The Dragon Queen

by William Andrews

  As Kyung-jik inspected the house, I was glad I had made him the commander of my guard. He was smart, skilled, and loyal. He was big and strong and dedicated to his craft. Once I saw him in a courtyard in the palace grounds practicing swordsmanship with other guards. He wore only a mawashi loincloth and the sweat on his smooth skin glistened in the hot afternoon sun. The muscles in his back, shoulders, and legs were well defined. He had his dark eyes focused on his opponent and his square jaw set. When they lunged at each other, Kyung-jik’s moves were swift and true, and his opponent quickly submitted. When they saw me, the guards stopped practicing and bowed. I believed I blushed a little when, for just an instant, my eyes met Kyung-jik’s.

  My horse pawed at the ground as Kyung-jik and the other guard exchanged a few words. Kyung-jik dismounted. He came to me and held out a hand. “We are going to that house,” he said, “but we must go on foot. If we take the horses, the neighbors will be suspicious.”

  I took his hand and slid off my horse. I was wet and cold and tired from riding all night. But I was safe, away from the mobs and assassins in Seoul.

  “Who are we staying with?” I demanded. “What clan are they from?”

  My guard did not answer as he should have. Instead, he handed the horses to the other guard and pointed to woods not far off the road. “Go there and stay until dark,” he said to the guard. “Take off the saddles and the rags from their hooves and bury them. Then, make your way back to Seoul. If anyone asks you about the horses, say that you were hired to deliver them to a stable in Seoul. Go now, before the light comes.”

  The guard pulled on the reins, and the horses followed him single file back down the road. I stood alone with Kyung-jik. He nodded toward the house. “We are going there. The man who lives in that house is named Suk-won Min. He is a distant cousin of your uncle and he is a potter. His wife is Ki-soo. They know who you are, but no one else does. For those who don’t know who you are, we will tell them this. You and I are brother and sister. We are guests of Suk-won because our home was burned by the rioters in Seoul.”

  Kyung-jik looked at me and raised a finger. “Remember, you are not safe, not even here. The villagers must not know who you are. As I have said, for the time, you are not the queen. Your name is Soo-bo. And as a common woman, you must not demand answers to your questions as you did just now. I cannot treat you like a queen, nor can Suk-won and Ki-soo. And you must not act like one, either. I am sorry.”

  I nodded. “Of course, you are right,” I said. “I will play my part. But I’ll need to get messages to my allies. I’ll need to get a message to Empress Cixi, too.”

  “I have made arrangements for that,” Kyung-jik said. “Give your messages to me. I will see that they are delivered.”

  As we started toward the house, the sun, softly filtered by the low, thin clouds, began to rise beyond the hills. The red sky slowly turned blue. After the rain, everything smelled clean and new. Some ways down the road, mud stuck to my feet and I slipped. Kyung-jik grabbed my arm to keep me upright. “Thank you,” I said as he steadied me. It was the first time I had ever said “thank you” to him.

  When we neared the house, I said, “If you please, kind brother, I would like to ask a question. How long will we be here?”

  Kyung-jik smiled at my acting and nodded. “I do not know, Soo-bo,” he answered.

  The potter’s house reminded me of my father’s house. It was not large and proper like the House of Gamgodang with its many outbuildings and formal gardens. Rather, it had the look and feel of a workingman’s home. A low wall surrounded the house, and a small, well-kept vegetable garden was along one side. The gray-green roof tiles were properly maintained—in line and straight. On the other side of the house was the wood building I had seen from the road. It was twice as long and twice as tall as the house. The sides were open and inside were two large brick mounds. The one in back had a chimney that rose above the building’s roof. Off to one side was a huge stack of firewood.

  As I stayed outside the wall, Kyung-jik went to the door and announced himself. The door opened and a tall, angular man exchanged a few words with Kyung-jik. The man looked at me and nodded. Kyung-jik came to me. “Come,” he said. “That is Suk-won. They have been expecting us.”

  Kyung-jik led me to the house. When I stepped inside, Suk-won stood next to his wife, an attractive woman who was as short as her husband was tall. They looked silly standing there trying not to bow to me. Ki-soo held her hands at her waist in front of her, one hand squeezing the other so hard they were turning white. Suk-won pressed his arms along his side. Tall and lean as he was, he reminded me of a statue. They didn’t look at me, but they didn’t keep their eyes low, either. They looked to the side, trying to obey the orders to keep my cover, but at the same time trying to show the proper respect for their queen.

  I immediately liked them. They had the look of honest, robust people who respected the throne. Their house was simple and clean, with only a few decorations in the room. Kindness and integrity showed in their faces and hard work creased their hands.

  I went to Suk-won who still didn’t look directly at me. “Master Min,” I said to him. “My guard tells me that for my protection, I must not act as the queen. And therefore, for my protection, you must not treat me like one, either. Anyway, I think it will be difficult for us to live together if you and your wife are always so stiff and refuse to look at me.”

  He turned nervous eyes toward me. I almost laughed at him. “Well, that is a start,” I said. “Now, I am tired from riding all night. Do you have a place for me to rest in this fine house?”

  At this, Suk-won relaxed a little and nodded. “Yes,” he said. “We have prepared a room. My wife will show you.”

  Ki-soo, still trying hard to strike the right pose, led me to a room off the back of the house with a sliding latticed door leading to a quaint courtyard. The room had an earthy smell, but the bed was soft and the ondol heating had warmed the room. I stripped off my wet clothes and crawled into the bed. I slept the entire morning.

  When I awoke, I went out to the courtyard. The fog had moved off and the sun was high, making the courtyard bright. A Chinese stone bench sat under a small persimmon tree. All throughout the courtyard were superb celadon pots. I sat on the bench and took in the sun’s warmth, thinking over what had brought me here. I had always been careful not to shame the Taewŏn-gun, and I even let him stay close to the king. We’d had many differences over the past several years, but I never thought he’d try to have me killed. I had underestimated him—his need to stay in power, his ego, his hatred of me. From now on, I would have to regard him as the mortal enemy he was. When I took the throne again—if I took it again—perhaps I should have him killed to show everyone that I was indeed a dragon queen.

  And then there was Gojong. My husband had fled from my side at the first sign of danger. The king was weak, unable to stand on his own. I couldn’t curse him for his weakness—that was the way he was. I had to blame myself for not being the strong one he turned to. I had thought my move with Mister Euno would show him that I was strong like his father. But perhaps it was a foolish thing I had done. It was an emotional, undisciplined outburst that had given the Taewŏn-gun and the Japanese an excuse to throw me off the throne.

  A door opened from the main room, and an old man stepped into the courtyard. He was short and thin, and his long beard was pure white. His head was bald except for a strip of white hair over both ears and across the back of his neck. He wore loose, dark clothes. He tapped a cane on the ground in front of him.

  “Earlier, I heard the voice of a stranger,” he said, tilting his head. As he moved closer, I saw his eyes were pale and lifeless. “I was not told we would have visitors. Pray introduce yourself so we are strangers no more.”

  “My name is Soo-bo,” I said, standing up from the bench. “Soo-bo Min.” I realized I hadn’t bowed to the elderly man, as a commoner should. But then again, he was blind.

  “Soo-bo of the Min clan?
Hmmm,” he said in a most knowing way. “I knew a Soo-bo from the Min clan who lived near the Han River with her daughter. She would be older now and I hear in your voice that you are young.”

  “I’m sure we have never met,” I said quickly. “May I know your name, sir?”

  The old man moved closer. His white beard and bald head shimmered in the midday sun. His eyes, lifeless though they were, twinkled under pure-white eyebrows. “I am Woo-jin Min,” he said. “I am Suk-won’s uncle.”

  “I am honored to meet you, samchonim,” I said, showing him respect by using the honorific for “uncle.” But since he was blind, again I did not bow.

  “What do we owe your visit to?” the old man asked. His voice matched his small size. It was thin and halting, but he delivered his words deliberately and with authority like a mudang—a shaman priest.

  “My brother and I came here because our house was burned by the rioters,” I answered. “I am not sure how long we will stay.”

  “Are you yangban?”

  I wasn’t sure how to answer this. Kyung-jik had only said to say that we were brother and sister. He did not say what class we were or what we did in Seoul. I decided I should use the story he’d told the rioter on the street—that I was a cook and he was a stablemate for a wealthy man in Seoul. “No, samchonim,” I answered. “We are sangmin.”

  The old man nodded. “I ask because your manner of speech is that of a yangban. And I sensed that you did not bow to me, your elder, when we met just now.” He grinned a blind-man’s grin, and waved his hand. “No matter,” he said. “I must get to work. Suk-won is waiting for me.” He tapped his cane and headed for the large, two-story building.

  “What work do you do, samchonim?” I asked before he left the courtyard.

  He stopped and turned his head halfway back to me. “I am the one who forms the clay into pots,” he said. And he disappeared around the back of the house.

  I went through the house and out the front door. I stood in the path leading to the road and looked around. I had never seen a village or a workplace like this up close. Since I’d become queen, I’d lived inside the palace and had only seen villages, farms, and factories from inside my palanquin while traveling to a picnic or an official function. I felt vulnerable to be here like this, out in the open. But it was liberating, too. It was as if the palace and my troubles were on the other side of the world, though they were only a half-day’s journey away.

  I heard thwacking behind me and turned to look. In the enclosure between the house and wooden building, Kyung-jik and Suk-won were working on a mound of clay in the hot midday sun. My guard had his shirt off and pounded the clay with a large wooden mallet. After a few strikes, Kyung-jik leaned on the mallet while Suk-won—with his long, sinewy arms—used a wide paddle to turn the clay Kyung-jik had just pounded. After three or four turns, Kyung-jik resumed his pounding. Though they could have only been working together a short time, they moved in unison like a fine Chinese clock. Thwack, thwack, thwack, turn. Thwack, thwack, thwack, turn. Sweat poured down Kyung-jik’s chest and back, and his face showed that he enjoyed the hard work. Suk-won seemed pleased, too, though his job was much easier. I guessed that he was happy to have such a strong man as Kyung-jik helping him.

  Ki-soo came outside and stood alongside me. She was about my height, though she looked to be much stronger than me. Together we watched the men work. She still seemed nervous to be with me. “Why do they beat the clay?” I asked, trying to make her comfortable.

  “To mix it and get rid of the air bubbles,” she answered.

  I said, “I suppose the more they mix it, the better the pots will be.”

  “Yes, you are right, Majesty, um, Soo-bo,” she said. “Although I think my husband mixes it more than is necessary.”

  “He has to get rid of the air or the pot will explode when it is fired. Am I correct?”

  “You know about making pottery,” Ki-soo said, relaxing some.

  I smiled at her. “I read a lot. Where does the clay come from?”

  Ki-soo pointed across the field with her chin. “It comes from swamps near the sea at Ansan,” she said. “It is the perfect clay for white celadon, but unlike other clay, it is full of impurities, which we must remove. It is backbreaking work, so Suk-won is the only one who uses that clay. The pounding and kneading is the last step.”

  “Who do you sell your pots to?” I asked.

  Ki-soo said, “Suk-won and his uncle are known to make the finest white celadon in Korea. We sell to yangban and have even sold pieces to the palace. Our business has suffered since the new taxes, though. People don’t have money for pots anymore. We barely earn enough to get by.”

  She suddenly remembered who she was talking to. Her eyes went wide and she stiffened. “Please forgive me,” she said quickly.

  I grinned at her. “I, too, think the king and queen should be hung for their contemptible taxes!” I said, jerking my chin up. “Then you could sell more pots!”

  Ki-soo hesitated for a moment. Then her face slid into a grin. “Well, they do not have to be hung,” she said, shaking her head. “They should just lower the taxes and concern themselves more with the people.”

  We stood for a minute smiling at each other, and I could tell my initial opinion of her and her husband was correct. They were honest, honorable people. I was lucky that they had agreed to hide me while half of Korea wanted my head. They were taking a big risk, and I vowed that someday I would reward them for it.

  I looked back at the men. “Kyung-jik says we don’t know how long we will be here,” I said. “I will get bored with nothing to do. How can I help?”

  “Oh,” Ki-soo stammered. “We have no need for your help.”

  I turned back to her. “Kyung-jik says your neighbors will be watching. I cannot act like a queen with nothing to do at a pottery factory. I should work so they don’t become suspicious. What can I do?”

  Ki-soo took a second to think. “I know,” she said. “Since we’ve had to let some of our help go, Suk-won’s uncle sits at the wheel alone most of the day. He gets bored with no one to talk to, and he does like to talk. It makes me sad to see him alone. Perhaps, once in a while, you can sit with him as he works. Would that be too much to ask?”

  “I like to talk, too,” I answered. “I would be happy to sit with him.”

  “I must warn you about Woo-jin,” Ki-soo said. “We did not tell him who you were. He has many friends, and he is not always careful about what he says.” She shook her head. “He often says the most unusual things that no one understands. It’s as if, though he is blind, he sees what others do not.”

  “I see,” I said, remembering my uncle said the same thing about my mother and me. “Perhaps I can learn something from him.” I went to the big building to sit and talk with the blind man who saw what others did not.

  TWENTY-SIX

  I found Woo-jin inside a shed next to the big wooden building. The shed was made from planks and had a crude door hanging on leather hinges. Here and there, streaks of dusted sunlight angled through cracks in the walls. Tables with carving tools sat against one wall, while huge pots with lids on them leaned against one another. In the shed’s center were dozens of pots in various stages of completion. Some were plain. Others had been etched with intricate patterns of plants and cranes and dragons. They were all dried clay, not yet glazed or fired.

  Bathed in a cut of sunlight, Woo-jin sat on a stool at a stone wheel that was two feet off the ground. He pumped his legs up and down to drive the mechanism that made the wheel turn with a low grinding sound. On one side of him was a mound of gray clay; on the other, a bowl of water. Over his half-bald head, he had tied a red scarf that made him look like he was a master of the military arts. He leaned over the wheel with his eyes closed and his head turned to the side. His long fingers and hands, slick with mud, caressed a ball of clay. He pressed his thumbs inside the ball hollowing it. As the clay turned, he pinched, squeezed, and pulled at it. Little by little, the clay r
ose into the shape of a pot. He dipped his hands into the water and began where he had left off, all the while pumping his legs to keep the wheel turning steadily. It was hot inside the shed, and beads of sweat formed and ran down Woo-jin’s head as he worked. His red scarf caught the sweat before it could drop into the clay.

  I stood for a long time watching him. The wheel’s smooth movement and the clay’s gradual ascent in Woo-jin’s hands were hypnotic. It was as if the blind man was bringing a dead lump of clay to life, like a phoenix rising. He was on the pot’s stem now, pinching the narrow opening ever so carefully. At the top, he gently turned the clay out to form the lip.

  When he was done, he stopped pumping his legs and the heavy wheel ground to a stop. The pot stood tall and proud in the center of it. The curves, the size, the shape of it were in perfect proportion. It was a majestic thing, worthy of a place in any king’s palace. Woo-jin slowly ran his hands from the pot’s base to the top, caressing it as if he loved the thing he had just made. Then suddenly he lunged at it and pounded the pot back into a lump of clay.

  I couldn’t believe what I just saw. He had made what looked like a perfect pot. I shook my head and stepped inside the shed. “Why did you destroy it, samchonim?” I asked. “It was perfect!”

  The old man turned to me. “Ah,” he said, showing no surprise at me being there, “it may have looked perfect to you, but it was not to me. My family has been making pots for hundreds of years. We have a reputation to uphold. If we let every pot go, our reputation will suffer.”

  I pulled up a stool and sat next to him. “What was wrong with it?”