A Single Shard by Linda Sue Park Page B

dragon, wise tortoise. And in the center was a new set of nested boxes, inscribed with a splendid floral design. Tree-ear had learned the answer to their mystery: Min used thin slabs of clay to build the small interior boxes first, then the larger one to fit around them.
    On the lower shelves, Min placed two prunus vases, a tall jug ribbed like a melon, and a water pot in its matching bowl. This last piece was a special favorite of Tree-ear's. The bowl was covered with molded petals that overlapped one another—and held a secret.
    Tree-ear had watched his master make dozens of those petals and had finally taken a small lump of clay home in his waist pouch to practice himself. After many evenings of work he had produced a single petal that he thought as fine as one of Min's.
    Now, as he looked at the pot, shame clashed with pride inside him. For he had taken his petal the next day and secretly substituted it for another among those drying on Min's shelf. His act had gone undetected. The stealth of it shamed him—but not enough to overcome the pride he felt at the knowledge that one of the many petals on the bowl was his. And best of all, though he had examined the piece closely a dozen times, he could not tell which it was.
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    Min stood before the display of his wares, shaking his head and clucking with discontent. He muttered under his breath—the glaze of one piece was not as fine as it could have been, he should have made one more duck. Oh, everything was well enough, but if he had had more time...
    As Tree-ear looked over the shelves, an idea came to him. He bowed to Min and begged his leave for a short moment; Min waved him off, hardly seeming to hear him. Tree-ear raced through the village all the way to the scrub behind Min's house. He found what he needed and hurried back, but not so quickly this time, so as to protect what he carried.
    Out of breath, he arrived back at the market space.
    "Master," he panted, and held out his offering—two branches of flowering plum. Tree-ear thought that Min looked pleased for the briefest instant; then his usual cross expression returned as he took the branches.
    "Hmph. Yes, it would do well to show the vases as they should be used." Min examined the branches, then handed one back to Tree-ear.
    "That branch does not have enough blossoms. Why did you not bring more?" And he turned his back on Tree-ear to arrange the other branch in the vase on the left.
    Tree-ear grinned. He knew his master well enough now, and Min's response was as close as he would ever come to expressing pleasure at Tree-ear's work.
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    There was yet one task remaining for Tree-ear before the emissary arrived, and it was not a task assigned by Min. Now that the display was complete, Tree-ear sought out Kang's stall.
    Every potter was busy, but a small group had still taken the time to visit Kang's display. Even from a distance, Tree-ear could sense their suppressed interest, though none there spoke beyond a word or two. Tree-ear approached as if merely passing by, but his very skin prickled with curiosity.
    Then a space before the stall cleared as a man stepped away, and Tree-ear saw them.
    Chrysanthemums.
    Dozens of them. On every vessel—blooming from wine cups and jugs and vases and bowls—the simple eight-petaled flowers caught one's attention and seized it as if they would never let go. The slight imperfections of Kang's vessels disappeared in the light that seemed to blaze from the pure-white blossoms.
    Tree-ear stepped closer. He saw that a few of the pieces had stem and leaf as well. But they were no longer brick-red. In the firing, the red slip had turned black, and the contrast of black and white against jade green was unmistakably new, different, remarkable.
    And beautiful. Even as Tree-ear turned away, feigning disinterest, as were the other potters, his heart was sinking into a bottomless well. The technique was so striking that the emissary could not help but choose Kang