Free A Single Shard by Linda Sue Park

The fire blazed at its hottest then, until it had eaten all the air within the kiln and began to die. And it took two or three days for the kiln to cool down.
    Min preferred to fire his replicas in at least two different batches whenever possible. But with the emissary's return nearly at hand, there was time for only one firing.
    While Min always stayed at the kiln during the crucial first stages of warming and adding more fuel, he usually went home after the openings had been sealed. This time, however, he remained at the site for the entire period of the firing. Tree-ear laid armfuls of straw on the hillside, and there Min sat, the hollows under his eyes dark with exhaustion. His orders were curt, as usual, but quiet.
    Tree-ear could hardly believe it; he would almost rather have Min shouting at him. The quiet was alarming. Tree-ear brought food from the house, but Min left most of his untouched. He sent Tree-ear back and forth between the house and the kiln on various errands. At the end of each day Tree-ear crept away on tiptoe, as if any noise might disrupt Min's concentration and somehow ruin the firing.
    Tree-ear had never figured out if it was his footfalls that woke Crane-man, or if Crane-man simply did not sleep until Tree-ear came home. But no matter how late it was, his friend never failed to greet him when he arrived under the bridge. Nor was his voice ever weighed down with sleep.
    Tree-ear's long hours of work for Min left the two friends no time or light for walks or other activities; instead, Crane-man had taken to telling stories. He had often told folktales—of foolish donkeys or brave tigers—when Tree-ear was a youngster. But that had been some years ago, and Tree-ear welcomed the chance to hear the old yarns again. There were new ones, too, sagas about the heroes and heroines of Korea. The stories were a much-needed distraction; after listening to Crane-man's voice for a while, Tree-ear was able to relax and fall into a dreamless sleep.
    On the last day, Min told Tree-ear to spend the afternoon at the house, tidying the yard. He was to return to the site after sundown. The pieces would be removed from the kiln under cover of darkness.
    A misted half-moon had risen to the height of its arc by the time Tree-ear had swept the kiln entrance clear of ashes. Holding a lamp, he stood aside as Min crawled in. Min used a pair of special wooden tongs to carry out the still-hot vases one by one, and placed them carefully into the cart, where Tree-ear had prepared a bed of straw. The moon did not give enough light for Tree-ear to see clearly, but when the last vase had been removed, Tree-ear crawled back into the kiln to fetch the lamp.
    The flame in the small lamp flickered treacherously; it was difficult to inspect the vases closely. The inlay work stood out even in the deceptive light. But Min sighed and shook his head. They would have to wait until morning to see the results.
    Together they packed more straw between the vases. Then Min held the lamp while Tree-ear cautiously rolled the cart back to the house, the night quiet except for the single-minded singing of the frogs by the river and, once, the plaintive call of a night bird.
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    "You are late tonight, my friend," Crane-man called, lighting the lamp as Tree-ear slid down the embankment.
    "Unloading the kiln," Tree-ear replied. "I am sorry you had to wait so long for your supper."
    Crane-man waved his crutch as if brushing away the apology. "I eat too well these days. Fat and lazy, that's what I have become," he joked.
    Tree-ear should have been nearly dead with fatigue, but he was too tense to lie down. Instead, he sat up and watched his friend eat. As the light flickered around the little den formed by the bridge overhead and the riverbank walls, Tree-ear suddenly had the sense of seeing clearly the things that had always been there. Like the deer with his eyes, or the clay with his fingers...
    The few cooking pots and bowls were stacked on a