A Single Shard (14 page)

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.

***

A certain prunus vase is among the most prized of Korea's many cultural treasures. It is the finest example of inlaid celadon pottery ever discovered and has been dated to the twelfth century.

The vase's most remarkable feature is its intricate inlay work. Each of the forty-six round medallions is formed by a white outer ring and a black inner ring. Within every circle, carved and then inlaid with great skill, there is a crane in graceful flight. Clouds drift between the medallions, with more cranes soaring among the clouds. And the glaze is a delicate shade of grayish green.

It is called the "Thousand Cranes Vase." Its maker is unknown.

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.

***

Tree-ear's seemingly irrational fear of foxes may be difficult to credit, but an analogy to bats in Western lore and literature might be helpful. Bats are really harmless creatures, yet an entire body of ghoulish bloodsucking vampire tales has grown up around them. Koreans in Tree-ear's time felt the same way about foxes, which acquired a corresponding mythos.

***

Tree-ear's new name was chosen in honor of Hyung-pil Chun, whose name is recorded by museums all over the world as the donor of many of the finest pieces of Korean celadon as well as other works of art. Apart from the fact that he lived in twentieth-century Korea, I have been able to learn almost nothing about this man, but because of his assiduous collecting and preservation, the public is able to view and enjoy these pieces today.

***

The "Twelve Small Wonders of the World" were listed by the Chinese writer T'ai-ping Lao-jen in a little-known work written during the Sung dynasty of China, contemporaneous with the Koryo era: "The books of the Academy, the wines of the Palace, the inkstones of `Tuan, the peonies of Lo-yang, the tea of Ch'ien-chou, the secret-color ware of Koryo ... are all first under Heaven!" The work itself is no longer extant, but several records of it exist; I came across it in Godfrey St. G. M. Gompertz's
Korean Celadon.
The phrase "radiance of jade, clarity of water" I owe to the title of the catalog of the Ataka Collection of Korean ceramics in Osaka, Japan.

***

The "Thousand Cranes Vase" can be viewed at the Kansong Museum of Art in Seoul, Korea.