Said Pot to Kettle

A little bit of Tears for Fears blasting about in my mind. Song: Head Over Heels, lyric: You keep your distance with a system of touch
And gentle persuasion.

Said Pot to Kettle

We’ve been at this too long. My heart doesn’t know which way to go and I’m not sure I can lead it if it did.

This is Pot. He is pessimistic, has no ambition, and doesn’t see life for what it is. To put it plainly, Pot is a burden, he’s heavy on the shoulders.

The path is straight ahead. We must keep a solid pace. Darkness will soon be here and our sight will weaken. There’s a goal, Pot. We have to reach it.

This is Kettle. She is optimistic, loves tinkering with things, and depends on safety. Pot is her best friend. He needs her. She needs him.

In the muck of a tainted land, the two friends weigh their options: move forward, stay put, or create a new escape route? They’ve been prisoners of The Dickinsens for sixteen years. The thrill of hot stoves, solid ovens, and portable burners aren’t as titillating as they once were. New moons have come and gone. Oceans turn over in their graves. Their rusty handles flop to the touch, fragile beyond repair.

“Ain’t no way out, Kettle. We should head back. Massa Jack gonna tan our hides, for sure if’n he finds us outta place. No polish, no smooth cloths over our backs. We’ll be sure to get the cupboard treatment for at least a week.”

Kettle hears his moaning and decides to keep walking. Daylight will soon be gone. They have to scale as much land as possible before the next morning. She offers some encouraging words to her friend.

“You stay if’n you like. I aims to keep movin’. I’m liable to leave you right here, but that wouldn’t be respectable of me, so high-tail it, Pot. There’s new work to be done.”

Huffing and puffing with the pace of the trek, the two friends put two more miles behind them before sundown. The woods are alive with howling, rustle of old leaves, and a wicked breeze that can cut throats. Setting up camp seems logical, but Pot disagrees with the spot.

“I think we should go on a bit mo, Kettle. Why’s we stoppin’ here? We’s six miles from home. That ain’t far at’all. They gon' catch us, for sure. Gonna tear us apart, and pour our guts into the Blessed River.”

Kettle has decided to ignore the first part of Pot’s rant. She’s only interested in their well-being and making it to the final destination, Seamus Way, Island. Rest is needed, if only for two to three hours.

“Pot, ain’t nothing blessed about that river. They shoulda never named it that. We needs to rest. Two, three hours at most. Then, we can head on out again. You willin’ to trust me or are you gonna gripe and lollygag the resta the way?”

The night air wraps them up in lies, mashing their tops with bottoms. There’s no safe haven. Two hours later, they awaken to the sound of seeking hounds and flare guns.

“Up, Pot! Let’s get goin’!”

Kettle is adamant about immediate relocation and Pot senses her haste, so he puts forth his best leg and the two friends are off once more.

“I told you, wasn’t no need to stop there. We was just too close, Kettle. Too close. Massa Jack and them hounds can smell that tea the Missus had drainin' from your mouth, today. We gotta be careful.”

With the moon guiding their way, Pot & Kettle reach a distance of four more miles and step into the county of Tin Fork just before 7:00 a.m. There’s beauty around them, a daring day of mystery at the ready.

“We nearly there, Pot. Here’s Tin Fork County. We nearly there! I told you to trust me, to give me a chance and let me lead. And, looka here… We’s in Tin Fork County, Pot!”

Pot could hear the excitement in his friend’s voice, the joy of making it. He gave his handle a gentle tug and wiped the dust from his bottom. Enthralled in the newness of the day, he commended Kettle.

“You done good, Kettle. Better than I ever would.”

I should’ve never doubted you. The clouds showed you the way and you followed. You have my heart. Guide it forever.

Said Pot to Kettle.