A Single Shard (7 page)

Min arranged his work with great care. On the higher of the two shelves, he placed the smaller pieces. There was the little duck-shaped water dropper, and another one in the form of a lotus bud. They were flanked by three incense burners whose basins were surmounted by animals nearly alive in their detail—roaring lion, fierce dragon, wise tortoise. And in the center was a new set of nested boxes, inscribed with a splendid floral design. Tree-ear had learned the answer to their mystery: Min used thin slabs of clay to build the small interior boxes first, then the larger one to fit around them.

On the lower shelves, Min placed two prunus vases, a tall jug ribbed like a melon, and a water pot in its matching bowl. This last piece was a special favorite of Tree-ear's. The bowl was covered with molded petals that overlapped one another—and held a secret.

Tree-ear had watched his master make dozens of those petals and had finally taken a small lump of clay home in his waist pouch to practice himself. After many evenings of work he had produced a single petal that he thought as fine as one of Min's.

Now, as he looked at the pot, shame clashed with pride inside him. For he had taken his petal the next day and secretly substituted it for another among those drying on Min's shelf. His act had gone undetected. The stealth of it shamed him—but not enough to overcome the pride he felt at the knowledge that one of the many petals on the bowl was his. And best of all, though he had examined the piece closely a dozen times, he could not tell which it was.

 

Min stood before the display of his wares, shaking his head and clucking with discontent. He muttered under his breath—the glaze of one piece was not as fine as it could have been, he should have made one more duck. Oh, everything was well enough, but if he had had more time...

As Tree-ear looked over the shelves, an idea came to him. He bowed to Min and begged his leave for a short moment; Min waved him off, hardly seeming to hear him. Tree-ear raced through the village all the way to the scrub behind Min's house. He found what he needed and hurried back, but not so quickly this time, so as to protect what he carried.

Out of breath, he arrived back at the market space.

"Master," he panted, and held out his offering—two branches of flowering plum. Tree-ear thought that Min looked pleased for the briefest instant; then his usual cross expression returned as he took the branches.

"Hmph. Yes, it would do well to show the vases as they should be used." Min examined the branches, then handed one back to Tree-ear.

"That branch does not have enough blossoms. Why did you not bring more?" And he turned his back on Tree-ear to arrange the other branch in the vase on the left.

Tree-ear grinned. He knew his master well enough now, and Min's response was as close as he would ever come to expressing pleasure at Tree-ear's work.

 

There was yet one task remaining for Tree-ear before the emissary arrived, and it was not a task assigned by Min. Now that the display was complete, Tree-ear sought out Kang's stall.

Every potter was busy, but a small group had still taken the time to visit Kang's display. Even from a distance, Tree-ear could sense their suppressed interest, though none there spoke beyond a word or two. Tree-ear approached as if merely passing by, but his very skin prickled with curiosity.

Then a space before the stall cleared as a man stepped away, and Tree-ear saw them.

Chrysanthemums.

Dozens of them. On every vessel—blooming from wine cups and jugs and vases and bowls—the simple eight-petaled flowers caught one's attention and seized it as if they would never let go. The slight imperfections of Kang's vessels disappeared in the light that seemed to blaze from the pure-white blossoms.

Tree-ear stepped closer. He saw that a few of the pieces had stem and leaf as well. But they were no longer brick-red. In the firing, the red slip had turned black, and the contrast of black and white against jade green was unmistakably new, different, remarkable.

And beautiful. Even as Tree-ear turned away, feigning disinterest, as were the other potters, his heart was sinking into a bottomless well. The technique was so striking that the emissary could not help but choose Kang for a commission—Tree-ear was sure of it.

Emissary Kim was a tall, thoughtful man who showed no emotion as he walked from stall to stall inspecting the work of every potter. At some displays he took more time; the potters' hopes rose a little higher with every second he examined their wares.

He spent the longest time at Kang's stall, and the other potters gave up all pretense of indifference. They gathered around at a respectful distance as the emissary spoke with Kang.

Inlay work, Kang explained. The same as was done to apply brass to wood or mother-of-pearl to lacquerware. Kim nodded along with those in the little audience; inlay work was common enough in other arts, but no one there had ever seen it used in ceramics before.

Kang gave no other details of the technique; nor did the emissary request any. He merely took a great deal of time to inspect Kang's pieces thoroughly. Tree-ear felt a flicker of hope when he saw that Kim looked not only at the chrysanthemums but at every aspect of the work. At last, he replaced the vase he was holding and, still expressionless, moved on to the next stall.

It seemed to Tree-ear that he would never reach Min's stall—yet when he did, it was all too soon.

Kim immediately picked up the melon-shaped jug and looked it over with keen interest. For the first time the planes of his face shifted—with pleasure? Tree-ear could not tell.

"Would this be the potter who made the wine pot used at last night's dinner?" The emissary addressed the question to Yee, the local government official at whose home he had spent the night. Yee was one of several men accompanying Kim on his inspection of the potters' work. He nodded in reply.

"The melon shape is common enough now—I see it often," Kim said. Tree-ear could hardly breathe. Did this mean that the man did not care for the piece?

"And yet this work is unmistakable," he continued. "I knew this jug could be by no other than the same man who made that pot." And suddenly the expression on his face seemed pleased.

Min bowed in appreciation of the compliment, and Tree-ear wondered at his master's calm; he himself had to still the glee that surged through him, lest it make him skip about, shouting. Kim took his time looking over Min's work and finally walked on to the next display.

Despite the emissary's apparent pleasure, Tree-ear knew there would be no decision that day. Kim would spend a few more days in Ch'ulp'o, visiting the potters whose work most interested him, perhaps stopping by the kiln site occasionally. Then he would sail on to Kangjin. Only after he had visited both villages would he decide which potters were to receive commissions. His selections were to be announced the following month on his return visit.

After the emissary's departure, Ch'ulp'o was like two villages instead of one. The potters whose work had garnered special attention, including both Min and Kang, burst into feverish activity in an effort to make one last piece that might sway a decision in their favor when Kim returned. The other potters seemed to slump as one into dejection, all but abandoning their work in favor of long, lugubrious visits to the wine shop, where they commiserated with one another.

For they knew well that royal commissions were assigned at seemingly random intervals. Potters so chosen worked for as long as their art continued to please the court; for most, a commission would last the rest of their lives. Only when a potter died or his work fell out of favor was a new commission assigned. And often the court waited until the demise of two or three potters before searching out their replacements. It could be many years before such a chance came again.

Min was far more irritable than usual after the emissary's visit. Instead of giving gruff, terse commands, he harangued Tree-ear at every opportunity. Then he would lapse into a sullen silence that lasted until his next bout of shouting.

Tree-ear worked harder than ever, tense with anticipation. Min was making vases in the melon shape that had so pleased the emissary. It seemed to Tree-ear that the potter had never before rejected so many pieces that came off the wheel; all day long, to the tune of Min's curses he heard the sound of clay being slapped down in disgust.

At last, after two days of abuse, Min asked the question Tree-ear had been waiting for.

"So," Min said grumpily, "would you be telling me about it, or must I guess?"

Min was the only potter who had not visited Kang's display that day. 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.

"Inlay work," Tree-ear responded at once. Crane-man's words echoed in his mind.
The idea belongs to the world now.
He continued, "White and red slip that fires to white and black in the finish. Chrysanthemums."

Min did not reply, so Tree-ear added, "Ugly ones."

For what Tree-ear guessed was the first time in Min's whole life, the potter threw back his head in a loud guffaw of laughter.

"Ha!" he spat out, choked, cleared his throat. He looked at Tree-ear with what might have almost been affection. "Ugly ones, you say? Of course! What else could Kang do, that bumble-fingered excuse for a potter?" Suddenly, he clapped his hands once and snapped, "Go, then. White and red clay, drained, as for glaze."

Tree-ear jumped to his feet. Almost before Min had finished speaking, he was flying down the road with the cart careering crazily before him.

Days before, Tree-ear had mapped out the best places along the river for colored clay, and now he went directly to the first spot. He dug and loaded, his excitement kept in check by the rhythm of the work. The spade had never felt so light as it did that day.

Over the next several days, Min sketched what seemed like hundreds of designs. His wife helped by drawing the basic melon shape over and over in charcoal on pieces of wood. Min would add his ideas for the inlay design, reject them angrily, and hand the wood back to her to be wiped and reused.

Meanwhile, Tree-ear was busy draining the clay. Twice, three times, four—and the fifth time with the white clay, something happened.

Tree-ear was rubbing the sediment between his fingers, as he always did. Suddenly, his fingertips tingled with a strange feeling. For some odd reason, he thought of a time when he had been on the mountainside, taking a break as he chopped wood. He had been staring into the forest greenery when a deer appeared in abrupt focus. It had been there all along, and he had been looking straight at it. But only at the last moment had he actually
seen
it.

It was the same now, only instead of seeing with his eyes, he was feeling with his hands. The clay felt good—fine, pliant, smooth—
but not ready yet.

Tree-ear froze, completely still except for the tips of his fingers in the clay. What was it that made him think so? His mind could not find the right words. The clay had long since lost any feeling of roughness, but somehow he knew.
One more draining—perhaps two
...It was like suddenly seeing the deer—a clear vision emerging from a cloudy dream.

And it was as if he woke from that dream as he drained the clay yet again—a dream in which the words to describe exactly how he knew about the clay would be held secret forever.

 

Having finally selected a design, Min began incising it. This was the most detailed part of the work, and he disliked anyone watching. As Tree-ear swept the yard or brought clay to and from the draining site, he tried to catch what glimpses he could. 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.

Min used sharp tools with points of various sizes. The outline of the design was first etched lightly into the leather-hard clay with the finest point. Then Min would carve out the design a bit at a time. Unlike other potters, who traced a complete pattern with their initial incisions, Min sometimes varied from the sketchy tracing; his work seemed to flow more freely both in the making and in the final result.

The glaze would collect in the crevices of the design, making it slightly darker than the rest of the surface. 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.

Min was inscribing lotus blossoms and peonies between the ribbed lines of one of the melon vases. At the end of each day, Tree-ear always tried to check Min's shelves, to see what progress had been made. Because Min was now attempting inlay work, rather than merely incision, some of the petal and leaf spaces were carved out into little depressions. But Tree-ear could already see how much finer and more detailed Min's work was than Kang's. The blossoms had many more petals, each beautifully shaped; the stems and leaves twined and feathered as if alive.

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.

 

Min came to the draining site after a few days to check on Tree-ear's work. Because only small amounts were needed, Tree-ear was working with the red and white clay in bowls instead of in the pits. Min closed his eyes as he touched his fingertips to the contents of one bowl.

After a brief instant, he opened his eyes and sniffed. "You took long enough," he said dismissively. He walked back to the house carrying both bowls.

Tree-ear pressed his lips together so as not to grin too widely at the potter's departing back. It was the first time he had prepared the clay to such a fine finish without further prompting from Min.