A Single Shard

by Linda Sue Park

  Tree-ear watched until Crane-man disappeared beyond the bend in the road, then turned to Ajima, a question in his eyes.

  "Because he is proud, Tree-ear," she said. "He does not wish to be fed out of pity."

  Tree-ear kicked a small stone at his feet. Why was it that pride and foolishness were so often close companions?

  Arms crossed and stance defiant, Tree-ear stood under the bridge and began to speak.

  "I have a journey to make," he said sternly. "Over a road unknown to me. A thousand things could go wrong. Do you not think I have enough to worry about?"

  Crane-man looked up in surprise. Tree-ear had never before spoken to him in such anger.

  "Are you thinking of me, my friend? Do not worry. I fed myself—and you, for that matter—for many years before you worked for Min. I can do so again. Do you think me so helpless now?"

  "Not you!" Tree-ear shouted, flapping his arms in frustration like a giant bird. "I am not talking of you! It is Min's wife I am thinking of! She is an old woman now—would you have her poor back ache from pulling weeds? And those long walks into the mountains, for mushrooms or berries—she should long ago have earned rest from such tasks! From her husband she gets no help at all. He thinks of nothing but his work!"

  Tree-ear paused, his breath coming in gasps. He inhaled once, deeply, then spoke more quietly. "Would you have me worry about her on my journey, friend? Why will you not help her? For in helping her you would be helping me."

  The shock ebbed from Crane-man's eyes now that Tree-ear was no longer shouting. He turned to face the river, his back to Tree-ear.

  Tree-ear watched and waited. Crane-man's bad leg was shaking a little. In a moment, it shook harder. Now Crane-man's whole body was trembling. Tree-ear stepped forward in concern. He had not meant to make his friend cry.

  Tree-ear touched Crane-man on the shoulder. Crane-man waved one arm at him, still shaking. But he was not crying.

  He was laughing. The silent laughter he had been suppressing burst out of him, and he laughed so hard that he dropped his crutch. Tree-ear picked it up and stood in silence, first puzzled, then annoyed when Crane-man's laughter showed no sign of stopping. If there was a joke, he had missed it.

  "Ai, my friend," Crane-man said at last, and drew in a long breath. A few last chuckles escaped him as he took the crutch from Tree-ear and leaned on it to sit on the ground. He looked up and jabbed the crutch at Tree-ear.

  "A fine performance!" he exclaimed. "I have never seen better."

  Tree-ear's mouth dropped open for an instant, but he recovered quickly. "What do you mean, 'performance'?" he demanded. "You would question my sincerity?"

  "No, little monkey. That I would never doubt." He smiled, obviously still amused. "If it means so much to you, I will go daily to the house of Min. There! Does that satisfy you?"

  Tree-ear nodded grudgingly. The matter was settled, for he knew that Crane-man would keep his word. Tree-ear's speech had gained the desired result—although not exactly in the way that he had planned.

  Two vases—not the ones chosen—were packed in the straw container as a test. They had been stuffed with silk and wrapped in more silk. Rice straw was layered between them and crammed into every pocket of space. Min, Ajima, and Crane-man all watched as Tree-ear picked up the container and hurled it with all his strength to the ground. Then he rolled it over and over and even kicked it a few times.

  Min rushed forward and unhooked the straw bobble. He groped about inside, then nodded once in satisfaction. The vases were unbroken. "Unpack it," he ordered Tree-ear, then went inside to fetch the two selected vessels.

  As soon as Min had left the yard, Crane-man stepped forward to examine the container. He, too, was satisfied; the woven straw had sustained no damage.

  Repacked with its precious cargo, the container was lashed to the jiggeh. A sleeping mat was rolled tightly and tied to the bottom of the frame. On one side hung two pairs of sandals; on the other, a small gourd water dipper and a bag to be filled with rice cakes.

  The jiggeh was ready. Tree-ear would leave in the morning.

  Tree-ear and Crane-man skipped stones under the bridge in the twilight. Before the light was gone, Tree-ear reached into his waist pouch and slowly withdrew a small object. He handed it to Crane-man.

  "A gift," Tree-ear said. "To remind you of your promise to go daily to the house of Min." He did not want to say, to remind you oj me.

  Over the past month or so Tree-ear had filled his idle time by molding clay. He kept a small ball in his waist pouch and experimented with it whenever he had the chance. After some time a shape began to form out of the clay; it was almost as if the clay was speaking to him, telling him what it wished to become.

  A monkey. Similar to a water dropper Min had once made. Smaller than the palm of Tree-ear's hand, the monkey sat with its hands clasped before its round belly, looking content and well-fed. Tree-ear had inlaid two tiny spots for eyes and inscribed other details on its face, hands, fur. During the preparations for the final firing of the kiln, he had secreted the little monkey in a corner and managed to retrieve it afterward without Min's notice. To Tree-ear's delight, it shared with the other vessels of that firing the fine gray-green glaze.

  Tree-ear had concluded that molding was not at all the same as throwing a pot on the wheel. Molding lacked the same sense of wonder, and of course no perfectly symmetrical vessel could be made without the wheel. There were still times when the vision of the prunus vase he had once dreamed of making appeared in his mind's eye, as if mocking him.

  In spite of this, Tree-ear found that he had enjoyed the incision work. He had spent hours on the details of the monkey's features, inscribing them with progressively finer points. This, at least, was the same process, whether on a molded figure or a thrown pot. On seeing the monkey after it had been fired, Tree-ear felt a quiet thrill.

  The monkey was hollow, like all the water droppers Min made. But as Crane-man had no need of such, Tree-ear had not added the water holes. It was simply a little figure, almost like a toy.

  Crane-man examined the gift closely. He turned it over and around and stroked its smooth finish. He started to speak, but the sound of his voice was rusty and he shook his head instead.

  He hobbled over to the basket where he kept his odds and ends, and brought forth a piece of twine. Still silent, he fixed the twine cleverly around the monkey, tied a firm knot, and slipped the loop around his belt. The monkey swung gaily at his waist. At last he spoke.

  "I am honored to wear it," he said and bowed.

  "The honor is mine," Tree-ear responded.

  Crane-man looked down and played with the monkey in his fingers. "I have no gift for you beyond words," he said. "I would tell you this. Of all the problems you may meet on your journey, it will be people who are the greatest danger. But it will also be people to whom you must turn if ever you are in need of aid. Remember this, my friend, and you will travel well."

  Chapter 10

  With a sharp stone Tree-ear made another mark on the frame of the jiggeh. There were six marks, one for each day of his travels so far.

  It was as Crane-man had predicted—one village, one day. Every morning Tree-ear had risen, washed in a stream, and eaten one of Ajima's rice cakes. He would walk until the sun was directly overhead, then find a shady spot to rest and drink from the gourd. As the sun moved on, so did he. Sometime during the late afternoon or early evening he would come upon a village and stop for the night.

  The countryside custom of hospitality to travelers was a great comfort to him. He walked the main street of the village until someone—usually a child—inquired about his health and his journey. Tree-ear would accompany the child home, where the woman of the house always consented to let him sleep under the eaves. Most evenings a meal was provided as well; otherwise, Min had given Tree-ear a string of coins to buy food as needed. He kept them in his waist pouch along with his two flint stones and a ball of clay.

  "I would think you will return wi
th some of the coins unspent," Min had said gruffly on the morning of departure. As he gave Tree-ear the money, Min had placed his hand for a brief moment on Tree-ear's shoulder. The touch so startled Tree-ear that he almost flinched. Min turned away without a word of farewell, but Tree-ear felt that touch on his shoulder for a long time after.

  Ajima had given him a sack of food. Not only were there solid rice cakes, the best journey food, but also a surprise: a packet of gokkam—sweet dried persimmons. Tree-ear's eyes had widened in disbelief when he opened the packet during a break on the first day. He knew what they were, the sticky orange rounds; a kindly monk had given him some gokkam one autumn many years ago, in celebration of Buddha's birthday. That was the only time he had ever tasted it. This gokkam was even better, with each luscious piece reminding him of Ajima's care.

  So smoothly had his journey progressed that Tree-ear had begun to relax a little. No mishap had befallen him or his cargo. The weather had been fine, the days still holding the heat of summer, the nights a cool relief. He slept with the jiggeh as a hard, high pillow, the discomfort almost welcome as a reminder of his duty.

  Today, though, Tree-ear's trepidation had returned. The walking had been easy so far; after he had climbed over the mountain nearest Ch'ulp'o, the terrain had flattened out into endless rice fields. Now the land began to rise again. The next village was two days' walk away, over a spur of mountain. Tree-ear would be spending this night in the forest.

  Once on the mountain path, Tree-ear began to feel more at ease. Though these mountains were unfamiliar to him, the trees were the same as at home—maple, oak, and wild plum giving way gradually to pines as he climbed higher. Tree-ear occupied his mind by identifying the birds he heard and the plants he saw. At one point, he even began to sing a little—but stopped abruptly when he realized he had been chanting Min's throwing song. Stubborn old man, Tree-ear thought, shaking his head.

  The first edge of autumn had nudged its way into these woods; the leaves of some of the trees were rimmed in scarlet or gold. The air was fresh and cool as he trudged the shady path, and he began to feel foolish about his worries earlier in the day.

  He had hoped to come across a hunter's lean-to or even a temple, but no such shelter appeared as the sun began to descend below the treetops. Tree-ear searched for a suitable place to spend the night. At a shallow stream running cheerfully across the path he drank from his little gourd. Wiping his hands on his tunic, he stood and looked around.

  On the other side of the stream, not far from the path, two huge boulders stood. Tree-ear splashed across the stream and examined them. Between them was a little hollow. It was too small to sleep in, but Tree-ear liked the look of the huge rocks. If he settled there for the night, he would feel as though they were standing guard over him.

  He struggled out of the jiggeh and set about collecting dead wood for a fire. He had nothing to cook, but a fire would cheer and warm him as night came on. After clearing a space, he made a circle of stones from the stream. Then he built a little pyramid of twigs leaning against one another in the center of the circle. At the bottom of the pyramid went a bed of dried pine needles.

  With a well-practiced motion, Tree-ear struck the two flint stones together. A shower of sparks leapt to the pine needles. It took a few tries before a wisp of smoke curled up to signal the birth of a flame. Tree-ear shook his head in mock disgust. Crane-man nearly always started a fire on the first try.

  Tree-ear sat leaning against one of the boulders. He put the flint stones back into the pouch, then ate a rice cake from the bag, wrinkling his nose a little at the first bite. He had finished Ajima's rice cakes the day before, and the gokkam was long gone. These cakes had been purchased in the village, and they did not have the same taste or texture.

  After his meal, Tree-ear took out the ball of clay. He began pinching, kneading, rolling—not making anything yet, just waiting for the clay to whisper an idea. Soon the smooth curved back of a turtle took shape. Forming its head was more difficult, and Tree-ear bent studiously over the work.

  After a while he became aware that he was straining to see the clay by the light of the fire. He looked around; the sun was gone, its light lingering for a few moments longer. Tree-ear rose and untied the sleeping mat from the jiggeh. He unrolled it between the fire and the boulders and lay down on his stomach, his chin on his hands.

  "Two things a man never grows tired of watching," he heard Crane-man say in his mind. "Fire and falling water. Always the same, yet always changing."

  As the darkness grew, the fire began throwing odd shadows on the tree trunks around him. A sudden snap from the fire startled him, and he felt the uneasiness returning. Time for sleep, he told himself stoutly.

  He closed his eyes, but only for a moment. The darkness around him felt too big. Watching the fire for a while longer would lull him, he decided. It worked; between the warmth and the steady flickering of the flames, his eyelids grew heavy.

  Tree-ear suddenly jerked wide awake; he had heard a noise that was not the noise of the fire. It was so slight that it almost wasn't a noise—a whisper of movement, a disturbance in the still night air. He raised himself up on one elbow, listening, searching in the dim light of the newly risen half-moon. Perhaps it was nothing.

  Then he heard it again. This time there was no doubt. Something was moving through the forest not far from him. Something light-footed—an animal slipping weightlessly over the leaves...

  Slowly, slowly, he picked up the jiggeh. He meant to squeeze it into the hollow between the two boulders but could not do so silently. The branches of the jiggeh scraped against the granite. Tree-ear froze, holding his breath.

  This would never do. He had to work quickly, or the creature, whatever it was, would be upon him before he knew it. He shoved the jiggeh into the opening, put his back to it, and wiggled in himself. There was not enough room; he crouched, hunched over with his chin on his knees, and waited, his heart nearly bursting through his chest.

  Would the beast stay away from the fire? It was dying now, not much more than a bed of coals. Tree-ear cursed himself for not having put more wood nearby.

  The sound was coming closer; he could hear the rustle of leaves clearly off to his left. On the ground before him was a stick. It was only a twig, but Tree-ear reached for it anyway. He stripped the leaves from it and gripped it tightly. Perhaps, he thought wildly, he could blind the beast as it clawed at him, trying to drag him from between the rocks...

  How long would he have to wait? The moments crawled by. Then without further warning, the creature came into view.

  It was a fox!

  Tree-ear felt his pulse pounding in his throat. His thoughts seemed to be running a desperate race with each other. Against a fox he was defenseless. The fox would stare at him, looking deep into his eyes, bewitching him until he rose to follow it to its lair. He would never see Crane-man or Ajima again. The vases would remain hidden between the rocks for eternity. There would be nothing left of him but a pile of gnawed bones...

  The fox turned its head. For an instant the firelight gleamed in its eyes. Don't look! Tree-ear shouted to himself. Don't look at its eyes—it's your only chance! And he squeezed his eyes shut to block out the fox's evil stare.

  How long he waited he did not know. He opened his eyes after what seemed a lifetime. Had he been bewitched despite his efforts? Was he in the fox's lair, conscious for one last moment before a painful, bloody death?

  Tree-ear blinked to clear his vision. The fox was gone. He was still wedged into the opening between the rocks, his muscles aching with cramp. He dared not move; it was probably just another of the fox's tricks. If he were to emerge from shelter, the fox would be there, waiting for him. No, he would have to remain there, alert for any trap the devilish creature might spring...

  The sound of crying birds awoke him. For a moment Tree-ear did not know where he was. He shifted slightly and a corner of the jiggeh's frame jabbed him rudely in the back.

  Sunlight streamed
gloriously through the trees. It was morning.

  Could it be? He had fallen asleep! He had slept for who knew how long, with a fox nearby—and he had survived!

  Tree-ear laughed out loud, and the sound of his laughter reminded him of his friend. We are afraid of the things we do not know—just because we do not know them, Tree-ear thought, pleased with himself. He must remember the idea; Crane-man would be interested in discussing it. And he wiggled out of the crevice, grimacing ruefully at the tight knots in what seemed like every one of his muscles.

  A day's walk beyond the next village lay the city of Puyo. Although Tree-ear was determined to go straight to Songdo without delay, Crane-man had counseled him to make one stop—at a place called the "Rock of the Falling Flowers" in Puyo.

  "It is an old, old story," Crane-man had said. And Tree-ear had settled down on his sleeping mat, wriggling around for the most comfortable position.

  "You know that our little land has suffered many invasions," Crane-man began. "The powers that surround us—China, Japan, the Mongols—have never left us in peace for long. This is the story of one such invasion.

  "It was the T'ang Chinese this time, all of five hundred years ago. Puyo was then the capital of the Paekche kingdom—one of the Three Kingdoms that shared the land. The T'ang, allied with the Silla kingdom, swept down from the north and pushed their way into Puyo. Most of the King's army having been called away to fight the war, there were only a handful of personal guards to defend him. The King received warning, but it was too late.

  "As he and all his courtiers fled the palace, the T'ang were snapping at their heels. The King and his party were forced to retreat to the very highest point of Puyo—a cliff overlooking the Kum River. There was no escape. Bravely, the King's guards placed themselves a little way down the path between the enemy and their sovereign. They were overrun in moments.