Chapter 2 7 страница

 

"Good. Then perhaps you can tell me—for your master to do his best work, how many pieces per year might I expect from him?"

 

Concentrating on the answer to the emissary's question helped steady Tree-ear, "I think ten. Not fewer, but not many more..."He looked up and spoke with quiet pride. "My master works slowly."

 

The emissary nodded solemnly. "As well he should." He bowed his head to Tree-ear. "If you have need of shelter here in Songdo, my assistant will see to it that you are housed and fed until the boat sails. Your coming is greatly appreciated."

 

Tree-ear wanted to laugh, to cry, to fling his arms around the emissary and dance wildly around the room. Instead, he bowed all the way to the ground. He could not speak but prayed that the emissary understood his silent thanks.

 

There were some things that could not be molded into words.

 

* * *

 

Chapter 13

 

The journey by sea was much faster than the journey across land. After the first day—when he had been sick, both from excitement and from the rolling of the deck— Tree-ear enjoyed watching the sea in all its changes. And the sky looked different, much larger than it looked over land. Still, his main feeling during the journey was one of tingling impatience.

 

At last, the boat drew near Ch'ulp'o, and Tree-ear leaned eagerly over the side. How familiar the village looked, even from this strange new angle! In his eagerness, Tree-ear had to stop himself from leaping into the sea when the boat was still far from shore. The final stretch of the trip—from deep water to the beach in a small rowboat—seemed to take the longest of all.

 

From the landing beach Tree-ear hurried toward the village. He had decided to go to Min first, to deliver the message about the commission, and then return to the bridge to tell Crane-man the news.

 

No one answered his call at the front of the house, so Tree-ear walked around to the back. Ajima was in the vegetable patch, crouched over with her back to him.

 

He cleared his throat. "Ajima?"

 

She whirled around so quickly that for a moment he feared she would fall over. "Tree-ear!" she exclaimed, her face breaking into the thousand wrinkles of her smile. "You are safely returned!"

 

"Yes, Ajima."

 

The day was chilly, autumn fully arrived, but her welcome swept over Tree-ear like a warm breeze. He bowed and could not keep himself from smiling in return. "Is the master home?"

 

"He is at the draining site—" She hesitated as if making a decision, then spoke again. "You have news for him?"

 

Tree-ear felt his smile grow broader. "Yes, Ajima." He bowed again to her and scampered through the yard toward the stream trying to keep his voice from sounding too important. "He has assigned you a commission."

 

Min closed his eyes and drew in a long, long breath. He let out the air in a sigh that was almost a whistle and opened his eyes. For a moment he stared off into the distance over Tree-ear's shoulder, then walked over to a boulder by the stream and sat down. He indicated another boulder at his side.

 

Tree-ear sat down, disappointed that Min was so subdued. Tree-ear's own heart was still pounding so hard that he could feel his pulse in his throat. He glanced surreptitiously at the potter's face. Why did Min look so solemn? Was this not the news he had awaited nearly all his life? Tree-ear shrugged in his mind; it was what he should have expected from the potter.

 

Min leaned forward, started to speak, then stopped and shook his head. "I am sorry, Tree-ear," he said at last. "Your friend from under the bridge—"

 

Tree-ear froze. Crane-man.

 

"He was up on the bridge a few days ago. A farmer tried to cross with too great a load on his cart. The wood of the bridge railing was rotten. Your friend was bumped and jostled, and the railing broke."

 

Tree-ear closed his eyes. He wanted Min to stop talking.

 

Min leaned forward and put his hand on Tree-ear's shoulder. "The water was so cold... your friend was old. The shock was too great for his heart."

 

Tree-ear felt very strange. It was as if he had stepped out of his body and was watching himself listen to Min. This other, detached Tree-ear noticed that Min's eyes were soft, his face gentle. It was the first time Tree-ear had ever seen him so.

 

Min was still speaking. "I am told that it was very sudden, Tree-ear. Your friend did not suffer." He reached into his waist pouch and drew forth a small object. "When they pulled him from the river, he was clutching this in his hand."

 

It was the little ceramic monkey, still on its crude string. Min held it forth, but Tree-ear could not move to take it.

 

Tree-ear heard Ajima 's voice then. She seemed to appear out of thin air at his side. Or had she been there the whole time? The sounds and sights around him were wavering, as if seen and heard through water. "Tree-ear, you will stay with us tonight," she said.

 

With his thoughts still outside his body, Tree-ear watched himself stand and allow Ajima to lead him back to the house.

 

Min called after them. "It is fine work, Tree-ear," he said.

 

The words came to Tree-ear as if from a great distance; his ears could not be trusted. Perhaps he had only imagined them.

 

He and Ajima stepped over the threshold. The part of Tree-ear's mind that was still working marveled at this; he had never been inside the house before. He caught glimpses of Min's work—a fine teapot on a shelf, an inscribed jar that held cooking tools. The rooms seemed neat and spare, but not cold with tidiness.

 

Ajima showed him to a small narrow room with a sleeping mat already unrolled, then left him alone. Tree-ear lay down on the mat. He closed his eyes to the light and his mind to what he had just heard, and fell into a deep dark hole of sleep.

 

The next morning Tree-ear rose long before the temple bell. He left the silent house and walked to the stream, where he stood staring at the motion of the current. Then he bent and picked up a flat stone, but threw it so carelessly that it did not skip at all. It dropped into the water with a loud plunk.

 

Tree-ear threw a second rock, then a third. Suddenly, he was hurling a barrage of rocks into the water, one after the other, harder and harder, until the water roiled and foamed beneath the rain of rocks. In a senseless frenzy Tree-ear threw leaves and sticks and clods of dirt—whatever he could get his hands on.

 

Finally, he had no breath left. He bent over, clutching his stomach and panting, then knelt in the mud of the stream bank and watched the troubled water subside.

 

If he hadn't volunteered to take Min's work to Songdo, what then? He might have been there; he could have helped....

 

The current carried a drifting leaf into a little eddy. Tree-ear's thoughts swirled back to the day that he had given his friend the gift. He recalled Crane-man's solemn pleasure, and how he had immediately sought a piece of twine to keep the monkey near him always. Crane-man had never even hinted that Tree-ear should not make the journey. He had been proud of Tree-ear's courage.

 

Memories layered themselves in Tree-ear's mind: Crane-man's willingness to discuss things with him... the stories he told, the mountain secrets he shared, his reading of the world around them... the way he loved a joke, even at the expense of himself or his bad leg.

 

Another recollection broke through his thoughts, like a fish breaking the surface of water. "Wherever you are on your journey, Crane-man," Tree-ear whispered, "I hope you are traveling on two good legs."

 

The tears came then.

 

The sound of the temple bell cut through Tree-ear's muffled sobs. He rose shakily, washed his face in the stream, and walked slowly back to the house. Min was waiting for him in the yard—with the cart and the ax.

 

Wood today, Tree-ear sighed to himself. Nothing had changed. Everything was as it had been before his journey.

 

No. Not the same at all. Crane-man was gone. Tree-ear shivered. How would he endure the coming winter, alone in the dank vegetable pit?

 

Min handed him the ax. "Large logs," he barked. "At minimum, the girth of a man's body."

 

Tree-ear frowned. Why so large? True, such logs could be split to fit through the kiln openings, but this required extra work.

 

"What's the matter with you, boy? Do you not understand that I have been assigned a royal commission? Do you not realize how much work it will be?"

 

Tree-ear hung his head as Min's scolding continued. "How am I to do it all myself? How are you to help me if you do not have a wheel of your own? And how is the wheel to be made if you do not fetch logs of considerable size? Go!" Min gestured impatiently toward the mountains.

 

Tree-ear had already turned to leave when the full import of Min's words reached his understanding. A wheel of your own?

 

Min was going to teach him to throw pots! Tree-ear glanced back over his shoulder, a foolishly wide grin on his face. But Min had already gone back inside, and it was Ajima who waved to him from the yard, beckoning him to return for a lunch bowl. "Be home in time for supper," she said as she handed it to him.

 

It was his second great surprise in as many moments. Home, Ajima had said. Tree-ear looked at her, puzzled. Ajima nodded solemnly.

 

"Tree-ear, if you would live with us from now on, I would ask a favor of you."

 

"Anything, Ajima." Tree-ear bowed, feeling a little dizzy.

 

"We would like to give you a new name. Would it be agreeable to you if we were to call you Hyung-pil from now on?"

 

Tree-ear ducked his head quickly, recalling that the son of Min had been called Hyung-gu. A name that shared a syllable! It was an honor bestowed on siblings. No longer would Tree-ear go by the name of an orphan. He could only nod wordlessly, but he felt Ajima 's smile at his back as he turned away.

 

"Then we will see you at suppertime, Hyung-pil," she called softly.

 

Tree-ear began to jog down the path, the cart bumping before him. He had too much to think about and felt lost in the bewildering welter of his thoughts. Crane-man... a wheel of my own... a home with Ajima, and a new name... Min will teach me to throw pots.... Crane-man...

 

Tree-ear shook his head hard, like a dog shaking off water. He groped about in his mind for an image that would calm him. A prunus vase, with a plum branch to complete its beauty—his dream of making one returned, stronger than ever now, for it would be more than a dream.

 

He could almost feel the clay under his hands, rising on the wheel—his own wheel!—into a shape that was grace itself. He would make replicas, dozens if need be, until the glaze was like jade and water. And the vase would be carefully, delicately inlaid, with a design of—of...

 

Tree-ear frowned a little and looked up at the mountain. The trees that were shedding the last of their leaves stood bare but dignified among the loyal green of the pines. Tree-ear's gaze followed the sweep of the trunks and branches until he saw their outlines clean and pure against the sky.

 

How long would it be before he had skill enough to create a design worthy of such a vase? One hill, one valley... One day at a time, he would journey through the years until he came upon the perfect design.

 

Tree-ear leaned forward and pushed the cart up the mountain path.

 

* * *

 

Author's Note

 

Throughout the long ages of Korean history until very recent times, few people in Korea were homeless. Both Buddhist and, later, Confucian tradition demanded that families care for relatives, even distant ones, who fell upon hard times. Those with no family were succored by the Buddhist temples. As bridge-dwellers, Tree-ear and Crane-man would indeed have been curiosities in their time, but surely such individuals have existed in every age and society.

 

Korean celadon potters of the Koryo era (a.d. 918-1392) were initially influenced by the work of their Chinese counterparts. It is no coincidence that the two main centers for pottery, Puan—where Ch'ulp'o was located— and Kangjin, were both coastal districts with easy access to and from China across the Yellow Sea. But Korean potters were eventually to distinguish themselves in several ways: the graceful, simple shapes of their vessels; the distinctive glaze color; the great skill of their molded pieces; and finally, the innovation of inlay work. Every piece described in this book actually exists in a museum or private collection somewhere in the world.

 

Koryo celadon was renowned during its time, then ignored by the world for centuries. There was one exception: Korean celadon has always been valued in Japan. During their many invasions of the Korean peninsula, the Japanese routinely sacked royal tombs—the richest source of Koryo celadon—and spirited the treasures to Japan. Although much of this ware has been transferred back to Korean museums, the largest private collections of celadon in the world today remain in Japan. The Japanese even captured Korean potters and took them to Japan, where they were instrumental in developing the pottery industry.

 

Some experts speculate that the pottery trade may have been a government-run industry during the Koryo period, and that the potters in villages such as Ch'ulp'o were little more than "factories," where laborers churned out pieces designed by appointed artists. A royal commission could have been for design rather than actual production. However, the skill of those village potters would not be lessened if this were true, and it is this I have chosen to focus on in telling a little of their story.

 

A law requiring potters' sons to follow the trade of their fathers is documented as having been instituted in 1543, well after the events of this story. That law appears to have had a precedent, which I have applied to Tree-ear's time, when pottery as a family trade was certainly custom, if not law.

 

The cause of the brown spots and impure glaze tint that ruined Min's initial work for the royal emissary is now known to be oxidation. Because it contains iron, the celadon glaze acquires the desired finish only if fired in an atmosphere of reduced oxygen. Too much air entering the kiln during the firing process will "rust" the iron in the glaze and cause the undesirable color. This problem was so difficult to overcome that much surviving Koryo celadon is marred by signs of oxidation. Even equipped with this knowledge and with modern electric equipment, today's potters have been unable to exactly reproduce the glorious color achieved by past artisans.

 

For the account of Tree-ear's journey to Songdo, I am indebted to Simon Winchester's book Korea: A Walk Through the Land of Miracles. In 1987 Winchester walked the length of South Korea, from Cheju Island in the far south to Panmunjom, at the border of North Korea. Much of his trek passed through exactly the same terrain as Tree-ear's.

 

Readers may wonder why there is no mention of Seoul, the current capital of Korea, which would have been directly on Tree-ear's route. Seoul was not founded until 1392, more than two hundred years after this story takes place. But Tree-ear does pass by the eventual site of the city, pausing for a look at the valley in Chapter 12.

 

Likewise, a modern map will not show the location of Songdo. Songdo was renamed Kaesong and is located on what is now the North Korean side of the border.

 

The "Thousand Cranes Vase" (also known as the "Crane and Cloud Vase") can be viewed at the Kansong Museum of Art in Seoul, Korea.

 

What is so Special About Celadon?

 

by Linda Sue Park

 

Pottery is one of the most ancient arts, dating back at least eight thousand years. There are three basic types of pottery.

 

Earthenware is the oldest kind and is still made today as it was in ancient times. Clay is formed and then fired (baked in an oven) until it is hard. Earthenware can be glazed or unglazed. Unglazed pottery has a dull finish; a familiar example is those orange flowerpots. Glazed pottery has an extra layer on top of the main body of the piece, which makes it shiny.

 

The second type of pottery is stoneware. This pottery is fired at very high temperatures, and when glazed it is non-porous, meaning that liquids will not leach out of it. During Tree-ear's time, dark brown stoneware called onggi was popular for household use.

 

Porcelain is the third type of pottery. Like stoneware, it is fired at high temperatures, but the composition of porcelain clay, which contains a mineral called feldspar, enables pieces to be made much finer and thinner and still be nonporous. The dishes we call china today are a type of porcelain.

 

Celadon is a special kind of glazed stoneware. There are a couple of different theories about how it got its name in English. Celadon was the name of a character in L'Astrée, a novel written in the early seventeenth century by the French writer Honoré d'Urfé. When L'Astrée was adapted for the stage, the character wore a costume with pale green ribbons. Some people think that pottery of a similar color was called celadon after the character.

 

But long before that, in 1171, the sultan of Egypt sent a gift of forty pieces of green pottery to the sultan of Damascus. The Egyptian sultan's name was Salah-ad-Din, or Saladin. Perhaps people named that special pottery in his honor and over the years the spelling was changed.

 

However it got its name, celadon is stoneware made in a particular way. The clay for celadon contains a high proportion of iron and traces of other minerals. Once the piece is formed, either by being turned on a wheel or being shaped by hand, it is fired in what is called a reduction atmosphere. This means an atmosphere with as little oxygen as possible. After this first firing, the piece is glazed, usually by dipping it in a special combination of liquid clay and wood ash. It is then fired again, which fuses the glaze to the body of the piece and, if all goes well, produces the lovely green color characteristic of celadon.

 

In A Single Shard, I have simplified the procedure somewhat by describing only one firing for Min's pieces. The process of building up the fire and controlling the heat was the same for both firings, and I thought a single description of it would be enough for most readers to grasp its significance. I chose to depict the second, or glaze firing, because of its inherent tension: It was a suspenseful step for the potters, who worried over how the glaze would look when the piece emerged from the kiln.

 

Celadon is generally believed to have originated in China. Now many countries produce pottery of a pale green color. I once saw examples of Chinese, Japanese, Korean, and Malaysian celadon side by side. All of them had a shiny, translucent finish, but each was a slightly different shade of green. The Japanese piece was the palest, the Malaysian piece was more olive, the Chinese piece was the "greenest," and the Korean piece had a bluish-gray undertone. It was very interesting to see how several artists using similar techniques had produced such different results!

 

Korean celadon from Tree-ear's time was highly valued because of several special qualities. First, clay with the right types and quantities of iron and other minerals was found in only a few places. The inscribing, or carving of the designs, and the inlay work—filling in the designs with colored clay—were delicate, time-consuming tasks requiring great skill. And finally, the double firing in a reduction atmosphere was so challenging that only rarely did the pieces achieve a perfect finish. When a potter produced a piece that was well shaped, beautifully inlaid, and perfectly glazed, it was a remarkable accomplishment, and that piece was consequently much sought after.

 

I loved learning about Korean celadon. I wrote A Single Shard in part out of my admiration for those artists from so long ago, whose beautiful work can still be enjoyed today.

 

* * *

 

An Interview With

 

Newberry Award Winner

 

Linda Sue Park

 

Q: Where did you get the idea for A Single Shard?

 

A: I got the idea for A Single Shard while researching my first two books, both of which were set in Korea, in the past. The history books I was reading all included a sentence or two about Korea's pottery—how in the eleventh and twelfth centuries it had been considered the finest in the world, even better than China's. I wanted to know what was so special about Korean pottery, so I started reading more about it, and much of what I learned became part of the book.

 

When I finished my research and began writing, two other elements began to emerge. First, the idea of family, which is crucial in Korean society: I made Tret-tar an orphan because I wanted to explore what family means to someone who has no blood relations. Crane-man, Ajima, and eventually Min care about Tree-ear in ordinary, everyday ways. To me, that is the essence of family.

 

I also wanted to write an adventure story because I loved reading them when I was young, and still do! I love traveling, even though I have never been able to do as much as I'd like. So I knew right at the start that I wanted Tree-ear to go on an exciting journey. Those three ideas—the pottery, family, and journey—are the basic threads of the story.

 

Q: How long did it take you to write A Single Shard?

 

A: This is sort of a hard question to answer, because I first got the idea for the book about two years before I started writing it. For all that time, I was working on it in my head. It took me about eight months to write the story; then afterward I spent about another year working on it with the editor to improve it. If you put it all together, it adds up to about four years.

 

Q: Have you ever been to Korea?

 

A: I visited Korea once when I was about twelve years old. My visit made a deep impression on me, although I didn't realize it at the time. When I was writing my books, I remembered a lot of things from that trip. For example, my aunt—my mother's oldest sister—lived in a traditional Korean house. It was built around a tiny courtyard and had sliding paper doors, and was heated through a flue system built beneath the floor. When I wrote Seesaw Girl, I was able to call on those memories to help create the setting— although Jade Blossom's house is much grander than my aunt's!

 

Another thing that impressed me was the landscape. I grew up in Illinois, amid endless flatness. Korea is nearly all mountains! I had never been in such a mountainous area before. A country's terrain and climate are perhaps the primary factors in determining how people live—everything from the kind of food they grow and eat to the houses they build, the clothes they wear, and so on. I wanted my stories to convey how the mountains affect Koreans. The mountains are mentioned in all my books and play an important role in the lives of both Jade Blossom and Tree-ear.

 

I will be visiting Korea again soon, and I'm really looking forward to it!

 

Q: Do you have to do a lot of research for your books? How do you go about doing it?

 

A: Yes, I spend months doing research before I begin writing. I usually start out by going to the library and checking out every available book on the topic. Most of these books have a bibliography at the back listing additional titles. I get as many of those as I can. Some of the books I have used are more than one hundred years old!

 

When I'm reading a book for research, I keep a pad of sticky notes handy. I put a note on the page whenever I come across something that might be useful for the story. I also note interesting facts that have nothing to do with the story—they might come in handy for another book! After I'm finished, I reread all the pages with notes on them— sometimes two or three times. In general, I like to know the research so well that I don't have to refer to the books or to my notes when I'm writing. Of course, there are times when I have to go back to look things up, but overall I try to make the research a part of me. I think a story is best when it comes from "inside" the writer.

 

I use the Internet for research too. I get some information from the Internet, but more often I use it to get in touch with experts. For example, my second book, The Kite Fighters, is about the sport of (you guessed it) kite fighting. I found a wonderful Web site about kite fighting and wrote to the man who owns it. He was able to give me much more information about this fascinating sport, and eventually served as the expert reader for the manuscript.

 

Q: What's the best book you ever read?

 

A: Impossible question! I love so many books that I would never be able to pick just one. My Web site (the address is www.lindasuepark.com) has a section called Reading, and there I list many of my favorites. I love all kinds of books— historical fiction, fantasy science fiction, contemporary, humorous, nonfiction.... One of the things I love about reading is that no matter how many books you read, you'll never run out of good ones!

 

Q: When did you decide you wanted to be a writer?

 

A: When I was a child, reading was my favorite thing to do. I was reading so many good stories that I wanted to try to write them myself. I've been writing as long as I can remember. I started out writing poetry, and I still love reading and writing poems. I have had many different kinds of writing jobs: journalism, advertising, teaching. But I didn't decide to become a writer of children's stories until 1997.

 

Q: What was it like to win the Newbery Award?

 

A: You know how you wake up on your birthday and you feel really good, like it's going to be a special day for you? That's how it feels—like every day is my birthday! It was an amazing surprise, and it still feels like a dream. I love the opportunity to travel to different parts of the country meeting people who love books. I love seeing my books in libraries and bookstores—I still get a huge thrill seeing that medal on the cover of Shard. And the very best part is knowing that a lot of young people will be finding out about my work; I hope that reading my books will make them want to reach for more!

 

* * *

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

 

Linda Sue Park was born and raised in Illinois. The daughter of Korean immigrants, she has been writing poems and stories since she was four years old, and her favorite pastime as a child was reading. She read everything from Nancy Drew to the classics; to this day, books for young people are among her favorite reading material.

 

As a student in elementary and high school, Linda Sue Park had several poems published in magazines for children and young people. At Stanford University, she competed on the gymnastics team and eventually graduated with a degree in English. She went on to earn advanced degrees in literature from Trinity College in Ireland and the University of London.

 

She worked at many jobs—in public relations, advertising, journalism, and teaching—before writing her first children's book, Seesaw Girl, which was published in 1999. The Kite Fighters came out in 2000, followed by A Single Shard, which was awarded the 2002 Newbery Medal for excellence in children's literature. In March 2002, she published her fourth novel, When My Name Was Keoko. Five picture books are forthcoming, as well as several short stories in anthologies for young adults.