by Sumi Hahn
Peanut nodded before rapping the side of her head with her knuckles. “I almost forgot! Ummung told me you needed to go to bed soon because of all the work you did. I could help you fall asleep by rubbing your back. Ummung says I’m better at this than everyone else!”
“I’d like that very much.”
As the old woman settled into her bed, the child sat down, crossing her legs. Breathing deeply, she rubbed her hands together briskly.
The old woman closed her eyes as Peanut massaged her back in a slow, circular motion. So precocious, this little one. She sighed. A feeling of warmth trickled down her spine. Her body eased into the mat.
The little girl continued to comfort the old woman long after her breathing slowed and she fell asleep.
Twenty-Four
Junja stared up at the darkness, feeling trapped between her grandmother’s snoring and her impending nuptials the next day. Would she never fall asleep easily in this house? She turned over and punched the neck roll.
Perhaps some fresh air would help. Taking care not to rouse her grandmother, Junja slipped out of their shared comforter and crept along the floor. She slid the door open, pausing when Grandmother groaned and turned over. When the old woman’s rumbling deepened, Junja shut the door.
The girl shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. The sky above her roared with light. The great heavenly river streaked across the darkness, a glowing path that divided the starry canopy in half.
How old had she been when Mother first told her the story of the weaver and the cowherder? Junja remembered how sorry she had felt for the lovers, who could only meet once a year, when magpies and blackbirds flew to heaven to form a bridge over that milky expanse. Junja blinked, trying to remember which star was the weaver and which the herder.
“That one’s me. And that one’s you.” Suwol’s voice could have been a whisper from the trees. He was pointing to the two stars Junja had been gazing at.
The girl smiled. “How long have you been outside?”
Suwol shrugged. “Not long. I was hoping you’d show up and decided to wait.”
“Are you having trouble sleeping as well?”
“Who wouldn’t on the night before a last-minute arranged marriage?” The boy sounded rueful.
Junja wondered if he had overheard her protesting to her grandmother. Then she wondered if he had done his own share of protesting as well.
“We don’t have to go through with this, you know. Not if you have any doubts. If you’re marrying me just to obey your grandmother, we shouldn’t get married at all.” As Suwol ran his hands through his hair, the girl noticed again how long and graceful his fingers were.
“What choice do we have?” Junja was genuinely curious.
“I don’t know. I could run away, maybe. Or go into hiding. I didn’t really have a plan when I decided to talk to you.”
Junja felt a rush of warmth toward the boy for considering her feelings. She wanted to return the favor. “What about you? How do you feel about getting married tomorrow?”
Suwol swallowed. “My opinions shouldn’t influence you in any way.”
The girl persisted. “But I want to know: If you had to marry me tomorrow, would you be doing so against your will?”
Suwol pointed up to the sky again. “That cowherd up there? He waits an entire year for just one night with his wife. You’d be surprised what a man is capable of when he’s in love.”
Junja’s heart thumped. The boy’s words made her feel like she was soaring.
Suwol’s voice was shy. “I’ve wanted to marry you since we picked gosari together.”
That morning among the ferns had been the happiest hours of Junja’s life. They had been perfect, marred only by their proximity to the worst hours of her life.
Junja shivered. “I’ve never been as happy as I was picking gosari with you.”
Suwol reached out for her hand. “We could pick gosari together as a married couple, if that’s all right with you.”
Junja looked at his outstretched fingers, which trembled as they waited for her to touch them. “We’ll have to figure out a way to make it all right.”
The boy and the girl stood, holding each other’s hands, under an arch of stars.
Twenty-Five
When the sun rose the next morning, everyone agreed that the day promised to be glorious, with ideal autumn weather for a wedding. The air was brisk, but not painfully so, and the brightness of the sun made everyone feel warm. Even the children behaved, attending to their chores without having to be asked and playing among themselves without bothering their busy mothers.
In the kitchen, women chopped and mixed. The various dishes tasted exceptional, and everyone looked forward to gorging themselves at the wedding banquet that would stretch late into the evening.
The men were busy too, bringing down a barrel of makgoli that had been chilling inside a cave where giant blocks of ice from the mountain lake were stored, blanketed by thick layers of wood shavings and leaves. After several rounds of tasting, the fermented rice wine met with everyone’s enthusiastic approval.
* * *
Junja looked down at the dress that Suwol’s mother was measuring against her. The bridal hanbok was a dainty, embroidered concoction the color of dawn. The girl shook her head regretfully, and the small woman was forced to concede that it was impossible to alter the dress to fit the girl, who stood a head taller. Mrs. Yang’s murmured instructions to an auntie led to the presentation of several other silken options, all of them far more luxurious than anything Junja had ever owned. The only dress that came close to fitting was an antique dance costume. One of the aunties had dug it out of a dusty wooden chest, a forgotten legacy from a relative who once danced for the royal court.
While the jacket top was respectable, the yellow skirt was scandalous: gauzy and transparent, more appropriate for swirling about and beating drums than for a formal wedding. Suwol’s mother looked pained when one of the aunties piped up that these were modern times after all and that at least the dress was an appropriate color to be married in.
“This is so pretty.” Junja fingered the intricate needlework on the jacket sleeves.
“It’s an old-fashioned dance costume—doesn’t that bother you?” Suwol’s mother was more distressed than Junja, who was sincere in her admiration.
“Not at all.” Junja smoothed the skirt with care.
“It’s too short. The tops of your socks will show.”
“I don’t think Suwol will mind.” Junja looked down at her feet, which were sticking out, bare. A cousin had promised to loan her white dress socks and silk shoes for the ceremony. “If I bend my knees just a bit, the dress will hang perfectly.”
Grandmother had emphasized the importance of showing just enough gratitude without fawning. Junja understood: they were not just fisherfolk, but yangban stock of old. In her grandmother’s eyes, this was a marriage between social equals, so Junja had to hide her feelings of inadequacy.
“Well, even if we have to make do with the dress, the other wedding preparations will be done properly.” Suwol’s mother threw up her hands. “I’ll take you to the bathhouse.”
* * *
The small woman pointed to the washing area and soaking tub and handed Junja a small lidded crock. “Please, use this special oil. It will make your hair very soft and fragrant.”
The girl bowed. “Thank you very much.”
“I’ve got to hurry back to the kitchen.” Suwol’s mother ran several steps before stopping in her tracks. She called out over her shoulder. “I almost forgot: one of the aunties will be coming by to give you a scrub.”
As Junja soaped and rinsed herself, she looked around the bathing room, which bore obvious signs of recent use. Most likely Suwol had visited this space before her. What must he be thinking? Her heart thumped. Tonight she would be sharing a room with him, alone.
Like she did before a dive, the girl quieted herself, emptying her mind. She climbed into the tub, pausing
to take a breath before sliding under the water completely. She sat on the bottom of the tub, weightless and surrounded by warmth. When she felt a tingling sensation between her brows, she opened her eyes.
Above her, the water was as smooth as glass. A woman with blurry features was looking down, her face framed by the round edges of the wooden tub.
She was probably the auntie who was going to scrub her. As Junja nodded, the woman nodded too, like a reflection. Junja closed her eyes and then opened them again. The woman was still there, staring back. She looked so familiar, as if Junja had seen her many times before.
The women reached her hand out with urgency, her mouth forming words that Junja could not hear. The girl reached out at the same time, thinking that the woman was offering to pull her out of the bath. When Junja’s fingers broke the surface, the water rippled, and the woman vanished.
Junja burst out of the water, gasping. Breathing heavily, she looked for the woman, who was nowhere in sight.
“Auntie? Auntie? Where did you go?”
A squat woman with powerful shoulders rushed into the room. “Just got here, miss.”
This was not the same woman. “Where did the other auntie go?”
“Other auntie?”
“The one who was just here.”
Junja was visibly shaken. The stout woman had heard that the girl’s mother recently died. Not surprising, if she was seeing ghosts.
“Whoever you saw is gone now, so no use fretting. I promise a scrub will make you feel much better.” The auntie held out a thick hand to help Junja onto the table.
“Lie face down.” The woman threw several bowlfuls of warm water onto Junja’s back before picking up the scrubbing mitts.
Junja grabbed onto the sides of the table, grimacing as the auntie seemed to flay her skin. She thought about that other woman, whose familiarity haunted her. Her inability to recognize the woman’s face made Junja feel oddly bereft, as if something she needed had slipped out of her fingers just when she had it in her grasp.
* * *
When the plane passed over the compound, no one paid it much mind because it did what all the other planes had done, swooping down to thunder overhead before rising up to circle the top of mountain. The women setting up the wedding feast in the courtyard continued to arrange the platters without a single glance up. The men hanging lanterns for the evening’s festivities kept astride their ladders, hardly noticing the roar of the engine.
No one saw how low the silvery machine dipped, skimming a cluster of trees. No one witnessed its elegant arc as it swooped back up, trailing a plume of white smoke.
But everyone heard the explosion.
* * *
Inside her room, Junja was rocked by a thunderous boom. She was wearing the yellow dress, with its rippling skirts, and her hair was pinned up with silver. Her lips and cheeks were rouged, but her feet were still bare. She ran outside.
A dark silhouette was blotting out the afternoon sun. The plane flew toward Junja in a gale that scattered leaves and whipped her yellow skirts into a froth. A small object was thrown out of the plane. The glinting package seemed to hang in the sky, as if suspended by strings, before it started gyrating, tumbling through the air.
Someone yanked Junja by the arm, pulling her out of the courtyard and into the surrounding trees. A flash of heat pushed her forward, making her fall facedown into leaves and dirt. The man covered her body with his own.
Junja tried to take a breath, but the air seemed to have been sucked out of the forest.
* * *
When she returned to her senses, the man was gone. Junja blinked as smoke stung her eyes. She stumbled back into the courtyard, which glowed with an uncanny orange heat.
A giant fire demon was sitting astride the main house, licking the tile roof with its forked tongue and tearing the wooden pillars with its claws. The beast panted, loud and hoarse, throwing balls of flame upon the straw roofs of the surrounding homes.
Women and men were battling the inferno with buckets and bowls of water, hurling the shining liquid into the air. The drops of water enraged the monstrous fire, which reared up and roared. The wrathful bellow rattled a man astride a ladder, who fell into the blazing chaos of the demon’s belly.
“Do you remember where the spring is?” A man made of soot shook Junja out of her trance. She tore her eyes away from the searing flames and tried to speak. Her mouth was so dry she could only nod.
The blackened man thrust a cooking pot into her hands. “Go get as much water as you can!”
While she was running up the mountain path, Junja looked down. The yellow skirt was hanging in soiled tatters, and her feet were slathered in ashes and gore. That man of soot, she thought, was supposed to be her groom.
* * *
The girl had always known water to vanquish fire, but this demon flame seemed unquenchable. Only the ocean could tame such an unnatural beast. Junja prayed to the dragon god to come to their aid. Every time she looked, however, the sea stayed in its place, a distant glitter on the horizon. As the sun fell, she gave up waiting for a divine wave to rise up and save them.
* * *
A tendril of cloud wafted toward the half moon. Perhaps that gray mist was the last of the smoke, drifting heavenward. The beams of the main house had turned into glowing coals as large as boulders. Wisps of ash floated up, dark snow falling backward. Scattered on the ground were the dead, covered with makeshift shrouds.
Junja paused to watch, pot in hand, as a black silhouette walked by, holding a tiny figure.
There’s another one, the girl thought, wondering when the bodies would stop coming. She rubbed her face. She should be crying, shouldn’t she? Perhaps her eyes were scorched.
She ran back up the mountain for more water.
* * *
Junja dropped the bucket, wishing she could sink into the dark coolness below.
She pulled the bucket back up, feeling it lighten as water sloshed over the sides. She reached for the handle. A grimy hand stopped her.
She looked up. Suwol’s eyes were two holes in a black mask. He tipped the bucket into Junja’s pot before hurling it away.
The bucket hit the water with a splash and bobbed for a moment before tipping over.
Suwol yanked the bucket up again so quickly that all the water fell out. He threw the bucket and yanked it back up.
He did this again and again, throwing the bucket with such force that Junja could hear it crack against the water. As Suwol readied himself for another attempt, Junja stopped him.
He let Junja take the bucket before he sank to a crouch against the stone wall.
He covered his face as his entire body shook. “This is my fault. All of this.”
Junja reached for Suwol’s hands, but he pulled them away. “Don’t touch me. My stupidity might end up killing you too.”
Her eyes stung, but no tears came. Junja blinked. She couldn’t help noticing that the heavenly river still coursed with light. Which star was the weaver and which the herder? Why couldn’t she remember?
Suwol tried to stand but lurched and fell back to his knees. “I have to fix this. I have to do something.”
Junja put her hands on Suwol’s shoulders. “You need water. And rest.”
The boy nodded. The look in his eyes pierced the girl. “Could you give me a drink of water, please?”
Junja dipped the ladle and gave the water to Suwol. He gulped it down and asked for more.
Junja watched the boy drink. When she reached for the ladle again, Suwol flinched.
“Sorry. My nerves … they’re not right.”
Junja looked at Suwol’s trembling hands. “You need to eat something. I’ll go find some food.”
Suwol nodded. He leaned back against the stone well.
Junja murmured that she would be right back. She rose from her squat, stifling a gasp at the pain in her feet. Suwol closed his eyes. She told him to rest until she returned, and he nodded. Twice, the girl looked back as she wal
ked away, worried she might see him lying in a faint on the ground. Suwol stayed hunched against the well, eyes closed, as if in surrender.
When Junja returned, Suwol was gone.
Part Two
The water on Hallasan gathers a thousand leaves
The water in the harbor gathers the rot of a thousand ships
This heart dissolves into bitter tears
Go over the mountain with my song
Go over the sea with my song
—from “The Songs of the Jeju Haenyeo,” recorded by the Haenyeo Museum
Twenty-Six
PHILADELPHIA, 2001
Dr. Moon tried not to squirm as the pastor paused his questioning to offer a brief homily about everlasting life and a Samaritan woman at a well. He stifled a yawn and glanced to his left, where Junja usually sat. Instead of his wife, their eldest daughter, Hana, sniffed into a soggy tissue. Okja, their youngest, sat stone-faced on his right.
Whenever he was asked about the funeral arrangements, Dr. Moon paused, out of habit, so that Junja could answer. When she didn’t, he would look beside him, only to be reminded again of her absence. Even now, four days later, he kept expecting her to return at any moment, as if she had just stepped out to the bathroom. How had the doctors in the emergency room described her sudden death? An act of God. Dr. Moon had to stifle a giggle, remembering that phrase. Of course, the divinity had attended to his wife personally. She would have expected no less.
The pastor inquired whether he had a burial plot, and Dr. Moon shook his head. He and Junja had done nothing to prepare, though they had long ago reached an age when death was no longer a surprise visitor, but familiar company. Only Junja would have known which Bible verse to engrave on her marker, which hymns should be sung, and whether her casket should be open for viewing.