Woo-jin thought about my question for several seconds. His white eyebrows twitched. Then he said, “I cannot say so that you will understand. It wasn’t the shape, or the dimensions, or the thickness of the walls. All pots are unique in those respects. No, it was what I felt inside. The pot’s spirit was not what it should have been.”
“The pot’s spirit?”
He reached for the lump of clay on the wheel and found it with his hands. He dribbled water on it and started to form it into a ball again. “There are spirits in all things,” he said as he worked the clay. “The mountains have a spirit. The trees, the sea, this wheel, the clay. If you are lucky and listen carefully, they speak to you. Then you will know who they really are.”
“Yes,” I said, “I hear spirits sometimes. I don’t always know what they are saying.”
“Perhaps,” Woo-jin said, raising a muddy finger, “you are not listening completely.”
I thought of when I had heard spirits. Most times, they had scared me. I had fought them and tried to make them go away. But there were times I had heard them clearly. I’d heard them in my sick infant; in Sun-jong, my young prince; at the tomb of Taejo; in an orchid in full bloom; in the two-headed dragon in my tapestry. I had heard them say, “One Korea.” I heard this and more, but I hadn’t always understood them. Perhaps the old potter was right—I hadn’t been listening completely.
“I want to learn how to hear the spirits in the pots,” I said, “and the spirits in other things, too. Can you teach me?”
“Hmmm,” Woo-jin said. “Are you willing to listen completely, no matter what they say to you?”
“Yes,” I answered.
He nodded and began pumping his legs again to turn the wheel.
Over the next several weeks, Kyung-jik and I settled into a routine. Kyung-jik slept in a corner of the big building in a bed he made out of straw and a blanket. He would always rise before the sun to start working the clay. It was a grueling process. Men delivered raw clay on oxcarts and dumped it in the yard next to the big building. Suk-won and Kyung-jik would spend hours picking through the new clay by hand to remove sticks, pebbles, and blades of swamp grass. Then they would press the clay through a series of goat-hair screens, each one finer than the previous one to remove the impurities. When they finished screening, they put the clay into large troughs and washed it three or four times. Then they beat it and kneaded it for hours before Suk-won said it was ready. It was incredibly hard work that Kyung-jik relished. At the end of each day, so much gray clay covered him he looked like a ghost. Sometimes I laughed at him, but never so he could see me.
I slept in the small room off the courtyard, and every day I arose with the sun. Since I was not the queen here, I helped with the cooking and household chores. Ki-soo was embarrassed that I did. She told me they used to have a housemaid and two workers to help Suk-won prepare the clay. I told her I didn’t mind helping. It gave me something to do, I said, and reminded me of when I was a girl and helped my mother. Ki-soo seemed to accept this, although I could tell she was still embarrassed. In the afternoon, I sat with Woo-jin as he made pots.
We’d been at the potter’s house for several weeks when the Ch’usŏk celebration began. Ki-soo and several women from the village had spent days in the potter’s house preparing for the three-day harvest festival. From the back of the house, they dug up tall narrow tok pots that they had buried the past spring. Inside the tall pots were various types of kimchi: spicy fermented napa cabbage, daikon, and cucumbers. In the kitchen, women from the village made japchae noodles, pork spine stew, jeon pancakes with fish, green onion and spinach salad, pork bulgogi. They pounded cooked rice and sugar into paste for dduk, enough for dozens of the half-moon cakes. They crushed persimmon berries and roasted barley for bori cha. They brought out the soju.
Of course, the food was much simpler than the fancy delicacies the palace cooks prepared for feasts at Gyeongbok. They didn’t have quail eggs in soy sauce, or squid garnished with sturgeon roe, or salmon from the North Pacific, or beef from Manchuria. But the feast here had a hearty, unassuming feel like I remembered from when I was a girl. It was straightforward and honest and I realized that unlike the palace feasts, this one was wholly—and in many ways more—Korean.
Since I had to pretend to be somebody other than the queen, I helped with the preparations. I didn’t mind. I had always helped with the Ch’usŏk feast when I was young, and I still remembered how to do most things. In fact, I enjoyed it. It was a welcome change from the pressures of running the country and fighting the Taewŏn-gun. Mostly I helped with the dduk because that was the main fare at the festival and it was something I’d always done when I was a girl. Ki-soo had told the village women the same story about me—that Kyung-jik and I were siblings whose house was burned down by the rioters because we were Min. All of the women accepted the story and treated me kindly. All, that is, except Chae-won.
Chae-won was a Yi. Before I met her, I learned from Ki-soo that she was from a yangban family in Jeonju. Her parents, unable to find a yangban man willing to marry their unattractive, ill-tempered daughter, made her marry a farmer here in the village. According to Ki-soo, she hadn’t been happy since the day she arrived. “Be careful what you say to her,” Ki-soo warned. “Chae-won has two faces and she has a loose tongue.”
I first met Chae-won when we worked on the dduk together with Ki-soo and two other women named Mee-su and Coh-ri. We were at the kitchen table in Ki-soo’s house. We were filling the rice cakes, some with bean paste, others with roasted sesame, and some with honey. Chae-won sat across from me. She was older than me, and wide in the body with a thick neck and small eyes. She always scowled. Even her smile was a twisted grimace. She eyed me suspiciously as if she thought I was about to steal something from her.
As we worked, Chae-won pounded and poked at the rice cakes as though she was angry with them. “I only like the cakes made with honey,” she grunted. “I don’t know why we make the ones with bean and sesame.”
“The children feel the same as you,” Ki-soo said. “They bite into a cake and if it isn’t honey, they put it back. I like them all, however.” The other women nodded in agreement.
“I do the same as the children,” Chae-won said as she jabbed at the rice with her stumpy hands. “If it is not honey, I put it back.”
“Those with bites in them don’t get eaten,” said Mee-su. “Then we must feed them to the pigs.”
“I do not care,” Chae-won sniffed. The others looked sideways at each other and shook their heads.
The women talked about many things as we worked. I had to be careful not to show who I was, especially with Chae-won watching my every move. So I just listened. They talked about the upcoming harvest, how fast their children were growing, how the behavior of birds and the color of the leaves foretold a mild winter. And they talked about what was happening in Seoul.
“I think the rioting is dreadful and unnecessary,” Mee-su said, pinching rice flour into a half-moon cake. “People were killed for nothing.”
“They are angry,” replied Coh-ri, spooning the sugary rice from a bowl. “The government takes too much from them in taxes and spends it on their palaces and fancy lifestyle. They do not care about the commoners.”
“I agree with the rioters,” Chae-won said, not doing anything. “I think they should chop the king’s and queen’s heads off.” She cocked her head at me. “What do you think, Soo-bo?”
I spooned bean paste into some rice flour. “I’m more concerned about the Taewŏn-gun,” I answered. “He gives the country to the Japanese to stay in power.”
Chae-won eyed me. “That is the same thing the queen worries about,” she said.
Coh-ri spoke up. “I worry more about China. They’ve dominated us for hundreds of years. I think Japan should put them in their place.”
Mee-su shook her head. “Japanese, Chinese . . . it doesn’t matter. We are Koreans. We should just be Koreans.”
To that, all the women nodde
d, save Chae-won who fingered honey out of a bowl and ate it.
The first day of Ch’usŏk began with paying respects to ancestors. In the morning, each family laid out food on the table in their house so that the spirits of their ancestors had something to eat during the three-day celebration. Suk-won and Ki-soo laid out a modest spread—what they could afford during these hard times. They burned incense to invite the spirits in, and they lit candles so the spirits could find the meal that was prepared for them. And when it was ready, Suk-won, Ki-soo, and Woo-jin, dressed in their finest hanboks, faced the table and bowed all the way down until their heads were on the floor. They stayed like that for a while, showing respect to those who had come before. Then they stood and invited Kyung-jik and me to do the same. Kyung-jik went first in a short, embarrassed bow. He didn’t stay bowed for long, and then it was my turn.
Ki-soo had given me one of her hanboks for the celebration. At first, she offered her best one, but I refused, explaining that it would give away who I was. So she gave me her secondary hanbok, a yellow and blue one which was the right length, but too big around the chest and waist. We cinched it in and it fit perfectly.
Dressed in Ki-soo’s hanbok, I stepped in front of the table with its simple food, candles, and incense, and something came over me. This was not a public display at the palace that I had to put on for all to see. For the first time since I was young, this was something simple, genuine, and sincere. Here I could feel the spirits and my own spirit, too. I tried to listen carefully as Woo-jin had said I should. I bowed as Mister Euno had taught me. I faced the table with my head low. I cupped my right hand over my left. I bent at the knee and lowered myself to the ground so that my hanbok spread out around me. I placed my hands on the floor, still right over left. I slowly bent at the waist and brought my forehead to my hands. There I stayed. And though I had my eyes closed, I saw the ghosts of my parents. They were there with me just as they were when I was a girl. I prayed to them, to my father to help me think, to my mother to help me feel. The ghosts of my own children—the one dead and the one living—were there, too. And the ghosts of the kings and queens all the way back to King Taejo and the spirits of my descendants all the way forward to the end of time.
I cannot say how long I stayed bowed like that. It could have been a short time, or it could have been very long. When I finished, I stood and faced the others. Kyung-jik looked anxious, as if he wanted to get the Ch’usŏk celebrations done with so he could get back to the hard work of preparing clay. Suk-won and Ki-soo lowered their eyes as if they didn’t want to intrude on my private thoughts. Woo-jin tilted his head high like a blind man does, and smiled.
Suk-won and Ki-soo’s house was the largest in the village, so that is where the public festivities took place. There were games, dancing, and music outside on the fine, fall day. Kyung-jik took keen interest in the games, especially those that were physical in nature. He was the best at jegichagi, keeping the bean-filled sack in the air with his feet longer than anyone else. When it came time for juldarigi, Suk-won and the men from the west vigorously recruited him for their side of the tug-of-war contest, telling him that if their team out-pulled the east, the harvest would be particularly good that year. The east team went for him, too, saying that if they won, the coming winter would be short and mild. The west team countered, telling Kyung-jik that the east had won several years in a row and that the winters had been just as long and harsh as always. Eventually Kyung-jik agreed to go with the west team, and Suk-won led them in a cheer.
Before the contest began, the village offered sacrifices of food and charms to the earth goddess, Teojuchin. Then the contestants of each side, dressed in white robes, danced and circled around the other, raising their heavy braided ropes over their heads to make them look like serpents. As they danced, they chanted and hurled insults at the other team. After some time, they looped the two ropes together and the contest began. The west team put Kyung-jik at the front of their rope and Suk-won just behind him. Across from him was Chae-won’s farmer husband, Hyeong-ju, big and strong from a lifetime of hard work. When they took hold of the rope, the men set their jaws and focused on the other side. Then, as the women and children waved flags and banged on cymbals and drums, the men began to pull. At the start, Hyeong-ju gave a mighty tug, causing many men on the west team to tumble forward. Kyung-jik dug in and held steady. When Hyeong-ju made another strong pull, Kyung-jik pulled back, giving his teammates time to regain their feet. Then Kyung-jik leaned into the rope and the entire west team leaned with him. Soon, the east team members were falling forward. Hyeong-ju tried to stem the west team’s advance, but Kyung-jik kept pulling. The muscles on his arms and back bulged out. Before the east could gather their feet, Kyung-jik shouted, “Pull!” and the west team gave it all they had. Hyeong-ju took a step forward and several more of his teammates stumbled. Then Hyeong-ju stumbled, too, and the contest was over. The west team let out a cheer, and their women and children waved flags and banged their cymbals and drums. Kyung-jik set down his rope and faced Hyeong-ju and they bowed to each other. The west team lifted Kyung-jik on their shoulders and paraded him around as if he was a king. My guard seemed a little embarrassed by the ordeal, but I could tell he was pleased, too. As he bounced on the shoulders of Suk-won and his teammates, something stirred inside me. Naturally, I was proud of him, but it was something more, too.
After the midday meal, the men and children went to the field in front of Suk-won’s house to fly kites. The children wrote their names on their kites so that evil spirits would blow away with the wind and not haunt their sleep. They tossed the kites into the air, and the children bounced and shouted with joy as the kites rose high. The kites were much simpler than the ones they flew at the palace, but against the mild blue sky, I thought they were beautiful. They were all colors—blue, red, yellow, and green. Most were plain, but one was shaped like a tiger, and another like a dragon. They had colorful ribbons off the sides and long tails that twisted and curled like a serpent’s tail in the breeze. The kites soared and my spirit soared with them. I felt the spirits of the children who had written their names on the kites. And my spirit held hands with the spirits of their parents on the ground, watching their joyful children. For the first time in my life, I felt the spirit of my people, the true spirit of my country. I was their queen, but I’d never gotten to know them. Here in the afternoon sun sitting among these simple people, I became one of them. And as the kites flew so high that I thought the sun would swallow them, I vowed to always remember who they were. They were my people. They were Korea.
When the children grew tired of flying their kites, we gathered in the clearing aside Suk-won’s house for music, dancing, and storytelling. I sat alone, happy to take it all in without having to be careful not to expose who I really was. I still wore Ki-soo’s hanbok and had my hair pinned back in a braid. The young girls danced the buchaechum in their hanboks and bright-red fans. Accompanying them, a man plucked a seven-string geum guitar, another played a sogeum flute, and a third pounded a janggu drum. The music and the dancing were not very good—certainly not what I was used to. But the soulful way they played and danced somehow seemed to be more Korean than what was performed at the palace.
“What do you think of the dancing?” a voice said from behind me. I snapped out of my trance and turned around. There in front of me was Chae-won. She wore a green hanbok that stretched tight across her stomach. She fanned herself with a Chinese fan. I forgot to give her a small bow as I should have since she was my elder. “The girls are beautiful,” I answered. “I especially like their red fans.”
“They are not so good,” Chae-won said. “When I lived in Jeonju, the dancing and music was much better. The food was better, too. The Yi clan is much more skilled at celebrations, as they are in most everything.” She looked down her nose at me. “I would think the entertainment in Seoul is better, too. Is it not?”
“That depends on what better is, Chae-won,” I answered. “This here, I think,
is perfect.”
“Perfect? This?” Chae-won sniffed. “When I first saw you, I thought you were a person of taste. You held yourself that way. But now I am not so sure. Your parents must be uneducated sangmin. Why aren’t you with them for the Ch’usŏk festival?”
“My parents died when I was young. And they were educated well enough,” I said with some force.
“Well, apparently their education did not pass on to you,” she said, fanning herself.
My blood boiled, and I almost lashed out at her as I would have if I didn’t have to pretend not to be queen. Instead, I glared at her and said nothing.
“Hmmm,” Chae-won said with a nod. “I see you struggle to hold your tongue. Perhaps, you are hiding something.”
Chae-won’s mouth twisted into her scowling smile. Then she walked away.
TWENTY-SEVEN
“She knows,” I said to Kyung-jik. “Chae-won knows who I am and she is a Yi!”
My guard and I were in the courtyard behind Suk-won’s house. It was the end of a long day. Kyung-jik had changed out of his muddy clothes and washed. He had pulled his hair into a short tail. It was still wet from washing and was black and shiny like a raven’s feathers. The night had the dusty smell of late summer. In the corners of the courtyard, the first leaves to fall rustled in the gentle breeze. The air was dry and the stars twinkled brightly above.
Kyung-jik looked down. “I will keep an eye on her. You have to stay in hiding for a while longer.”
“I hope we don’t have to move,” I said. “I want to stay here.”
“I know,” he said. “I would like to stay, too. It is peaceful.”
“Yes,” I nodded, “it is.”
We were quiet for a while. Kyung-jik looked at the ground as if he was trying to find something he lost among the cobblestones. I studied him. I thought how peaceful it would be if he and I were husband and wife, living here, him working for Suk-won and me raising chickens and growing vegetables in a garden. I thought about lying next to him at night, massaging his aching shoulders after a hard day’s work pounding the clay. I thought of making love to him. But I knew it could never be.
The Dragon Queen Page 24