A Single Shard (12 page)

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-ear 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 river's 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 vases 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.

The 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 Tree-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 Tree-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."