A Single Shard by Linda Sue Park Page A

night came on. After clearing a space, he made a circle of stones from the stream. Then he built a little pyramid of twigs leaning against one another in the center of the circle. At the bottom of the pyramid went a bed of dried pine needles.
    With a well-practiced motion, Tree-ear struck the two flint stones together. A shower of sparks leapt to the pine needles. It took a few tries before a wisp of smoke curled up to signal the birth of a flame. Tree-ear shook his head in mock disgust. Crane-man nearly always started a fire on the first try.
    Tree-ear sat leaning against one of the boulders. He put the flint stones back into the pouch, then ate a rice cake from the bag, wrinkling his nose a little at the first bite. He had finished Ajima's rice cakes the day before, and the
gokkam
was long gone. These cakes had been purchased in the village, and they did not have the same taste or texture.
    After his meal, Tree-ear took out the ball of clay. He began pinching, kneading, rolling—not making anything yet, just waiting for the clay to whisper an idea. Soon the smooth curved back of a turtle took shape. Forming its head was more difficult, and Tree-ear bent studiously over the work.
    After a while he became aware that he was straining to see the clay by the light of the fire. He looked around; the sun was gone, its light lingering for a few moments longer. Tree-ear rose and untied the sleeping mat from the
jiggeh.
He unrolled it between the fire and the boulders and lay down on his stomach, his chin on his hands.
    "
Two things a man never grows tired of watching,
" he heard Crane-man say in his mind. "
Fire and falling water. Always the same, yet always changing.
"
    As the darkness grew, the fire began throwing odd shadows on the tree trunks around him. A sudden snap from the fire startled him, and he felt the uneasiness returning.
Time for sleep,
he told himself stoutly.
    He closed his eyes, but only for a moment. The darkness around him felt too big. Watching the fire for a while longer would lull him, he decided. It worked; between the warmth and the steady flickering of the flames, his eyelids grew heavy.
    Tree-ear suddenly jerked wide awake; he had heard a noise that was not the noise of the fire. It was so slight that it almost wasn't a noise—a whisper of movement, a disturbance in the still night air. He raised himself up on one elbow, listening, searching in the dim light of the newly risen half-moon. Perhaps it was nothing.
    Then he heard it again. This time there was no doubt. Something was moving through the forest not far from him. Something light-footed—an animal slipping weightlessly over the leaves...
    Slowly, slowly, he picked up the
jiggeh.
He meant to squeeze it into the hollow between the two boulders but could not do so silently. The branches of the
jiggeh
scraped against the granite. Tree-ear froze, holding his breath.
    This would never do. He had to work quickly, or the creature, whatever it was, would be upon him before he knew it. He shoved the
jiggeh
into the opening, put his back to it, and wiggled in himself. There was not enough room; he crouched, hunched over with his chin on his knees, and waited, his heart nearly bursting through his chest.
    Would the beast stay away from the fire? It was dying now, not much more than a bed of coals. Tree-ear cursed himself for not having put more wood nearby.
    The sound was coming closer; he could hear the rustle of leaves clearly off to his left. On the ground before him was a stick. It was only a twig, but Tree-ear reached for it anyway. He stripped the leaves from it and gripped it tightly. Perhaps, he thought wildly, he could blind the beast as it clawed at him, trying to drag him from between the rocks...
    How long would he have to wait? The moments crawled by. Then without further warning, the creature came into view.
    It was a fox!
    Tree-ear felt his pulse pounding in his throat. His thoughts seemed to be running a desperate race with each