A Single Shard (10 page)

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-ear 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 oj 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."

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 Tree-ear 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, Tree-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.