The Potter's Notebook by Frank Giovinazzi, a historical novel set in 17th century Japan, is available on the Amazon Kindle platform and in paperback.
Seventy-Three A pair of blank-faced guards escorted the boys out of the room Left in the midst of the castle keep, they didn't know what to do. Hideaki could handle just about any hardship except having to deal with his brother's despair. Shuji was unfocused, listless; Hideaki thought he was in danger of passing out, maybe even dying, right on the spot. "They're destroying all my pots," he said in a faraway voice as if he was discussing the evening weather. Hideaki didn't know what to say. "And the kiln!" As if they were killing the mother along with the children. Shuji was distraught. The destruction of what he had wrought was so overwhelming, so immediate, that the aspect of being deprived of giving a gift to the Royal Mother and impressing the Princess was waiting its turn to cause him grief after the first wave of shock finished reverberating in his mind. Hideaki started to shepherd his brother away from the castle proper, toward the gates. It would be best not to stay here for the night. Shuji confirmed that decision when he started walking quickly, then jogging, then running, out of the castle grounds and toward the supply yard. * * * Hideaki followed him. Shuji was incoherent, as if his mind had been severed from his body, with the body left to run and ramble at the mouth with no identity left in the eyes to let Hideaki know his brother was still in there. He knew there was nothing he could do so he watched him run off into the hills behind the supply yard, and up into the hidden meadow. Figuring the lean-to was not the best place to hang around no matter what the Daimyo said, he packed up their belongings and headed up into the hills above the barren Garden. When he got to the kiln he found the remains of the dragon broken down and destroyed as if it had been dead for weeks, its bones already picked clean by the gleaners of nature. The bricks lay in a mocking outline of the proud shape the beast had once held; the freshly smashed and strewn bricks were giving off trapped heat that made it look as if a living creature had been sacrificed. Hideaki looked on the remains with forlorn nostalgia and impotent frustration. They would not get the chance to prove they could create something from this furnace ever again. Does it matter of you achieve something that no one ever gets to see, or judge for its merit? They knew what they had created, as did the Daimyo and their three tormentors. But what about the rest of the world? The Royal Mother? The Princess? Hideaki trudged up to the hut, alone. * * * Shuji had seen the dismembered dragon, and that had only driven his dissonant fury into a wilder spin. He ran straight up the hillside, in the opposite direction of the hut. He wasn't going anywhere. He was running. Without trying, his body carried him on a path where he could see no path. He was carried along the route where the blackness was most relieved, it was as if there was a lighted trail because of the paucity of darkness. But he wasn't thinking about it as Hideaki did; he was in a trance propelled by anguish and rage. So he ran. * * * Hideaki set up camp at the hut. In a sense it was worse than the kiln site. There, the memory was extant, smoldering into the ground in an outline of what had once been. Here, nothing. It had been picked clean. It was as empty as the day he discovered it. But not in the same way. Then, it had been left clean by the former inhabitant. Now, it had been desecrated by their enemies. For the first time it occurred to Hideaki that the Black Priest had ordered the destruction of the kiln and the stripping of the hut before the Daimyo had passed his judgment. What arrogance. Very well, thought Hideaki. There is a way to overcome even this. He went about his business for some time before he heard noises from outside the hut. Not Shuji. A shadow passed in front of the closed door and his gut folded in on itself. The old samurai opened it and Hideaki was relieved. "This is going to be a difficult night for your brother." * * * Shuji ran. He had no idea where he was and it didn't bother him; his body was still following the path that was lit and unlit at the same time. Running, strangely enough, kept his body from coming apart at the seams. If he had stayed still, the pressure would have torn him apart from a thousand tiny little fissures building up all over his body. He was nearing exhaustion now. He stopped and tumbled to the forest floor, with his back to a small boulder. He wept into his forearm and cradled himself, rocking his body to alleviate the pressure that was still there. "Well, now, are you ready to give up?" The voice was familiar and alien, friendly and mocking. "Who is that?" came his quavering response. "Your old friend." "Who?" "Me." * * * "You mean it hasn't been difficult already?" The old samurai was dressed in his coarse mountain clothes again, but the spirit that had been highlighted by the warrior's armor still pulsed strongly. He sat down opposite a lantern Hideaki had brought from the supply yard. "The Ragman is with him now." Hideaki bolted for the door. Then stopped himself. He would never find him in the night. "That's right," the samurai said. "Sit. We will pray for your brother." * * * Shuji wasn't frightened. He had forgotten about the last time they had been together. The Ragman stepped out of the shadows, his old, congenial foolish self. "I'm sorry about your pottery." Shuji sniffled. "I heard it was very good." Shuji nodded. "You'll make some again." "Soon?" Shuji asked through a waffle of tears and mucus. "Yes," cooed the Ragman, extending his bony hand with the long fingers nearly barren of flesh. "Come, let us play. Brother has a meal prepared for us." Shuji took his hand and followed. * * * The Daimyo stayed while his guards destroyed every single piece of the pottery. "Is that all?" he asked. They replied yes. "I take it the kiln is already destroyed?" With hesitation, they replied yes. "And the hut cleaned out?" Yes. He dismissed the guard and surveyed the shards. Collecting them himself into one of the sacks, he placed one shard in his pocket and retired. At his private altar, he placed the shard on the mantle, lighting incense and a candle. He asked for forgiveness for destroying such beauty. * * * When they were done saying prayers, the samurai said, "I think he will be okay." Hideaki licked his lips, cracked with apprehension. "Would you like to hear tales of the samurai?" "Yes, I would like that." Through the night, as they awaited the outcome of Shuji's final test, they shared stories of the glory days of the samurai. For Hideaki, it was like experiencing history firsthand, for the samurai, it was visiting old friends. * * * Shuji walked with the Ragman through the dark forest. He was exhausted from the ordeal. Walking was more difficult than running. He couldn't see anything, so he held onto the tatters of the Ragman's sleeve and let him guide the way. "Are you tired?" "Very." "Would you like to take a break from work for awhile?" "Yes." "You know, I have an old friend who runs a monastery, just beyond these woods. After a few weeks, I could take you there and you could resume your pottery work all over again." "Really?" "Yes, and what's better, there's no Studio Master or Daimyo to bother you. There's only the monks." "What about my brother?" "Don't you remember? He told you where he was from. He knows how to get back." Shuji was sleepwalking from a combined emotional hangover and the trance induction of the Ragman. He liked the feeling of being led. He had worked so hard. They had gone through so much hardship. For what? He wanted to cry but there was no energy to bring the emotion up from his solar plexus, through his heart and into his eyes. The hurt and disappointment wallowed in his belly. "Here we are." They were at the mouth of a cave that had a soft glow coming from within. The light carried with it a host of wonderful smells from the stone cornucopia that told the boy Jittoku was inside. Read Chapter 74 of The Potter's Notebook.
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