A Single Shard

  Tree-ear could feel the difference between the results of a first draining and that of, say, a third. After three times through the sieve, the clay was noticeably smoother, with a silky touch as light as feathers. By comparison, the residue of a first draining felt almost gravelly.

  But once the process had been repeated three times, subsequent drainings did not seem to make a difference—at least, not to Tree-ear. He would squeeze his eyes shut, hold his breath, and rub the clay between his fingers, trying desperately to detect whatever was different about a fifth or sixth draining. What was it that Min felt? Why couldn't Tree-ear feel it himself?

  Min never indicated any satisfaction with Tree-ear's work. He would merely pick up a ball of clay and stalk off with it toward the house. Tree-ear would stay behind to attend to the draining, resigned and envious in the knowledge that Min was taking the clay to the wheel.

  In the past, keeping his ears open to the talk of village life had always been a crucial skill for Tree-ear. News of a wedding, for example, meant that the bride's family would be preparing much food in the days preceding the ceremony; their rubbish heap would merit special attention during that time. The birth of a son, the death of a patriarch—these events likewise affected the state of a household's garbage.

  Of course, none of the villagers thought to tell Tree-ear of such happenings. Instead, he had learned over the years to look for the clues whispered by changes in the villagers' daily routines. Extra bags of rice delivered to one house signaled a coming feast; a normally sober man stumbling home drunk one night might mean that a son had been born.

  Skipping from one rubbish heap to the next, stopping at nearly every house in the village, listening to snatches of conversation along the road—in these ways Tree-ear had come to appreciate his lowly status, for people tended to ignore his presence entirely and on the rare occasions when they did notice him, usually spoke as if he weren't there. He would carry the bits and pieces of news back to Crane-man, so they could discuss how such information might lead to a better meal.

  Crane-man often joked about it. "Tree-ear! Eh, again you see the aptness of your name. You are like the ears of a scrawny little tree, noticed by none but hearing all!"

  True enough, and this ability of Tree-ear's was to serve him well in his new life as Min's assistant.

  "Two months to make one vase."

  "Min, the tortoise-potter!"

  "The price of one of Min's vases—two oxen, a horse, and your first-born son!"

  It was thus that the other potters, their apprentices, and some of the villagers spoke of Min—usually in jest, but sometimes with derision just below the thin layer of banter in their voices. Gradually, Tree-ear learned that his master had a reputation for slow work, slow and expensive. Because he worked so slowly, he made far fewer pieces than the other potters, and consequently had to sell each of them at a higher price. Min's work was renowned for its great beauty, but there were not many who could afford it.

  Tree-ear learned still more without being taught—that Min in his younger days had been one of the most successful potters in Ch'ulp'o, but that his insistence on perfection had lost him many a well-paid commission. Buyers grew tired of waiting for work that was finished months after the deadline, and eventually they took their custom elsewhere. True, there were those willing to wait for one of Min's creations, but they grew fewer every year.

  Beyond all else, what Min needed was a royal commission. The everyday vessels for the King's household; the works of art displayed at the palace and its temples; and most of all, the gifts sent abroad as tokens of peace and respect to the greatest nation in the world—China ... these were considered the worthiest of all toil, and handsomely rewarded. A royal commission was the dream of all potters, but Tree-ear sensed somehow that it was more than a dream for Min. It was his life's desire.

  So Tree-ear learned about his master from others, from watching, from breathing the very air of his work, but never by hearing a word from Min himself.

  The plum trees blossomed; the petals fell like snow, leaving behind tiny green buttons that hid shyly among the leaves. While Tree-ear learned to cut and drain clay, the little buttons swelled and purpled until the ripest fell to the ground, where Crane-man hopped about gathering them, the hem of his tunic tied to make a carry-sack.

  That late summer Tree-ear and Crane-man always had enough to eat, for the half-empty dinner bowl never failed to become a brimful supper bowl. Tree-ear had once been tempted to eat all of the food at midday, knowing in his heart that the bowl would be refilled. But the very thought had frightened him. How quickly one became greedy! And he knew without asking that Crane-man would disapprove. Taking advantage of the kindness of another, he might say.

  Instead, Tree-ear pondered long and hard how to thank Min's wife. He felt ashamed that there was so little he could do. On the rare occasions that Min dismissed him early, he would hang around the house, looking for little chores to do—pulling weeds in her vegetable patch or sweeping the yard. And he always made sure to fill the water barrel from the stream before he left for the night. His frustration at the meagerness of his thanks was like the small but constant whine of a gnat in his thoughts.

  Still, it was a weightless enough worry during as fine a time as Tree-ear could remember—golden days, warm nights, work to do, and food to eat. And Crane-man often said there was no better finish to a meal than a sweet ripe plum.

  Chapter 5

  On his way to Min's house early one morning, as the plum trees took on their gold and scarlet autumn garb, Tree-ear spied the potter Kang wheeling a cart toward the kiln site. The cart was covered over with a cloth. That in itself was of interest to Tree-ear; an ordinary commission—for a set of household bowls, say—would not merit such caution. Kang had to be firing something special that day.

  Moreover, the fact that Kang was on the road so early meant that he wished to reach the kiln before anyone else. He would crawl into the oven-tunnel and push his work to the farthest end—yet another precaution against curious eyes.

  Tree-ear stood still for a moment, arms crossed and brow furrowed. It seemed that it would be a good idea to visit the kiln when this particular load had finished firing.

  But when he searched the kiln site several days later, Kang's work was nowhere to be found.

  Over the next few days, as Tree-ear trotted about the village to and from work or on errands for Min, he kept his eyes wide in search of Kang. His vigilance was rewarded on the fourth day. Tree-ear crouched beside Kang's rubbish heap—a spot he knew well—and watched as Kang emerged from his potting shed early that evening carrying two small bowls.

  Kang held them carefully, as if they were quite full. Concentrating on the bowls, he stumbled on a stone in his path. The contents of both bowls sloshed over a little, and Kang cursed loudly enough for Tree-ear to hear. Then he disappeared into the house.

  Tree-ear waited a moment longer before creeping to the spot in the yard where Kang had stumbled. In the fading light, he examined the spillage closely.

  Clay, mixed with enough water to be semiliquid: the potters called it "slip." Nothing unusual about that. But one thing puzzled Tree-ear.

  Two bowls, two different colors of slip. Brick-red and white.

  Tree-ear slipped away from the yard, thinking hard. There were places along the riverbank digging area where the clay was of various colors, to be sure. But what the potters sought was the gray-brown clay that fused so well with the celadon glaze. Both the body of a vessel and its glaze changed color when fired; a vessel that went into the kiln a dull mousy color emerged a remarkable translucent green.

  So the diggers avoided the areas where the clay was striped dirty white or rusty red, as clay of these colors did not make the transformation to celadon green when fired. Yet Kang was working with red and white slip. What could he be doing?

  Tree-ear knew that potters sometimes attempted to paint designs on their work using colored slip. But the attempts were far from successful. Wh
en glazed and fired, the slip blurred or ran, making the edges of the design indistinct rather than crisp and clear. Every once in a while an inexperienced potter would try his hand at painting his pieces, but the more accomplished potters, Min and Kang among them, had long ago given up trying the technique.

  Tree-ear did not believe that Kang was painting his pieces—but what else could one do with small amounts of colored slip? As he walked home that evening, no answer surfaced among the questions that darted about like fish in his mind.

  The endless cycle of work for Min continued: chopping wood, cutting clay, draining clay. Sometimes there would be a small diversion, like the time Min sent him to the beach for seashells. They were used as stilts in the kiln, to support a vessel clear of the clay stand on which it was fired, so that the two would not fuse together. The shells had to be of a precise shape and size. Tree-ear returned with a basketful of shells, of which Min rejected the majority, then sent him back for more.

  Tree-ear no longer woke each morning with the thought that perhaps this would be the day that Min would allow him to sit at the wheel. Now he thought in moons or even seasons. Perhaps this month ... perhaps this winter ... or next spring. The flame of hope that burned in him was smaller now, but no less bright or fierce, and he tended it almost daily with visions of the pot he would make.

  It would be a prunus vase—the most elegant of all the shapes. Tall and beautifully proportioned, rising from its base to flare gracefully and then round to the mouth, a prunus vase was designed for one purpose—to display a single branch of flowering plum.

  Tree-ear loved the symmetry of the prunus vases that grew on Min's wheel. Once, back in the spring during his early days with Min, he had watched the potter place a plum branch in a finished vase to judge the effect.

  The gentle curves of the vase, its mysterious green color. The sharp angles of the plum twigs, their blackness stark amid the airy white blossoms. The work of a human, the work of nature; clay from the earth, a branch from the sky. A kind of peace spread through Tree-ear, body and mind, as if while he looked at the vase and its branch, nothing could ever go wrong in the world.

  ***

  The days shortened and grew cooler. The rice was harvested, and the poor were allowed to glean the fields for fallen grain-heads. It was an arduous, backbreaking task: hours of work to gather mere handfuls of rice. Tree-ear rose before first light now, spending an hour or so in the fields before going to work. At the end of the day he returned to the fields again, collecting rice even after darkness had rendered his eyes useless. The rice gathered now would see the poor through the winter months when no wild food grew.

  There were times at the end of the day, especially, when Tree-ear thought he could not gather a single head more. I don't really have need of it now, he would think. But alongside that thought another would rise. Who knows how long Min will want me to work? And he would redouble his efforts.

  Crane-man was busy, too. When he grew weary of gathering rice, he would sit at the edge of the field plaiting handfuls of rice straw to make mats and sandals. This was a skill he had taught himself long ago, being unable to perform more vigorous work because of his bad leg.

  Crane-man made Tree-ear's sandals first, saying that the boy had more need of them because of his work. He measured Tree-ear's feet carefully and plaited several layers of straw for the thick, sturdy soles. More straw was cleverly twisted and woven to form the sides.

  "Finished!" Crane-man exclaimed one evening, tucking in the final straw as the last of the winter light faded. He handed the pair of sandals to Tree-ear, who bowed his thanks and bent to put them on immediately.

  Crane-man's face fell. Though Tree-ear jammed his foot forward and stretched the heel, the sandal was too small.

  Crane-man muttered grumpily to himself and fished around in his waist pouch for the grubby string he had used to measure Tree-ear's feet. He held it up against the sole of the sandal; it was a perfect match.

  He snorted. "Ho!" he said. "So, I did not err in the making. You, my young friend, have been so thoughtless as to grow in the last month!"

  It was true; Tree-ear had noticed himself that very day, when he had bumped his head on a section of the bridge under which he had been able to stand erect before. Despite the joke, Tree-ear shook his head ruefully over Crane-man's wasted work.

  And the sandals brought to mind another worry. Every year at around this time the monks came down from their mountainside temple to collect their tithe of rice. Sometimes they accepted other donations, such as warm clothing, and Tree-ear stayed alert on the chance that a monk would pass on such garments to the poor. In this way Tree-ear had often garnered a winter wardrobe for himself and Crane-man.

  This year the monks had not appeared. Perhaps there was sickness in the temple, or some other untoward event that prevented their coming, but whatever the reason, Tree-ear was growing concerned for his friend. Crane-man always suffered from the cold, and already the nights were frosty.

  Soon winter rode on the back of the wind as it swept down the mountain slopes toward the village. Snow fell only rarely in Ch'ulp'o, but Tree-ear could see his every breath now, and the sharp air was full of invisible imps that bit his nose and hands and feet. It was time for Tree-ear and Crane-man to make their annual move.

  During the winter the friends sheltered in a dugout on the edge of the village. The farm that once stood there had burned long ago, but the vegetable pit remained. Farmers stored vegetables for their own household use in pits the size of a room. This pit, like the others, had a sloping ramp that allowed entry. Crane-man could stand erect in the pit with his head still below ground level. The two friends roofed the pit with tree boughs and straw. Crane-man's mats lined the floor.

  Tree-ear hated the cold nights in the pit. Although he knew it was better to sleep out of the wind, being underground made him feel colder. And closed in, too—unlike the bridge, with the river a constant reminder of faraway places. If it weren't for Crane-man's presence, Tree-ear could never have borne the long winter nights.

  "Not long here," Crane-man said every year. "The worst of winter, snowmelt, spring flood. Two moons, perhaps, and the bridge will welcome us back!"

  ***

  Tree-ear waited in the yard; Min had not yet emerged from the house. When the door opened, it was his wife who appeared instead. She was holding something folded in her arms.

  "Tree-ear!" she said sharply. He looked up in surprise, wondering what he had done wrong. Then he saw that though her mouth was stern, her eyes were twinkling.

  "How can you work properly for the honorable potter if you are shivering with cold?" she scolded. She held out something dark and soft, and Tree-ear rose from his bow to take it from her. His eyes widened in wonder.

  It was a jacket and pantaloons made of heavy cotton, quilted and padded—the warmest of garments. Min's wife took the jacket back and held it up before him.

  "This should be just the right size," she said, raising her eyebrows. Realizing what was expected of him, Tree-ear reached for and donned the jacket. A delicious coziness enveloped him; Min's wife must have had the jacket warming by the fire inside.

  "Good." She nodded, seemed to hesitate for a moment, then spoke softly. "Our son, Hyung-gu, died of fever when he was about your age," she said. "These clothes I made for him, but they were never worn."

  Tree-ear tried to swallow his surprise, but he was sure that it must have shown on his face. Min, a father? It hardly seemed possible. Tree-ear could not envision Min at anything but his work. The idea that he might once have had a son—

  "Wear them in good health." Her soft voice interrupted his thoughts, and he was suddenly aware of his discourteous behavior. He bowed again.

  "Deepest gratitude to the honorable potter's wife," he said. She nodded again and disappeared into the house.

  Min came out the next moment. He looked over Tree-ear in his new jacket. Tree-ear held his breath, wondering how Min would feel ... his son's clothes on a lowly orpha
n. "Her idea, not mine," the potter muttered, and waved at Tree-ear to get started on his work.

  Throughout the day Tree-ear kept rolling up the sleeves of the jacket, which were a little too long for him. And it made him almost too warm, accustomed as he was to hard work in his sparse burlap tunic.

  So the idea was born. The jacket should fit Crane-man fairly well.

  And fit it did, to Crane-man's delight. At first he refused it, saying that it was meant for Tree-ear. But Tree-ear insisted, having thought about it all the way home. Was it wrong to give away a gift that had only just been given him? It was a gift, he argued with himself, which meant that it was now his to do with as he pleased—to wear, or to give away. He thought of Min's wife, and decided it would not displease her if he chose to give the jacket to his friend.

  Persuading Crane-man was another matter. "If you will not wear the jacket, I will not wear the new sandals," Tree-ear said firmly, nodding at the unfinished shoe in Crane-man's hands.

  "Ha!" Crane-man shook his head. "Stubborn monkey, I have been making you sandals every winter since you came here—and now you would refuse them?" But even as he spoke, he put on the jacket, and Tree-ear could see the pleased look beneath his scowl.

  The trousers were too short for Crane-man, so Tree-ear wore those himself. They examined each other, their new garb in sharp contrast to the other rags they wore. Crane-man began to laugh. "Apart, we look strange enough, but together we are as properly dressed as any man!"