by Sumi Hahn
* * *
You must leave the ocean before your fingers and lips grow numb. Grab your fistful of treasure and fly back up toward the light. When your head breaks the surface, release the air you held captive in your chest, letting it fly away in a whistling scream.
Rest your cheek on the gourd, which bobs on the water, dreaming of the steady ground that once moored it. Place your shell inside the net bag and thank the sea king for his gift. Close your eyes and imagine the sun’s fire sinking deep into your belly.
Swallow another gulp of shining air.
Dive into the depths one more time.
Two
Mother packed a large clump of dripping seaweed into the bottom of the big wooden basket as Junja watched, envious. The abalone, snug in their shells, were packed in next and covered with more seaweed. Mother threw a ladle of sea water on top before tying the basket shut. Junja held the carrying rack steady while Mother secured the basket to its wooden frame.
For her annual trip to Hallasan, Mother was wearing braided straw shoes and socks that had never been mended. Her crisp shirt was closed by five wooden buttons instead of the usual ties, and its bright persimmon had not yet faded to mud. A silver hairpin, borrowed from Grandmother, glinted in the coil of hair at the nape of her neck. Under the soft light of the setting moon, she could have been her daughter’s reflection.
Junja took a breath before trying again. “Please, Ummung. You promised I could go this year.” Ever since Mother had announced her intention to fetch a piglet from Hallasan, Junja had been begging to make the trip in her stead. The girl’s voice was a murmur because everyone in the house was asleep, but the chickens opened their eyes to glare. “Let me go, please! I swear I’ll be fine.” Junja had never ventured more than a two-hour walk from the village by herself, and she had not yet visited the sacred mountain, seeing it only from a distance.
Mother hefted the pack, feeling the security of each knot with her fingertips. The weight of the basket reminded her that someday she would not be able to make this trek. When that time came, she would have to see her friend, the pig farmer’s wife, during market trips in town. Junja’s mother recognized in her daughter’s eyes the same restlessness she had felt at that age.
Junja watched Mother press her lips together. The girl had reached her eighteenth year without paying her respects to the mountain god. The lapse was understandable with so many strangers on the island. It was impossible to walk into town these days without passing at least half a dozen carts. Motorized vehicles rumbled by with such frequency that the old man living near the big road talked about starting a roadside stall. Yesterday alone he had counted two buses, four motorcycles, and a military truck, full of soldiers.
Despite its novelty, the traffic added to an overall sense of unease. Mother was probably fretting about the diver who had agreed to take her place while she was gone. The woman had witnessed an eel entangled with an octopus, illuminated by a beam of light. The purple tentacles had clung to the dark eel, whose jagged teeth were sunk into the octopus’s head. A glowing halo had outlined the creatures’ deadly embrace, so mesmerizing the woman that she almost failed to surface in time. The spooked diver had stayed out of the water all week but insisted she was up to the task. Mother’s worries were obvious: Was that woman fit to lead her dives during her absence?
Sensing her mother’s hesitation, Junja thrust her arms through the carrying straps. She stood, gasping when the full weight of the pack settled on her. She pretended to clear her throat. “See how easily I can lift everything? If I go, you’ll be able to get so much done. Please, let me help you, Mother!”
Mother shook her head. “Manipulative little wench!” She always scolded her children before relenting to any of their requests.
Junja muffled her excited yelp and threw her arms around her mother’s neck. “Thank you!”
Mother shook the girl off. Her voice was brisk. “I’m not letting you go because you want to, but because it’ll help me.” She was already thinking ahead to everything she could do with the extra hours. “And you’re long overdue for a visit to the mountain god.” She squinted at her daughter, who had copied her mother by putting on her best shirt, just in case. Junja’s hair was hanging in a braid down her back, and her face had been scrubbed. She looked presentable enough, but her feet were bare. “Put on your shoes.”
The girl made a face. “They’re too small. Besides, it’s more comfortable walking without them.”
“Shoes aren’t for your comfort. You need to look respectable when you reach the pig farmer’s house.” Mother sat on a black stone to remove her shoes and socks. “You can borrow mine.”
Mother’s socks felt warm against Junja’s skin. Though the girl managed to pull them on, the straw shoes were tight.
“How are they?” Mother peered down at Junja’s feet.
Junja tried to wiggle her toes. Mother’s shoes were too small, but she didn’t want to give her an excuse to change her mind. Anything would be better than another dull day harvesting seaweed, which was what Junja would be teaching the junior divers in her charge today. The shoes, as well as the truth, would have to stretch a bit.
“They feel fine.”
“Well, I guess that settles it. You’ll go to Hallasan in my place.” Mother closed her eyes to think. “You’ll pass two shrines along the trail, but you won’t have time to stop on the way up. Pay your respects after you deliver the abalone.”
When Mother placed a heavy gourd in a sling around her neck, the girl had to refrain from grunting at the added weight. “Don’t drink from the gourd. It’s seawater to keep the kelp wet. You can drink from streams along the way, once you’re on the pass. The first stream is at the foothills of the mountain, after you pass the last sweet potato field. A couple hours later, you’ll see a large rock that resembles a dol hareubang. Take the pack off there and pour the seawater onto the seaweed. By this time, you’ll be very close, only three thousand paces away. The sun will be high, so you will need to walk quickly, or else the abalone will die, and the trip will be wasted.”
The weight of the pack made Junja stagger as she took her first step.
“You’re eighteen years old now and very strong,” Mother said to steady her. “Even stronger than I was when I first climbed the mountain.”
“What if I stumble?” Junja considered whether this wasn’t such a good idea after all. Gathering seaweed was boring, but it wasn’t hard work.
“Then you will get up and keep walking.”
“What if I take too long, and the abalone go bad?”
“Then you will disappoint the pig farmer’s wife, and we will eat no pork this winter. And I will think you are a stupid girl instead of a clever one. Do not speak about bad fortune, or your breath may give it life. Put those kinds of thoughts out of your mind,” Mother hissed, willing the bad luck away from her daughter toward herself.
She draped a small purse around Junja’s neck, tucking it out of sight in her shirt. “One coin for the cart, two for the constable at the pass. Tell him why you are going, using these words exactly: ‘I am delivering goods from the haenyeo of Lonely Rock Village to the pig farmer of Cloud House Farm.’ If he asks you to show him what’s in the basket, then do so quickly.”
Junja nodded. Her sudden misgivings faded, giving way to excitement about her first trip away from the village by herself.
“Make sure you give the wife of the eldest son my greetings as well as my apology.” Mother bit her lip. “Keep your wits about you. If you see anything suspicious, leave the road and try to avoid being seen.”
“What do you mean by ‘suspicious,’ Ummung?” Junja tried to reach down to tug at her sock, but the bulky pack limited her movement.
Mother pretended to adjust the bindings on the pack. Just the other day, Nationalist soldiers had done the unthinkable, entering a bulteok while divers were warming themselves by the bonfire. The men had stood there, leering, until a stooped granny chased them out with a stick, mutte
ring. If the men had understood her, they would not have laughed, as she had cursed them in the old tongue, which no mainlanders understood.
Junja’s mother undid and retied a knot. She never thought she would miss those Japanese vermin. They, at least, would not have sullied themselves by entering a lowly female space.
“Just make sure you pay attention to everything around you. Don’t get distracted. You don’t want to be surprised by a snake or a boar on the mountain.” Mother shooed Junja toward the direction of the big road. Her parting words served as both reminder and talisman, to ward off forgetfulness and misfortune.
“Your load will feel light, and you will move with sure feet. You will climb the mountain path, passing two bangsatap. When you reach the dol hareubang, you will water the contents of the basket, knowing that you are almost there. Walk quickly. Someone from the pig farmer’s family will meet you. You will stay one night and come home tomorrow with a healthy piglet.”
* * *
The night stars were still winking in the western sky as Junja closed the wooden gate at the main entrance of the village. She balanced against the wall to remove a pebble embedded in the sole of the shoe. Her feet felt stifled. The pack pulled at her, hard, and she had to remind herself that she was a haenyeo, a woman stronger than most men.
The footpath from the village widened gradually as it merged with the paved main road. Junja slowed her steps, hoping for an agreeable farmer with a cart to pass by soon. On the dirt, the straw shoes had been tolerable, but on this hard surface she could feel every ridge and bump in the braiding.
The discomfort reminded Junja to stamp her feet and spit on the pavement, just like Grandmother always did on the roads that the Japanese built. Grandmother told her that when she was a girl, everyone walked or rode their horses all over Jeju by using the dirt-trailed olle. “It took days to travel from one end of the island to the other, but it was a beautiful journey that we made on special occasions. We would take food and visit friends and relatives in villages along the way. Each olle had a guardian spirit, a special tree, rock, or stream that we would pray to, or leave small gifts for, like flowers or nuts. When the Japs invaded, they bulldozed and paved most of the ancient footpaths, which our ancestors formed a thousand years ago. Modern roads were better, they said. Travel would be easier for everyone. Ha! Faster roads and the contraptions that used them only made it easier for those bloodsuckers to steal from us.”
By the time the first horse-drawn cart made an appearance, only the morning star and humpbacked moon still hung on the glowing horizon. The eastern sky was a pale violet, streaked with orange, while Hallasan was a looming silhouette of a woman, luxuriant in repose. At this early hour, Junja could almost see the goddess of the mountain breathing, her bosom rising and falling as she stretched out, long hair cascading down to the sea.
Junja waved her arms to attract the cart driver’s attention. “Are you heading toward the mountain pass, sir?” Junja hoped that her bow was convincing enough, restricted as she was by the pack.
The man shook his head and urged the horse to go faster.
Junja spluttered as the cart wheeled away. Not a word of greeting or even apology! She had never encountered such rudeness before. All sorts of stories were being whispered about the strangers on the island; now she had one of her own.
Another cart appeared around the bend moments later. Junja’s relief, however, turned into disappointment when she saw that a passenger was already sitting beside the driver. Her feet dragged as the pack grew even heavier.
The cart slowed down when it pulled up alongside her. The passenger addressed Junja in a voice that was noticeably deep and sonorous. “Excuse me, miss, but where are you going with that large pack?”
A young man with a kind face smiled down at her. He was wearing the same baggy hemp trousers and rusty shirt that all Jeju men wore, except that his head was clean-shaven.
Junja lowered her head in respect before speaking. “Good morning, sunnim. I’m going up to Cloud House Farm to deliver abalone from Lonely Rock Village.”
The monk beamed. “What a fine coincidence! I’m headed up that way too.” He turned to the driver, who cut the monk off before he could ask his question.
“Nope, my horse can’t pull all three of us that far. Not with that load she’s carrying.”
The young man’s smile didn’t flicker. “I see. Then one of us must get off the cart to assist this young maid with her heavy burden.”
The driver snorted. “Won’t be me. My cart, my horse.”
“Then it is I who must go.” The monk gathered his walking stick and bag and thanked the driver, handing him a small coin. “May you travel safely, sir.” He climbed out of the cart and offered his place to Junja with a smiling nod.
The girl was gratified by the young man’s generosity. If she took this cart, she would be sure to reach the mountain in time. A delay would cost her the abalone as well as the piglet, so she had no choice but to accept his offer. Still, it would be rude to agree too quickly.
“You’re too kind, sir. I can’t possibly take your place. I’m sure another cart will come this way soon.”
The monk held up his hand as his face crinkled into a wide grin. “Unlike you, miss, I don’t have a heavy burden that needs to reach its destination before the sun climbs too high. As you said, another cart is sure to come this way soon.”
Junja hesitated again, out of decorum. She tried to bow, forgetting that she was prevented from doing so by the pack. She bent her head as deeply as she could. “Thank you very much, sir. Thank you!”
The monk helped Junja climb into the cart. Once she had settled in place, the driver clucked to his horse, who flicked his tail before he began walking. Junja waved to the monk, who raised his walking stick and grinned as the cart pulled away.
The girl turned to the driver. “That’s the kindest monk I’ve ever met.”
The man scratched his ear. “He wasn’t uppity like a lot of ’em are. And he didn’t speak in riddles either. He sure talked a lot, though. You’re not going to talk my ears off too, are you?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. I need to pay attention to the road. You can’t be too careful these days, with strangers popping out from every tree and rock.”
Junja remembered her mother’s warning. “Are the roads dangerous?”
The man considered. “I don’t know about dangerous. More like strange. Lots of strange things happening.”
“Like the cart that passed me just before you arrived!” Junja jumped at the chance to share her outrage. “The driver didn’t even slow down when I waved. When he saw me, he drove even faster, as if he didn’t want to be seen.”
The farmer spat. “Bastard almost ran me off the road. Could’ve made my horse go lame. No manners at all! Definitely wasn’t a local. Makes you curious about what schemes he’s up to, scurrying around like a rat.”
After grumbling for a few moments, the farmer roused himself for one final outburst. “Damn foreigners even charge us to use our own roads. As bad as the Jap bloodsuckers.” He spat again. “That reminds me: Do you have coins for the pass?”
Junja pointed to the bag around her neck. “Yes, sir. And for you too.”
With that satisfactory reply, the man didn’t say another word to Junja for the remainder of the trip.
Three
On the approach to the foothills of Hallasan, the patchwork fields of the lowlands turned into forests of tender green maple and blooming cherry. The cart came to an abrupt halt, pulling up to a break in the trees where a dirt pass met the main road. The farmer jumped off the cart, surprising Junja, who thought that he was going to help her down. Instead, he wandered into the woods, where he took a long, loud piss.
At the entrance to the pass, a constable in a green uniform was hunched under a blooming cherry tree, asleep. A breeze from the mountain stirred a flurry of loose blossoms, which showered upon the sleeping man. Pale pink petals capped his bushy head and blanketed
the pistol cradled in his crossed arms. His green hat was lying on the ground, full of pink. The sound of his snoring grated through the humming and twittering of insects and birds. The air was thick with tiny wings that Junja waved away from her eyes as she approached the sleeping figure.
“Sir?” Her whisper disappeared into the crunching gravel of the cart driving away.
The man’s nose twitched as a blossom landed on his nose, but his snoring did not change in volume.
Junja swallowed and raised her voice. “Sir? I have toll money for the pass.” She didn’t dare touch a strange man.
When he still didn’t respond, Junja decided to tiptoe past. Just as her foot took a step back from the huddled figure, a hand darted out and grabbed her sock.
“Where do you think you’re going without paying?” The constable reached for his hat and put it on, showering more petals on his head. His mainland accent was strong. A city man from Seoul, Junja guessed.
“I didn’t want to wake you, sir. I have the money right here.” Junja pointed to the bag around her neck.
The man grunted as he rose. The girl could not help staring. She had never seen such a bulging stomach before.
The constable placed the gun back in its holster and hiked up his pants as circled her. Petals fell out of his hair and beard. “You were going to sneak past me, eh?” His menacing tone was foiled by a belch.
“No, sir. I thought I could pay you upon my return. This is the only way back, after all.”
“What’s in that basket? Weapons for Communist rebels hiding in the mountains?” The man’s eyes narrowed under his unruly head of hair.
Junja took a deep gulp of air before reciting what her mother told her to say. “I am delivering goods from the haenyeo of Lonely Rock Village to the pig farmer of Cloud House Farm.”
The constable swallowed as he rubbed the bulging mound of his stomach. “How can I be sure?”