she felt sure this man belonged in her life. Cinnamon knew right away she would like to live in the palace. As the coach stopped in the main courtyard they were greeted by the sound of a lute trilling like a bird. Cinnamon discovered later that Queen Azeala had the music played to please the king.
The queen loved the sound of the lute, remembering its sound as the first thing she heard the day she arrived at the palace as to become a bride. Almost everyone else in the palace knew the king suffered headaches from the sound. He never said anything to the queen because of his love – he wanted to try to please her. The king didn’t want to complain, knowing she loved the music. Cinnamon loved the gentle lute’s song.
The people in the palace all wore bright colored clothing. Cinnamon felt out of place in her long dark robe standing in the midst of a rainbow of silks and satins. One lady wore an outfit composed of seven shades of purple. Each piece of her dress skirt, bodice, trim, petticoat, sash, apron and sleeves – was made from different but carefully coordinated fabrics. Men as well as women wore plumes and lace. Inside the palace fires glowed in many hearths and the smell of peppermint lingered. The castle itself was many times the size of Cinnamon’s village. She wished she had noticed the city outside the walls. But when the coach passed through the city she’d been intent on listening to something Fitzhugh had been saying.
Fitzhugh promised Cinnamon he would escort her through the palace, introduce her to the court and take her in the marketplace after she was presented to the queen. The queen wished to see her immediately. Cinnamon was taken to the queen’s bedchamber by another page. The page left her at the doorway of the large pink colored room.
Only one lady-in-waiting attended the gray-haired queen. The attendant, Lady May, the closest courtier to the queen’s heart, smiled at the young potter and offered her a chair. Cinnamon curtsied and sat down. The queen began by saying that she needed help. She said that in the past year the king hadn’t paid enough attention to her. She feared she might be losing his love.
“Your work is so beautiful that it seems to hold magic,” the queen said. ‘I want to buy a special cup or platter to fasten his love to me,” she said.
“But I’m a potter, My Queen. My pieces are special, not magic,” Cinnamon realized the queen wanted a love potion.
“Are you refusing me?” the queen seemed amazed. “Surely you must have great power to talk that, way to your queen.”
“My only power is my vision,” Cinnamon said. “I’d be happy to make a special cup for you or whatever you wish. I just can’t promise anything more than a piece of art.”
“I know you create magic pieces. I have your fairy teapot. In my sleep, the teapot spoke to me and advised me to commission you to turn a vessel for me. The teapot promised that love would flow from the container,” the queen clapped her hands twice.
“That’s not magic,” Cinnamon straightened the folds of her dress. “My work flows with the energy of my love. It generates response. Your dream wasn’t magic – just your mind wishing for something.”
“Love can’t be summoned like a poor potter,” Cinnamon replied.
“But the dream …” the queen said.
“That dream was yours. It didn’t come from my teapot,” said Cinnamon.
“Make me the cup and name any price you choose. Anything,” the queen said.
“I’ll do the best work I’ve ever done,” Cinnamon promised. “Can I have anything really?”
“You can’t have the king,” the queen smiled.
Cinnamon realized the queen was as nervous as she was. “I want to marry the man you sent for me, Fitzhugh. And I want him to be made a cook in the palace.”
“Granted,” said the queen. “You and your young man will wed as soon as the cup is finished.”
The queen had a kiln and a wheel ready for Cinnamon. She directed her to the highest turret of the castle where the special equipment was installed. Cinnamon put off her walk through the palace with Fitzhugh. She wanted to experiment with her new tools. From the turret she could see the rolling hills beyond the busy city.
Cinnamon was unsure what shape the cup should assume. And she wondered what she should tell Fitzhugh about her bargain with the queen. She decided to mold different shapes and study them. For the next five days Cinnamon spent much of her time sitting in the royal court, making sketches of Queen Azeala and King Dermot.
In the evening she would walk with Fitzhugh and listen to his thoughts. On the sixth day of her visit, Fitzhugh came to the turret early in the morning. He told her he would be busy that evening since he was assigned to work in the royal kitchen.
“I’ll be cutting up carrots and potatoes and washing salad greens in the day. In the evening I’ll have to help clean up dishes and all. But someday I’ll be a master chef. This is my start,” Fitzhugh said, a glow of pride surrounding him.
She smiled but didn’t comment. She still hadn’t chosen a shape. She knew the cup shouldn’t be shaped like half a globe – too common. She considered using a butterfly design. Fitzhugh thought that would seem frivolous. His opinion mattered. She wondered about using a sunburst or a triangle.
For the next five days, she shut herself off in the turret and thought of nothing but shapes. For the first four days of her seclusion she didn’t eat. She didn’t miss Fitzhugh, who was busy learning the bottom rung of his own craft.
0n the eleventh day of her stay at the palace, Cinnamon realized that the cup had to be shaped like a pear blossom, delicate and fragile like true love.
Fitzhugh came by while her hands were working in soft pink clay. He smiled. “I can’t stay long,” he said. “I have a chance to try something in the kitchen when no one’s using the oven. I was thinking about soaking a golden cake in brandy, cutting it into thick layers, filling the layers with raspberry jam and covering the whole thing with lemon frosting. I wonder whether it would be too much to surround it in brandy sauce and light the dish.”
For the first time since he walked into her life, Cinnamon wished he could be quiet and listen to her thoughts. She hadn’t had anything to say before but now she wanted to tell him about the pear blossom cup. Still he kept jabbering on about the dessert. She wiped her hands on a damp rag.
“Fitzhugh,” she interrupted his list of cake ingredients. “I’ve come to understand what sort of vessel I should make for the queen.” She turned away from him.
“It means my work here is almost done. You know in the time I’ve been here I’ve fallen in love.”
“How could you fall in love that quickly?” he asked. “You’ve hardly spent any time with anyone but me. Really, though what do you think of the flames? Would they be too much?”
“It’s you I love,” she said. Her eyes didn’t leave the floor.
“Does that mean you wouldn’t like the flames?” Fitzhugh said. “You’re teasing and I’ve thought we were friends.”
“I don’t know anything about flaming food. I am serious and there’s something else I must tell you before this loving cup is finished and on the queen’s table,” Cinnamon breathed deeply despite the dust in the small room. She wiped her hands, wishing her work-marked fingers were more ladylike. She noticed Fitzhugh’s hands were reddened too.
“What else could you be ready to spring on me.” Fitzhugh flipped through a pile of sketches of the king and queen.
“The queen said I could have anything I wanted for the cup.” Cinnamon’s voice was a halting whisper. She could go on more easily if he’d shown some sign of caring for her. But he seemed to think the whole situation was a joke or game. It made no sense to her. How could she feel this way if he felt nothing in return?
“What did you ask for, gold or a lifetime commission? A castle of your own?” Fitzhugh looked at this woman who listened ever so well but almost never spoke of her own feelings.
“I asked for you” The look in his eyes turned from kindness to shock. He blushed and stammered and demanded she explain. “I wished for you before you came to me,” Cinnamon sat on a stool and looked through other sketches. She stopped at the one with Dermot on the throne, looking into the distance. The queen sat at his side embroidering a scarf with his name.
“Have I nothing to say about it all,” Fitzhugh sounded angry.
“I thought, well, you’ve been attentive. I thought you felt something. Well, felt as I …” she searched through the sketches. She couldn’t find one where they looked at each other.
“Don’t you care if I want someone else?” Fitzhugh kicked at a piece of clay that had fallen on the granite floor.
“Of course I care if you love another,” she replied.
“No, but it’s not the point, I might. You haven’t bothered to find out what my feelings might be,” he studied his shoes.
“I wanted so much for you to love me that I imagined you must. That’s all part of the dream. We’re supposed to love and be happy.” Cinnamon walked to the window and stared beyond the palace, beyond the landscape, into the clouds.
She didn’t want Fitzhugh to see her cry. For she was very proud and extremely stubborn, and right this moment she was feeling as if her life were at its end. Fitzhugh still stared at the floor and the broken clay fragments.
“Cinnamon, I have enjoyed being with you, having you listen to my stories and plans but I don’t know how I feel about you at all. I hardly know you. You never talk about your fee1ings.” He turned toward the pottery wheel.
She sobbed without noise. Tears rolled down her cheeks and her breath was deep, caught in the sadness but she kept her face turned away from this man. “I’m sorry,” she said, hoping her voice wouldn’t catch on the words.
“I’ll tell the queen I made a mistake.” Her body was rigid.
“It’s not that I might not love you someday,” Fitzhugh stepped closer. “You’re probably the most interesting woman I’ve ever met. You make ideas take form. You are filled with energy.” He touched her shoulder.
Cinnamon turned toward him, the sadness in her eyes spilled out. She cried and he took her in his arms. He stood still as clay, hugging the sobbing potter. Once she let the tears start, she couldn’t stop the flow. But he held her quietly for many minutes, for as long as it took for the tears to ebb.
He left when she recovered from the broken dream. They each went back to their separate work. He continued to visit her turret and talk about his hopes and progress. That very day he managed to stop by her tower three times.
That night Cinnamon dreamed of a heart-shaped necklace. The smiling fairy kissed the lady potter. “Love, like magic, comes in its own time, my dear” the fairy said. “Enjoy what you have. Don’t live in the future. Planning is for people with no present.”
When Cinnamon awoke she realized exactly how the cup should look. It took two more days to finish the piece. Cinnamon knew it was the best piece, she had ever crafted. The pale pink cup was shaped like a pear blossom. The clay took on a soft glow of its own. It was almost translucent in the daylight. The stem of the cup was thin. Two handles rose from the stem, looking like leaves on a pear tree. The base of the vessel was painted with a scene of the throne room.
Queen Alzeala and King Dermot smiled upon each other as they sat side by side on twin thrones.
Inside the cup an inscription edged the petals in gold: Love is as free as the air, as ever present and just as necessary.
The queen was delighted with the loving cup. She chattered like an excited bride on her wedding day.
“The art is perfect,” she said.
Lady May said Cinnamon held more wisdom than a sorceress. “Fitzhugh is yours,” the queen said.
Cinnamon blushed and said she couldn’t force him to be her husband. “I learned about love while I worked on the cup,” she said.
The queen smiled. There was a lot of smiling in the room. She asked Cinnamon to stay in the palace and create more art for the court. She promised the potter would be honored for her knowledge.
“But I must give this cup to my husband now,” the queen said, brushing by Cinnamon quickly as she left the room. “It will remind him of my love every time he looks at it,” she said.
And indeed, the king was reminded of his queen each time he gazed at the cup. In time he showed her more expression of his love
As for Fitzhugh and the lady potter, they continued to laugh together. And Cinnamon shared her thoughts and hopes with the handsome cook.
The days passed pleasantly.
They began to understand and respect each other’s truth. And the story of Fitzhugh and Cinnamon continued, while they both worked to find their dreams.
Cinnamon
August 13, 2023No Comments
Once upon a time – it might have been last week or last year or last century – it doesn’t matter exactly when. What matters is that this story is as real as the taste of whipped cream. A woman named Cinnamon worked as a potter in a village by the sea. She was as thin and graceful as a willow. Her hair and eyes were the color of the spice. Cinnamon could often be seen standing by her pottery wheel in the yard of her cottage. Her long robes would flow with the wind but she would stand still,…
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