Chapter 2 2 страница

 

Tree-ear picked up the chopsticks and stared for a moment. Of one thing he was certain: The feast-day banquets in the palace of the King could never better the modest meal before him, for he had earned it.

 

Tree-ear carted another load of clay for Min that afternoon, then returned to the bridge where Crane-man had stewed some wild mushrooms for their supper. Tree-ear spoke eagerly about his work that day. It was not until Crane-man rose to gather the supper bowls that Tree-ear noticed something was missing.

 

The crutch. Sure enough, after handing Tree-ear the bowls to wash, Crane-man sat down with his knife and a sturdy straight branch and began to whittle a new crutch. Tree-ear wiped out the bowls, stacked them neatly on their rock shelf, and finally asked, "What happened to the old one?"

 

Crane-man paused in his work, then waved his knife impatiently. "Stupidity happened," he answered. "There was a run of flounder today."

 

That was all he said, but Tree-ear heard much more. Although Ch'ulp'o was on the sea, it was a potters' village, not a fishing village. The men and boys seldom took time from their work to fish. Still, they all knew the useful skill of fishing, and the women and girls often gathered shellfish at low tide.

 

A run of flounder meant that a school of the tasty fish had come into shore far closer than usual; the waves even tossed fish right up on the beach. Such news sent many scrambling for their bamboo poles. But one had to be among the first to run from the village down to the shore. The flounder found their way back out to sea soon enough, and the fish flopping about on the sand were scooped up only by the quickest.

 

It had always been Tree-ear who skipped out to the beach at the first word of a flounder run, and he had never returned without a fat fish or two for a rare feast. Now he knew without asking that Crane-man had hobbled down to the beach and lurched about on the sand, so treacherous to his crutch, only to come away empty-handed.

 

Crane-man shaved another curl of wood, then held the crutch up to his eye, squinting to check that its lines were true. "I was angry about not getting any fish," he said as he returned to his whittling, "so I struck my crutch against a rock. It broke, of course."

 

A little pile of shavings had grown at Crane-man's feet. Tree-ear crouched and stirred the pile with his finger, too ashamed to look up. In his mind he saw Crane-man making his slow, painful way back from the beach, with only a broken crutch to help him. And no fish for his trouble. How was it that in enjoying his noontime meal Tree-ear had forgotten his friend? He should have saved some of the food for Crane-man. If it had been the other way around, Crane-man would never have forgotten.

 

Tree-ear swept the shavings into his palm, then threw them into the river. As he watched the current carry them away, he mumbled, "I am sorry about the flounder."

 

"Ah, friend," Crane-man said. "You must mean, 'I am sorry about your leg.' Because that is the reason for our fishless supper today. But I think it a waste for either of us to spend too much time in sorrow over something we cannot change." Crane-man grunted as he stood, then leaned on the new crutch to test it.

 

Satisfied, he nodded at Tree-ear. "Besides, when I leave this world, I will have two good legs and no need for such as this." And he tapped the crutch with his free hand.

 

Still cross with himself, Tree-ear grumbled half under his breath, "Some of us will have four good legs."

 

Crane-man batted at him with the new crutch. "What are you saying, impudent boy? That I will be a beast in the next life?"

 

Tree-ear began to protest. "No, not you—" Then he stopped and grinned. "Well, maybe," he said, putting his hand on his chin in an attitude of deep thought. "A rabbit, I think. Very clever and quick—"

 

"You had better be quick now yourself!" Crane-man bellowed in mock anger, brandishing the crutch sword-fashion. Tree-ear began hopping about their little den like a rabbit, dodging Crane-man's jabs and swipes, his shame forgotten for the moment as the day ended in laughter.

 

* * *

 

Chapter 4

 

In the morning Tree-ear presented himself at Min's door before the temple bell rang. As he had hoped, it was Min's wife who answered his call.

 

He held out a gourd bowl and bowed his head.

 

"I have brought my own bowl today, so as not to inconvenience the honorable potter's wife," he said. Tree-ear's plan was to eat only half his food, leave the bowl hidden somewhere, and take the other half home to Crane-man at the end of the day.

 

Min's wife nodded and took the bowl from him, but he could see the puzzled look in her eyes. The day before, he had returned the bowl and chopsticks to her after washing and wiping them; clearly, there had been no need for him to bring his own bowl.

 

Tree-ear turned away, feeling guilt like a shadow across his brow, and hoped fervently that he had not offended her. I'm not really deceiving anyone, he argued to himself.

 

And I haven't asked for more food—it should make no difference to her which bowl...

 

He carted clay again for Min, and by midafternoon he had grown more accustomed to the work. He was learning the tricky balance of spadework—deep enough to make a clean cut, but not so deep as to bury the spade head in the mire. The work went more quickly now, and the muscles in his back and arms that had been strengthened by the woodcutting did not cry out so loudly anymore.

 

Tree-ear brought the final load of clay back to Min's. As usual, the potter was nowhere in sight at the end of the day, so Tree-ear left the cart parked under the eaves and went to retrieve the remaining half of his midday meal.

 

Tree-ear caught his breath. The gourd bowl was not beneath the paulownia tree where he had left it. He searched the area around the tree. The bowl had been covered with a cloth weighed down by stones. Here was the cloth, snagged on a shrub—and there, a few paces farther into the brush, the bowl.

 

Empty. Not just empty, but polished clean. Some wild animal...

 

Disappointment rose inside Tree-ear until he felt he would have to let it escape in a wolf-like howl. Instead, he picked up the bowl and hurled it as far as he could into the brush.

 

"Ail" The startled cry that came from somewhere within the overgrown brush frightened Tree-ear half off his feet. Min's wife emerged from behind a tangled bush, holding the bowl in one hand and a basket in the other. The basket was filled with berries, which she had apparently been gathering on the mountainside.

 

She was smiling gently as she handed him the bowl. "This bowl had a great desire to become my hat," she said. "A bowl that flies! Small wonder that you preferred it to my own." Tree-ear could see that she was teasing, but he was too deep in his own embarrassment and disappointment to respond with more than a curt nod. He checked himself in time to turn the nod into a bow of respect, then fled, leaving the scene of his failure but not the knowledge of it.

 

Yet again he had failed to share his meal with Crane-man. And on top of that, it seemed that he had nearly hit his master's wife on the head with his bowl.

 

It was two full moons now that Tree-ear had been working for Min, but it seemed like a year or even longer. He sometimes felt that he could hardly remember what his life had been like before. The days had acquired a rhythm, a regularity he found comforting and dependable. He woke early, worked for Min, ate half of his dinner, worked again, then returned to the bridge at dusk.

 

In an attempt to discourage wild animals from eating the other half of his food while he worked, Tree-ear had taken to hiding it closer to the house. At a far corner of Min's yard he had dug a hollow just big enough to hold the bowl, and had found a large flat rock nearby to use as a cover. It looked quite unobtrusive, and he had been pleased to find the food untouched the first time he hid it there. Since then, he had been able to bring Crane-man supper every night.

 

This was his greatest satisfaction. The meals provided by Min's wife were simple, but they never failed to delight his friend, who opened the gourd parcel each evening as if it were a gift of royal jewels.

 

"Bean curd tonight," Crane-man would say, his eyes gleaming. "With cucumber kimchee as well. Truly a felicitous combination. Soft bean curd—crunchy cucumber. Bland bean curd—spicy cucumber. That woman is an artist."

 

Several days after he had begun using the new hiding place, Tree-ear made an odd discovery. As usual, he had eaten half his meal at midday. On retrieving the bowl after the day's work, he unwrapped the cloth as he always did, to check on the bowl's contents.

 

The bowl was full again.

 

Tree-ear stared in surprise. He looked toward the house, but neither Min nor his wife was in sight. And every evening thereafter he returned to find the bowl full, with enough supper for both Crane-man and himself.

 

Tree-ear was learning a new skill now—the draining of the clay. It was a tedious process, but one that held his interest.

 

At some distance from the house, near a clear running stream, a series of shallow holes had been dug and lined with several layers of rough grasscloth. The clay was shoveled into one of the pits and water mixed in to form a thick viscous mud. Tree-ear stirred and stirred the mixture with a wooden paddle until the clay and water were uniformly combined.

 

Then the sludge was scooped up and poured through a sieve into a neighboring pit. The sieving winnowed out tiny pebbles and other impurities. Finally, the clay was left to settle for a few days until the water at the top either had drained away or could be bailed off.

 

Min would squeeze handfuls of the purified clay, or rub it between his fingers. He usually did this with his eyes closed—the better to feel it, Tree-ear supposed.

 

He did not ask, for Min preferred to work with as few words as possible. The potter would bark terse commands, which Tree-ear struggled to satisfy by whatever means were available to him—watching Min, watching other potters, experimenting. He did not know why Min did not explain things more fully; Tree-ear's mistakes often cost valuable time or wasted valuable clay. Then Min would shout or scold while Tree-ear stared at his toes in shame and, more often than not, resentment.

 

But since that first day when Tree-ear had damaged the box, Min had never raised a hand against him. Throughout the first few scoldings, Tret-ear had braced himself, ready for the pummeling that would surely follow, like those he had endured when caught raiding a rubbish heap. They had not come, then or ever, even at the height of Min's scorn and rage.

 

The stirring, sieving, settling, and bailing were repeated any number of times, until Min was satisfied with the residue. It depended on the job at hand. If the clay was for a sturdy teapot to be used every day, a single draining might suffice. But for a finely wrought incense burner commissioned by a wealthy merchant as a gift to the temple, the clay might be drained twice or even three times. Clay that passed Min's inspection was formed into a large ball, ready to be thrown on the wheel.

 

The ultimate in drainage work was reserved for the creation of the celadon glaze. For this, half a dozen drainings might not be enough. Tree-ear sometimes wanted to cry out and beat his fists into the clay in frustration when Min made an abrupt gesture for yet another repetition of the work.

 

The clay for glaze was mixed in precise proportions with water and wood ash. This combination must have been the result of a happy accident in the distant past. Perhaps ashes had once fallen on a plain-glazed vase in the kiln and resulted in patches of the clear celadon color. Now potters used wood ash deliberately, each with his own secret formula, to produce the sought-after glaze.

 

How proud the potters were of its color! No one had been able to name it satisfactorily, for although it was green, shades of blue and gray and violet whispered beneath it, as in the sea on a cloudy day. Different hues blended into one another where the glaze pooled thickly in the crevices or glossed sheer on the raised surfaces of an incised design. Indeed, a famed Chinese scholar had once named twelve small wonders of the world; eleven of them were Chinese, and the twelfth was the color of Korean celadon pottery! The children of Ch'ulp'o learned this story almost before they could walk.

 

Tree-ear could feel the difference between the results of a first draining and that of, say, a third. After three times through the sieve, the clay was noticeably smoother, with a silky touch as light as feathers. By comparison, the residue of a first draining felt almost gravelly.

 

But once the process had been repeated three times, subsequent drainings did not seem to make a difference— at least, not to Tree-ear. He would squeeze his eyes shut, hold his breath, and rub the clay between his fingers, trying desperately to detect whatever was different about a fifth or sixth draining. What was it that Min felt? Why couldn't Tree-ear feel it himself?

 

Min never indicated any satisfaction with Tree-ear's work. He would merely pick up a ball of clay and stalk off with it toward the house. Tree-ear would stay behind to attend to the draining, resigned and envious in the knowledge that Min was taking the clay to the wheel.

 

In the past, keeping his ears open to the talk of village life had always been a crucial skill for Tree-ear. News of a wedding, for example, meant that the bride's family would be preparing much food in the days preceding the ceremony; their rubbish heap would merit special attention during that time. The birth of a son, the death of a patriarch—these events likewise affected the state of a household's garbage.

 

Of course, none of the villagers thought to tell Tree-ear of such happenings. Instead, he had learned over the years to look for the clues whispered by changes in the villagers' daily routines. Extra bags of rice delivered to one house signaled a coming feast; a normally sober man stumbling home drunk one night might mean that a son had been born.

 

Skipping from one rubbish heap to the next, stopping at nearly every house in the village, listening to snatches of conversation along the road—in these ways Tree-ear had come to appreciate his lowly status, for people tended to ignore his presence entirely and on the rare occasions when they did notice him, usually spoke as if he weren't there. He would carry the bits and pieces of news back to Crane-man, so they could discuss how such information might lead to a better meal.

 

Crane-man often joked about it. "Tree-ear! Eh, again you see the aptness of your name. You are like the ears of a scrawny little tree, noticed by none but hearing all!"

 

True enough, and this ability of Tree-ear's was to serve him well in his new life as Min's assistant.

 

"Two months to make one vase."

 

"Min, the tortoise-potter!"

 

"The price of one of Min's vases—two oxen, a horse, and your first-born son!"

 

It was thus that the other potters, their apprentices, and some of the villagers spoke of Min—usually in jest, but sometimes with derision just below the thin layer of banter in their voices. Gradually, Tree-ear learned that his master had a reputation for slow work, slow and expensive. Because he worked so slowly, he made far fewer pieces than the other potters, and consequently had to sell each of them at a higher price. Min's work was renowned for its great beauty, but there were not many who could afford it.

 

Tree-ear learned still more without being taught—that Min in his younger days had been one of the most successful potters in Ch'ulp'o, but that his insistence on perfection had lost him many a well-paid commission. Buyers grew tired of waiting for work that was finished months after the deadline, and eventually they took their custom elsewhere. True, there were those willing to wait for one of Bins creations, but they grew fewer every year.

 

Beyond all else, what Min needed was a royal commission. The everyday vessels for the King's household; the works of art displayed at the palace and its temples; and most of all, the gifts sent abroad as tokens of peace and respect to the greatest nation in the world—China... these were considered the worthiest of all toil, and handsomely rewarded. A royal commission was the dream of all potters, but Tree-ear sensed somehow that it was more than a dream for Min. It was his life's desire.

 

So Tree-ear learned about his master from others, from watching, from breathing the very air of his work, but never by hearing a word from Min himself.

 

The plum trees blossomed; the petals fell like snow, leaving behind tiny green buttons that hid shyly among the leaves. While Tree-ear learned to cut and drain clay, the little buttons swelled and purpled until the ripest fell to the ground, where Crane-man hopped about gathering them, the hem of his tunic tied to make a carry-sack.

 

That late summer Tree-ear and Crane-man always had enough to eat, for the half-empty dinner bowl never failed to become a brimful supper bowl. Tree-ear had once been tempted to eat all of the food at midday, knowing in his heart that the bowl would be refilled. But the very thought had frightened him. How quickly one became greedy! And he knew without asking that Crane-man would disapprove. Taking advantage of the kindness of another, he might say.

 

Instead, Tree-ear pondered long and hard how to thank Min's wife. He felt ashamed that there was so little he could do. On the rare occasions that Min dismissed him early, he would hang around the house, looking for little chores to do—pulling weeds in her vegetable patch or sweeping the yard. And he always made sure to fill the water barrel from the stream before he left for the night. His frustration at the meagerness of his thanks was like the small but constant whine of a gnat in his thoughts.

 

Still, it was a weightless enough worry during as fine a time as Tree-ear could remember—golden days, warm nights, work to do, and food to eat. And Crane-man often said there was no better finish to a meal than a sweet ripe plum.

 

* * *

 

Chapter 5

 

On his way to Min's house early one morning, as the plum trees took on their gold and scarlet autumn garb, Tree-ear spied the potter Kang wheeling a cart toward the kiln site. The cart was covered over with a cloth. That in itself was of interest to Tree-ear; an ordinary commission—for a set of household bowls, say—would not merit such caution. Kang had to be firing something special that day.

 

Moreover, the fact that Kang was on the road so early meant that he wished to reach the kiln before anyone else. He would crawl into the oven-tunnel and push his work to the farthest end—yet another precaution against curious eyes.

 

Tree-ear stood still for a moment, arms crossed and brow furrowed. It seemed that it would be a good idea to visit the kiln when this particular load had finished firing.

 

But when he searched the kiln site several days later, Kang's work was nowhere to be found.

 

Over the next few days, as Tree-ear trotted about the village to and from work or on errands for Min, he kept his eyes wide in search of Kang. His vigilance was rewarded on the fourth day. Tree-ear crouched beside Kang's rubbish heap—a spot he knew well—and watched as Kang emerged from his potting shed early that evening carrying two small bowls.

 

Kang held them carefully, as if they were quite full. Concentrating on the bowls, he stumbled on a stone in his path. The contents of both bowls sloshed over a little, and Kang cursed loudly enough for Tree-ear to hear. Then he disappeared into the house.

 

Tree-ear waited a moment longer before creeping to the spot in the yard where Kang had stumbled. In the fading light, he examined the spillage closely.

 

Clay, mixed with enough water to be semiliquid: the potters called it "slip." Nothing unusual about that. But one thing puzzled Tree-ear.

 

Two bowls, two different colors of slip. Brick-red and white.

 

Tree-ear slipped away from the yard, thinking hard. There were places along the riverbank digging area where the clay was of various colors, to be sure. But what the potters sought was the gray-brown clay that fused so well with the celadon glaze. Both the body of a vessel and its glaze changed color when fired; a vessel that went into the kiln a dull mousy color emerged a remarkable translucent green.

 

So the diggers avoided the areas where the clay was striped dirty white or rusty red, as clay of these colors did not make the transformation to celadon green when fired. Yet Kang was working with red and white slip. What could he be doing?

 

Tree-ear knew that potters sometimes attempted to paint designs on their work using colored slip. But the attempts were far from successful. When glazed and fired, the slip blurred or ran, making the edges of the design indistinct rather than crisp and clear. Every once in a while an inexperienced potter would try his hand at painting his pieces, but the more accomplished potters, Min and Kang among them, had long ago given up trying the technique.

 

Tree-ear did not believe that Kang was painting his pieces—but what else could one do with small amounts of colored slip? As he walked home that evening, no answer surfaced among the questions that darted about like fish in his mind.

 

The endless cycle of work for Min continued: chopping wood, cutting clay, draining clay. Sometimes there would be a small diversion, like the time Min sent him to the beach for seashells. They were used as stilts in the kiln, to support a vessel clear of the clay stand on which it was fired, so that the two would not fuse together. The shells had to be of a precise shape and size. Tree-ear returned with a basketful of shells, of which Min rejected the majority, then sent him back for more.

 

Tree-ear no longer woke each morning with the thought that perhaps this would be the day that Min would allow him to sit at the wheel. Now he thought in moons or even seasons. Perhaps this month... perhaps this winter... or next spring. The flame of hope that burned in him was smaller now, but no less bright or fierce, and he tended it almost daily with visions of the pot he would make.

 

It would be a prunus vase—the most elegant of all the shapes. Tall and beautifully proportioned, rising from its base to flare gracefully and then round to the mouth, a prunus vase was designed for one purpose—to display a single branch of flowering plum.

 

Tree-ear loved the symmetry of the prunus vases that grew on Min's wheel. Once, back in the spring during his early days with Min, he had watched the potter place a plum branch in a finished vase to judge the effect.

 

The gentle curves of the vase, its mysterious green color. The sharp angles of the plum twigs, their blackness stark amid the airy white blossoms. The work of a human, the work of nature; clay from the earth, a branch from the sky. A kind of peace spread through Tree-ear, body and mind, as if while he looked at the vase and its branch, nothing could ever go wrong in the world. The days shortened and grew cooler. The rice was harvested, and the poor were allowed to glean the fields for fallen grain-heads. It was an arduous, backbreaking task: hours of work to gather mere handfuls of rice. Tree-ear rose before first light now, spending an hour or so in the fields before going to work. At the end of the day he returned to the fields again, collecting rice even after darkness had rendered his eyes useless. The rice gathered now would see the poor through the winter months when no wild food grew.

 

There were times at the end of the day, especially, when Tree-ear thought he could not gather a single head more. I don't really have need of it now, he would think. But alongside that thought another would rise. Who knows how long Min will want me to work? And he would redouble his efforts.

 

Crane-man was busy, too. When he grew weary of gathering rice, he would sit at the edge of the field plaiting handfuls of rice straw to make mats and sandals. This was a skill he had taught himself long ago, being unable to perform more vigorous work because of his bad leg.

 

Crane-man made Tree-ear's sandals first, saying that the boy had more need of them because of his work. He measured Tree-ear's feet carefully and plaited several layers of straw for the thick, sturdy soles. More straw was cleverly twisted and woven to form the sides.

 

"Finished!" Crane-man exclaimed one evening, tucking in the final straw as the last of the winter light faded. He handed the pair of sandals to Tree-ear, who bowed his thanks and bent to put them on immediately.

 

Crane-man's face fell. Though Tree-ear jammed his foot forward and stretched the heel, the sandal was too small.

 

Crane-man muttered grumpily to himself and fished around in his waist pouch for the grubby string he had used to measure Tree-ear's feet. He held it up against the sole of the sandal; it was a perfect match.

 

He snorted. "Ho!" he said. "So, I did not err in the making. You, my young friend, have been so thoughtless as to grow in the last month!"

 

It was true; Tree-ear had noticed himself that very day, when he had bumped his head on a section of the bridge under which he had been able to stand erect before. Despite the joke, Tree-ear shook his head ruefully over Crane-man's wasted work.

 

And the sandals brought to mind another worry. Every year at around this time the monks came down from their mountainside temple to collect their tithe of rice. Sometimes they accepted other donations, such as warm clothing, and Tree-ear stayed alert on the chance that a monk would pass on such garments to the poor. In this way Tree-ear had often garnered a winter wardrobe for himself and Crane-man.

 

This year the monks had not appeared. Perhaps there was sickness in the temple, or some other untoward event that prevented their coming, but whatever the reason, Tree-ear was growing concerned for his friend. Crane-man always suffered from the cold, and already the nights were frosty.

 

Soon winter rode on the back of the wind as it swept down the mountain slopes toward the village. Snow fell only rarely in Ch'ulp'o, but Tree-ear could see his every breath now, and the sharp air was full of invisible imps that bit his nose and hands and feet. It was time for Tree-ear and Crane-man to make their annual move.

 

During the winter the friends sheltered in a dugout on the edge of the village. The farm that once stood there had burned long ago, but the vegetable pit remained. Farmers stored vegetables for their own household use in pits the size of a room. This pit, like the others, had a sloping ramp that allowed entry. Crane-man could stand erect in the pit with his head still below ground level. The two friends roofed the pit with tree boughs and straw. Crane-man's mats lined the floor.

 

Tree-ear hated the cold nights in the pit. Although he knew it was better to sleep out of the wind, being underground made him feel colder. And closed in, too—unlike the bridge, with the river a constant reminder of faraway places. If it weren't for Crane-man's presence, Tree-ear could never have borne the long winter nights.