Perusina, Perusino and Franz in Catacaos

Franz smelled the smoke first.

Not the cozy smoke of food. Not the sweet scent of chicha. This smoke was sharp, dry, and wrong.

Perusina stopped in the middle of Calle Comercio. To the left, silver necklaces glittered in the workshops. To the right, straw hats were stacked. In front of them, people crowded the street, as the craftsmen's festival was about to begin in the square.

Then someone screamed: "The kiln!"

A boy ran past them. His hands were covered in clay. "The big kiln! If it cracks, all the vessels will be lost!"

Franz was already gone.

"Of course," Perusina said. "Run first, then ask questions."

They chased after him, through a narrow alley, past ceramic bowls with black patterns. At the end lay the pottery yard. In the middle, a clay kiln smoked.

A dull crack came from the kiln. Krrrk.

"That didn't sound good," Perusino said.

An old potter grabbed Perusina's arm. "The festival bowl is inside. Three days of work. If the kiln gets too hot, it will crack."

Franz jumped against a pile of wood. A bundle of dry branches rolled away. Underneath lay a piece of cloth, black with soot. Perusina picked it up with two fingers. It smelled of oil.

"Someone blocked the draft," she said.

It cracked again. KRRRK.

Franz darted along the wall and disappeared behind a stack of unbaked pots.

"Franz found something!" Perusina cried.

Behind the stack of pots, a wooden board was stuck in a narrow opening. Franz scratched at it wildly. Perusina pulled. The board was jammed. Perusino helped.

"Three. Two. One!"

The board crashed out. Air immediately whistled through the gap.

In the yard, the potter cried: "The draft is back! Keep going!"

But then they heard footsteps. Someone was running across the roofs. A figure jumped from a low roof onto a wall. Under their arm, they carried a bundle of cloth.

"There!" Perusina cried.

The chase led through backyards full of clay, through a shed with unfinished pots, and out onto the street. The figure ran towards the market, right into the crowd.

Perusina only saw a fluttering red thread on the bundle.

"Left!"

Franz raced under a table of silver bracelets. Perusino wanted to follow, slid underneath, and came up dusty.

In the square, the figure threw the bundle into a basket of straw hats. Perusina grabbed the basket. Franz snatched at the red thread. Perusino stood spread-legged in the way.

"Stop! In the name of the Schifles!"

"Wrong case!" Perusina cried.

The figure stopped anyway. It wasn't an adult thief. It was a boy, perhaps twelve. His face was dusty, his eyes angry.

"I didn't want to steal anything," he said.

Perusina opened the bundle. There was no festival bowl inside. There were black clay stamps.

The old potter arrived, panting. When she saw the stamps, she fell silent.

"These are my patterns," she said.

The boy clenched his fists. "My father says everyone only buys your bowls now. Our workshop isn't getting any more orders."

Then there was a crash from the pottery yard. A cloud of smoke rose.

Everyone ran back. In the kiln, they saw the festival bowl, glowing red, dangerously close to the edge.

"If it falls, it will shatter," the potter said.

The boy snatched two long wooden poles. "I know kilns like these. We can brace it. But only from both sides."

Perusina nodded. "Then let's go."

Perusino and the boy pushed the poles through side openings. Perusina gave instructions. Franz dragged a wet cloth over, so proud he almost tripped.

"Now!" the potter cried.

The bowl slipped. Perusino braced himself against the pole. The boy pushed from the other side. Perusina pushed with a clay board.

The bowl stopped.

For a moment, only the fire could be heard. Then the potter laughed, exhausted. "It's alive."

The boy let the pole drop. "I'm sorry."

Perusina looked at him. "You can steal patterns. Or you can invent your own."

The potter took one of the black stamps. "Tomorrow you come with your father. Not to argue. To work. Catacaos needs many hands."

Perusino wiped soot from his nose. "And perhaps a little less burning drama."

Franz sniffed a basket of straw hats. Too late. Another hat was on him. This time it was black with soot.

Then a small pot cracked behind them. Everyone spun around. Another clay stamp fell from the pot.

And on it was a symbol no one knew.