Chapter 2 6 страница

 

But Puyo! Tree-ear entered the city gates and stopped in midstep. How crowded it was! People, oxen, and carts jostled one another in the narrow streets; the houses were so close together that Tree-ear wondered how their residents could breathe. Behind him he heard shouts of impatience, as people tried to push past him. He moved on, swept along by the river of traffic.

 

On both sides of the street shop stalls were open. Their owners shouted, plying their wares; the customers shouted, bargaining for the best prices. Never had Tree-ear seen so many goods displayed—or heard so much noise! How could the people of Puyo possibly hear themselves think?

 

There were stalls that sold food and drink already prepared, and stalls that sold vegetables and fish for cooking at home. One stall sold nothing but sweets. There were bolts of fine silk, trays of gemstones, wooden toys. All manner of household goods could be had, baskets and straw sleeping mats and wooden chests.

 

And pottery. Tree-ear stopped abruptly in front of one stall. It was stacked with small mountains of pottery—not celadon work, but the very dark brown stoneware known as onggi, for storing food.

 

The onggi sellers stall displayed every size of vessel— from tiny sauce dishes to kimchee jars big enough for a man to stand hidden within. The wares were stacked in tall towers that seemed to tilt precariously. But Tree-ear smiled, knowing they were steadier than they looked. He had learned well how to stack similar-sized vessels into a tower that could touch the sky if need be and never topple.

 

Tree-ear was just about to move on when he spotted a shelf at the back of the stall. His mouth dropped open in amazement.

 

Just three objects stood on this shelf, three identical celadon wine bowls—inlaid with chrysanthemums.

 

The owner noticed Tree-ear's interest. "Boy, tell your master—the latest style, those bowls are. The design is a favorite of the King himself! I dare not tell you what I paid for them... only a customer of impeccable taste could afford such an item. Is your master such a one?"

 

Tree-ear did not mean to be rude, but he could not speak. He merely bowed his head to the man and stepped away from the stall, feeling a little dizzy.

 

Kang's designs—already seen and admired and replicated for sale on the streets of Puyo.

 

Tree-ear began to walk faster, shouldering his way through the crowds. The sooner the better for Min's work to reach Songdo.

 

* * *

 

Chapter 11

 

he path to the Rock of the Falling Flowers was steep, and Tree-ear leaned forward, sometimes on all fours, as he climbed. Just before he reached the top, he stopped by the side of the path and took the jiggeh off his back. He drank from the gourd and poured a little water on his hands to splash on his sweaty face.

 

Thus refreshed, he felt ready to give his full attention to the sight of the rock. He walked the last incline holding the jiggeh awkwardly in front of him and set it down once he reached the broad plateau at the top.

 

It was as if he stood alone on top of the world. He gazed around, this way and that, hardly knowing where to look first. Before him to the north the cliff fell away sharply to the Kum River, a broad stroke of silver ribboning its way through the hills and plains. Behind him was the path he had climbed, with the city of Puyo below. How small it looked now! Tree-ear shaded his eyes from the sun as it began to set, wondering if that smudge on the horizon might be the sea. Surely this cliff was high enough to see all the way there.

 

Crane-man's words came to life—the King standing where Tree-ear stood now, surrounded by the palace women... the enemy scrambling up the path he had just followed... the cries of the women—their terror and then their sudden act of bravery, their colored dresses like the petals of thousands of flowers.

 

"You know the story, eh?" The voice at his side startled Tree-ear; he felt his heart leap and run. He had not heard the man come up the path, but there he stood, poorly dressed and oddly pale, as if he had been ill for a long time or never went outdoors when the sun shone.

 

Tree-ear cleared his throat. "Greetings, sir. Have you eaten well today?"

 

"Not today, not for a few days now," came the impolite answer. The man smiled, but Tree-ear did not like his smile. There was something unpleasant behind it. Although he would have preferred to stay at the rock a while longer, he decided to descend rather than remain in unwanted company.

 

Tree-ear turned and picked up his jiggeh, preparing to hoist it to his back.

 

"Let me help you with that," the man said, moving forward. "A fine load of rice indeed!"

 

Tree-ear stepped back, trying to quell his alarm. His cargo was far more precious than rice. "Your offer is kind, good sir, but I have no need of help."

 

The man's smile turned into a leer. "Now, there's a rude boy—my help is no good to you?" And he reached out with one arm to grab the jiggeh.

 

Tree-ear jerked it away from him. He stumbled, coming dangerously near the edge of the cliff. The man snarled, menacing and ugly, and advanced a few steps. He seized the sides of the straw container with both hands and pulled.

 

In the last moments everything had come together in Tree-ear's mind. The man's pallor... his rudeness... his coming upon Tree-ear in such a deserted place. He was one of the dreaded toduk-nom, the bandits who hid throughout the countryside and on the outskirts of cities, emerging only to rob weary travelers. Tree-ear held on to the wooden frame of the jiggeh with all his might.

 

The robber pulled and jerked; Crane-man's solid straw work held. At one point the man released one hand, cursing—the straw had cut into his palm. Tree-ear's hands were toughened by calluses from ax and spade, his arms strengthened by endless work; he gave not a single step of ground to the robber.

 

Be careful! A scream of warning sounded in Tree-ear's head. You are pulling so hard. If he lets go suddenly, you will fall! Move, move now, so your back is not to the cliff

 

Tree-ear shifted his feet and began edging sideways. Still the robber pulled, now shouting curses and threats with every breath. Soon Tree-ear's back was to the path. His hands and arms felt like iron—they would never break, he would never let go. The robber was weakening, he could feel it....

 

Tree-ear stared into the robber's face; hatred would give him more strength. And it did, too; silently he swore to himself that this dog of a man would never win the jiggeh with its priceless contents.

 

The man stared back at him, his face contorted in an evil grimace. But suddenly he laughed and released the container. Tree-ear collapsed backwards—into the arms of another man who had stolen up the path behind him.

 

A second robber.

 

Against two, Tree-ear could do nothing. The second man pinned his arms back while the first strode forward and wrenched the jiggeh away. Tree-ear kicked and struggled. His head crashed into the chin of his captor, who swore in pain; the other robber reached out and slapped Tree-ear's face viciously.

 

"Stop your struggle, worthless one," he said. "We mean only to rob you, but it would not be past us to harm you if you prove too much trouble."

 

While his companion kept Tree-ear pinioned, the first robber quickly opened the straw container. He threw aside the packing of straw and silk, growing angrier with each handful.

 

"Not rice! What is it you are carrying, idiot-boy?" At last, he drew out the first of the vases and his face grew purple with fury.

 

"Useless!" he screamed, gripping the mouth of the vase with one hand and waving it about. Tree-ear caught his breath with fear.

 

"We might sell it," said the second robber more calmly.

 

"Have you no eyes in your head?" his companion shouted back. "Look at it—can't you see, this could only be a gift for the palace! Nobody would dare buy it from us!"

 

"Keep looking. Perhaps there is something more."

 

The robber set the first vase down on the ground and returned to his search of the container. With more muttered curses, he pulled out the second vessel and threw a final handful of straw on the ground.

 

"Nothing!" he screamed. "All the way up this hill—and nothing!"

 

His companion had shifted his grip and now had one arm across Tree-ear's throat, throttling him so he could barely breathe. With his other hand he pawed roughly at Tree-ear's waist pouch.

 

"Eh—here is something to cheer you up!" He held the pouch in his free hand and emptied the contents onto the ground. The flint stones and the little clay turtle fell out, followed by the string of coins.

 

"Something, anyway," grumbled the first robber, scooping up the coins. He kicked the jiggeh out of his way and headed down the path. "Come—we've wasted enough time here."

 

Tree-ear breathed a silent prayer of thanks. Take the money—take anything. Just leave the vases alone....

 

The second robber laughed. "Wait," he said. "Come hold this donkey for a moment."

 

The first robber retraced his steps. "What is it?" he asked impatiently, grabbing Tree-ear by the arms from behind.

 

"A little fun, as long as we're up here."

 

The robber picked up one of the vases. He stepped to the edge of the cliff—and flung it into the air. Peering over the edge, he put his hand to his ear in a pose of listening. After an agony of silence, the crash of pottery was heard on the rocks far below.

 

The second robber laughed again. "One more!" he said in a jovial voice.

 

"No!" Tree-ear screamed, an inhuman screech of utter desperation. The robber holding him lifted him off his feet and slammed him to the ground so hard that his breath left him.

 

And Tree-tar could only watch as the second vase sailed through the air. With a yelp like a wounded dog, he put his hands over his ears so he would not hear the crash.

 

Tree-ear rolled onto his side and vomited. He retched again and again, until his stomach felt as empty as his spirit. Shakily, he rose to his feet and bent over double, his hands on his knees.

 

Failure. The most dishonorable failure. He had been unable to keep the vases safe; Puyo was not even halfway to Songdo. If he had reached his destination and the work had been rejected by the court, at least he would have done his part.

 

He raised his head slowly and stared at the edge of the cliff. He thought of returning to Min with this news, and his whole body shuddered. Nothing could be worse. He straightened up and took a few steps toward the edge.

 

What would it be like? To leap off and sail through the air as those women had—like flying, like a bird, so free. And time would feel different. Those few moments would feel like hours, surely....

 

But just then he heard Crane-man's voice so clearly that he turned in surprise. "Leaping into death is not the only way to show true courage." No one was there, of course. Tree-ear stepped back from the edge, ashamed. He knew it was true; it would take far more courage to face Min. He thought of his promise to Ajima, and besides, Crane-man was waiting for him. It was his duty to return.

 

He picked up his waist pouch and put the flint stones and the turtle back inside. Then he untied the few items from the jiggeh. There was one pair of sandals; he had donned the other spare pair the day before. The food bag still held a few rice cakes, but Tree-ear felt that he would never be able to eat again.

 

He tucked the pouch back under his tunic and slung the sandals, the food bag and the drinking gourd over one shoulder. Then he stood for a few moments staring at nothing. Gradually, the empty straw container came into focus before him. With a sudden cry of fury, Tree-ear picked up the jiggeh and threw it, container and all, over the edge of the cliff. He watched its descent; it did not fall cleanly to the water but bounced several times off the rocks on its way down.

 

Tree-ear turned and began to run. He ran blindly down the mountain path, heedless of the rocks and shrubs. Several times he fell but was on his feet again in the next breath, stumbling, tripping, skidding in a headlong descent. When at last he reached the point where the path leveled out, he fell hard onto his face, the dirt mixing with his tears. His teeth cut into his top lip and he spat blood. The pain was welcome; he deserved far worse.

 

Tree-ear sat up and wiped his face with the edge of his tunic, hearing nothing but the sound of his own panting and the rushing river nearby. Suddenly, a last flicker of hope flared within him. The second vase—he had not heard the crash. Perhaps it had fallen into the water, perhaps it was still unbroken....

 

Tree-ear made his way around the base of the cliff to the river. Boulders blocked the way to a narrow strip of sand, with more rocks beyond. He looked up the sheer face of the cliff as it rose far above him and tried to guess where the vases might have fallen. Then he began scrambling over the boulders.

 

Thorny shrubs grew among the rocks. Sometimes they massed into a wall so thick that he had to scramble down to the water's edge and wade to make further progress. If the vases had fallen among those shrubs, he would never be able to find them.

 

That small mass on the sand up ahead, not as dark as the rocks—could that be a vase? Tree-ear made his awkward way over the stony ground, barking his shin once but hardly feeling the pain in his eagerness.

 

No. A pile of pebbles.

 

For a long time, he made his way back and forth between the cliff and the river, up and down over the rocks and sand. He had nearly given up hope when he came upon a little mound of shards.

 

They would never have been noticed by a casual passerby; so thoroughly smashed was the vessel that the fragments were no bigger than pebbles. Tree-ear crouched and touched them gingerly. The first vase, he hoped with all his might.

 

He stood and looked around. The thief had thrown both vases from the same spot on the cliff; the other one should be somewhere nearby. At the rivers edge, Tree-ear saw something on the sand. He approached it slowly, telling himself it was probably another pile of pebbles or a piece of driftwood....

 

It was the second vase. The force of its fall had driven it into the sand—in a hundred pieces.

 

Tree-ear dropped to his knees. Fool, he thought bitterly. Fool, to hope that it could have survived such a fall.

 

The second vase, its fall cushioned however slightly by the sand, had broken into bigger pieces. The largest shard was the size of his palm. Tree-ear picked up this piece and swished it through the water to rinse off the sand.

 

Across one side of the shard ran a shallow groove, evidence of the vase's melon shape. Part of an inlaid peony blossom with its stem and leaves twined along the groove. And the glaze still shone clear and pure, untouched by the violence that had just been done it.

 

A sharp edge of the shard bit into Tree-ear's palm. The pain was an echo—he remembered now. It was when he had thrown the shard from the first batch of ruined vases into the river in Ch'ulp'o. How long ago it seemed!

 

Suddenly, Tree-ear raised his head. He stood up and squared his shoulders, still clutching the piece of pottery. He laid the shard carefully on a flat stone. He took the clay turtle from his waist pouch and squeezed it back into a ball. Next he rolled the clay between his palms until it formed a long snake. Picking up the shard again, he pinched the snake all the way around the sharp edge to protect it.

 

Tree-ear removed the flint stones from his waist pouch; they might scratch the shard. He tied them into one corner of his tunic, then put the clay-bound shard into the pouch. Holding the pouch clear of the boulders with one hand, he climbed back to the path.

 

His every movement was quick with purpose; to hesitate was to doubt. He had made up his mind: he would journey on to Songdo and show the emissary the single shard.

 

* * *

 

Chapter 12

 

he next several days passed in a steady blur. Tree-ear walked and walked. The sun shone; he walked. Rain poured; he walked. From sunrise until dark he walked without stopping, drinking from the gourd along the way. If dark found him near a village, he slept outside a house and accepted whatever was offered in the way of food. If there was no village, he slept in a ditch by the side of the road or under a tree in the forest. He ate perhaps once every two days, feeling no need of food but knowing that without it he could not complete the journey.

 

Only once did he pause. A low range of mountains made a bowl of a valley cut through by a beautiful river. After crossing the valley, Tree-ear stopped on a peak at the far side and looked back. He knew that the scene must be even lovelier than it now looked to him, viewed as it was through a fog of exhaustion that blurred his senses and his mind. Perhaps on the way back he would appreciate it more. Three days' walk north of this valley brought him to Songdo.

 

Songdo was like Puyo, only more so—more people, more buildings, more traffic. The palace was in the center of the city, towering over all other structures.

 

Tree-ear did not stop walking. Every step brought him closer to the palace. Once he shuffled sideways to avoid a woman with a toddler tied to her back. The toddler was crying over some unknown disappointment, and the sound of his cries drew Tree-ear's attention. He watched as the mother comforted the child by rhythmically bouncing up and down and crooning to him.

 

For just a moment Tree-ear was distracted. He had been such a child once, right here in Songdo. He had lived here with his parents—a father and a mother. Perhaps his mother had comforted him in the same way when he had cried. Perhaps somewhere, in one of the temples, there was a monk who knew about his parents, who remembered sending him to Ch'ulp'o.

 

Tree-ear sighed and looked back out on the street. The noise of the traffic seemed to press in on his ears, on his very body. Everywhere there were people hurrying about. There must be dozens of temples in the mountains surrounding Songdo; even if Tret-ear could find that monk, it was likely that he would no longer remember. He might even be dead by now.

 

It was useless to wonder. Tree-ear turned his mind back to his task.

 

Late in the afternoon Tree-ear made his steady way through the crowds and found the main gate of the palace. Two soldiers stood guard there.

 

He spoke firmly. "I have an appointment with the royal emissary for pottery ware," he said, for that was Emissary Kim's full title. He made a dignified bow.

 

The guards looked at Tree-ear, then at each other. Tree-ear could read their thoughts—This scrawny scarecrow of a child claims a royal appointment? But he felt no trembling now; his calm did not even surprise him. He was expected. He had the right to be there.

 

His manner must have said as much, for one of the guards vanished beyond the gate. He was gone long enough for the other guard to shift impatiently, but Tree-ear did not budge. He stood proudly, his eyes never leaving the gate.

 

At last the guard returned, followed by another man. It was not Emissary Kim, but he was garbed in a similar robe, wearing a different hat—some kind of official of lower rank than Kim. He, too, looked skeptically at Tret-ear.

 

"Yes?" he inquired, his politeness edged with impatience.

 

Tree-ear bowed again. "I have an appointment with Emissary Kim. I am here on behalf of Potter Min from Ch'ulp'o."

 

The official raised his eyebrows slightly. "Yes, all right. Where is the work? I will take it to Emissary Kim, and you may return for his answer in a few days."

 

Tree-ear paused before he spoke. "I do not wish to displease the honorable gentleman, but I will not show what I have brought to anyone but the emissary." He drew in a silent breath to quell the small nudge of anxiety that was rising within him; so far he had not been forced to lie.

 

The official looked annoyed. "Emissary Kim is a very busy man. I do not wish to disturb him when he could view the work at his convenience."

 

"Then I will wait for his convenience," said Tree-ear. He looked directly at the man. "Emissary Kim has specifically requested that Potter Min's work be brought to him. I do not wish him to be disappointed."

 

His message was clear to the official. "I understand," the man said crossly, "but surely you do not expect to see him without showing him the work. Where is it?"

 

"I will discuss its whereabouts with no one but the emissary."

 

The official muttered under his breath and finally seemed to make up his mind. He nodded to the guards. The gate swung open and Tree-ear stepped inside the royal courtyard.

 

Inside the gate lay another small city. Buildings lined the walls and across a wide stretch of open courtyard Tree-ear could see the grandest of them all—the palace proper. Tree-ear nearly tripped as he walked with his neck craned and his eyes wide; he had never before seen a building more than one story high.

 

And wonder of wonders, the palace had celadon roof tiles.

 

Tree-ear stopped walking. He had heard of these roof tiles. Years ago, before his time, potters in Ch'ulp'o had been engaged in the enormous task of making those very tiles. "Wasters," the rejects, could still be found around the kiln site. How Tree-ear wished he could somehow climb the walls and examine the tiles more closely! Even from where he stood he could make out their intricate relief work.

 

All sorts of people went about their business—tradesmen and soldiers and officials and many monks. Reluctantly, Tree-ear turned his attention away from the tiles and caught up with his escort. The official led the way deeper into the palace grounds. He stopped at last before a building against the outer wall and gestured for Tree-ear to wait outside.

 

After a few moments the official returned and beckoned Tree-ear. Tree-ear walked through an entryway into a small room—small, but lovely. Shelves along one wall held celadon vessels; Tree-ear could see at a glance that each piece was of the highest quality. The official who had led him in moved to stand at one side of the door in the stance of an assistant.

 

Emissary Kim sat at a low wooden table. He was writing rapidly on a scroll, the brush racing across the paper, leaving behind a trail of perfectly formed characters. Tree-ear could not read, but he could see the skill of Kim's calligraphy.

 

Kim wiped the brush carefully on the inkstone. He picked up the scroll and carried it to a shelf where it would dry. Then he returned to the table and sat again. He folded his arms and looked at Tree-ear.

 

Tree-ear bowed low. As he bent down, his courage suddenly fled, leaving his knees as weak as reeds. I must be hungry, he thought as he straightened his body, incredulous that he could think of such a thing at such a moment.

 

"You are here from Ch'ulp'o. From Potter Min," the emissary stated.

 

"Yes, honorable sir."

 

The emissary waited. "Well?" he said. "Where is the work?"

 

Tree-ear swallowed hard. "Sir, on my way here, I was set upon by robbers. They—they destroyed my master's work—"

 

The assistant stepped forward in anger. "How dare you, brazen fool! How dare you demand an audience of the emissary with nothing to show him!" He reached to grab Tree-ear's arm and yank him out the door.

 

The weakness in Tree-ear's knees surged through his whole body now. The assistant was right. He had been a fool. First a failure, now a fool...

 

But the emissary had risen to his feet and gestured at his aide, who stepped back, chastened.

 

"I am greatly disappointed," Emissary Kim said. "I have so looked forward to seeing Potter Min's work again."

 

Tree-ear hung his head. "Humblest apologies to the honorable emissary," he mumbled. Slowly, he took the shard from his waist pouch. He drew in a deep breath and looked down at the shard before he spoke.

 

How odd it looked, with its rough frame of clay. But the inlay work was still delicate and clear, the glaze still fine and pure. Seeing it gave Tree-ear a last pulse of courage.

 

"It is but a fragment, Honorable Emissary. And yet, I believe that it shows all of my master's skill." And he held it out before him in cupped hands.

 

The emissary looked surprised but accepted the offering. He inspected it carefully. He even took off the crude wrapping of clay and peered at the edges of the shard.

 

Then Emissary Kim sat down at his table again. He chose one of the scrolls before him, took up his brush, and began writing.

 

Tree-ear stood with his head bowed to hide tears of shame. Obviously, the emissary had already moved on to other business, but it would be rude for Tree-ear to leave before he had been dismissed. He wondered if he should take back the shard, which the emissary had placed carefully on the table. Amid his despair, Tree-ear still felt grateful—grateful that the emissary had not laughed in his face for the stupidity of traveling all that way with only a single shard to show.

 

At his side he heard the assistant gasp in surprise. The emissary had beckoned the man and was showing him the scroll.

 

"Go. See that it is done," said the emissary.

 

"Master—" The assistant hesitated. "How is it that a commission can be awarded without seeing the work?" The man's courteous words could not mask the disapproval in his voice.

 

"I understand your skepticism," the emissary answered patiently. "But I have seen this man's work, in Ch'ulp'o and again here." He bent and picked up the shard from the table.

 

"Do you see this? 'Radiance of jade and clarity of water'—that is what is said about the finest celadon glaze. It is said of very few pieces." He paused for a moment and held the shard up before him. "I say it of this one. And the inlay work... remarkable." His voice faded for a moment as he gazed in obvious admiration at the shard. Then he handed the scroll to the assistant. "Now, go and do as I bid you."

 

The assistant bowed abruptly and left. Emissary Kim looked at Tree-ear. There was kindness in his eyes—like Crane-man's, like Ajima 's.

 

"I have written orders for him to secure your passage back to Ch'ulp'o by sea," he said. "You will go and deliver a message to your master for me. I am assigning him a commission. Tell me, have you worked for Potter Min long?"

 

Tree-ear was reeling from the man's words, spoken in such a calm, ordinary voice. Through a haze of disbelief and confusion, he heard himself answer. "A year and a half, honorable sir."