To all my Teachers of the word

And to my Adult Korean class of 2010

Every one of you is in inspiration.

In the countryside, surrounding the capital city of a great nation, temple bells slowly ring out their solemn tone. The ships in the bay are quiet; all their rigging is secure in honorable respect. The market streets are bare of merchants and buyers, for the people are waiting along the appointed path for the column of soldiers. In the center of the city, the palace gates, hung in sheets of black silk, are open wide as soldiers upon soldiers wind their way through the streets.

Horses are shrouded in yards of black silk, and their saddles and reigns sparkle in the rising sun. There are no bells, tassels, or weapons on any part of the horses tack, and anything that would be metal against metal is covered in cloth to maintain the silence. The material covers the front of the horse so nothing can be seen. Even their hooves are shod in the thick black leather boots. These are used when the soldiers go out on night raids against their enemies. Men would also remember how the Emperor ordered complete silence to win a battle against a nation in the south. It was the turning point of the war, one that saved many lives, and allowed many sons to come home to their fathers after it was over.

Their riders are dressed in the one and only uniform that was given to them the day they became soldiers for the emperor; one uniform that was to be worn for only one occasion. It was mandatory that once a year the soldier inspect it for insects making their home, and to shine the gold buttons, and polish the small silver ceremonial knife. After ironing the wrinkles out, he’d hang it up on a simple wooden cross, and for the rest of the day, pray at the foot of the cross that he would never have to wear this uniform, that it would be he who would die in the service of his great monarch. Then, on the setting of the sun, he would fold the uniform, place it in its special box, and set it back on the self to wait for the next year. The captains and generals weep openly as they remember wearing this one uniform once or twice in their long hard career.

Behind the soldiers came another great weapon of the Emperor’s. It was a long sleek cannon that was covered in daisies so not a speck of iron could be seen. It was rumored to have shot the enemies great general from his horse who was standing short of a half a mile away. After he was shot, the other generals bowed to the emperor in a field of daisies. It was the daisy that he worn on his breast, a parting gift from his bride, so it was only fitting that he should win the war on a bright morning in such a vast field of so simple a flower.

Behind the cannon rode the many commanders of the army with one riderless horse between. Women covered their mouths as their weeping increased, and the men winced with each sound of the horse’s iron hooves striking the stone road. Between the weeping generals was a magnificently groomed white horse with three brown socks, and a brown patch over the right eye. The emperor’s horse seem to know that his master would never ride him again as he walked between his silently shod comrades with his head down low, the reigns tide to the horn of the emperor’s favorite saddle. This saddle was battered and sweet stained with a bedroll tied to the back that looked like it had seen many trails. Even the leather on the harness, with its stubby leather tassels, was worn and thin in places.

The women fell to their knees, and the men knelt beside them as a black horse, devoid of all material, pulled a polished black wagon. On the wagon sat a magnificent coffin. The Emperor’s coffin was a traditional coffin in that it was a tall rectangular box with sharp corners and edges, but it was far from traditionally made. It was crafted out of the finest wood in the world instead of stone or jade, and inlaid with the richest of gems and metals instead of carvings depicting the great deeds of the warrior within. It was carved with many designs of white and gold tigers, blue and silver dragons, and all sorts of birds; the majestic crane, the endearing sparrow, and the proud peacock with his tail feathers fully spread. Some designs were inlaid with the finest gold and silver. There were carved stones of jade, onyx, and opals in the tigers and dragons, and rubies, citrine, sapphires, and emeralds in the birds. Lastly, circling the middle of the coffin was a silk red ribbon. It is so fine that it sparkled and shimmered in the rising sun.

As the procession passed by, people who weren’t weeping on their knees, were bowing. One boy from the Zhongtao family couldn’t take his eyes off the beautiful coffin. Kun didn’t mean any disrespect. A nudge brought him back to the world around him, and he bowed. Once the coffin had passed, he closed his eyes to remember every part of its beautiful detail. When the soldiers were out of sight he turned to ask his father who had made the coffin, but found that his father was no longer there. The people were either back behind black shrouded gates, or following the procession to the sea, where the Emperor was to be taken and buried out to sea as he had requested.

In the house, the women wept, and the men silently sat around the black shrouded table. Kun brought tea, and sat with his father, brother-in-law, and uncle. His father gave him permission to serve them with a slight wave of the hand and a nod of the head. The other men simply stared at the table until Kun set the kettle down. Still the men did not move. Kun itched to ask a question concerning the coffin, but it was not his place to start the conversation.

“What is it son?” his father said.

His father could easily read him as he could a piece of pottery and know instantly who made it and see all its flaws, but then Ning was one-step away from being a master potter. He would never speak of the flaws, instead, set them to memory, and ensure they never appeared in his own work. The emperor respected the Zhongtao family. He would always use Ning’s plates and cups when dignitaries visited. Ning, though, cared not for the praise, he only wanted to make the finest pottery, and that was a piece that served a purpose. Most potters in the country made vases so grand; it took several men to lift them, or some so small that it could hold only a blade of grass. Ning instilled in his son and daughter to waste not the clay on such things, instead make something a person would never think about.

“When you drink tea,” he would instruct, “do you think, ‘Ah that was a good cup that I drank the tea from,’ or, ‘that was a good cup of tea, the best brewed.”

“The later father,” Ying, Kun’s sister, would say.

“Exactly, make the cup so perfect that the one using it will think only of what is in it, not the cup itself.”

Kun’s sister always had the right answer, and she had her father’s eye for the craft. Kun on the other hand fought the wheel, fought the clay, and wore heavily on his father’s nerves when designing a pattern. Today, that all changed. Today he saw the most beautiful object in the world and wanted to learn how to make one just like it.

“Father, who made the Emperor’s coffin?”

Ning looked up, thought, and then took up his cup, sipped once and then twice before setting it down. This was a sign that all may take up their own cups.

“I don’t know son. I don’t know how long ago it was made. By the looks of it, the Emperor had it planed this out long before his death.”

“It was not a traditional coffin.” The Uncle said with a slight scowl. He was a man of tradition and he never wavered from it. Lei were here to help Kun take command of the wheel. Ning could no longer devote his time to his late blooming son because orders from those foreign dignitaries were beginning to stack up. He had hoped his son would be proficient by now, but that was not the case, so Lei was called in to help.

“I know, it was so beautiful, I couldn’t take my eyes off it. Do you have any idea who might have made it?”

“Only a master carpenter could make such a coffin,” the uncle said, and father nodded as he sipped at his tea.

“Where might I find him? Does he live here in town?”

Father took a deep breath, and set his cup gently, yet firmly, on the table. “Tomorrow will be a long and busy day. You will rise early to complete your chores before assisting us in the shop.”

The boy’s heart froze at the bottom of his stomach. His father was serious in having his uncle continue his teaching. Kun set his half-empty cup down, nodded, and whispered his obedience.

Lei set his cup down. “You will begin by cutting blocks of clay for the cups,” and he bowed to Jian and left.

Kun waited for Jian to say something, but he only finished his tea, set the cup down and left. His brother-in-law was never one for words, and at times it would have been a blessing except for now. Kun took a deep breath, would no one see that his hands were not made for the wheel? Would no one see his eyes light up at the sight of a well-made chair or table?

It was late, and he took two steps towards his room, and then many more towards the front gate. Outside his neighbor’s were returning from the wharf, and he asked them who had made the King’s coffin, but neither one knew. This did not stop him. In the evening sun, far off on a hill he saw the temple the emperor would always visit.

“The Priest’s should know,” he thought.

He wound his way through the town, he would still ask about the maker of the coffin, and like before, no one knew. His hope was waning as he approached a small set of stone stairs to a humble temple at the top of the hill.

“No, they have to know, they laid his body in that beautiful coffin,” and he mounted the stairs with renewed hope.

“The king has always had the coffin in preparation for his death,” the priest said. “Why do you want to know, you could not afford a coffin such as his.”

“I know, but I want to learn how to craft such beauty.”

“Whatever for? You are the potter’s son, are you not?” Kun’s heart began to die, and the priest helped it along the way. “You are to follow in his footsteps if you are to make him proud. Go home, and no longer be disrespectful to him.”

Kun had to agree that going against tradition was being desrepsectful, so he asked for forgiveness and bowed as he left. On his way down, he caught sight of a lotus floating in a still pond and thought of the lotus flowers on the coffin. They were so small and yet so perfect. His father loved the lotus flower, and tended to them outside of his shop.

“I will put many lotus flowers on his coffin.” He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and walked with a purpose down the stairs and back into town.

At the base of the stone steps, the General of the Emperor’s army was coming back from the procession. “Excuse me General, who made the kings coffin?” The General did not answer as he rode by, he didn’t even look down, so sadden was he at the lost of his King. Kun bowed his head until all had passed, and then followed behind the General.

The palace, like the town, was littered with black material, but here, one silver dragon flying towards the sky was on each banner that hung from the top of the wall to the ground. Soldiers, holding silver lances with black ribbons tied at the tip, lined the top of the palace’s walls. Kun watched from a ways off, knowing he had no business inside the palace, wondered how he would be able to ask about the coffin. The sun was setting and ten guards, five on ehac door began to close the massive gates. Right before they were completely closed, a small monk hurried out and then they shut with a resounding deep bellowed gong.

“Please sir, do you know who made the King’s coffin?”

“How would I know. Have you asked a carpenter?”

“No. Tell me, were you with the high priest when he prepared the emperor’s body?”

“I was. I just finished cleaning up.”

“Do you know how long ago the coffin was made?” the Boy asked.

“Right after the King was anointed of course.” The young priest said with irritation, and started his prayers on the way to his temple, praying that the emperor’s greedy son will wait the approved mourning time before making his decrees.

Kun wondered back into town to find it deserted. It was a day of mourning so he turned to go home. The house was equally quiet as the town. He softly padded down the hallway to his father’s room and tapped lightly on the screen door.

“Yes,” came an equally light reply.

Kun opened the door. “Father.”

Ning smiled. “Come in son,” and then the smile left him. “It is truly a day of mourning.”

“Yes, he was a good king. The priest prays for him and his son.”

The Father agreed. “The King sent his son away to learn the art of war from his Uncle in the north. I think the people are worried because they only remember the King’s son when he was little.” His father suddenly sighed. “I have work to do.”

“Father, not today, this is a day strictly for mourning.”

“Son, if I’m to fill these orders, I must prepare the clay, and kiln for tomorrow. The dignitaries are not going to be in town long. Now that they have paid their respects, they will leave the son to mourn his father before returning to resume business as usual. I feel that the time they are gone will not be long. That and I must make some of my finest china for the new King.”

“But Father, you have already made the finest china.”

“Ah, that was luck, and it was his bride that found delight in that simple tea set.”

“A tea set that led to the purchase of a whole place setting.” Lei muttered as he shoved another piece of redwood into the kiln.

“I was just a common potter back then.”

“A journeyman, not a novice,” his uncle corrected before Kun could.

“What matters is that today I have some status as the towns potter, and what we teach you will hold some weight until the Master Potter comes back from the west. When he does, I will submit my finest work and pray I can ascend to Master Potter, and ease his burden the lords of this country put on him.”

The Boy shifted from one foot to another while playing with his sleeves. “Father.” He stopped.

“Yes son.”

Kun took a deep breath, and glanced at Lei. What did it matter if his uncle disapproved of him now or later, Lei would still know that his heart was not in the clay. “Father, the clay does not obey me like it does you.”

“Well, of course it doesn’t, you have not practiced enough.”

The boy shied away from the kiln where his uncle was frowning. “Father, Ying could command the clay at age 7, and make beautiful vase’s where, at age 12 I could only hope the cup I made would hold water.”

The Father grinned with an edge of pain. “Yes, she does seem more comfortable at the wheel than you.” Then he straightened up. “But with more practice-.”

“Father,” Kun interrupted, “I don’t want to be a potter.”

The Father set his face making sure not to reveal the great sorrow deep within. Lei sputtered a few foul words along with disrespect and tradition.

“I know it is the duty of the first born son to follow in his father’s footsteps, but I am not good at this craft. I want to try another.”

“And what is this other craft you have in mind?”

Kun was instantly scared. What if the wood would not obey him like the clay refused to do? As he stared at his father, the towns potter, the man that made the Kings serving bowls for his rich table many years ago. This was a great honor, and he wanted to honor his father by being the best at something, and it definitely wasn’t pottery. Kun held his head up and took a breath to speak when there came a tap at the door.

Everyone waited until the Father spoke. “Yes?”

The door opened, and Mother came in with a tray of tea. “I heard you talking, and thought you needed to talk over tea, and to remind you that this is a day or mourning.”

Ning smiled. “As always mother your wisdom knows no bounds.”

Xhuyin scoffed. “You should know better than to quote the Empress.”

“And how is she?” Ning asked.

“How would I know, I am not one of her personal attendants.” She said as she poured the tea.

“But you are one of her friends, and with the death of her beloved, I’m sure she needs friends instead of attendants.”

Xhuyin held her cup staring into the shimmering golden brown liquid. “I will go, when it is time,” and she took a sip.

Her husband, her brother, and her son stood around a clay stained table and sip casually at the wonderful tea. Kun still hadn’t had a chance to tell his father what he wanted to study. Now he worried what his mother would think about the idea of her son not picking up the craft she and her beloved enjoyed. His heart grew even heavier and the look on his uncle’s face made him feel that if he followed through with his dream, it would kill his father.  

The next morning, before the sun woke the chickens Kun was rushed to do his work. His mother was making a long list of things they needed from the market. During breakfast, the conversation from the previous night could not be finished for as soon as one cup of morning tea was emptied, Ying started talking about designing a great vase for the new king. Ning, engrossed in this conversation, allowed Xhuyin and Kun to slip away.

The town quietly resumed business, still observing the mourning period. Kun made his delivery’s on the way to the ship yard where he was to arrange several palates of clay to be delivered to the house. Half way there, he visited the Master Smith with an old pot his mother needed mending, and asked where the carpenter could be found.

“Outside of town of course, within the forest.” The Master Smith pointed, and told the boy to come back that evening for the pot.

Kun quickly hurried home, and gave the food and cloth to his mother. Out in the courtyard, he told his father when the clay was going to arrive, and then dashed back out the gate with his uncle sputtering behind him about time at the wheel. Along the road, town’s folk ask why he was in such a hurry during a time of mourning. He simply bowed his apologies, and said he had to see the Master carpenter as quickly as possible.

“Master Carpenter?” said the baker. “He left ages ago.”

The boy’s heart sank, but it did not stop him from visiting the carpenter. If the fine woodwork he had seen in town were done by this carpenter, then surly he would know where the Master Carpenter was. Once outside of town he followed a weeded path to an old cottage that had two trees at apposing corners of the house, with vines as its walls. He listened and heard the birds in the trees. When he looked around, a deer watched him while he finished his grass, and then bounded off. As he made his way around to the back of the cottage he ran into an old man coming in from the deep forest.

“Good day young lad, and how may I be of service?” His words spoken in a singsong way mesmerized the boy.

Kun bowed. “Hello sir, did you make the Emperor’s coffin?”

“Did I?” the man laughed. “Oh, now if I were known for making such beauty, do ya think I’d be living out here?” His words were light hearted, and he had a twinkle in his eye. His strange accent made the boy smile. “No, I did not.”

“Do you know who did?”

“Sorry Lad, I’m sure the carpenter before me,” and Kun opened his mouth to be stopped by a hand, “but he is dead. T’would be the reason I’m here,” and then he looked around. “And here,” the old man picked up a few sticks, “t’would seem as if the town needs me, but does not need me,” and the carpenter smiled, “but nevertheless, I am needed. You wish to find the maker of the Emperor’s magnificent coffin, eh? Well then, you need to ask the Master Carpenter.”

The Boy’s eyes grew wide and his heart beat faster. “Of course, where would I find him?”

Still with a smile on his face the carpenter sighed. “Who knows, he is where he is.”

Kun said good-bye and left discouraged. When he arrived at home, no one could be found in the house, so he went into the back yard and found his mother in the garden. She saw his sad face and picked some strawberries, and sat to hear of his day’s adventures. That evening she made his favorite dinner. Afterwards she and his sister left him and his father to finish the last of the tea. While they were drinking Ning told his oldest and happiest story of how his father taught him to be a potter. It did put a smile on the Kun’s face, but not in his heart.

“Now son, it is your turn to tell me a story. Why is your face so long, are you still mourning the death of our Emperor?”

“I’m not sad father.”

“Nonsense, you might be wearing a smile, but I see your heart.” Now Ning grew serious. “Yesterday you said you did not want to be a potter, have you decided what it is you want to be?”

“Yes father, I want to be a carpenter. I want to train under the Master Carpenter.”

The father sat back. “You do, do you?”

“Yes,” Kun said softly, and with the greatest respect, “but no one knows where he might be,” he said with a frown.

“Tell me, why is it you want to be a carpenter?”

Kun retold the beauty he saw during the Emperor’s procession, relating in great detail how magnificent the coffin was to him. He retold it exactly as it happened; the people and what they were wearing; the horses and how they were decorated, but most of all, he describe the coffin down to the smallest of details.

“Father, you know I can’t be a potter, my hands flow along lines, they cannot stay centered.”

“I know son, I could only hope that you would follow in my footsteps as my father had with his.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint our lineage of potters, but heart is not in the clay.”

Ning sipped at his tea. “Your uncle is very good at the wheel; will you not give it a try under his instruction?”

“Was not the first lesson you gave us spoke of  the hands reflecting where the heart is? Father, it’s not that I didn’t try to put my heart into it, I did, and it came out worse than when I didn’t try.”

“Then you are trying too hard.”

“Did you enjoy the vase I made?”

Ning frowned. “Vase?”

Kun started to laugh. “Yes, father, that’s what it was,” and he wiped the tears away. Ning was not amused. “Oh, father, it’s okay.” Kun started laughing again, and Ning smiled.

“A vase?”

Laughter rang out like rain, and they soon had the rest of the family standing in the doorway.

“What’s so funny dear?” Xhuyin asked.

Ning sobered up though the smile never left his face, and Kun had to smother his gigging with his hands. “What did you do with that lovely vase Kun made?”

Ying barked a laugh, and covered her mouth. Lei, who had come over to do some prep work in the shop, frowned even harder when he saw his sister-in-law tense up.

“Vase dear?”

“Yes, the one that Kun made.”

“The. One,” she looked around. “That Kun made. I don’t know dear, what did you do with it? I believe you had it last.”

“I believe mother is right,” Ying said in her mother’s defense.

Kun looked at his father, and raised one eyebrow. Ning shifted on his pillow. Kun busted out laughing. Ying was chuckling along with him.

“Father, I threw it away.”

“What?” both of his parents said at the same time.

“It wouldn’t hold water. After an hour it turned dark, and then started to weep along the middle; by the next day there was water everywhere. When I went to clean up, it crumbled in my hand when I tried to move it.”

“You did not leave it in the kiln long enough.” Lei said as if this was the answer to his mistake, and to learn from it on his next attempt.

Kun nodded to his uncle respectfully, but smiled at his father. “You were teaching me to sun bake the clay that summer.”

“Sun bake. Ah, now I remember. That little thing, with the people stick figures in a forest?”

“Yes, that’s the one.”

Father studied his tea. “As I recall, you didn’t smooth out one of the coils well enough. That could be where it leaked.”

“Yes, that was where it was the darkest, but I had fun making that piece and see, it still didn’t turn out right.”

“You just need more practice,” the uncle stated. “You did not cut the blocks of clay for the cups today. I will need you out here to prepare them for tomorrow.”

“He will be right out brother.” Ning frowned at his son. “You were out and about much today. It does not take a potter to cut clay.”

Kun bowed his head. “You’re right father, I will go right away.”

“But first, you will pour me the last of your mother’s excellent tea.”

Kun poured the tea in their cups. His father was right, Lei was very good at the wheel. He could make a perfect circle over and over again as well as cut blocks of clay the same exact size every time. Kun shivered thinking about going out there tonight and working alongside his uncle.

Lei wasn’t a bad uncle. He never lifted a hand to anyone, not even the beggars that came to the door every New Year. What he was was diligent to perfection. Lei could never be a Master Potter like his father could be one day. He didn’t have the imagination to draw beautiful designs of any color, shape, and size. He could make the best cup, vase, plate, bowl, and spoon, but he hadn’t a clue as to what color to make it, and what design to put on it.

“Son,” Ning sighed. “I want your heart to be where it is the happiest.” He held his tea and sighed again. “Which ever profession you choose, your mother and I will be happy.”

The boy’s heart soared but his smile was brief. His father’s words were releasing him from being a potter, but they were not spoken in joy.

“Father, I’m sorry. I did try.”

“Yes son, I know. Well, you must help your uncle. I’m sure he’ll be doing the cutting and you will be wrapping them so they don’t dry out by tomorrow.” His father looked at him sternly.

“Yes father, I will take great care in wrapping them.” Kun gathered up the cups and remembered the carpenter’s words. “Father, how can I find the Master Carpenter? I’ve asked all around and no one seems to know where he might have gone.”

“Have you asked our towns carpenter?”

“Yes, he only gave me riddles.”

The father picked up a teacup from the tray. “Where would I find more tea?”

The Boy frowned. “In the tea pot?” 

Ning shook his head. “Where would I find clay to make a teacup?”

Kun thought. “In the quarry.”

The father sat his cup down. “Your mother makes a wonderful meal, and I am now so very tired. I will see you in the morning, and maybe by then you will know what it is you need to do.”

Kun watched his father walk a little hunched over. His decision to stray from the potter’s path was taking a tole on him and Kun should beat himself for denying his father his dream. That was nothing compared to the fact that Kun had no idea where to begin to look, so he obeyed, and out into the workshop until his uncle said it was time for bed.

Kun tossed and turned all night until he couldn’t stand it anymore. He got up and packed some of his things in a small bag. In the kitchen, he went to get some food for the travel, and found his mother holding a wrapped bundle with red eyes. She had been crying, and the sight of her son brought the sorrow back again.

Kun hugged his mother hard. “I’m sorry mother, you have every right to your tears, but I can’t get it out of my head. I need to see if my talent lies in the wood because it’s not in the clay.”

“That’s not why I’m crying. I remember the Master Carpenter.”

“You do? Do you know where he went?”

“Son, he is a nomad. He never stays long in one place. Many people have talked about seeing him, but folks could never find him. I worry son that you will never find him in time to learn a trade.”

Was this an omen? Starting a journey without any hope of the future? His mother never wasted her words, and for her to say such things troubled him greatly. He made a vow in his heart that he would search for a few years, and then come back and forever be his father’s apprentice. Out to the courtyard, his father was waiting with an old, long, and worn walking stick.

“You will need this.” Ning handed him the walking stick.

“Thank you, father.”

Father wrapped and arm around his mother. “You will need that, for he is said to be in the mountains, and you will need this.” He handed Kun a piece of paper.

“I have met the Master Carpenter when I was my father’s journeyman working my way to craftsman. It was the Master Carpenter that referred me to the Emperor to make his fine serving dishes and bowls. This paper bears my meager title, and a request that the Master Carpenter will take you in. I am proud of you my son, and I know you will find him, and complete that which is in your heart.”

“Thank you father,” and the three hugged and cried in the entryway to the garden.