Vessels for Spirits (2)
“What in the world are you doing in front of someone’s house?!”
It was a jarring claim to hear in the middle of a dirt road buried under thick, tangled brush. Where around here could there possibly be a house fit for human habitation? Yet Grandfather Gyeongsik, the veteran onggi artisan, was roaring at the top of his lungs with utter conviction.
“If you’ve got mouths on your faces, speak up! What are you doing here?!”
“Ahaha... Grandfather. We are—”
“Did I ask for your life story? I asked what you’re doing here!”
Sejun tried his best to smooth things over, but his attempt was utterly futile. “Dead on arrival” would be a far better description, given that before he could even finish his sentence, Grandfather Gyeongsik let out another thunderous bellow.
“How many times do I have to ask!”
In the end, he even raised his walking stick and brandished it threateningly in our direction. At this rate, forget making a good first impression—we wouldn’t even get the chance to talk to him. Wiping away the cold tension running down my neck, I took a firm step forward.
“We want to see your onggi!”
...see your onggi!
...onggi!
...gi!
I bellowed at the top of my lungs, loud enough to announce across the entire mountain range that we had come to buy earthenware.
A heavy silence followed. In the sudden stillness, so absolute that not even the hum of a cricket could be heard, Sejun’s panicked whisper cut through.
“Whoa, Yeonwoo! Can you just shout at him like that?”
Sejun recoiled in surprise at my blunt, aggressive approach. But I had my reasons. I distinctly remembered what Grandfather Gyeongsik’s son had told me in my past life.
‘No matter how busy he was crafting, he could still pick up the phone...’
‘In his later years, my father could barely hear a thing. On top of that, he was such a stubborn, single-minded man that when he was truly focused, nothing got through to him.’
A man born with an uncompromising, stubborn streak. On top of that, he had almost completely lost his hearing in his old age. His children had offered to buy him hearing aids, but he had adamantly refused them to the bitter end.
‘And he had a fiery temper.’
‘Ah, so he was passionate, then?’
‘Mm... less passionate and more... haha, it’s hard to put into words. He was just a straight shooter. He hated beating around the bush.’
I also remembered hearing that he despised dithering, flattery, empty pleasantries, and superficial manners wrapped up in the guise of etiquette. If that was who he was, then my directness was the only proper response. Sure enough.
“What? You came to see onggi? If that’s what you wanted, why didn’t you just say so from the start! Making an old man waste his breath for nothing!”
“Ahaha... I’m sorry!”
“What was that? If you’re a grown man, speak up! You’re built like a mountain, but your voice sounds like a damn mosquito!”
“I said I’m sorry!”
“Right! That’s better!”
Now everything made sense. His booming voice and angry, scolding tone were largely because he simply couldn't hear well. Realizing this at last, Sejun yelled back at the top of his lungs, then sidled up to me and grumbled under his breath.
“Did you know his hearing was bad?”
“I heard about it beforehand.”
“Man, you should’ve warned me earlier! I just got called a mosquito.”
“What are you two standing around for! You planning to take root there? I thought you said you came to see onggi!”
“Yes! We’re coming, sir!”
We pushed through the overgrown path for what felt like several minutes before a modest little building came into view. To be honest, it felt generous to even call it a house. It looked as though rough wooden planks had been haphazardly stacked and nailed together.
“Is this it?”
“I can’t hear a word you’re mumbling, so speak clearly!”
“Is this your home, Master?!”
“Aye! My house! The onggi are over that way!”
Grandfather Gyeongsik strode briskly toward the side of the property. Following close on his heels, the first thing that caught my eye was a colossal wood-fired kiln.
“Whoa. So that’s a traditional kiln.”
“It’s truly imposing.”
“Don’t just stand there gawking! The pots are further inside, so hurry it up!”
As we moved deeper into the grounds, Grandfather Gyeongsik’s workshop unveiled itself. Beneath what appeared to be an outdoor staging area for purifying clay sat a battered handcart and a heavy wooden kneading slab. How much clay had been kneaded and pounded over that weathered surface throughout the decades?
“Look at all that wood stacked over there.”
“It’s probably firewood for the kiln. Or maybe timber he uses to make ash glaze.”
Unlike the commercial onggi sold in modern markets, Grandfather Gyeongsik fired his earthenware using strictly traditional methods. That included formulating his own natural glazes. Instead of synthetic glazes that yielded a glossy, slick coat, he burned pine wood, steeped the ashes in water, and coated the pots with the clarified top liquid before firing. Finished that way, the porous earthenware could breathe far more effectively.
“Here! Everything worth showing is right here, so take a look!”
Arriving at a cool, shaded clearing, Grandfather Gyeongsik whipped around and gestured. He hadn't been exaggerating. Spread out before us was the accumulation of decades of sweat, time, and craftsmanship poured into clay.
“A-Are all of these onggi?”
“Incredible...”
It was a mountain of earthenware. A veritable army of onggi.
Vessels of every conceivable shape and size stood in sprawling, disorderly ranks, each displaying its own distinct charm. They ranged from delicate little jars small enough to sit on an open palm, to classic fermenting crocks typically used for jang pastes, all the way to colossal vessels so massive that five grown men could easily fit inside, leaving one to wonder what on earth they could ever be used for.
“Well! What kind of onggi did you come to see?!”
“Allow us to introduce ourselves again! We’re from Songhadang—”
“Too long!”
“We make liquor! A brewery!”
“Eh? You make liquor?”
The moment he heard the word ‘liquor,’ Grandfather Gyeongsik snapped his head up and fixed his gaze squarely on me. His eyes suddenly held an aura completely different from the cranky, difficult elder of moments ago. It was a sharp, piercing stare, as if dissecting every single inch of the person standing before him.
Swallowing hard under that intense scrutiny, I waited until he spoke again.
“You brew booze?”
“Yes, sir. And we came all the way here because your onggi are absolutely vital to our craft.”
“Then just pick whatever you want from here and be done with it. What are you standing around for?”
This was the critical juncture. In truth, if we merely needed earthenware, there would have been no reason to travel all this way. We could have simply purchased standard factory-made pots on the market. Commercially produced pots were uniform and easy to manage. Since they lacked individual quirks, they were ideal for mass production. But with those, I would never be able to extract the exact flavor profile I envisioned. I had very specific vessels in mind.
“We need unglazed onggi, as well as pots finished with oak ash lye glaze.”
Unglazed onggi—earthenware fired without any glaze whatsoever. Because their micropores remained completely open, they suffered from noticeable moisture loss, but their breathability was unmatched.
“Why d’you need that?”
“Because only with breathing pores that are completely open can we properly capture and round out the flavors produced during fermentation.”
“And what’s the oak for?”
“From what I understand, oak ash is the finest material for eliminating off-odors during aging while gently settling the aroma.”
“Huuuuumph...”
He tossed out a few curt questions, but apparently finding my answers somewhat lacking, Grandfather Gyeongsik scowled deeply. Just as I was wondering whether I needed to elaborate further, he barked again.
“You claim to be brewers! Shouldn't you show me what kind of booze you make first?!”
“Ah! R-Right here, sir!”
“Keep it down, you rascal! Did you swallow a train whistle?!”
“Wait... but earlier you said I sounded like a mosquito...”
With his hands trembling in indignant disbelief, Sejun hurriedly retrieved the bottles. Grandfather Gyeongsik snatched them away, scrutinizing them thoroughly. Without waiting for permission, he popped the cap right off and brought the bottle to his nose, inhaling deeply.
And then, in the very next instant...
Gulp!
“Waaah! Master! You can’t just chug it straight from the bottle like that!”
“Quit your whining! Booze is meant to be drunk, not enshrined on an altar! Hic!”
Gripping the bottle by its neck, Grandfather Gyeongsik tilted it back and swallowed several deep mouthfuls. What we had brought today were Meari: Autumn and Dalvorde. Both sat at 16% ABV, notably stronger than typical commercial soju. Yet, as if that mattered little to him, he emptied nearly half the bottle in a single breath, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and tossed out a brusque question.
“The size.”
“Pardon?”
“I asked about the size, you fool! How big do they need to be?! How many do you need?! Why d’you make me waste so many words!”
‘And here I thought a couple of useless slackers had wandered in.’
Watching the two young men chatter excitedly now that he had told them to state their desired size and quantity, Gyeongsik fell into quiet reflection. It had been nearly seventy years since he first settled on this land to fire onggi. Ever since his father dragged him here by the hand around the age of ten, he had spent his entire life crafting earthenware day in and day out.
‘Those were truly the good old days.’
Yet time was both terrifying and merciless. One by one, the comrades who used to fire kilns alongside him had departed. Some left for Seoul, claiming they needed to make real money. Others moved down south, aiming to establish dedicated pottery villages. And finally, some had passed on entirely, leaving this world for good.
‘Even with my own children, I couldn't bring myself to ask them to fire onggi.’
How much money could anyone possibly make doing this backbreaking work? Even through the days of pinching pennies just to survive, all three of his children had grown into respectable adults capable of standing on their own two feet. They had turned out so well that Gyeongsik often felt deeply grateful, wondering how such upright sons could have been raised by an irresponsible father like him. He simply didn't have the heart to tell boys like that to inherit the harsh life of an onggi craftsman.
‘So it’s only right that this trade ends with me.’
With that conviction, he had remained here all along. The house was crumbling. Just like his aging, weathered body. His eyes were dim, his ears could barely catch a sound, his legs trembled whenever he walked, and the tightness in his lower back flared with a tearing ache that was far from normal. Yet for a man who had spent his entire life shaping clay, there was nothing else he knew how to do.
‘Still, I can at least pound the kneading board.’
Whenever he worked, vigor surged through him. He felt truly alive. That was why he had made up his mind: he might no longer make a commercial business out of it, but he would live firing onggi until his very last breath.
‘Even so, all sorts of miserable scoundrels used to come sniffing around.’
There had been plenty of people like that over the years. Opportunists who caught wind of his workshop and came snooping around, claiming they needed traditional onggi for their business ventures. Almost all of them were cut from the exact same cloth. They would look at that mountain of "failures" piled outside, marvel at them with fake reverence, and scramble to cart them away for cheap.
‘But these two are different.’
The burly one seemed like a lumbering bear who didn't know the first thing about pottery, but the one standing tall and straight was another story entirely. The way he articulated his thoughts without hesitation, clearly explaining what he needed and the precise technical reasons behind it—that alone was enough for Gyeongsik to recognize the truth. Even if that lad looked to be in his early twenties at most, he was someone who deserved to be called a master artisan.
‘Above all, he has genuine pride in the liquor he makes. That’s what makes a real craftsman.’
He had presented his bottles with the unmistakable pride of a father boasting about a successful child who lived envy-free, and the taste more than lived up to that confidence. One wrapped around the palate like a crisp, invigorating mountain breeze, while the other possessed a rich, mellow sweetness that lingered luxuriously without turning cloying—an utterly distinct profile. It was a flavor well worth being proud of.
‘And that subtle glint of madness in his eyes... he’s definitely a fellow who’ll make waves.’
Watching him carry himself with a maturity far beyond his years—almost as if a man well into his thirties had been stuffed into a young man’s body—piqued Gyeongsik’s curiosity.
‘Now that makes the work worth doing.’
A brewer who crafted spirits of this caliber had claimed there was a liquor he could only brew using Gyeongsik's earthenware. How could an onggi master back down from an undertaking like that? If any potter dared walk away from such a challenge, Gyeongsik thought, he ought to snap their wrists so they could never utter the word "onggi" again.
“Ah, would this quantity and size work for you?”
Having finished their discussion, the burly fellow held out a notepad with scribbled notes. When Gyeongsik scolded him because his eyes couldn't make out the handwriting, the young man spoke aloud—and what came out made Gyeongsik wonder if he had misheard.
“Would it be possible to make twelve 10-mal pots (roughly 180 liters) and two 15-mal pots (roughly 270 liters)?”
“Eh? You’re using that much?!”
“And if possible, we’d love to observe the crafting process by your side. Would that be all right? When do you think you might begin making them?”
The sparkling, earnest eyes of the young master met his. Faced with that burning passion—so akin to the fire that had driven his own life—Gyeongsik had no choice but to surrender completely.
“If you want, you can watch today.”
“Pardon?”
“I was plannin’ on throwing a small one anyway, so stay and watch. Ain’t it what you need to brew your booze?”