The Dragon Queen

by William Andrews

  I pushed these thoughts aside and asked, “What do you hear from Seoul?” Since we had arrived at the potter’s house, I had given Kyung-jik messages to deliver to my allies and to Empress Cixi in China. When they answered, he would deliver their messages to me, here in the courtyard. I didn’t know who he used to deliver my messages and I did not care. That they got through was my only concern.

  Kyung-jik said, “The Taewŏn-gun is back in the palace. He told everyone that you were dead and staged a spectacular funeral for you. I heard they dressed a dead woman in your robes and marched it through Seoul for all to see. But the people are not fooled. Most believe you are still alive.

  “He did that?” I asked, shaking my head. “Well, the people are right. I am still alive.” I grinned at Kyung-jik. “What about the Japanese?” I asked.

  They have troops throughout Korea, north and south. They are angry about the riots that killed many of their soldiers. The Taewŏn-gun has ordered our military to stand down. He undoes all of your reforms.”

  “What do the people think?

  “Everyone wants the Japanese to leave, although I think many are glad the Taewŏn-gun ends your reforms.

  “What about China?” I asked.

  Kyung-jik nodded. “We sent your message to Empress Cixi. She has promised to send troops. If she does, I believe the Japanese will back away. And then you can retake the throne.”

  “Have you heard from the king?”

  “He does nothing,” Kyung-jik said, his chin tightening. “He says nothing.”

  “Have you any news about my son?” I asked.

  “No. I am sorry.”

  I sighed. “Well, let us pray that Cixi is true to her word and sends troops. I worry about our country with the Japanese.”

  “Yes,” Kyung-jik said. “I think it would be best if we returned to the palace soon.” As the leaves danced in the corner and stars twinkled above, he lifted his eyes to me. There, deep inside, was passion and longing. He looked at me as if I was the only woman in his world and that he would do anything for me. He loved me, it was plain to see. At that moment, I wished I could fall into his embrace, kiss him, make love to him. It would be the first time I had ever known true love and I wanted it so. But I could not. I was the queen and I would be until my last day. And a queen must make sacrifices for her position. She could never make love to her guard.

  It took some effort for me to look away, but I did and said, “Yes, I want to get back to the palace soon. Keep me informed of what Cixi does.” I looked at him. “I am tired and it is time for bed. Good night, my loyal guard.”

  He smiled sadly and said, “Good night, my queen.”

  The next day, I helped Woo-jin with pot making as I did most days. He never started work until the afternoon. The old man preferred to sleep late and have his morning tea and rice cakes when the rest of us had our midday meal. Suk-won didn’t mind. The turning was a small part of pot making, yet it was the most difficult to do well. Apparently, Woo-jin did it very well indeed.

  On any given day, the old man might produce five pots. On a good day, it was seven; on a bad day, only three. More than half the time, he would carefully form the clay into what looked like an excellent pot only to smash it back into a ball. “Bad spirit,” he would say, and he would start over.

  I say that I helped, but I didn’t do much. Occasionally I fetched more clay, went to the well to fill his bowl with water, or brought him tea and rice cakes when he was hungry. Mostly I talked with him.

  We talked a lot about pot making. He said that being blind was an advantage for him. Instead of using his eyes to form the pot, he depended on his hands. “Hands tell you much more than your eyes can,” he said. He said that in his hands, the clay would tell him what it wanted to be. Sometimes it wanted to be tall and narrow. Other times it wanted to be short and round. But only when the clay was a pot did it reveal its spirit. Then he would read the pot’s spirit and if it wasn’t what it should be, he had to destroy it before the clay hardened, trapping the spirit inside.

  He said that people often showed him pots made by someone else and asked his opinion of it. He would feel the pot to detect its flaws. “I can tell if it’s a Chinese pot or Japanese pot,” he said one day as he took a break. “They both make excellent pots. Still, Korean pots are the best. Especially mine.” He grinned.

  “Can you feel the spirits in Japanese and Chinese pots?” I asked.

  “Of course!” Woo-jin said. “As I have said, all things have spirits.”

  “What do the spirits in their pots tell you?”

  The old man sat at the wheel and thought for a minute. He said, “The Chinese spirits are old and proud. They are like an ancient Buddhist scholar who is content just to be. It is good, I suppose, to be content. I do not think it is good to be too proud, however.”

  “And the Japanese pots?”

  “Hmmm.” Woo-jin nodded. “Yes, the Japanese. The spirits in their pots are proud, too, but they are not at all content. I feel fire in them, especially the newer ones.”

  “Can you teach me how to feel the spirits in the pots, samchonim?”

  The old man lifted his head. “Get a pot I made yesterday. The taller one with the narrow neck. Be careful with it. It is special.”

  I went to where Suk-won placed the pots to dry. The ones made recently were darker than those that had completely dried. Among the five darkest ones sat a tall one with a narrow neck. I carefully picked it up and brought it to the wheel.

  Woo-jin felt it and said, “Yes, this is the one. Put it in the center of the wheel.” I did as he instructed. “Now, sit here.” He moved off his stool and sat on the ground with his legs crossed underneath him. I sat at the wheel. “Before you reach for the pot, close your eyes,” he said. “Can you feel it in front of you?”

  “I think so,” I said.

  “Now reach for it. Find it with your hands.” With my eyes closed, I reached out with both hands and touched the pot. It was cool and the drying clay was grainy. The curves of it matched the curves in my fingers and hands.

  Woo-jin said, “Keep your eyes closed and run your hands from the bottom to the top. Tell me what you feel.”

  I moved my hands to where the pot touched the wheel. “I feel the base of it,” I said. “It is heavy and strong.”

  “Yes, yes,” Woo-jin said. “Keep going.”

  I ran my hands up. “From the base, it grows out and becomes delicate and fine in the middle.”

  “Go on.”

  “Now it turns inward and I feel the strength in it again, like shoulders on a man.” I moved up to the neck. “And here, it is delicate again, but the lip makes the narrow part strong.”

  “Good,” Woo-jin said. “Now do it again, but this time feel inside it. That is where its spirit is, in the center. Try to feel it breathing.”

  I slowly ran my hands along the pot again. I tried to feel the spirit, but all I felt was clay. “I . . . I don’t feel the spirit,” I said, opening my eyes.

  “That is because you think this is just a pot, but as I have said, it is more. You must believe in its spirit. You must call for it and connect with it using your own spirit.”

  I took my hands from the pot. “Can you feel my spirit, samchonim?” I asked.

  “I can,” Woo-jin answered.

  “What does it tell you?”

  “You have a strong spirit but it is confused.”

  “How can I make my spirit so it is not confused?” I asked.

  Woo-jin didn’t reply right away. He sat aside the wheel with his dead, white eyes pointing up as if he looked for the answer to my question somewhere in the air. After a while he said, “Put the pot back with the others.” I did and he pulled himself to the wheel. He reached for fresh clay and placed it on the wheel. He pumped his legs once to make the wheel turn. He positioned the clay in the center of it and began pressing it into a ball.

  Then he said, “All spirits are connected—the tree to the mountain, the wheel to the clay. You
to me, and each of us to everyone and everything. The dead and the living and all to come. It is all one mind. You will discover your own spirit through all things and all people. Many find it in nature. The mountains, the rivers, the animals. I, myself, feel it most in a strong storm,” he said with a crooked smile. “You must open yourself to all spirits. Listen to them with untainted ears. When they speak to you and when you try to understand them, you will know your own.”

  “Yes, I have felt the spirits more since I have come here,” I said. “But sometimes I hear spirits that scare me.”

  “You must not be afraid,” Woo-jin said. “The spirits are trying to make a connection between all things to preserve the one mind. You are lucky to hear them. You are their vessel, the link between heaven and earth. You only differ from the one mind as a drop of water differs from the ocean. You are the same in kind and value. You with the strong spirit must be an expression of the one mind.”

  “One mind,” I said as the blind man prepared the clay for turning. “Tell me, samchonim, can the one mind be for a country, for a people?”

  He grinned. “The one mind is for all things. But yes, it can be for a country and one people, too.”

  “For Korea?”

  He nodded. “Yes, for Korea. One mind. One Korea,” he said, and he began pumping his legs to turn the wheel.

  One day, Woo-jin did not go to the wheel. He sat in the courtyard clutching a blanket around him looking content with the job he had done turning pots the weeks before. I asked Suk-won why his uncle wasn’t working that day. He said it was because it was time to fire the pots.

  By then there was a large assortment of Woo-jin’s work in the shed’s drying area. Most were plain, but into a few, Suk-won had carved intricate designs. Some designs had plants and birds; others had mountain scenes and lakes. The day before, they had dipped each pot into a white glaze and then set them all out to dry.

  I asked Suk-won if I could help with the firing. “Are you sure?” he asked. He, like Ki-soo, was still uncomfortable having me do anything that a queen wouldn’t do. I always had to tell them that I enjoyed helping. And I must admit, I felt responsible to them because my taxes had caused them to lose their help.

  “Yes, of course,” I answered. “I want to.”

  “You can help Ki-soo place the pots inside the kiln.”

  And so I went to the big building and crawled inside the kiln to help Ki-soo stack the pots for firing. It was fortunate that we were both small. The kiln was short and narrow and I had to squat to fit inside. From outside, Suk-won handed a pot to me. In turn, I handed it to Ki-soo who carefully placed each pot on the tile shelves inside the kiln. She placed the smaller pots farther down and the larger pots on the top shelves. “The heat is greater up high,” she explained. “The larger pots need more heat.” While we did this, Kyung-jik brought in firewood from outside. He placed it next to the brick oven, and soon, the stack was taller than he was.

  When we had placed the pots in the kiln, Suk-won sealed the opening with bricks. Then he and Kyung-jik stacked wood into the oven. Ki-soo went into the house and returned a short while later carrying a tray with tea, two cups, and a candle. Tapping his cane in front of him, Woo-jin followed her from the house to the kiln. Ki-soo placed the tray at the oven’s mouth and lit the candle. She poured tea into the cups. Woo-jin and Suk-won kneeled and bowed to the kiln with their heads on the ground. When they finished bowing, Suk-won took one cup of tea and put the other one into his uncle’s hand. They both took a sip and then poured the remaining tea in their cups onto the kiln. “Tea for the fire spirit,” Suk-won said. He and his uncle bowed again.

  Then Suk-won took the candle and lit the fire. The flames quickly filled the oven, and its red heat poured into the kiln. He took a step back. “It will be four days until we know,” he said, gazing into the flames. “One day for the firing and three days for the pots to cool.”

  “Four days until you know what?” I asked.

  “Until we know how many good pots we have made. In some firings, only one in ten are acceptable. In a good firing, it is one in five. I hope this will be a good one.”

  “What do we do now?” I asked.

  “My uncle and I will keep the fire going for one day. It must stay at the right temperature or the pots will not turn out well. We know the fire is the right temperature by the sound it makes.” He looked at me. “There is nothing more you can do.”

  Ki-soo took the tray with the tea and candle and went back to the house. Kyung-jik left to fetch more wood. Woo-jin sat on the ground with an ear to the oven, and Suk-won stood and watched the fire.

  I decided to take a walk along the river to see if I could hear the one mind.

  When I set out, the wind blew gently from the east and I could smell the seasons changing in it. I had put on an outer robe and walked along the path to the stream where, when spring’s water ran high, they would load narrow boats with pots packed in straw for the trip to the market in Pyeongtaek. I looked at the sky, hoping to hear the one mind. A flock of white-cheeked starlings practiced their flying before their migration south. They swooped close to the ground and then circled high. Hundreds of birds flew as one, and I remembered that Woo-jin said that everything is connected, just as each bird is joined to the flock.

  I looked at the forest. The trees were turning yellow, orange, and red. Here and there, a leaf snapped off in the breeze only to swoop and circle like the starlings before it found its place on the ground. I thought of how when the leaf returned to the earth, the trees tapped its remains for food. Leaf and tree separated and connected again.

  I reached the stream. It was at its late summer’s flow, gently gurgling over gravel runs, into pools, and out of the pools into runs again. I thought of how the water flowed to the sea and how a storm took it up and tossed it high against the mountains where it returned to the stream. Everything was connected.

  I walked along the stream, among the spirits of nature. I listened for the one mind. I listened for my own spirit, too. Since I had come to the village, I had heard the spirits of my parents and of my children, and I had touched the spirits of the children who flew kites. Now I felt the spirits of the birds, the trees, and the spirit of the stream. I still could not hear the one mind, but the spirits no longer frightened me.

  I came to a shallow pool in the stream and sat on the bank. Underneath me, the grass was dry and the earth was cool. The starlings flew overhead and the leaves on the trees quaked, snapped off, and then drifted in the air. And there, among the reeds across the stream, was a red-crowned crane. The tall bird with a white body and little red cap stood still as a statue staring at the water in front of him. After some time, he turned his head ever so slightly as if he saw something in the water. Without causing even the slightest ripple, he carefully took a step forward. I smiled to myself, remembering how a lifetime earlier, I had watched the cranes on the Han River with my mother. Her ghost was there with me now, watching, hoping the crane would spear a fish so we could cheer and clap as we did then.

  I sat still and watched the crane for a long time. After a while, the starlings, the trees, the stream, the crane, and the ghost of my mother sitting next to me all came together around me and inside me. I let them flow through me, and I knew it was the one mind. I wanted to grab it, make it mine, but I knew if I did, it would fly away. Instead I sat, listening, feeling, trying to connect with it as Woo-jin said I should. But before I could, something moved in the grass on the other side of the stream. I looked there but saw nothing. I went back to watching the crane. My mother no longer watched it with me. She was looking at the grass beyond it. Now, however, it wasn’t my mother when I was young. It was the ghost of her in those last days before she died.

  I looked back at the grass beyond the pool. Again something moved. And then through the blades came the face of a tiger.

  At first I thought it was coming for me, but its eyes were focused on the red-crowned crane. The tiger was through the grass now, inching
closer to the crane. It was a magnificent animal—streaks of orange and black, sleek and powerful, unblinking yellow eyes. As it moved forward, the crane continued to stare at the water, unaware of the big cat behind him. I wanted to shout to make the crane fly away before the tiger could strike. I opened my mouth but nothing came out. I tried to stand and wave my arms, but the ground held me firm. My mother was panicked now, just as she was in her garden that day. She screamed at the tiger. But she wasn’t screaming at it to spare the crane. She screamed at it to let me, her daughter, live.

  The tiger took another careful step, and then it struck. I gasped and brought my hand to my mouth as the tiger leaped onto the crane before it could fly away. The crane let out a frightful cry. Water splashed all around as the bird flapped its wings and frantically kicked its legs. But the tiger had it, and with one shake of its head, it broke the crane’s neck and the bird hung limp in the cat’s mouth. The tiger stood with its paws in the water and casually looked from side to side as if it was terribly pleased with what it had just done. First it looked at the bank from where it had come. Then it looked upstream, and then across it. And then it looked directly at me.

  I locked eyes with the tiger and I couldn’t move. It was as if its yellow eyes hypnotized me. It looked at me with the crane in its mouth and its chest moving in and out with every breath. Its tail slowly swung from side to side. It dropped the crane on the riverbank and stared at me with its mouth half-open. Its lips curled into a snarl, and a low rumble came from deep inside. Its tongue was pink and its fangs were ivory.

  This close to the tiger, I became someone different, someone I hadn’t known before. I was connected to the birds in the flock, the stream, and the ocean, the tree and the fallen leaves. I was connected again to the children flying kites, the dancing girls, and to the musicians and their music. And I was connected to the tiger. I was able to push myself off the ground and face the tiger. “Go away,” I shouted across the stream. The big cat continued to stare at me with its mouth open, but it no longer snarled. “I am the spirit of the people and you are the spirit of the animals,” I said. “We are one and you must not hurt me. Go now. Take your kill to your cubs and leave me be. Someday, we will meet again.”