A Single Shard: Chapters 7–9

Instead of giving gruff, terse commands, he harangued Tree-ear at every opportunity.

Tree-ear worked harder than ever, tense with anticipation.

Whether genuine or feigned, his concentration on his own work had never wavered, but Tree-ear knew he could not have failed to notice the gathering of people, the air that had ruffled with interest around Kang’s stall.

Tree-ear was rubbing the sediment between his fingers, as he always did.

The clay felt good—fine, pliant, smooth—but not ready yet.

It was always so when Min was incising; now that Tree-ear knew well every aspect of Min’s work, he loved seeing the incision work emerge even more than he had once loved watching the vessels grow on the wheel.

The outline of the design was first etched lightly into the leather-hard clay with the finest point.

Once the piece was fired, the pattern would be so subtle as to be almost invisible in some kinds of light.

Min’s incision work was meant to provide a second layer of interest, another pleasure for the eye, without detracting in the least from the grace of shape and wonder of color that were a piece’s first claims to beauty.

Because Min was now attempting inlay work, rather than merely incision, some of the petal and leaf spaces were carved out into little depressions.

Tree-ear exulted silently over his master’s work. He could hardly wait to see the pieces after they were fired. Surely, the emissary would see that Min’s work could both honor tradition and welcome the new in a way that was worthy of a commission.

To inscribe the design and then inlay each part of it with the colored slip was the work of countless hours, and Tree-ear remained at the house until well after dark to assist Min however he could.

Tree-ear felt that the very air in the workspace under the eaves was alive with whispers and hisses of anxiety: the emissary would be returning very soon.

Then the wood was precisely arranged in a complicated crisscross pattern of many layers.

He sent Tree-ear back and forth between the house and the kiln on various errands.

Tree-ear should have been nearly dead with fatigue, but he was too tense to lie down.

Tree-ear counted on his fingers—five piles of shards, all five of the melon-shaped vases. One of them had been hurled so far that pieces of it lay just a few paces short of where he stood peeping from behind the corner of the house. Tree-ear glanced about quickly, then tiptoed a few steps into the yard and gathered up some of the larger pieces.

The inlay work was flawless, the floral design intricate and graceful even on the incomplete pieces he held.

The dreaded brown tint suffused the glaze of every piece; some of them were marred with brown spots as well.

I would far rather have given you the honor of a royal commission. But I would be remiss in my responsibilities if I were to ignore this new technique. It must be presented to the court.

“The royal emissary honors me with his words, and I wish to disappoint no one. But I am an old man now. I could not possibly make the journey to Songdo. I thank the emissary for his consideration and beg his understanding for my failure.”

Ajima meant something like “Auntie”; it was a term of great affection, reserved only for older kinswomen. Tree-ear was kin to no one, and yet Min’s wife wished for him to call her Ajima.

Your mind knows that you are going to Songdo. But you must not tell your body. It must think one hill, one valley, one day at a time. In that way, your spirit will not grow weary before you have even begun to walk.

“The potter’s trade goes from father to son. I had a son once. My son, Hyung-gu. He is gone now. It is him I would have taught. You—”

Work no longer felt the same to Tree-ear. He now realized that he had been working all along toward the goal of being allowed to make a pot. With that hope gone, so went his eagerness to work.

Tree-ear took up a handful of clay from the corner of the bed and kneaded it. Absentmindedly, he began to form a petal shape. After so many attempts at making the petal that was eventually used for the water pot, his hands seemed to work of their own accord, flattening here, pinching there . . .

Molding, he thought. There was more than one way to make a piece of pottery. Throwing, of course—using the wheel to assist in shaping a symmetrical piece. But the little animals atop the incense burners, the handles of some vessels, the water droppers—they were not thrown. They were molded by hand without any aid from the wheel.

A dozen replicas had been fired in three separate batches, and the last firing yielded a pair of superb vases.

Crane-man fussed about with his creation, making invisible adjustments to the straw.

“It was an honor to be a part of this endeavor.”

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.

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.

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.

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.