Chapter 2 5 страница

 

Tree-ear shook his head and even managed a grim smile. Imagine, sons running away from what he wished most to do!

 

"I do not know if it is still a law," Crane-man continued. "But a well-kept tradition can be stronger than law." Tree-ear nodded. At least he knew now that it would be useless to leave Ch'ulp'o in search of another master.

 

Crane-man stood and leaned on his crutch to stretch out his good leg. He glanced sideways at Tree-ear. "My friend, the same wind that blows one door shut often blows another open," he said.

 

Tree-ear stood, too, and went to fetch the supper bowl, ft sometimes took him a while to figure out Crane-man's riddles, but he preferred puzzling over them to being told what they meant.

 

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. More than ever, he wished that he had not been so rash as to offer to take Min's vessels to Songdo. He would do it—not for the old potter, he thought bitterly, but for Ajima.

 

Tree-ear checked the clay at the draining site. Some of the clay balls were drying out too quickly; he dampened the cloths that covered them. Then, using a wooden blade, he scored the surface of the clay in the drainage bed so it would dry faster. How much slower the work went when the joy of it was gone.

 

The clay in the bed was coming along well; it would be ready to form into balls soon. Tret-tar took up a handful of clay from the corner of the bed and kneaded it. Absent-mindedly, 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....

 

Tree-ear's hands paused in midmotion. Slowly he brought the half-formed petal up to eye level and examined it closely.

 

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.

 

For the first time in days, Tree-ear grinned as he crushed the petal back into a fistful of clay. The second door had just blown open.

 

As usual, Min's work took far longer than he had predicted, and summer was merging with fall before the pieces were ready. A dozen replicas had been fired in three separate batches, and the last firing yielded a pair of superb vases. Their delicate floral inlay work shone against the perfectly glazed background.

 

Under Min's instruction Tree-ear built a special jiggeh to wear on his back. As they worked, Min grumbled about the problem of transporting the vases, speaking more to himself than to Tree-ear.

 

Ajima came out to the yard with tea. She served them while Min continued his muttering.

 

"A straw container," Ajima suggested. "Such as those used to carry rice, only perhaps double thickness, lined with more straw and silk. The vases would be well protected."

 

Min sipped his tea, then turned to Tree-ear. "Do you know of one who could make such a container?"

 

So it was that Crane-man too came to work for Min. He and Min agreed on a price for the labor, and Crane-man began to weave the container under the eaves of Min's house.

 

Tree-ear would be leaving in a few days. The straw container had been completed. Sturdy, with double walls and an attached lid, it was exactly the size to take the vases and padding tightly packed.

 

Crane-man fussed about with his creation, making invisible adjustments to the straw. Ajima came out to see it; she and Tree-ear exchanged amused glances behind Crane-man's back.

 

"It is finished?" Ajima asked.

 

Crane-man stopped his poking and pinching and bowed to Ajima. "It was an honor to be a part of this endeavor."

 

Crane-man stood aside while Ajima lifted the lid of the container and closed it again, fastening it with the straw bobble and braided loop. "Fine work," she said, nodding in quiet admiration.

 

Then she turned to Crane-man, her brow furrowed. "Crane-man," she said, "I have a favor to ask of you."

 

Crane-man stood up proudly on his one leg. "Nothing that the honorable potter's wife could ask would be too much," he answered.

 

Ajima bowed in turn. She glanced at Tree-ear and gestured at him with one hand. "This one—I have grown accustomed to his assistance," she said. "A hundred little chores he does for me each day. It is a great help to me in my old age."

 

Now it was Tree-ear's turn to bow, which he did in bafflement. What was in Ajima 's mind?

 

"I would be most grateful, Crane-man, if you could come to the house and continue this work while Tree-tar is away," she said. Then she hung her head a little and wrung her hands as if ashamed. "I could not pay you. I hoped that perhaps my thanks in the form of a meal..."

 

Tree-ear felt an enormous wave of relief wash over him, but caught himself in time to show no emotion. It would not do to embarrass Crane-man. It had been his greatest worry—how Crane-man would eat while he was away.

 

Of course, his friend could always go back to rifling rubbish heaps and foraging in the woods. But Tree-ear had felt that it would be like abandoning him for Crane-man to go back to such scavenging. For days now he had been worrying over the problem—and Ajima had offered the answer unasked.

 

"Your offer of food is kindness itself," Crane-man said. Tree-ear looked up in alarm. This was the phrase of polite refusal. What was Crane-man doing? "I would be happy to come by from time to time," he continued.

 

Ajima nodded soberly. Crane-man bent over and picked up his crutch, then bowed in farewell to her. "I will see you back at the bridge, Tree-ear," he said, and hopped away.

 

Tree-ear watched until Crane-man disappeared beyond the bend in the road, then turned to Ajima, a question in his eyes.

 

"Because he is proud, Tree-ear," she said. "He does not wish to be fed out of pity."

 

Tree-ear kicked a small stone at his feet. Why was it that pride and foolishness were so often close companions?

 

Arms crossed and stance defiant, Tree-ear stood under the bridge and began to speak.

 

"I have a journey to make," he said sternly. "Over a road unknown to me. A thousand things could go wrong. Do you not think I have enough to worry about?"

 

Crane-man looked up in surprise. Tree-ear had never before spoken to him in such anger.

 

"Are you thinking of me, my friend? Do not worry. I fed myself—and you, for that matter—for many years before you worked for Min. I can do so again. Do you think me so helpless now?"

 

"Not you!" Tree-ear shouted, flapping his arms in frustration like a giant bird. "I am not talking of you! It is Min's wife I am thinking of! She is an old woman now— would you have her poor back ache from pulling weeds? And those long walks into the mountains, for mushrooms or berries—she should long ago have earned rest from such tasks! From her husband she gets no help at all. He thinks of nothing but his work!"

 

Tree-ear paused, his breath coming in gasps. He inhaled once, deeply, then spoke more quietly. "Would you have me worry about her on my journey, friend? Why will you not help her? For in helping her you would be helping me."

 

The shock ebbed from Crane-man's eyes now that Tree-ear was no longer shouting. He turned to face the river, his back to Tree-ear.

 

Tree-ear watched and waited. Crane-man's bad leg was shaking a little. In a moment, it shook harder. Now Crane-man's whole body was trembling. Tree-ear stepped forward in concern. He had not meant to make his friend cry.

 

Tree-ear touched Crane-man on the shoulder. Crane-man waved one arm at him, still shaking. But he was not crying.

 

He was laughing. The silent laughter he had been suppressing burst out of him, and he laughed so hard that he dropped his crutch. Tree-ear picked it up and stood in silence, first puzzled, then annoyed when Crane-man's laughter showed no sign of stopping. If there was a joke, he had missed it.

 

"Ai, my friend," Crane-man said at last, and drew in a long breath. A few last chuckles escaped him as he took the crutch from Tree-ear and leaned on it to sit on the ground. He looked up and jabbed the crutch at Tree-ear.

 

"A fine performance!" he exclaimed. "I have never seen better."

 

Tree-ear's mouth dropped open for an instant, but he recovered quickly. "What do you mean, 'performance'?" he demanded. "You would question my sincerity?"

 

"No, little monkey. That I would never doubt." He smiled, obviously still amused. "If it means so much to you, I will go daily to the house of Min. There! Does that satisfy you?"

 

Tree-ear nodded grudgingly. The matter was settled, for he knew that Crane-man would keep his word. Tree-ear's speech had gained the desired result—although not exactly in the way that he had planned.

 

Two vases—not the ones chosen—were packed in the straw container as a test. They had been stuffed with silk and wrapped in more silk. Rice straw was layered between them and crammed into every pocket of space. Min, Ajima, and Crane-man all watched as Tree-ear picked up the container and hurled it with all his strength to the ground. Then he rolled it over and over and even kicked it a few times.

 

Min rushed forward and unhooked the straw bobble. He groped about inside, then nodded once in satisfaction. The vases were unbroken. "Unpack it," he ordered Tree-ear, then went inside to fetch the two selected vessels.

 

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. A sleeping mat was rolled tightly and tied to the bottom of the frame. On one side hung two pairs of sandals; on the other, a small gourd water dipper and a bag to be filled with rice cakes.

 

The jiggeh was ready. Tree-ear would leave in the morning.

 

Tree-ear and Crane-man skipped stones under the bridge in the twilight. Before the light was gone, Tree-ear reached into his waist pouch and slowly withdrew a small object. He handed it to Crane-man.

 

"A gift," Tree-ear said. "To remind you of your promise to go daily to the house of Min." He did not want to say, to remind you of me.

 

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. After some time a shape began to form out of the clay; it was almost as if the clay was speaking to him, telling him what it wished to become.

 

A monkey similar to a water dropper Min had once made. Smaller than the palm of Tree-ear's hand, the monkey sat with its hands clasped before its round belly, looking content and well-fed. Tree-ear had inlaid two tiny spots for eyes and inscribed other details on its face, hands, fur. 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. To Tree-ear's delight, it shared with the other vessels of that firing the fine gray-green glaze.

 

Tree-ear had concluded that molding was not at all the same as throwing a pot on the wheel. Molding lacked the same sense of wonder, and of course no perfectly symmetrical vessel could be made without the wheel. There were still times when the vision of the prunus vase he had once dreamed of making appeared in his mind's eye, as if mocking him.

 

In spite of this, Tree-ear found that he had enjoyed the incision work. He had spent hours on the details of the monkey's features, inscribing them with progressively finer points. This, at least, was the same process, whether on a molded figure or a thrown pot. On seeing the monkey after it had been fired, Tree-ear felt a quiet thrill.

 

The monkey was hollow, like all the water droppers Min made. But as Crane-man had no need of such, Tree-ear had not added the water holes. It was simply a little figure, almost like a toy.

 

Crane-man examined the gift closely. He turned it over and around and stroked its smooth finish. He started to speak, but the sound of his voice was rusty and he shook his head instead.

 

He hobbled over to the basket where he kept his odds and ends, and brought forth a piece of twine. Still silent, he fixed the twine cleverly around the monkey, tied a firm knot, and slipped the loop around his belt. The monkey swung gaily at his waist. At last he spoke.

 

"I am honored to wear it," he said and bowed.

 

"The honor is mine," Tree-ear responded.

 

Crane-man looked down and played with the monkey in his fingers. "I have no gift for you beyond words," he said. "I would tell you this. 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."

 

* * *

 

Chapter 10

 

With a sharp stone Tree-ear made another mark on the frame of the jiggeh. There were six marks, one for each day of his travels so far.

 

It was as Crane-man had predicted—one village, one day. Every morning Tret-tax had risen, washed in a stream, and eaten one of Ajima 's rice cakes. He would walk until the sun was directly overhead, then find a shady spot to rest and drink from the gourd. As the sun moved on, so did he. Sometime during the late afternoon or early evening he would come upon a village and stop for the night.

 

The countryside custom of hospitality to travelers was a great comfort to him. He walked the main street of the village until someone—usually a child—inquired about his health and his journey. Tree-ear would accompany the child home, where the woman of the house always consented to let him sleep under the eaves. Most evenings a meal was provided as well; otherwise, Min had given Tree-ear a string of coins to buy food as needed. He kept them in his waist pouch along with his two flint stones and a ball of clay.

 

"I would think you will return with some of the coins unspent," Min had said gruffly on the morning of departure. As he gave Tree-ear the money, Min had placed his hand for a brief moment on Tree-ear's shoulder. The touch so startled Tree-ear that he almost flinched. Min turned away without a word of farewell, but Tree-ear felt that touch on his shoulder for a long time after.

 

Ajima had given him a sack of food. Not only were there solid rice cakes, the best journey food, but also a surprise: a packet of gokkam—sweet dried persimmons. Tree-ear's eyes had widened in disbelief when he opened the packet during a break on the first day. He knew what they were, the sticky orange rounds; a kindly monk had given him some gokkam one autumn many years ago, in celebration of Buddha's birthday. That was the only time he had ever tasted it. This gokkam was even better, with each luscious piece reminding him of Ajima 's care.

 

So smoothly had his journey progressed that Tree-ear had begun to relax a little. No mishap had befallen him or his cargo. The weather had been fine, the days still holding the heat of summer, the nights a cool relief. He slept with the jiggeh as a hard, high pillow, the discomfort almost welcome as a reminder of his duty.

 

Today, though, Tree-ear's trepidation had returned. The walking had been easy so far; after he had climbed over the mountain nearest Ch'ulp'o, the terrain had flattened out into endless rice fields. Now the land began to rise again. The next village was two days' walk away, over a spur of mountain. Tree-ear would be spending this night in the forest.

 

Once on the mountain path, Tree-ear began to feel more at ease. Though these mountains were unfamiliar to him, the trees were the same as at home—maple, oak, and wild plum giving way gradually to pines as he climbed higher. Tree-ear occupied his mind by identifying the birds he heard and the plants he saw. At one point, he even began to sing a little—but stopped abruptly when he realized he had been chanting Min's throwing song. Stubborn old man, Tree-ear thought, shaking his head.

 

The first edge of autumn had nudged its way into these woods; the leaves of some of the trees were rimmed in scarlet or gold. The air was fresh and cool as he trudged the shady path, and he began to feel foolish about his worries earlier in the day.

 

He had hoped to come across a hunter's lean-to or even a temple, but no such shelter appeared as the sun began to descend below the treetops. Tree-ear searched for a suitable place to spend the night. At a shallow stream running cheerfully across the path he drank from his little gourd. Wiping his hands on his tunic, he stood and looked around.

 

On the other side of the stream, not far from the path two huge boulders stood. Tree-ear splashed across the stream and examined them. Between them was a little hollow. It was too small to sleep in, but Tree-ear liked the look of the huge rocks. If he settled there for the night, he would feel as though they were standing guard over him.

 

He struggled out of the jiggeh and set about collecting dead wood for a fire. He had nothing to cook, but a fire would cheer and warm him as night came on. After clearing a space, he made a circle of stones from the stream. Then he built a little pyramid of twigs leaning against one another in the center of the circle. At the bottom of the pyramid went a bed of dried pine needles.

 

With a well-practiced motion, Tree-ear struck the two flint stones together. A shower of sparks leapt to the pine needles. It took a few tries before a wisp of smoke curled up to signal the birth of a flame. Tree-ear shook his head in mock disgust. Crane-man nearly always started a fire on the first try.

 

Tree-ear sat leaning against one of the boulders. He put the flint stones back into the pouch, then ate a rice cake from the bag, wrinkling his nose a little at the first bite. He had finished Ajima 's rice cakes the day before, and the gokkam was long gone. These cakes had been purchased in the village, and they did not have the same taste or texture.

 

After his meal, Tret-ear took out the ball of clay. He began pinching, kneading, rolling—not making anything yet, just waiting for the clay to whisper an idea. Soon the smooth curved back of a turtle took shape. Forming its head was more difficult, and Tree-ear bent studiously over the work.

 

After a while he became aware that he was straining to see the clay by the light of the fire. He looked around; the sun was gone, its light lingering for a few moments longer. Tree-ear rose and untied the sleeping mat from the jiggeh. He unrolled it between the fire and the boulders and lay down on his stomach, his chin on his hands.

 

"Two things a man never grows tired of watching," he heard Crane-man say in his mind. "Fire and falling water. Always the same, yet always changing."

 

As the darkness grew, the fire began throwing odd shadows on the tree trunks around him. A sudden snap from the fire startled him, and he felt the uneasiness returning. Time for sleep, he told himself stoutly.

 

He closed his eyes, but only for a moment. The darkness around him felt too big. Watching the fire for a while longer would lull him, he decided. It worked; between the warmth and the steady flickering of the flames, his eyelids grew heavy.

 

Tree-ear suddenly jerked wide awake; he had heard a noise that was not the noise of the fire. It was so slight that it almost wasn't a noise—a whisper of movement, a disturbance in the still night air. He raised himself up on one elbow, listening, searching in the dim light of the newly risen half-moon. Perhaps it was nothing.

 

Then he heard it again. This time there was no doubt. Something was moving through the forest not far from him. Something light-footed—an animal slipping weightlessly over the leaves...

 

Slowly, slowly, he picked up the jiggeh. He meant to squeeze it into the hollow between the two boulders but could not do so silently. The branches of the jiggeh scraped against the granite. Tree-ear froze, holding his breath.

 

This would never do. He had to work quickly, or the creature, whatever it was, would be upon him before he knew it. He shoved the jiggeh into the opening, put his back to it, and wiggled in himself. There was not enough room; he crouched, hunched over with his chin on his knees, and waited, his heart nearly bursting through his chest.

 

Would the beast stay away from the fire? It was dying now, not much more than a bed of coals. Tree-ear cursed himself for not having put more wood nearby.

 

The sound was coming closer; he could hear the rustle of leaves clearly off to his left. On the ground before him was a stick. It was only a twig, but Tree-ear reached for it anyway. He stripped the leaves from it and gripped it tightly. Perhaps, he thought wildly, he could blind the beast as it clawed at him, trying to drag him from between the rocks....

 

How long would he have to wait? The moments crawled by. Then without further warning, the creature came into view.

 

It was a fox!

 

Tree-ear felt his pulse pounding in his throat. His thoughts seemed to be running a desperate race with each other. Against a fox he was defenseless. The fox would stare at him, looking deep into his eyes, bewitching him until he rose to follow it to its lair. He would never see Crane-man or Ajima again. The vases would remain hidden between the rocks for eternity. There would be nothing left of him but a pile of gnawed bones....

 

The fox turned its head. For an instant the firelight gleamed in its eyes. Don't look! Tree-ear shouted to himself. Don't look at its eyes—it's your only chance! And he squeezed his eyes shut to block out the fox's evil stare.

 

How long he waited he did not know. He opened his eyes after what seemed a lifetime. Had he been be-witched despite his efforts? Was he in the fox's lair, conscious for one last moment before a painful, bloody death?

 

Tree-ear blinked to clear his vision. The fox was gone. He was still wedged into the opening between the rocks, his muscles aching with cramp. He dared not move; it was probably just another of the fox's tricks. If he were to emerge from shelter, the fox would be there, waiting for him. No, he would have to remain there, alert for any trap the devilish creature might spring....

 

The sound of crying birds awoke him. For a moment Tree-ear did not know where he was. He shifted slightly and a corner of the jiggeh's frame jabbed him rudely in the back.

 

Sunlight streamed gloriously through the trees. It was morning.

 

Could it be? He had fallen asleep! He had slept for who knew how long, with a fox nearby—and he had survived!

 

Tree-ear laughed out loud, and the sound of his laughter reminded him of his friend. We are afraid of the things we do not know—just because we do not know them, Tree-ear thought, pleased with himself. He must remember the idea; Crane-man would be interested in discussing it. And he wiggled out of the crevice, grimacing ruefully at the tight knots in what seemed like every one of his muscles.

 

A day's walk beyond the next village lay the city of Puyo. Although Tree-ear was determined to go straight to Songdo without delay, Crane-man had counseled him to make one stop—at a place called the "Rock of the Falling Flowers" in Puyo.

 

"It is an old, old story," Crane-man had said. And Tree-ear had settled down on his sleeping mat, wriggling around for the most comfortable position.

 

"You know that our little land has suffered many invasions," Crane-man began. "The powers that surround us—China, Japan, the Mongols—have never left us in peace for long. This is the story of one such invasion.

 

"It was the T'ang Chinese this time, all of five hundred years ago. Puyo was then the capital of the Paekche kingdom—one of the Three Kingdoms that shared the land. The T'ang, allied with the Silla kingdom, swept down from the north and pushed their way into Puyo. Most of the King's army having been called away to fight the war, there were only a handful of personal guards to defend him. The King received warning, but it was too late.

 

"As he and all his courtiers fled the palace, the T'ang were snapping at their heels. The King and his party were forced to retreat to the very highest point of Puyo—a cliff overlooking the Kum River. There was no escape. Bravely, the King's guards placed themselves a little way down the path between the enemy and their sovereign. They were overrun in moments.

 

"All of the King's concubines and ladies-in-waiting crowded around him, determined to protect him to the last. The women knew well that the T'ang would not kill them; no, they would be taken prisoner, probably to be tortured. Their terror can hardly be imagined."

 

Crane-man paused and sipped at his tea. Tree-ear was no longer lying down; he had risen to his knees in the excitement of the story. "Is that all?" he demanded.

 

"Patience, monkey. The best is yet to come." Crane-man stared into the fire for a moment. "The T'ang army charged up the hill. All at once, as if all their minds had become one, the women began jumping off the cliff. Every one of them preferred death to becoming a prisoner.

 

"Can you see it, my friend? The women jumping one after another from the cliff, their beautiful silk dresses billowing in the air—pink, red, green, blue... indeed, like flowers falling."

 

Tree-ear gasped, his eyes round. What courage it must have taken!

 

"The T'ang were victorious that day, but the women's efforts were not in vain, for they have since been an inspiration to all who have need of courage. Their memory will live for a thousand years, I am sure of it."

 

Crane-man reached out with his crutch and poked the dying embers of the fire. Tree-ear saw sparks flare up and fall again... like tiny flowers.

 

"Go climb the Rock of the Falling Flowers when you reach Puyo, my friend," Crane-man had said. "But remember that leaping into death is not the only way to show true courage."

 

Now Puyo lay just ahead. Tree-ear strode eagerly down the road. He would visit the rock, and when he returned home, he would tell Crane-man everything he had seen.

 

The villages along Tree-ear's route thus far were much like Ch'ulp'o. They were not seaside villages, and they were inhabited by farmers rather than potters, but they had the same feel as Ch'ulp'o: small thatched houses gathered in clusters along a single main road, the grand home of a government official set apart from the rest, a temple somewhere nearby, people working hard for a meager living. Everyone had been kind and respectful, going about their business as he went about his.