Suddenly the smell of cold earth and fear was gone. The inner drone fell still.
Warmth came. The warmth was also light, and the light was stillness.
Before him lay a lump of clay. Utterly ordinary. Moist, dark, smelling of depth and possibility.
“Do you remember?” asked the Voice.
And he remembered that piece of clay as the only truth.
There was the movement of a hand, born of the palm’s own desire to feel its yielding. His fingers moved over the clay, and it answered — now springing back, now tender, trusting every touch.
He drew a long rope out of the lump and curled it into a ring. It became a little nest. Then he shaped a ball, flattened it, pressed it on. It became a bird. Clumsy, almost shapeless.
He laughed. The sound was pure, like the rustle of the first rain in the leaves. And at once he felt, beside him, the Presence.
“Do you want her to fly?”
He nodded, not taking his eyes from his creation, and trustingly held out his palms with the lump. Upon his fingers, upon the warm clay, the Breath descended. Life itself as intention, focused on this one small, crooked thing.
In his palms something quivered. Fluttered. He opened his fingers — and the clay came alive, filled with the essence of flight. A rhythm beat within it; it began to radiate a quiet joy. It strained upward, toward his face.
He leapt to his feet — he simply could not stay seated. A feeling for which there was no name — a mingling of rapture and gratitude — overflowed him. He ran, palms lifted high, shouting something wordless, so that the One who had done this would be sure to see and share his happiness.
The chapter goes on in the book.