After three days of rain, the brown river rose over its grassy banks and reached the place where household things had been left to dry in the sun. Among them stood two pots. One was a clay pot, pale and baked hard, with a small round belly and a narrow lip. The other was a brass pot, bright where the light touched it and heavy in its sides. When the water came up, it lifted both from the mud and drew them out together.
They turned once in the eddy near the bank, and as a reed brushed past, the brass pot steadied itself and spoke first. "Do not trouble yourself," it said. "Stay near me, little neighbor. If the current grows rough, I am strong, and I can keep you from harm."
The clay pot floated a little way off and answered with care. "I know you mean kindly," it said. "But your strength is the very thing I must think about. If the river presses us together, even by accident, it will go hard for me. Whether you strike me or I drift against you, the river would not know the difference."
The brass pot moved closer, not in pride but like one who truly wished to help. "Then I will watch over the space between us," it said. "I will take the stronger water and keep myself from touching you. Come beside me, and you may travel more safely."
But the river was not a road laid …
6 chapters
