Content note: Brief, non-graphic discussion of trauma/PTSD concepts near the end of the chapter, framed philosophically through Dao and memory. Can be skipped without loss of plot.
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The next day dawned bright and clear. Feeling a little stiff from all the bending, digging, and lifting of the previous day, Chún went through his Monkey Movement Dao practice in the trees around the clearing for about a shí, not forgetting some ground practice. He then took half a shí to weave himself a temporary basket from tough old vine fibres, along with another temporary loincloth, before heading for the creek and the clay deposits he had scouted the day before. He munched on a Heaven and Earth Vine fruit as he walked, talking quietly to his locus.
"So my initial idea is just to do a regular pot, like the potter in the village does. Really simple. Dry it, fire it. Both of us watch how the clay changes to ceramic. Then, once we know how it normally works, we can experiment with adding Essence."
Splashing across the creek to the far bank, where a small gouge exposed a deposit of ordinary—well, as ordinary as possible, given that everything on the Mountain was showing a much higher level of Essence since it had been closed off into its own pocket world—clay, he began digging it out with a heavy stick, knocking chunks loose into the temporary basket.
"The big problem I see," he said between blows at the clay, releasing chunks from the bank that tumbled down into the basket, "is that I remember when I was hauling clay, water, and firewood for the potter, he was always cursing at his apprentices for having too much water in the clay. Or heating it too fast—then the water would turn to steam and crack the pot."
"And you want to keep the Water, Earth, and Life Dao patterns in the pottery so the Essence herbs and plants you grow in them stay alive longer—which is directly opposite to what firing does. For Water, at least," the Mountain replied thoughtfully. "That fits with what I have observed."
Chún paused in his digging, puzzled. "You observed?"
There was a sensation like a shrug. "I am part of the land. Even now, there is still a connection to the original physical mountain site on Golden Crow Planet. Whatever touches the land it sees, I see. And remember."
Chún hummed as he began scooping clay chunks into the basket. "Any chance someone has already tried this?"
A sense of amusement and fascination answered him. "Never."
"Seriously? Why not?"
"Most people who can see Essence patterns and work with them as easily as you do are World-level or above Consumers, or advanced True Cultivators. None of them ever wanted to make their own cups, bowls, or pots—let alone make ones that sustain living plants."
Chún stopped and scratched his head. "Oh. Is it a stupid idea?"
"I think it has great potential. If you learn it with pottery, where else could you apply it? Forging, weaving, construction, painting…"
He frowned, lifted the full basket, and balanced it on his left shoulder. Noticing a large, flat river stone in the water by his feet, he bent and picked it up, then splashed back across the creek.
"Do not Consumers have all those things?" he asked as he walked. "I mean, I know the blacksmith in the village can Essence-forge. He used to brag about it often enough."
The link gained the sense of a traditional parental or elder's snort of disdain. "If you call applying Essence as fuel to drive a forge fire and rudimentary inscribing 'Essence forging', then yes, they have something by that name. Your idea is about working with the natural Dao patterns of materials to retain useful attributes. That is very different."
He reached the kiln area and dropped the stone beside the remains of the small fire in front of the now completely dry mud construct. Setting the basket down, he picked up the shovel and dug another shallow hole near the mud pit.
He tipped the clay into the new hole, crushing any overly large lumps and tossing aside hard pebbles and stones. Drawing water from the stream with Essence manipulation, he wetted the clay thoroughly, then pressed and folded it with his hands into a solid mass.
There was something deeply therapeutic about working directly with his hands instead of Essence. Over the next shí, he kneaded and squished the clay, breathing in the cool, rich-smelling air thick with Essence. Birds twittered faintly over the creek's gurgling song, and a strange tension slowly eased out of him.
He realised he had been pushing himself like a slave lately, barely noticing the incredible beauty of the paradise that was now his home. As he tasted the scents of forest, growing things, and moisture at the back of his sinuses, he wondered how long he had been moving through his days like this—blind.
"Since about that 'failure' with the leaf," the familiar resonant tenor answered.
He nodded and sat cross-legged, placing the flat stone in front of him as a work surface.
Normally, the potter would add crushed shards of old pottery or failed firings to the clay to prevent cracking—much like kneading flour into dough—but Chún had none yet. It was another reason he wanted to attempt a completely 'ordinary' firing first. Besides observing what happened inside the kiln, he fully expected it to fail, giving him material for later attempts.
For another shí, he kneaded handfuls of clay, working it towards a dough-like consistency and ensuring no dry lumps remained. Without pottery powder, it was not quite what he remembered from the potter's workshop, but he understood why, and that knowledge eased his frustration.
Once satisfied, he returned the clay to the basket and carried it, along with the flat stone, back to the fire pit in the clearing. He needed to dry the clay a little more.
He set the basket down and placed the stone on the edge of the pit beside the hot embers and ash. "Mountain," he sent cautiously, "can you ask the Vine if it is all right for me to work the clay here? I would prefer to use the fire pit to dry the pottery after shaping it."
A flash of agreement came back. "She says it is fine—clay and water are not a problem. Also, thank you for not placing the kiln in the clearing. One supplementary source of Fire Essence is enough, she says."
Chún flushed. "I am sorry about the fire pit, Your Highness."
The vine's leaves and branches rustled. "She says, 'Do not do it again.'"
With permission granted, he fetched a bundle of small deadwood from the pile and fed it into the fire pit beside the stone. As hot air flowed steadily over the surface, he lifted the rough block of clay from the basket and set it on the warmed rock.
Looking up at the sky, he decided it was time for lunch. All the physical labour had left him hungry. He went to the creek to wash his hands and torso—he had no desire to eat clay.
Sitting by the pit, eating from his wok—ridiculous as it still felt compared to the old gourds—he made a point of truly looking at the cool, Essence-mist-filled clearing. He admired the flickering Dao patterns and the Heaven and Earth Vine as it shimmered in and out of visibility. He listened to the water flowing, the breeze whispering through leaves, and found himself slipping into a light meditation, simply watching Essence move in and out of his body.
When he drifted back to awareness, the food in the wok had gone cold. He tipped it into the fire pit to burn—he was no longer hungry—and felt far more relaxed. Checking the clay block, he poked it gently and was relieved to find the timing right. It had stiffened to the proper consistency.
He moved the clay away from the fire, pulled the stone back in front of him, and reached into the pit, now mostly ash. Taking a handful of fine wood ash, he dusted the stone's surface. Then he tore off a lump of clay, flattened it into a rough disc, and began pinching it into the shape of a small pot.
Occasional water from the stream kept the clay workable, while the ash prevented sticking. As each piece took form, he smoothed the cracks with careful fingers.
He made several pots over the next shí. By the time the Golden Crow was heading for its nest in a blaze of colour, he placed the finished pieces around the edges of the fire pit to dry.
"As we suspected, excess water is leaving the clay, drawing the shapes tighter together," the Mountain observed. "You have set yourself a difficult task."
Chún scratched his head as he fed wood into the centre of the pit—around his stone stew pot—careful to keep the clay pieces near the edges, out of direct contact with flame. His attention lingered on the Mountain's words.
"I was thinking about that. We cannot add patterns to the ceramic without disrupting how it forms. This may sound strange, but… can we do what you did when you hid yourself?"
A sensation of surprise—and confusion—came back along the link.
Chún laughed softly. "I do not want to make the pots invisible. But if I understand what you and His Majesty explained—there is a 'false' ordinary Mountain that is still you, while most of you, the part with Dao and Essence, is elsewhere?"
"Yes. That is crude, but essentially correct. But what does that have to do with—"
"These pots are made from very heavy Essence-imbued material compared to ordinary pottery. So… just as you have an ordinary Mountain connected to a more complex one, could the pots also have two selves? An ordinary ceramic self, and another that still holds Water, Earth, and Life patterns? The complex part could influence the ceramic without destroying it. Maybe."
There was a long, startled silence.
"Let me be clear," the Mountain said slowly. "You want to make living pots to care for Essence plants?"
Chún choked. "No! I mean—can they not have separate Dao selves without being like you? I just thought… if they could be ceramic and clay at the same time—"
"Ceramic already remembers being clay, Chún," the Mountain replied gently. "It is already both. I see what you are reaching for, but it would be simpler to ask the ceramic to remember being clay, and to feed the soil and plant placed within it, without trying to change its present pattern."
Chún blinked. "It can do that?"
"Everything does," the Mountain said. "You call it memory."
Chún shook his head. "I cannot pull things from memory and make them real."
"People who have experienced trauma would disagree," the Mountain said dryly.
Chún froze. "…Yes. Of course." He swallowed. "You would think I would remember what happens to me often enough. Still, that is not the same as actually going back to—"
A wave of disagreement cut him off.
"Is this something I want to know?" he asked carefully.
"Your body may stay here. Your Dao returns."
Chún shuddered. "I… I do not even want to— That is terrifying."
The Mountain shrugged. "Which is why unresolved past events matter. Not merely putting them behind you. Otherwise, your Dao becomes stuck."
Chún exhaled sharply. "That explains a great deal. And I do not wish to discuss this further. I just need pots." He paused, then asked cautiously, "So the pots could draw on old clay patterns to affect what they hold, without altering the ceramic itself?"
"Simplistic," the Mountain agreed, "but essentially correct."
"Then we will try your approach. I have nothing better." He sighed as the last light of the Crow vanished. "The firing will have to wait until tomorrow. Another shí to dry properly, at least. I do not wish to work a kiln in the dark."
"Bath and dinner, then?" the Mountain suggested.
"In the hotter half of the pool," Chún replied, already turning toward his cave.