Cinderella Dressed in Ashes

14 A Breath of Magic

“Better than a magic wand?” Shew wondered.

“A blowpipe is even better than a magic wand. I’ll show you in a minute,” Cerené held the blowpipe underneath her armpit and clapped her hands together three times. The furnace lit up. “This isn’t my magic by the way. I saw Baba Yaga do it.”

“At least she didn’t say ‘Open Sesame,’” Shew mumbled—another thing she’d read in one of her victims’ books. Cerené didn’t quite get what she was talking about.

Under the shimmering fire of the furnace, Cerené smeared one end of the pipe with the Heart’s purple and sticky mix. It stuck to it looking like a liquid lump. She gazed one last time toward Shew, winked at her, and pushed the sticky end of the blow pipe into the furnace, holding the other end with the two folded layers of the red dress.

Swoosh went the mixture once it met with the fire from the furnace. Slowly, it turned into a molten concoction, and the purple color turned into a hellish orange like the surface of coals on fire.

“Beware!” Shew warned Cerené as the fire flickered.

Although the blowpipe was too long and a bit heavy for Cerené, she titled her head back, smiling with a sweaty face at Shew.

“Why are you smiling in God’s name?” Shew’s face knotted.

“You care about me?” Cerené asked, almost losing balance.

Shew shrieked, but Cerené adjusted her small feet awkwardly as if walking the tight rope in the circus.

For the first time, Shew finally understood what was so strange about Cerené’s shoes. They were made of … glass.

Shew furrowed her eyebrows.

The black texture she couldn’t identify before was as flexible as rubber but looked like dirty glass in the shimmering fire. She could tell they were glass because of the way their surface reflected the shimmering light of the fire from the furnace. Momentarily, she thought the shoes were made of Obsidian stones, but no, this was glass, an unusually flexible type of glass that fooled the observer into thinking they were poor quality leather.

There was something else about the shoes, nonetheless. It was what had caught Shew’s attention here in front of the furnace. When Cerené was about to lose balance from tilting her head back and holding the heavy blowpipe, the shoes helped Cerené keep her balance. Cerené’s shoes were not ordinary in any way.

“Don’t you worry, Joy,” Cerené gritted her teeth, gripping the blowpipe with both hands as if she were pulling a stubborn fish out of the water. “I’ve done this many times.”

Having gained balance again, Cerené pulled the blowpipe out and placed it on what looked like a butcher’s table, the glowing molten mixture glued to the blowpipe’s far end.

Cerené knelt down and started blowing from her end into the blowpipe, shaping the molten into a bubbly looking mold. The molten breathed like a frog’s throat when she blew. The fiery substance looked as if it were alive; submitting to the amount of air Cerené blew into it through the pipe.

“Wow,” Shew said. “How do you do that? What is that?”

Cerené took a deep breath, tired after blowing, “You’ll see in a second,” she said. “Could you pull a rock from the floor and run it over the mold?”

“What?”

“Just do it,” Cerené said. “While I blow into the pipe, shape the mold however you like. Did you ever carve wood or work with clay?”

Shew said nothing. She felt embarrassed that she never had.

“Don’t worry,” Cerené understood. “Use your imagination to make this into whatever you like. I will see what shape you’re thinking of and then I will breathe into it to create what you’re imagining. I’m very good at it.”

“I can’t.”

“Just think of something. Make it into a vase or cup,” Cerené’s cheeks had reddened like coals from under the sticky ashes on her face.

Although Shew didn’t know what this was, she picked a rock and started molding the fiery clay-like thing. She worried briefly about the unbearable heat, but then started doing as Cerené had directed her.

The rock’s sharp edge cut through the molten like a knife through butter. Cerené rolled the blowpipe on its axis while Shew shaped her imagination into existence. She found herself creating what looked like a cup. When the molten began taking reasonable shape, she cut a bit too deep. A sticky part of the mixture thumped like thick mud onto the floor.

“Ooops,” Shew stepped back, watching the molten crawling on the floor like lava from a volcano.

“Ooops?” Cerené raised a single eyebrow. “I like the way you invent those silly words. “Ooops, sounds like someone suffering from a hiccup,” she amused herself one more time. “Don’t worry. You’ll learn how to do it. I have made the same mistake.

“Other artists think that at some point when the new creation is hot, for the shape to hold it needs to cool down, but I know better,” Cerené said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean this is my Art, Joy. I don’t need to cool it because when I breathe into it, it becomes alive,” Cerené said.

“Alive? You mean this glass is alive?”

“You haven’t seen anything yet. This is only the beginning,” Cerené said.

“Are you aware that you’re literally playing with fire?” Shew couldn’t help but wonder if this was the reason for Cerené’s wounds. Maybe she just burned herself playing with fire.

“Playing with fire!” Cerené jumped in place, shaking the mold. “Never thought of it like that. Isn’t it enchanting?”

“It is,” Shew said, staring at the piece of the molten she’d shaped into a cup.

“Now, come hold the blowpipe so I can show you the real magic,” Cerené handed her the pipe.

“There is still more to show than this?”

“You have no idea. Hold the pipe about one third away from my end for balance. I will blow into it now,” Cerené said. Then she took a deep breath closing her eyes. She squeezed her fingers and took an even deeper breath. “If I pass out, don’t worry,” Cerené said.

“Pass out, why?”

There wasn’t enough time to get an answer. Cerené blew into the pipe with all her might, eyes closed again. Her face and ears reddened, and her cheeks bubbled like shimmering light bulbs. It looked like she was blowing into it with her very essence, with her own soul.

Soul? She said the third part was the Soul! That’s her talent. She completes the magic with her breathing.

While Cerené breathed into the pipe, the molten grew increasingly bigger like a balloon about to explode, except this one was getting more flexible like warm clay she could shape with her breath.

Cerené blew harder without stopping for a breath. The molten color changed from orange slowly to blue. It was a lovely light blue like the color of clear skies, waving like a ghost among the darkened walls of the cellar.

Shew struggled to hold tightly to the blowpipe. Cerené’s mouth was fixed on the other end of the pipe, eyes still closed as if she were shaping the mold with her imagination.

The blue changed into lighter shades, almost transparent with a glittering surface like some kind of see-through diamond.

Isn’t it beautiful? Shew remembered Cerené saying about the furnace. The furnace was as ugly as the witch who owned it, but the molten was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. It was mesmerizing to see evil fire assist the glowing molten mix take shape and turn into something more resilient and sparkling.

“Cerené,” Shew uttered, lost in the beauty of the transparent diamonds sparkling inside the witch’s hellish basement. “This amazing Art of yours I’m looking at, what is it exactly? “

Cerené stopped blowing for a moment. She took a deep breath, eager to reply, “This is glass, Shew, the Forbidden Art, and I’m a glassblower.”