A Single Shard

by Linda Sue Park

  Only once did he pause. A low range of mountains made a bowl of a valley cut through by a beautiful river. After crossing the valley, Tree-ear stopped on a peak at the far side and looked back. He knew that the scene must be even lovelier than it now looked to him, viewed as it was through a fog of exhaustion that blurred his senses and his mind. Perhaps on the way back he would appreciate it more.

  Three days' walk north of this valley brought him to Songdo.

  Songdo was like Puyo, only more so—more people, more buildings, more traffic. The palace was in the center of the city, towering over all other structures.

  Tree-ear did not stop walking. Every step brought him closer to the palace. Once he shuffled sideways to avoid a woman with a toddler tied to her back. The toddler was crying over some unknown disappointment, and the sound of his cries drew Tree-ear's attention. He watched as the mother comforted the child by rhythmically bouncing up and down and crooning to him.

  For just a moment Tree-ear was distracted. He had been such a child once, right here in Songdo. He had lived here with his parents—a father and a mother. Perhaps his mother had comforted him in the same way when he had cried. Perhaps somewhere, in one of the temples, there was a monk who knew about his parents, who remembered sending him to Ch'ulp'o.

  Tree-ear sighed and looked back out on the street. The noise of the traffic seemed to press in on his ears, on his very body. Everywhere there were people hurrying about. There must be dozens of temples in the mountains surrounding Songdo; even if Tree-ear could find that monk, it was likely that he would no longer remember. He might even be dead by now.

  It was useless to wonder. Tree-ear turned his mind back to his task.

  Late in the afternoon Tree-ear made his steady way through the crowds and found the main gate of the palace. Two soldiers stood guard there.

  He spoke firmly. "I have an appointment with the royal emissary for pottery ware," he said, for that was Emissary Kim's full title. He made a dignified bow.

  The guards looked at Tree-ear, then at each other. Tree-ear could read their thoughts—This scrawny scarecrow of a child claims a royal appointment? But he felt no trembling now; his calm did not even surprise him. He was expected. He had the right to be there.

  His manner must have said as much, for one of the guards vanished beyond the gate. He was gone long enough for the other guard to shift impatiently, but Tree-ear did not budge. He stood proudly, his eyes never leaving the gate.

  At last the guard returned, followed by another man. It was not Emissary Kim, but he was garbed in a similar robe, wearing a different hat—some kind of official of lower rank than Kim. He, too, looked skeptically at Tree-ear.

  "Yes?" he inquired, his politeness edged with impatience.

  Tree-ear bowed again. "I have an appointment with Emissary Kim. I am here on behalf of Potter Min from Ch'ulp'o."

  The official raised his eyebrows slightly. "Yes, all right. Where is the work? I will take it to Emissary Kim, and you may return for his answer in a few days."

  Tree-ear paused before he spoke. "I do not wish to displease the honorable gentleman, but I will not show what I have brought to anyone but the emissary." He drew in a silent breath to quell the small nudge of anxiety that was rising within him; so far he had not been forced to lie.

  The official looked annoyed. "Emissary Kim is a very busy man. I do not wish to disturb him when he could view the work at his convenience."

  "Then I will wait for his convenience," said Tree-ear. He looked directly at the man. "Emissary Kim has specifically requested that Potter Min's work be brought to him. I do not wish him to be disappointed."

  His message was clear to the official. "I understand," the man said crossly, "but surely you do not expect to see him without showing him the work. Where is it?"

  "I will discuss its whereabouts with no one but the emissary."

  The official muttered under his breath and finally seemed to make up his mind. He nodded to the guards. The gate swung open and Tree-ear stepped inside the royal courtyard.

  Inside the gate lay another small city. Buildings lined the walls and across a wide stretch of open courtyard Tree-ear could see the grandest of them all—the palace proper. Tree-ear nearly tripped as he walked with his neck craned and his eyes wide; he had never before seen a building more than one story high.

  And wonder of wonders, the palace had celadon roof tiles.

  Tree-ear stopped walking. He had heard of these roof tiles. Years ago, before his time, potters in Ch'ulp'o had been engaged in the enormous task of making those very tiles. "Wasters," the rejects, could still be found around the kiln site. How Tree-ear wished he could somehow climb the walls and examine the tiles more closely! Even from where he stood he could make out their intricate relief work.

  All sorts of people went about their business—tradesmen and soldiers and officials and many monks. Reluctantly, Tree-ear turned his attention away from the tiles and caught up with his escort. The official led the way deeper into the palace grounds. He stopped at last before a building against the outer wall and gestured for Tree-ear to wait outside.

  After a few moments the official returned and beckoned Tree-ear. Tree-ear walked through an entryway into a small room—small, but lovely. Shelves along one wall held celadon vessels; Tree-ear could see at a glance that each piece was of the highest quality. The official who had led him in moved to stand at one side of the door in the stance of an assistant.

  Emissary Kim sat at a low wooden table. He was writing rapidly on a scroll, the brush racing across the paper, leaving behind a trail of perfectly formed characters. Tree-ear could not read, but he could see the skill of Kim's calligraphy.

  Kim wiped the brush carefully on the inkstone. He picked up the scroll and carried it to a shelf where it would dry. Then he returned to the table and sat again. He folded his arms and looked at Tree-ear.

  Tree-ear bowed low. As he bent down, his courage suddenly fled, leaving his knees as weak as reeds. I must be hungry, he thought as he straightened his body, incredulous that he could think of such a thing at such a moment.

  "You are here from Ch'ulp'o. From Potter Min," the emissary stated.

  "Yes, honorable sir."

  The emissary waited. "Well?" he said. "Where is the work?"

  Tree-ear swallowed hard. "Sir, on my way here, I was set upon by robbers. They—they destroyed my master's work—"

  The assistant stepped forward in anger. "How dare you, brazen fool! How dare you demand an audience of the emissary with nothing to show him!" He reached to grab Tree-ear's arm and yank him out the door.

  The weakness in Tree-ear's knees surged through his whole body now. The assistant was right. He had been a fool. First a failure, now a fool...

  But the emissary had risen to his feet and gestured at his aide, who stepped back, chastened.

  "I am greatly disappointed," Emissary Kim said. "I have so looked forward to seeing Potter Min's work again."

  Tree-ear hung his head. "Humblest apologies to the honorable emissary," he mumbled. Slowly, he took the shard from his waist pouch. He drew in a deep breath and looked down at the shard before he spoke.

  How odd it looked, with its rough frame of clay. But the inlay work was still delicate and clear, the glaze still fine and pure. Seeing it gave Tree-ear a last pulse of courage.

  "It is but a fragment, Honorable Emissary. And yet, I believe that it shows all of my master's skill." And he held it out before him in cupped hands.

  The emissary looked surprised but accepted the offering. He inspected it carefully. He even took off the crude wrapping of clay and peered at the edges of the shard.

  Then Emissary Kim sat down at his table again. He chose one of the scrolls before him, took up his brush, and began writing.

  Tree-ear stood with his head bowed to hide tears of shame. Obviously, the emissary had already moved on to other business, but it would be rude for Tree-ear to leave before he had been dismissed. He wondered if he should take back th
e shard, which the emissary had placed carefully on the table. Amid his despair, Tree-ear still felt grateful—grateful that the emissary had not laughed in his face for the stupidity of traveling all that way with only a single shard to show.

  At his side he heard the assistant gasp in surprise. The emissary had beckoned the man and was showing him the scroll.

  "Go. See that it is done," said the emissary.

  "Master—" The assistant hesitated. "How is it that a commission can be awarded without seeing the work?" The man's courteous words could not mask the disapproval in his voice.

  "I understand your skepticism," the emissary answered patiently. "But I have seen this man's work, in Ch'ulp'o and again here." He bent and picked up the shard from the table.

  "Do you see this? 'Radiance of jade and clarity of water'—that is what is said about the finest celadon glaze. It is said of very few pieces." He paused for a moment and held the shard up before him. "I say it of this one. And the inlay work ... remarkable." His voice faded for a moment as he gazed in obvious admiration at the shard. Then he handed the scroll to the assistant. "Now, go and do as I bid you."

  The assistant bowed abruptly and left. Emissary Kim looked at Tree-ear. There was kindness in his eyes—like Crane-man's, like Ajima's.

  "I have written orders for him to secure your passage back to Ch'ulp'o by sea," he said. "You will go and deliver a message to your master for me. I am assigning him a commission. Tell me, have you worked for Potter Min long?"

  Tree-ear was reeling from the man's words, spoken in such a calm, ordinary voice. Through a haze of disbelief and confusion, he heard himself answer. "A year and a half, honorable sir."

  "Good. Then perhaps you can tell me—for your master to do his best work, how many pieces per year might I expect from him?"

  Concentrating on the answer to the emissary's question helped steady Tree-ear. "I think ten. Not fewer, but not many more..."He looked up and spoke with quiet pride. "My master works slowly."

  The emissary nodded solemnly "As well he should." He bowed his head to Tree-ear. "If you have need of shelter here in Songdo, my assistant will see to it that you are housed and fed until the boat sails. Your coming is greatly appreciated."

  Tree-ear wanted to laugh, to cry, to fling his arms around the emissary and dance wildly around the room. Instead, he bowed all the way to the ground. He could not speak but prayed that the emissary understood his silent thanks.

  There were some things that could not be molded into words.

  Chapter 13

  The journey by sea was much faster than the journey across land. After the first day—when he had been sick, both from excitement and from the rolling of the deck—Tree-ear enjoyed watching the sea in all its changes. And the sky looked different, much larger than it looked over land. Still, his main feeling during the journey was one of tingling impatience.

  At last, the boat drew near Ch'ulp'o, and Tree-ear leaned eagerly over the side. How familiar the village looked, even from this strange new angle! In his eagerness, Tree-ear had to stop himself from leaping into the sea when the boat was still far from shore. The final stretch of the trip—from deep water to the beach in a small rowboat—seemed to take the longest of all.

  From the landing beach Tree-ear hurried toward the village. He had decided to go to Min first, to deliver the message about the commission, and then return to the bridge to tell Crane-man the news.

  No one answered his call at the front of the house, so Tree-ear walked around to the back. Ajima was in the vegetable patch, crouched over with her back to him.

  He cleared his throat. "Ajima?"

  She whirled around so quickly that for a moment he feared she would fall over. "Tree-ear!" she exclaimed, her face breaking into the thousand wrinkles of her smile. "You are safely returned!"

  "Yes, Ajima."

  The day was chilly, autumn fully arrived, but her welcome swept over Tree-ear like a warm breeze. He bowed and could not keep himself from smiling in return. "Is the master home?"

  "He is at the draining site—" She hesitated as if making a decision, then spoke again. "You have news for him?"

  Tree-ear felt his smile grow broader. "Yes, Ajima." He bowed again to her and scampered through the yard toward the stream.

  Tree-ear slowed to a walk as he neared the clearing. He balled his fists tightly to contain his excitement.

  "Master Potter?" he called.

  Min was stirring the clay in the drainage bed. He put the paddle down and wiped his hands on a rag.

  "You are back," he said simply.

  Tree-ear bowed. "I saw the royal emissary," he said, trying to keep his voice from sounding too important. "He has assigned you a commission."

  Min closed his eyes and drew in a long, long breath. He let out the air in a sigh that was almost a whistle and opened his eyes. For a moment he stared off into the distance over Tree-ear's shoulder, then walked over to a boulder by the stream and sat down. He indicated another boulder at his side.

  Tree-ear sat down, disappointed that Min was so subdued. Tree-ear's own heart was still pounding so hard that he could feel his pulse in his throat. He glanced surreptitiously at the potter's face. Why did Min look so solemn? Was this not the news he had awaited nearly all his life? Tree-ear shrugged in his mind; it was what he should have expected from the potter.

  Min leaned forward, started to speak, then stopped and shook his head. "I am sorry, Tree-ear," he said at last. "Your friend from under the bridge—"

  Tree-ear froze. Crane-man.

  "He was up on the bridge a few days ago. A farmer tried to cross with too great a load on his cart. The wood of the bridge railing was rotten. Your friend was bumped and jostled, and the railing broke."

  Tree-ear closed his eyes. He wanted Min to stop talking.

  Min leaned forward and put his hand on Tree-ear's shoulder. "The water was so cold ... your friend was old. The shock was too great for his heart."

  Tree-ear felt very strange. It was as if he had stepped out of his body and was watching himself listen to Min. This other, detached Tree-ear noticed that Min's eyes were soft, his face gentle. It was the first time Tree-ear had ever seen him so.

  Min was still speaking. "I am told that it was very sudden, Tree-ear. Your friend did not suffer." He reached into his waist pouch and drew forth a small object. "When they pulled him from the river, he was clutching this in his hand."

  It was the little ceramic monkey, still on its crude string. Min held it forth, but Tree-ear could not move to take it.

  Tree-ear heard Ajimas voice then. She seemed to appear out of thin air at his side. Or had she been there the whole time? The sounds and sights around him were wavering, as if seen and heard through water. "Tree-ear, you will stay with us tonight," she said.

  With his thoughts still outside his body, Tree-ear watched himself stand and allow Ajima to lead him back to the house.

  Min called after them. "It is fine work, Tree-ear," he said.

  The words came to Tree-ear as if from a great distance; his ears could not be trusted. Perhaps he had only imagined them.

  He and Ajima stepped over the threshold. The part of Tree-ear's mind that was still working marveled at this; he had never been inside the house before. He caught glimpses of Min's work—a fine teapot on a shelf, an inscribed jar that held cooking tools. The rooms seemed neat and spare, but not cold with tidiness.

  Ajima showed him to a small narrow room with a sleeping mat already unrolled, then left him alone. Tree-ear lay down on the mat. He closed his eyes to the light and his mind to what he had just heard, and fell into a deep dark hole of sleep.

  The next morning Tree-ear rose long before the temple bell. He left the silent house and walked to the stream, where he stood staring at the motion of the current. Then he bent and picked up a flat stone, but threw it so carelessly that it did not skip at all. It dropped into the water with a loud plunk.

  Tree-ear threw a second rock, then a third. Suddenly, he was hurling a
barrage of rocks into the water, one after the other, harder and harder, until the water roiled and foamed beneath the rain of rocks. In a senseless frenzy Tree-ear threw leaves and sticks and clods of dirt—whatever he could get his hands on.

  Finally, he had no breath left. He bent over, clutching his stomach and panting, then knelt in the mud of the stream bank and watched the troubled water subside.

  If he hadn't volunteered to take Min's work to Songdo, what then? He might have been there; he could have helped...

  The current carried a drifting leaf into a little eddy. Tree-ear's thoughts swirled back to the day that he had given his friend the gift. He recalled Crane-man's solemn pleasure, and how he had immediately sought a piece of twine to keep the monkey near him always. Crane-man had never even hinted that Tree-ear should not make the journey. He had been proud of Tree-ear's courage.

  Memories layered themselves in Tree-ear's mind: Crane-man's willingness to discuss things with him ... the stories he told, the mountain secrets he shared, his reading of the world around them ... the way he loved a joke, even at the expense of himself or his bad leg.

  Another recollection broke through his thoughts, like a fish breaking the surface of water. "Wherever you are on your journey, Crane-man," Tree-ear whispered, "I hope you are traveling on two good legs."

  The tears came then.

  The sound of the temple bell cut through Tree-ear's muffled sobs. He rose shakily, washed his face in the stream, and walked slowly back to the house. Min was waiting for him in the yard—with the cart and the ax.

  Wood today, Tree-ear sighed to himself. Nothing had changed. Everything was as it had been before his journey.

  No. Not the same at all. Crane-man was gone. Tree-ear shivered. How would he endure the coming winter, alone in the dank vegetable pit?

  Min handed him the ax. "Large logs," he barked. "At minimum, the girth of a man's body."

  Tree-ear frowned. Why so large? True, such logs could be split to fit through the kiln openings, but this required extra work.