It started with a fracture.
In her little porcelain heart, in her little porcelain body. Not a big deal. A tiny crack that did not affect the use of the body? No worries.
Most people get it, her mother assured her. You'll be fine, I got one too, her friends told her.
But little Dighta was not sure. Though still a heart, her heart as a whole was gone and that could never be taken back. Yes it was just a small thing. And if her family had the money, gold could have been filled into the crack and the loss made beautiful. But that was out of the question. She would just have to live with it.
Considering that some from Porcelain begin with more than imperfect bodies - missing a leg or an arm or having bumps in places - Dighta thought herself lucky. It's only a tiny fracture, she said to herself often.
And so life went on.
One winter, as she hurried down the path home one late evening, it started to rain. Icy drops splattered heavily and soaked through her clothes. Hardly able to see, she slipped in the mud and fell. Higher class Porcelains came by and laughed at her from their ponies and carts. She shook her fist at their backs as they disappeared around the bend. Huffing loudly, she got back up and ran home. Reaching home, she clinked her little body in a chair and threw her cloak and outer garments in front of the fire to dry. Whining to her mother about how horrible and mean the people had been, she swirled her soup around in its tin bowl, not noticing the new edge to her fracture. Her mother too only saw the wet exterior and told her to stay inside tomorrow and not catch cold.
Dighta went out again later that week, still wanting to help with the errands. Bitterly cold, the wind bit into her thin woolen cloak and chilled her body. She ran to make it to the next warm building. Rushing inside, she realized her effort placed her in the blacksmith's barn. The old Porcelain grunted, barely acknowledging her presence. Shivering, she begged him to let her stand closer to the fire.
He waved her towards the house and growled, "You go in there and stay out of my way girl."
She reached the house and found no fire lit there. Furious, she called out the foul words that had been used on her several days before by the other Porcelains and punched the flour sack, which had been the closest thing to her. Ice, beginning to form even on the inside of the panes, formed along the fracture that had not dried. Crying out in pain, she looked at her heart and discovered a deep line along its entirety. Shivering in fear as well as cold, she wrapped a piece of burlap around herself to hide it.
Running outside, she fled for a new place. Nearing a shop where one of her friends lived, she rushed past townspeople into the shop, calling out to her friend. Appearing by the shop's back door, her friend Marhi immediately pulled her into the back room.
"How could you be out at a time like this," Marhi scolded her. "The rain and ice are bad for us. Let me dry you."
But when her friend took away the burlap, seeing Dighta's heart beginning to split, she stood back, unable to approach her.
"Why do you stare?" Dighta demanded. "I know there is something wrong with me! Do you not still love me?"
Her friend shook her head. "I've always known you to be weak. Now I know you're a fool too. Why would you come to me like this? If I stay near you I will break too."
And she fled.
Dighta stumbled after her into the dark, crying. She slipped and fell, again and again, but she kept getting up. Kept moving. She had to or get trampled on by late-night street goers.
Eventually she came to the home of another friend. She hesitated, afraid. What if he treats her the same? But a faint spark of hope still glimmered in her broken heart. She reached up to knock on the door.
The storm picked up more forcefully than before. Ice rain, turned into sharp blades, flew sideways with the roaring wind. She screamed, clawing at the handle of the door before being flung back into the street by the relentless wind, toppling over and over, battered every which way. She did not see the door open and light shine out briefly as the storm claimed her for its own.
The night wore on. No one was out to see the little Porcelain on the street, unconscious and with a shattered heart. No one but the Master.
The maker of Porcelain and all who live there had come into the town during the storm. No one had seen him in a very long time although he lived just beyond them. He had heard her scream, seen her pain. He came and picked up the tiny body, cradling it in his arms as he turned toward his home.
When Dighta awoke, she found herself in a soft bed beside a rosy, popping fire pit. "Good morning Little One," the Master said, offering her bread and butter and milk. She glanced at his table, where the pieces of her heart lay before him.
"Why?" she said quietly, but anger still tainted her voice. "Why did you let me be this way? Why did you let me fall apart? Why am I more fragile than others?"
He smiled a sad smile, and started to put the pieces back to together. "You're not the only one who was hurt."
It was then she noticed his wounded arms, a portion of flesh missing in between the bones below his wrists, and other scars across his forehead. And the fresh cuts on his hands from carrying her fragments.
She hung her head in guilt.
When he was done with her heart, though it was together again, the entire heart was covered in hairline cracks that showed every which way it had shattered.
"There are many reasons why I let my children hurt - to teach, to rebuke, to draw them closer to me, but mostly I let things like this occur because I want you to love."
"That doesn't make any sense," she muttered. "All pain does is make me angry and afraid."
"That's because you do not understand how you were made," he said gently. "Though you are tempted by fear and anger more so now than ever, I made you to reach out to those also in pain. You now understand others who suffer as you have suffered. Though you may struggle to fight the belief that you are not loved because you are not normal, and you will be rejected time and again, I have made you to love and persevere."
He took a drop of his blood and let it fall inside her heart. Within, the porcelain turned to flesh, and started to beat, making the cracks on the outside open wider then close and open again with its rhythm.
"It is good to be vulnerable," the Master said. "Yes, you will be hurt again, but do not lash out in anger or shut out everyone, or even many. I made you, and I made you the way I meant you to be. I made you fragile so you can feel when my heart breaks. With me you will grow and love and guide."
Placing her new heart in her body, he helped her out of bed. "One day, there will be a new life beyond Porcelain, with no more pain. But while you live this life, use your pain for me. For others. Not to protect yourself, but to help others to heal."
So saying, he sent her home. Her journey had begun. She carried part of his heart. Although she knew there would be hard times ahead, she could not look back. Porcelain was waiting for his heart. For him.
In her little porcelain heart, in her little porcelain body. Not a big deal. A tiny crack that did not affect the use of the body? No worries.
Most people get it, her mother assured her. You'll be fine, I got one too, her friends told her.
But little Dighta was not sure. Though still a heart, her heart as a whole was gone and that could never be taken back. Yes it was just a small thing. And if her family had the money, gold could have been filled into the crack and the loss made beautiful. But that was out of the question. She would just have to live with it.
Considering that some from Porcelain begin with more than imperfect bodies - missing a leg or an arm or having bumps in places - Dighta thought herself lucky. It's only a tiny fracture, she said to herself often.
And so life went on.
One winter, as she hurried down the path home one late evening, it started to rain. Icy drops splattered heavily and soaked through her clothes. Hardly able to see, she slipped in the mud and fell. Higher class Porcelains came by and laughed at her from their ponies and carts. She shook her fist at their backs as they disappeared around the bend. Huffing loudly, she got back up and ran home. Reaching home, she clinked her little body in a chair and threw her cloak and outer garments in front of the fire to dry. Whining to her mother about how horrible and mean the people had been, she swirled her soup around in its tin bowl, not noticing the new edge to her fracture. Her mother too only saw the wet exterior and told her to stay inside tomorrow and not catch cold.
Dighta went out again later that week, still wanting to help with the errands. Bitterly cold, the wind bit into her thin woolen cloak and chilled her body. She ran to make it to the next warm building. Rushing inside, she realized her effort placed her in the blacksmith's barn. The old Porcelain grunted, barely acknowledging her presence. Shivering, she begged him to let her stand closer to the fire.
He waved her towards the house and growled, "You go in there and stay out of my way girl."
She reached the house and found no fire lit there. Furious, she called out the foul words that had been used on her several days before by the other Porcelains and punched the flour sack, which had been the closest thing to her. Ice, beginning to form even on the inside of the panes, formed along the fracture that had not dried. Crying out in pain, she looked at her heart and discovered a deep line along its entirety. Shivering in fear as well as cold, she wrapped a piece of burlap around herself to hide it.
Running outside, she fled for a new place. Nearing a shop where one of her friends lived, she rushed past townspeople into the shop, calling out to her friend. Appearing by the shop's back door, her friend Marhi immediately pulled her into the back room.
"How could you be out at a time like this," Marhi scolded her. "The rain and ice are bad for us. Let me dry you."
But when her friend took away the burlap, seeing Dighta's heart beginning to split, she stood back, unable to approach her.
"Why do you stare?" Dighta demanded. "I know there is something wrong with me! Do you not still love me?"
Her friend shook her head. "I've always known you to be weak. Now I know you're a fool too. Why would you come to me like this? If I stay near you I will break too."
And she fled.
Dighta stumbled after her into the dark, crying. She slipped and fell, again and again, but she kept getting up. Kept moving. She had to or get trampled on by late-night street goers.
Eventually she came to the home of another friend. She hesitated, afraid. What if he treats her the same? But a faint spark of hope still glimmered in her broken heart. She reached up to knock on the door.
The storm picked up more forcefully than before. Ice rain, turned into sharp blades, flew sideways with the roaring wind. She screamed, clawing at the handle of the door before being flung back into the street by the relentless wind, toppling over and over, battered every which way. She did not see the door open and light shine out briefly as the storm claimed her for its own.
The night wore on. No one was out to see the little Porcelain on the street, unconscious and with a shattered heart. No one but the Master.
The maker of Porcelain and all who live there had come into the town during the storm. No one had seen him in a very long time although he lived just beyond them. He had heard her scream, seen her pain. He came and picked up the tiny body, cradling it in his arms as he turned toward his home.
When Dighta awoke, she found herself in a soft bed beside a rosy, popping fire pit. "Good morning Little One," the Master said, offering her bread and butter and milk. She glanced at his table, where the pieces of her heart lay before him.
"Why?" she said quietly, but anger still tainted her voice. "Why did you let me be this way? Why did you let me fall apart? Why am I more fragile than others?"
He smiled a sad smile, and started to put the pieces back to together. "You're not the only one who was hurt."
It was then she noticed his wounded arms, a portion of flesh missing in between the bones below his wrists, and other scars across his forehead. And the fresh cuts on his hands from carrying her fragments.
She hung her head in guilt.
When he was done with her heart, though it was together again, the entire heart was covered in hairline cracks that showed every which way it had shattered.
"There are many reasons why I let my children hurt - to teach, to rebuke, to draw them closer to me, but mostly I let things like this occur because I want you to love."
"That doesn't make any sense," she muttered. "All pain does is make me angry and afraid."
"That's because you do not understand how you were made," he said gently. "Though you are tempted by fear and anger more so now than ever, I made you to reach out to those also in pain. You now understand others who suffer as you have suffered. Though you may struggle to fight the belief that you are not loved because you are not normal, and you will be rejected time and again, I have made you to love and persevere."
He took a drop of his blood and let it fall inside her heart. Within, the porcelain turned to flesh, and started to beat, making the cracks on the outside open wider then close and open again with its rhythm.
"It is good to be vulnerable," the Master said. "Yes, you will be hurt again, but do not lash out in anger or shut out everyone, or even many. I made you, and I made you the way I meant you to be. I made you fragile so you can feel when my heart breaks. With me you will grow and love and guide."
Placing her new heart in her body, he helped her out of bed. "One day, there will be a new life beyond Porcelain, with no more pain. But while you live this life, use your pain for me. For others. Not to protect yourself, but to help others to heal."
So saying, he sent her home. Her journey had begun. She carried part of his heart. Although she knew there would be hard times ahead, she could not look back. Porcelain was waiting for his heart. For him.