Arita and Fukuoka – 3

"Japanese potters kidnapped a Joseon potter's young daughter and..."

Chika forced the words out, one painful breath at a time.

"They say they placed the child inside the kiln as a sacrifice to the gods of earth and fire."

"How horrifying."

I pressed my lips together hard. It was all I could do to keep a grief-stricken groan from tearing its way out of my chest.

I had once watched a drama about a potter who walked into his own kiln. What had stayed with me was the old man's obsessive devotion — that aching, desperate hunger to push past the limits of what a human being could create. His passion, his artistic craving for a perfect piece of porcelain, must have been so immense that he was willing to offer up his own body as the sacrifice. A ueshingu, fired alive from within — like the great monks who, after years of seated meditation until their skin was lacquered with oil, shed their imperfect flesh in the hope of becoming Buddha themselves.

In both cases, it was a soul surrendering its own body to reach one step beyond. But forcing someone else into the kiln was nothing short of a crime. And against a small child, no less — the sheer malice of it made my teeth grind. My lips were trembling before I even realized it.

"The Joseon potter must have had skill on par with Yi Sam-pyeong himself. Only then could he have been brought all the way here, married, and raised a family."

"You think so?"

"That's my guess. You can't fire a kiln alone — the work would have drawn talk, guaranteed."

I knew the process: the porcelain was dried hard before the rainy season arrived, glazed, and only ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠then loaded into the kiln. If the firewood was damp or the barometric pressure too low, the heat could never be pushed to the thousands of degrees required. And no matter how small or large a kiln might be, no single potter could fill one on his own. A master and his disciples would pack it together, taking turns keeping watch and tending the fire through the long burn.

Which meant this was not the crime of one person.

They did it deliberately — dozens of them, lighting the fire on a kiln that held a single child as its offering.

Having heard my reasoning, Chika spoke up. "So they never intended to keep it secret?"

"They must have been certain they'd succeed."

At least, that was how ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it seemed to me. 'We'll make flawless white porcelain — who cares if we killed one measly brat? The Joseon people do it too.' That's the kind of boast they thought they'd be able to shout.

"But the Imari porcelain inside isn't perfect, though. The white glaze wasn't heated evenly — there are discolored patches, and the shape is flawed too."

"It wasn't discoloration from age, then?"

At Tanaka's question, Chika shook her head. "It failed because of poor craftsmanship."

Spreading her hands open to show me, she went on. "The most important thing when throwing porcelain is a still and tranquil mind. Apply even a little too much pressure, and the form collapses. Wet your hands over and over trying to correct it, and the clay turns runny and traps air bubbles inside."

A tranquil mind — she meant throwing porcelain from a state of selflessness, no-self at all.

"When glazing, uneven brushwork leaves ridges across the surface. We were taught not even to breathe too deeply. But if someone had already decided to kidnap a Joseon potter's daughter for a human sacrifice..."

Chika shook her head — with difficulty, with real difficulty. "It could only fail. A shattered mind cannot create flawless white porcelain."

In other words, obsession and madness alone would never be enough to make perfect porcelain. For a moment, none of us could find a single word to say. My chest hurt so badly I thought I might go mad from the anguish of it.

After a while, Chika composed herself and spoke again. "When Professor Sato Genji came to me after losing his granddaughter to a vengeful spirit's attack, some of the spirits I serve erupted in a violent burst of resentful energy and spiraled completely out of control."

"So they knew how that porcelain came to be made."

"Yes. Kim Sundol. Park Cheon-gu. Chilseong, who had no family name. Ilseok, Baek-il, Jeomi. Socheon..."

Chika recited the names of the Joseon potters one by one. The sliding door trembled faintly — as if the potters whose names had been called were peering through the gap in the door.

"All of them wept and tried to smash the porcelain to pieces."

"That's why you sealed it with a talisman."

"Yes." Chika looked me in the eye as she spoke. "Honestly, I want to shatter that porcelain myself. I don't even want it under my roof where I live. But Professor Sato says it has value as an artifact, so I've been holding back."

"You've held back admirably. Beautiful and expensive things are not the only things worth preserving."

The Imari porcelain was evidence of the atrocity the Japanese potters had committed — and the ancient book inside it was absolutely worth conserving.

Wait a moment.

I rearranged everything I had gathered so far into a logical shape — and the last remaining question fell perfectly into place.

"That's why they attacked Professor Sato Genji and his granddaughter."

"I beg your pardon?"

"It was never a vengeful Joseon spirit."

On the way to Chika's house, I had seen the red torii gate, the shimenawa ropes strung at every turn, the talismans everywhere. Chika believed the wards and the hostile inscriptions meant nothing could enter here except the spirits who already lived within.

Was that really so?

From what I'd heard, after the porcelain was brought into the house, Professor Sato's previously healthy granddaughter had begun muttering Korean — words he'd never taught her.

[She kept murmuring in Korean that no one could understand at all.]

Professor Sato spoke Korean fluently. Yet the girl had died muttering Korean that no one could make sense of.

It wasn't a Joseon soul that killed the granddaughter. It was something merely imitating the Korean language.

And then there was this: a vengeful spirit with the power to kill would stray far from the Imari porcelain? From its own home? If Lady Wolyeong heard that, she'd ask what kind of nonsense I was spouting. A vengeful spirit binds itself to an object. It cannot slip free of that object and wander.

It's an evil spirit pretending to be a vengeful ghost.

I moistened my dry lips and spoke. "What was dwelling in that Imari porcelain was the evil spirit of the Japanese potters."

"I'm sorry — what?"

"If the soul bound to that porcelain had belonged to the Joseon potter, there would have been no reason to attack Sato Genji. No reason to kill his granddaughter either."

"Th-then..."

"The evil spirit of the Japanese potters killed Sato Genji's granddaughter."

I looked at Chika as I said it. "They were beheaded for failing to produce white porcelain after committing that unspeakable atrocity — burning a Joseon potter's daughter in the kiln."

That man's soul must have been the one bound inside the Imari porcelain. And he had nursed a grudge, blaming the Joseon people for his own execution, until his soul curdled into something monstrous.

"When he learned Professor Sato was a descendant of Yi Sam-pyeong, his hatred surged, and he drove the girl to her death. He attacked Representative Lee Ho-young for the same reason — because he was Korean."

In other words — an evil spirit consumed by hatred of all things Korean.

Tanaka, who had been listening quietly, spoke up. "Is that why it never attacked me?"

"Yes. Very likely."

"Ah... I am ashamed to be Japanese. Ignorant of its own guilt, it went and killed another child."

"This isn't a matter of Japan or Joseon — of picking through nationalities. That thing is simply evil."

No — perhaps they were. The spiritual energy I'd sensed in front of Chika's house had come in two flavors. One, seeping from inside the gate, was filled with bitterness, sorrow, and injustice. The other, crouching somewhere beyond the boundary, had made my skin crawl.

The thing beyond that boundary is the evil spirit.

Like No. 1, evil spirits could move far more freely than vengeful ghosts. Which meant it wasn't that the spirit couldn't ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠come inside now — it was choosing not to.

It just hasn't found a target worth the kill.

It may have learned to strike at the weakest prey — the victim whose suffering would cut the deepest. When it burned the Joseon potter's daughter, watching her body and mind break apart at once... I wondered if it had savored its revenge.

"I'd like to take a look at the Imari porcelain."

"Please — whatever you do, don't break it. No matter how angry you get..."

"Of course."

Chika slid the door open.

Ssss-saaak!

The moment I stepped into the room, the spirits of the Joseon potters scattered in a flash.

"That's the porcelain right there."

To my trained eye, the white porcelain resting on the altar wouldn't have passed even as a third-rate piece. If a Joseon potter had truly made it, he would have smashed it the instant it came out of the kiln. And yet he hadn't broken it — he had buried it in the ground instead.

Why on earth?

Fwoosh. I peeled the talisman away from the mouth of the porcelain vessel. There was no other way to read what was written in the ancient book inside.

"Oh — oh no! If you remove the talisman, the spirits will try to smash the porcelain!"

"No. As long as I'm here, no spirit gets anywhere near it."

I drew out a handkerchief and wrapped the ancient book in it. Watching, Chika reached beneath the altar and offered me a pair of disposable gloves. "I keep them there for wiping down the incense burner — please, use these."

"Thank you."

Gloves on, I turned the pages. The writing was in Hunminjeongeum — the original script created under King Sejong — so it differed from modern Korean characters. Still, I can read it. Taking in each stroke, each letter, I slowly worked my way through what was written.

My vision blurred, and I could not read any further.

Lee Ho-young, hearing the contents of the book, had wondered why the Japanese army went to Gangwon Province during the second invasion of the Imjin War. That question was what had set him hunting for the treasure the Japanese raiders had hidden. But to think that this ancient book was nothing more than a letter from a father to his dead daughter.

My chest felt as though it were being torn apart, and I bowed my head.

"The Joseon potter could never have imagined it. That what dwelled within this white porcelain was not the child's breath at all... but the malice of the Japanese potters who killed his daughter."

"Then... so this writing really was set down by the Joseon potter himself."

Having heard everything I'd explained so far, Chika seemed to grasp my meaning at once. I nodded. "Yes. He meant to carry this porcelain — touched by the dying breath of the child sacrificed in that ritual — back to Joseon. He wrote it day by day, like a diary."

I reached out and touched the porcelain.

In that instant, the space around me changed.

I saw a man digging into the earth near a kiln site, pulling out a book, leaving his record in brush and ink. White trousers and jacket, straw sandals — ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠one glance was enough to know he was Joseon. Tears spilled again and again from eyes rimmed bloodshot red, and his gaunt cheeks were like the bark of a withered tree. When he finished the letter for his dead daughter, the man placed the ancient book inside the porcelain that lay buried in the earth. Covering it with soil, he murmured through his sobs.

"Your father will bring you to Joseon, I swear it. Until then... be patient, my child."

Just then, another man in the same dress came running.

"Master Kim! The old lord's thrown a fit — says the work's gone too slow and he's none too pleased about it. Says you can always make more brats, that's what he said."

"Yes..."

"He says the executions have cost him too many workers, cutting heads off every last one of the criminals. He's ordered you to make up the shortage of hands."

"Yes..."

The man answered with a hollow voice and brushed the dirt from his hands. He took a few steps on leaden feet, then suddenly turned his head back.

"When we go home to Joseon, Father will buy you a hair ribbon, my girl. The women of Joseon wear ribbons in their hair. I'm off to work now, my darling."

The vision began to darken at its edges.

Just as No. 1 transformed into black smoke when leaving a possessed body, a swollen, bloated evil spirit rose up out of the buried porcelain — and then another, and another. Not one or two, but a whole tide of them. The earth across the entire region shuddered as the horde of evil spirits moved as one.

The evil spirits strode off in the direction the man had gone. Not long after—

Kyaaaagh!

Screams rang out across the land. It sounded as though the spirits were possessing people and driving them to slash one another with blades.

"Sensei? Master Kim!"

At Chika's call, I turned my head. Wrenching myself out of the vision and back into her prayer room, I gulped down ragged breaths.

"I have a fair idea of what happened back then."

"Th-then what should we do now? You said the evil spirit is biding its time because we haven't found a suitable decoy."

"We exterminate it."

So this was what people meant when they said even killing something wouldn't be satisfying enough.

Abe.

And you too, No. 1.

Abe and No. 1 turned to look at me, their expressions tightening.

We're going to hunt down that evil spirit. No. 1, feast on as many as you like. Not a single one escapes — we wipe them all out. Understood?