A Winter Crush

Excerpt

In all of Ori’s twenty-two-and-a-half years of existence, he had never felt his whole world come to a complete stop, his vision narrowing to one single focal point.

To a human.

Ori stared through the glass window. The man sat on a stool in the cabin, broad chest bent over some contraption. A pottery wheel; that’s its name, some part of Ori’s memory supplied. Ori had played in this village as a youngling, back when mountain nymphs and humans still played together.

He’d seen an older man, with greying hair and a long, braided beard, working as this man did now. The potter, a human youngling had called him, worked on his pottery wheel to make clay into human objects.

This man was different from the old man he’d seen years ago. Younger, although clearly much older than himself. Bushy eyebrows furrowed in concentration over a broad nose as the man watched the clay spinning on the wheel in front of him.

Ori couldn’t see the man’s eyes, as he was bent over staring at the clay, but his hair and beard were a dark, rich brown with a few streaks of grey. Parts of his hair had been tied into thin, long braids. The man wore plain clothes, nothing of note. Brown and worn pants and a beige shirt, all clay-splattered, covered his large frame. All practical clothing.

Ori couldn’t understand why the man had caught his attention. The man was not particularly striking, beautiful, or handsome. The words hardy and rugged came to mind. Still, Ori’s heart raced and his mouth grew dry. He was completely entranced. Perhaps if he believed in love at first sight, he would think this was it.

But I don’t believe in that sort of thing. So why can’t I move?

The human’s arms, corded with muscle, framed the pottery wheel. His large, clay-covered hands, which almost seemed too big for the work he did, moved with surprising care and gentleness. For a second, the man sat back, pushing a braid of hair from his face, smearing a streak of white clay across his skin.

Ori stepped closer to the window, trying to ascertain what he was making. A bowl? A jug? Ori had limited experience with such items. But he desperately wanted to know what this man was making.

The man picked up a small wooden tool. He placed it along the side of the piece as it spun, shaping it. Then the man used a bit of wire string, sliding it at the base of the clay vessel, along the wooden wheel.

Perhaps the appeal of the man was that he just was so large, especially compared to Ori. It seemed almost a ridiculous picture, this mammoth of a man working a trade that required finesse.

Using only his fingers, the man carefully picked up the piece and placed it on the plank of wood next to him. Reaching down beside him, he grabbed a ball of clay and smacked the lump onto the middle of the wheel. He dunked his hands into a bucket. Water dripped down his thick wrists and his hands and onto the floor.

Ori licked his lips.

The man placed his booted foot on the disk beneath the wheel and kicked it back. As the disk moved, the wheel spun. He continued this action, kicking the wheel periodically to keep it moving. The man remained completely focused, eyes only on his work, unaware of the mountain nymph watching him.

Ori should continue. He’d only come to the village because he was curious and had nothing else to do, not for this strange hypnotic pull. Still, his feet wouldn’t move.