Arcane

by Nathan Shumate

  Delicate teacups and elegant figurines flowed from the shops of its artisans to the ships of the Imperial trading fleet and thence to the kingdoms of the Western barbarians. In return the Blossom People were held in high honor by the Emperor and his subjects, and they grew in wealth and reputation.

  Porcelain had caused Blossom of the Hillside to grow from a few isolated clay digs and anagama sites to a thriving village with dozens of master potters and sculptors and their families, along with scores of apprentices, lackeys and servants. Their delicate houses, with paper walls and pagoda roofs, peppered the foot of the island’s one great hill. Bright tiles adorned every roof, post and beam—the artisans’ castoffs, yet finer still than any barbarian claymonger could fashion. East of the village the hill rose tall and broad to overlook the vast sea, its stony bulk protecting the village from storms blown in by ocean winds.

  The Blossom People knew their ties to porcelain were profound. For as the priests had told them over the centuries, the God of the Kiln had sculpted the Blossom People from the same kaolin clay they used to craft their wares. It was there for anyone to see, how they were more fair of skin than any others among the Emperor’s subjects, and far more beautiful. The God of the Kiln had shown the first Blossom People where to dig for the kaolin and what elements to mix with it for strength and beauty. How to shape the clay and decorate it. How to build the anagama and fire their wares, sometimes for days, until the raw kaolin turned into a ceramic of near-magical properties.

  For all these things, the Blossom People were grateful to the God of the Kiln. Over the centuries they had made obeisance and sacrificed good things—succulent duck meat, powerful incense, prayers written in rare inks on imported paper. And always, the God of the Kiln had watched over them and allowed the Blossom People to prosper.

  Their very prosperity made them humble. Yet in its own way it was such humility that, ultimately, brought them to ruin.

  Do you not know what the anagama is? Ah, a thousand pardons! It is a kiln, in simplest terms. But such a kiln has never been seen in our lands. They are not crude things, though—rather they are cunning feats of engineering, worthy of imitation.

  This is an anagama: Think of a tunnel, running up a hillside, open at both ends. The potter fills it with his wares ready for firing. At the top end of the tunnel, he builds a chimney of bricks; within its lower end, he lays a fire. No middling blaze, either, but a proper bonfire that, once lit, is kept burning for days on end. If it were to fail—or even reduce to a bed of coals otherwise sufficient to roast a whole stag—the air within would not stay hot enough to harden the clay. So for the entire firing, the potter—or more likely his students or minions—must feed wood into the greedy mouth of the anagama, until the master determines the proper time has passed and the fire is allowed to die.

  Yes, it is elegant, is it not? And you have seen the results—hardy vessels that yet look so delicate you fear to touch them, lest they shatter. Porcelain! My family’s fortune was made many times over with its trade! As yours will be soon.

  Just such a kiln was built by the people of Blossom of the Hillside to fire the terrible figure we are bound toward—an anagama greater than any in all of history.

  In the summer of that particular year, there came a day when a great shaking of the earth threw down some of the houses in Blossom of the Hillside, and collapsed some of the anagama. The Blossom People, knowing that such events were often followed by the terrible tsunami, fled to the crest of the great hill and waited to see if they would have to rebuild their village once again, as they had in centuries past.

  They watched through the night as was their custom, but no waves came. In the morning, as they began the long walk back to the village, a grandmother called for her daughter’s tardy child. When the young boy finally appeared, she found his feet covered in soft, white kaolin.

  “Wretched child! I should beat you!” the grandmother exclaimed. “We climb the hill for safety from the tsunami, and you go back down to play in the clay pits?”

  “Honored grandmother, it is not so!” the panicked boy said, scampering out of her reach. “I have not left the top of the hill all this night!”

  Now, the grandmother was one of the eldest artisans in Blossom of the Hillside, and she knew that all the kaolin on the island was dug from pits around the base of the hill. She told her grandson so, and raised her hand again to beat him.

  “Honored grandmother, it is no lie!” the boy wailed. “For I have been playing in a great crevice, newly opened in the rocks upon the hill’s crest, and I will show it to you!”

  Staying her hand, the grandmother followed the boy to those rocks, which had stood unchanged for a millennium. And there, indeed, she beheld a gaping cleft where none had been before. Deep within the crevice she could see a vein of pure, white kaolin.

  “Give me your foot!” she demanded of the boy. When he nervously obliged, she scraped a bit of the clay from his ankle. Felt it between her fingers. Sniffed it with her nose. Ground it between her teeth. Then she swept the boy up in her arms and squeezed him mightily.

  “Truly you are destined for greatness!” the grandmother cried. “For the God of the Kiln has opened the great hill and led you to the finest clay we have seen in many generations!”

  With the bewildered Sheng (for this was the boy’s name) still squirming in her arms, the grandmother hurried back to where the last of the Blossom People were departing for the village, to deliver the news of the great blessing.

  It was, indeed, very good clay, all the masters agreed. From it could be fired teacups whose walls were so thin as to be translucent, yet were harder to chip or crack than bamboo. Furthermore, when drawn from their anagama this porcelain was whiter than clouds and smoother than still water. The God of the Kiln had given the Blossom People a gift the worth of which was beyond measure. Their works—already valued within the Empire and the barbarian lands—became sought after like treasures.

  Deep into the hilltop the villagers dug, and as the years passed it became clear that this was no mere pit or vein. The miners reported that beneath a thick crown of earth and rock, the deposit filled the heart of the great hill. The Blossom People rejoiced in this, yet were humbled at how profoundly the God of the Kiln had blessed them.

  For thirty years the Blossom People excavated the kaolin from the great hill, until they had dug a cavern broader and taller than the largest building on the island. By then their renown surpassed that of every other village in the Empire. Their works had flooded the Imperial coffers with revenue from tariffs, and their own pockets had been lined with silver through the Emperor’s generous patronage.

  Oho, my friend, you show the instincts of a scholar! You are right, of course, about the boy. His part was not done with the finding of the clay.

  I could not know that, of course, unless he had achieved sufficient worthiness to be mentioned in some report of this village and its fate. Well, there is ample word of this Sheng in Imperial accounts I have read; the tongxinyuan, they called him: the messenger. Blessed by the God of the Kiln, it was held, and so his life was spent in service to that deity. Trained up in their infidel religion and, once he achieved his manhood, made shenzhi, the priest of the island’s temple. Yet with all the honor he was accorded for this supposed blessing, he was a man overtaken by humility. It was he, more than any other, who exhorted the Blossom People to likewise honor the God of the Kiln.

  Perhaps it was because he had no other skill. I have found some mention of his childhood and it seems he had no touch for shaping the clay and could not take up the family craft. What safer place for a dullard than the priesthood, eh?

  No, “dullard” is too harsh. Simple and honest this Sheng was. Humble to a fault—indeed, to the greatest fault imaginable.

  On the thirtieth anniversary of his discovery upon the hilltop, the shenzhi Sheng bade the Blossom People to still their hands and gather at the village shrine. It was time, he instructed them, to acknowledge the blessing of years
past by crafting a great image of the God of the Kiln from the very clay he had given them.

  The Blossom People heard this and nodded solemnly to one another. It was a wise and prudent thing to do. Yet as they debated where such a statue should be built, Sheng spoke again.

  “My people! This, too, have I considered, and the answer is plain to me: We must build it within the very cavern our digging has created inside the great hill.”

  Voices rose in confusion and consternation until the shenzhi called for their attention once more.

  “The image of the God of the Kiln will not remain hidden within!” he shouted. “First we will build the statue within the cavern, from the kaolin that remains there. Then we shall dig a wide tunnel through the hillside to the village—we will make of this cavern the greatest anagama ever seen! Then, when the long firing is done and the porcelain is hard and pure, we will dig away the hillside where it faces the sea. Then the trade ships and fishermen’s fleets will be able to see the God of the Kiln and know how highly we honor him!”

  One and all, the Blossom People proclaimed the genius of this vision. They carried Sheng on their shoulders around the village and honored him with a great feast that night.

  The next day, all the artisans of the village set aside the work of their trades and began the great project. Some measured the breadth and depth of the cavern. Some dug the tunnel from the heart of the hill to the village. Some erected a great chimney of bricks upon the cleft at the hill’s crest. But of greatest import was the design of the great idol, and this task Sheng himself oversaw.

  “Tall he must be—tall enough for sailors on passing ships to see clearly,” he commanded. “His visage must be happy and content, so all will know how pleased he is with the Blossom People. The proportions must be pleasing, too, and his attire and pose must hew to the traditions of the past. Most importantly, he must be a work of consummate artistry, so that from whatever distance and from whichever angle he is viewed, there will be another wonder to behold.”

  Finally the day came when Sheng looked at the plans and nodded. “Now, to work!”

  First, the miners of the clay pits descended into the great hill, piling the kaolin into a mound ten times the height of a man. Following them, the sculptors descended into the cavern to cut and press and shape the clay into the image of the God of the Kiln.

  At the far end of the island, the woodcutters set their axes to swinging, cutting down many trees and splitting them into firewood that was set aside to season so it would burn its hottest when the time came to fire the great statue.

  For a year the Blossom People labored, as Sheng urged them on with praise for their efforts and their devotion to the God of the Kiln. Finally, the last detail of the statue had been shaped, the last billet of wood had been stacked, and the Blossom People held another great feast to celebrate their undertaking.

  The next day, in the mouth of the great tunnel where it opened at their village, they built a roaring blaze. The firing of the statue of the God of the Kiln had begun.

  Now, the artisans who knew best the secrets of kaolin clay and porcelain wares had argued long and fiercely about the firing, for once it began it could not be allowed to stop until the clay in the statue was thoroughly hardened. In truth, nothing like this had ever been attempted in the history of Blossom of the Hillside or any other village. So after many long days and nights of arguments, recriminations and speculations, they agreed that the fire must be fed for an entire year, day and night.

  Hearing this news, the woodcutters had blanched. “Shenzhi Sheng,” they cried, “this cannot be so! For we have felled one out of every three trees on the island, and even if we burn every last branch and leaf of that, it will not last more than a quarter of the year!”

  Sheng frowned. “Then you must cut the rest of the trees down, and hope it will suffice,” he said, “for in this our duty to the God of the Kiln we must not fail.”

  Bowing to his wisdom, the woodcutters went back to work. As the months passed by, they cleared the island of its every tree. By the year’s midpoint, the stacks of firewood filled every open space in and around Blossom of the Hillside, and everyone looked around with satisfaction and said, “Good, it will be enough.”

  But as the summer passed into autumn, those stacks began to dwindle. Furthermore, the cold came early, and the people begged to use some of the wood to heat their homes.

  “No!” declared Sheng, “for we need all of this wood to fire the anagama, and in this our duty to the God of the Kiln we must not fail!”

  The Blossom People grumbled but nodded at this wisdom and drew their robes a little tighter around their shoulders.

  Then came the autumn equinox, and the master of the kiln came to the shenzhi Sheng and told him, “Wisest of the Blossom People, there is enough firewood to feed the anagama for only another day, yet we need fuel for ninety times that long!” And Sheng, seeing the great work of the Blossom People could come to naught, called together the villagers.

  “My people!” he said. “For nine months we have tended the anagama and fired the statue, but the wood will run out tomorrow! Yet in this our duty to the God of the Kiln we must not fail! Therefore, you must gather up all the furniture in your houses and workshops, your boats, your tools, anything made of wood. Pile it by the mouth of the kiln where the woodcutters will break it up for the fire. Then bring all else that will burn—your bedding, the hangings on your walls, your very garments except those you now wear on your backs—and pile it here. For your sacrifice, the glory will be all the greater when the statue is revealed!”

  The Blossom People grumbled loudly but recognized the wisdom of the priest’s words. So they dragged their chairs and tables and beds and tools to the mouth of the kiln. And they scoured their homes and workshops for all other things that would burn and piled them by the anagama, where all was gradually fed into the fire.

  But it was not enough. At the end of the eleventh month, the master of the kiln came to the shenzhi Sheng and cried, “O wisest of the Blossom People, all the boats and tools and blankets and clothes have been burned, but still it is not enough! Without more fuel, the fire will die with the sunrise!”

  The priest pondered these words, and once more gathered the villagers by the shrine. “My people!” he said. “We have come to the most crucial stage, but the fire will die on the morrow without more fuel! We must tear down our very houses and workshops and pile the beams and boards by the mouth of the anagama, so our great work can be completed!”

  Now a great wailing arose from the people. “But, tongxinyuan, where will we live? For winter is upon us, and very soon the fierce storms will sweep in off the sea!”

  “I know you have sacrificed much,” replied the priest, “but I also know you have yet more to give! We can live in the old clay pits, where we have dug into the hillside along the creek beds. There is shelter enough there to keep us until spring. And when the statue is completed, so great will be our glory and honor that no one who passes it will fail to know the worth of the Blossom People!”

  These words heartened the villagers, and they set to tearing apart their homes and workshops with the only tools yet left to them, the woodcutters’ axes. Every day for thirty days buildings were dismantled and fed into the kiln, until no sign of the village was left standing.

  And yet, at sunset of the thirtieth day, the kiln master came miserably to the shenzhi Sheng and threw himself on the dirt before his feet.

  “O wisest of the Blossom People!” he whimpered. “We have failed! For we have burned every tree upon the island, and all our belongings, and each and every building that once stood in Blossom of the Hillside. Yet there is one more day to the firing of the kiln and there is no fuel left anywhere. The fire will die with the sunrise, and we will fail!”

  This grim news struck the priest to his core, and he called the villagers to him at the mouth of the kiln.

  “My people!” he cried out. “The hour of our greatest crisis is at hand! For w
e are a day short of one year’s firing of the anagama and perfection of the statue to the God of the Kiln. You have given up the trees of the island, your boats, your tools, your belongings, your very homes—and yet, without some other fuel for the kiln, we will have failed by morning!”

  Dismayed voices cried out from the crowd. “But what can we do? We have given everything but our bodies to the kiln!”

  “Then it is our bodies that must be given now!” Sheng called back. “For in this sacrifice will all peoples know of the great humility of the Blossom People, who gave everything to the God of the Kiln and whose sacrifice will be held in high honor for all time!”

  For a few moments only a stunned silence met the priest’s words. Finally an old man, oldest among all the Blossom People, spoke out: “This statue has consumed my tools, my home, my very craft—let it consume me, as well.”

  And as the Blossom People stared in wonder, the ancient artisan trod heavily into the mouth of the anagama, disappearing into the white-hot light of the flames.

  Now the priest spoke again. “See the wisdom of the eldest among us! Can any of us do less for the God of the Kiln?”

  A quiet shiver ran through the gathered villagers. Then, one by one, they bowed their heads in consent. To give themselves bodily to the God of the Kiln was truly all they had left.

  All through the night and into the next day, every time the kiln master declared the fire was waning, Blossom People vanished into the anagama. Singly. As couples. Parents, clutching children to their breasts. Every last grandmother and grandchild. Sheng blessed them all as they shambled into the anagama, beaming with pride as each person disappeared into its fiery maw.

  Finally, with the sun bearing down upon the horizon on the final day of firing, the kiln master looked to the shenzhi and said, “Almost we are done. I will go next, and you must follow before the sun has fully set.”