The Mermaid from Jeju

by Sumi Hahn

  She had often reminisced about the fish she ate as a girl, especially when she served mackerel for dinner, simmered in a spicy sauce to disguise the stink of its long-frozen flesh. “Nothing at all like the fish of my girlhood. We could eat it raw, because the taste was so clean and delicious. Not like this smelly thing.” She would frown, poking the dull silver skin with her chopsticks.

  Dr. Moon did not share his late wife’s nostalgia for brine. Instead, he longed for the soft sweetness of peaches, their fuzzy skin bursting under his teeth as the sun-warmed juices dribbled down his chin. His boyhood home had been nestled against the bottom of a hill too small for a proper name. Summer there meant peaches and plums, followed by the crisp bites of fall: apple-pears and persimmons. He had climbed the smaller trees, their rough bark scraping his fingers as he plucked the fruit for his mother, who was always smiling back then.

  “You need a new wife to cook for you. You can’t eat that junk!”

  Dr. Moon studied the curly things floating in the plastic bowl as if they were some kind of exotic creature. These mass-produced noodles didn’t taste anything like the ones he’d eaten as a child. Such a rare treat wheat noodles were, eaten a few times a year after Father traveled to Seoul and returned with the dusty flour sack hidden safely in his shirt.

  “Go fetch an egg,” Mother would order. He would snatch the warm egg away from a sleepy hen and come running back. Mother would mix the precious flour with water, egg, and salt, adding ground buckwheat to bulk up the dough. After she rolled out thin circles with a wooden dowel, she’d slice them into strips and drape them over the fence rail. He had to guard the noodles as they dried, fanning away the flies. “We don’t want maggots to hatch in our bellies!”

  Dr. Moon could almost smell those noodles, bubbling in a broth of soy and mushroom. His mouth watered, and he glanced about, worried. Hearing voices was bad enough. What if something grotesque made an appearance? Did ghosts look like they did while they were alive and happy? Or did they resemble their appearance at the moment of their death? Junja, he knew, would not be pleased by the latter.

  Dr. Moon pushed the instant ramen away and decided to eat lunch at the Korean restaurant near the university. He paused by his late wife’s empty chair, putting his hands on its back for support. As he walked to the front door, he passed his suitcase. He had already packed everything he needed for his return to Jeju Island.

  * * *

  On the red-eye to Los Angeles, Dr. Moon was squeezed in between two men wearing red and green jerseys who drank beers while arguing about sports all night. Each time he managed to nod off, he was jolted awake by a stray elbow or a sharp laugh. When the plane landed, Dr. Moon was so tired that he stumbled like a sleepwalker onto his connection with Korean Air.

  He sighed as he sank into his seat, grateful that no one was sitting near him. After observing the person across the aisle take off his shoes and turn his seat into a recliner with the push of a button, Dr. Moon did the same. He pulled the scratchy blanket up to his chin and covered his eyes with the sleeping mask that came bundled in a bag with earplugs, a toothbrush, and a shoe horn.

  The last time he had traveled such a distance was forty years earlier, when he and Junja took their first plane ride while moving to America. He had sat rigid in his chair, not wanting to disturb Junja, who had fallen asleep on his shoulder. When she woke up, the two of them had surreptitiously eaten the rolls of kimbop she had packed, hoping no one was bothered by the smell. The first meal they were served on the plane had tasted so bad that they had to force themselves to finish, to avoid offending the stewardess. The next time she offered them food, they had smiled politely, shaken their heads, and rubbed their bellies, pretending to be full.

  Now, he was flying back in business class on a Korean airline with flight attendants who spoke in Korean, offering a selection of Korean or Western food once the plane reached cruising altitude. He had chosen the Korean menu with relief, grateful such options now existed. Though he was alone this time, he could feel Junja beside him, urging him to eat. With every bite, his dread began to shift, turning into a wary hope. Perhaps everything in Korea had changed so much that his memories would be altered, transformed into something he could examine without fear.

  Dr. Moon reached into his jacket pocket to make sure that the small package he had slipped there for safekeeping was still there. He whispered as he patted it. “I don’t know what you want, but I’m taking you home.” He waited for a response from his invisible companions, expecting them to start their noisy babble. The only noise he heard was the dull roar of the plane engines, which lulled him into a deep sleep unruffled by dreams or voices of any kind.

  * * *

  Dr. Moon blinked as he walked through the terminal at Incheon International Airport. Was this really Korea? Everything was so modern and new. He could have been in America still, except that the signs were all written in hangul, with English translations below.

  The novelty of seeing so many faces like his own distracted Dr. Moon, who bumped into a soldier wearing a red beret and cradling a semiautomatic rifle. Dr. Moon gasped, leaping away as his bag clattered to the floor.

  “Are you all right, sir?” The young man looked with concern at Dr. Moon’s terrified face. He reached down to pick up Dr. Moon’s bag.

  “Run away!”

  “They’re coming after us!”

  Dr. Moon clapped his hands over his ears. The soldier pushed the bag toward him. Dr. Moon took the handle and backed away, bowing. The soldier nodded in sympathy. Lots of war trauma in the older generation. The strangest things would set them off.

  The panicked clamor that only Dr. Moon could hear subsided, ebbing into a low murmur as he walked to the baggage carousel. He took out a slip of paper. He was supposed to find a pay phone and call his friend from here.

  “Hey there!”

  Dr. Moon glanced up, then looked back down at the paper. Damn ghosts, trying to distract him again. He squinted harder.

  “Hey there! Have bugs eaten your ears, you rascal?” A hand grabbed his shoulder.

  Dr. Moon looked up into the eyes of an old man with a familiar grin. The shine of his round head was interrupted by a few strands of black hair that had been combed and pressed in place. Bright eyes peered at him through a pair of wire spectacles. The man pulled Dr. Moon into a rough embrace.

  “Gun Joo, you look exactly the same, you handsome jerk. Except your hair has gone silver.”

  “Kim Dong Min! Aigoo, is it really you?” The words stopped in Dr. Moon’s throat. “What are you doing here at the airport? Wasn’t I was supposed to take a taxi to your house?”

  “I haven’t seen you for a hundred years! Did you really believe I’d make you take a taxi? I was joking!” Dong Min chuckled as his eyes turned shiny. “I’m so sorry you had to come back alone by yourself, without Junja.” He gripped Dr. Moon’s hands while his mouth trembled.

  * * *

  As the car needled through traffic in a metropolis he didn’t recognize, Dr. Moon remembered the first time he’d met Dong Min, on the ferry landing at Mokpo. They were both new recruits but he had come alone, while Dong Min had been accompanied to the dock by his mother. When the round woman noticed the boy standing alone, her broad face had burst into a smile. She dragged her son over to make the introductions.

  “Dong Min-ah, this boy here will become your best friend. If you stay near each other, both of you will survive what is coming. Young man, what is your name?”

  He had been so startled that he dropped his bundle, which spilled open. As he picked his belongings off the ground, Dong Min had crouched down to help him. The fat boy had whispered, “My mom’s a shaman. Just nod and agree with whatever she says, no matter how weird it sounds.”

  As soon as they reached the military processing center, he and Dong Min had been herded into a tent, where their hair was buzzed short. They had exchanged their homespun clothes for smooth green uniforms and were told to wait in line for their assignments.
<
br />   He remembered how he had peeked into the green rucksack, dazzled by its gleaming contents: a personal aid bag, a canteen, and a metal mess kit. All made in America, just like the stiff black boots he had left untied until another soldier showed him what to do. Dr. Moon could still remember how shiny those boots were, the first pair of leather shoes he had ever owned.

  The sergeant who was handing out the assignments closed his notebook when the two boys approached him. Dong Min had cleared his throat loudly before asking for their orders.

  “You’ll have to wait until the next boatload comes in.” The man didn’t bother to look up.

  “When will that be?” Dong Min did not hesitate to talk to strangers, while Dr. Moon, with his stutter, had been the complete opposite.

  “Day after tomorrow.”

  “What are we supposed to do until then?”

  The man had spat. “Do I look like your mommy?”

  All the boys ahead of them in line had received their assignments and were officially soldiers. They would sleep in bunks and eat in the mess hall that night. He and Dong Min, however, still had to fend for themselves.

  Dong Min had said he was hungry—some things never change, thought Dr. Moon. The fat boy noticed the buildings near the docks and suggested that the two of them wander over to find something to eat. Too ashamed to admit that he had no money, he had given Dong Min one of the rice balls he had packed for himself.

  Dong Min had taken an enormous bite from the ball, which didn’t last very long.

  “That’s pretty good.” The fat boy had licked his fingers. “What about that other ball? Aren’t you gonna eat it?”

  Dr. Moon remembered how he had lied, saying that he would eat it later. “I’m not very hungry right now.”

  “I’ll eat it, then. Before it spoils.” Dong Min was about to grab the remaining ball, but Dr. Moon had snatched it instead, cramming it into his own mouth.

  The fat boy had stared at him. “If you’re so hungry, why did you say you weren’t?”

  When he didn’t answer, Dong Min had crossed his arms. The expression on his face had been stern. “You just gave me half your food, didn’t you?” Then he grinned.

  That moment had marked the start of a friendship that spanned more than fifty years. His relationship with Dong Min had outlasted his marriage to Junja. Why had he not visited his friend in all that time? Dr. Moon felt an ache in his throat, remembering how Dong Min had laid his arm across his shoulders to draw him close.

  The fat boy had leaned in, whispering so he couldn’t be overheard. “My mom gave me a lot of cash. Just in case. Because you shared half of all your food with me, I’m gonna share half of all my food with you.”

  Twenty-Nine

  JEJU ISLAND, 1948

  As she taught Junja about the sea, Grandmother had taught her about the rest of the world. The entire universe was an expression of eum yang, the divine energies that gave shape and form to every object, being, and action. These energies expressed themselves as opposing forces that swirled around each other in an unceasing cycle: dark and light, moon and sun, woman and man.

  Taking breath into the body was yang. Breathing out, eum. Land was yang; water was eum. Diving into the ocean was safer for women, who were creatures of eum like the fish and plants they gathered. Even so, a diver had to gird herself with every element to enter the watery realm of a god that did not welcome humans kindly: the lungful of air, the heat of the fire, the weight of the stone, the metal knives and picks.

  Grandmother liked to boast that as the favored playground of eighteen thousand eum goddesses and yang gods, Jeju was irresistible to such lower divinities and spirits as gashin and dotchebbi. “Gods, goddesses, fairies, and goblins are everywhere on Jeju, watching and listening. Heed what you say and do!” When she was younger, Junja used to imagine these ethereal creatures hiding behind trees and rocks to keep an eye on her.

  Were the gods still watching? Or had they diminished into such shadows that they could scarcely be considered gods anymore? After what she had witnessed on the mountain, the girl hardly knew what to believe.

  Junja and her grandmother had left Cloud House Farm while smoke still drifted from its embers. As the Yang family mourned, one of the aunties had brought them a bundle of food in lieu of a proper farewell. The woman didn’t need to explain that the surviving remnants of the uneaten wedding feast now furnished the altars for the dead. Junja and her grandmother had been invited to stay for the three days of funeral rites, but the old woman demurred with regret. They had to return to their village before soldiers closed the pass.

  Junja had been shocked by how slowly her grandmother shuffled, the stoop of her back more pronounced. The old woman had fallen to her knees when the shroud was lifted off the smallest body. She knew who lay there before the child’s own mother did.

  Peanut had been found in the pigsty, arms wrapped around the dog, whose yellow fur was singed off. Boshi had clung to life to guard the little girl’s body; he died, whimpering, as she was pulled away. The girl’s mother had gone out of her mind when she couldn’t rouse her daughter and had to be sedated with a strong brew of herbs.

  The small body had been prepped by two aunties who sobbed while they sponged the burnt flesh. Peanut’s right fist had been curled shut around a white pebble that glistened against her chubby palm. Grandmother made the aunties promise that the child would be buried with the stone.

  When Junja and her grandmother reached the pass, Suwol had emerged from the trees like an apparition. He was in the same tattered clothes he had been wearing at the well. Soot still blackened his unwashed face. Strapped to his back was a bulging pack.

  “Someone is coming to give us a ride to the end of the foothills.” Suwol’s voice was flat. “Soldiers are everywhere, guarding the blockades.” The whites of his teeth and eyes looked eerie against his charcoal skin.

  Junja didn’t dare ask why he wasn’t in mourning, and Suwol didn’t offer any explanations. When he vanished at the well, she had screamed out his name until her voice clogged with smoke. Where had he nursed his agony, alone like a beast? Sorrow still cloaked him, a shroud too heavy for her to lift. Junja held her hands by her sides, clenched into fists.

  A pock-faced man arrived on a cart bristling with pitchforks and hoes. Suwol helped the two women up before climbing on himself. Junja faced the boy, who hung his head as his shoulders slumped. The scholar’s band was gone, and his hair dusty with ash. His hands dangled, limp and dirty. The journey was too short for words, the silence full of everything that couldn’t be spoken.

  When the cart stopped moving, Suwol looked up into Junja’s eyes. The girl opened her hands as he moved close. He pressed a small object into her palm. “This is all I can give you now.”

  Suwol’s long fingers slid out of her grasp. Junja looked down at the dark smudges he had left behind, along with the small brass lighter.

  After helping Junja and her grandmother off the cart, Suwol climbed back on. He didn’t look back and he didn’t say goodbye. Junja stared at the back of Suwol’s head as she tried to remember how to breathe.

  Grandmother had stood rigid beside her until the cart rattled out of sight. Then the old woman turned, took a step, and collapsed.

  * * *

  The cool depths of the ocean were a relief to Junja, who could still feel the heat from the devastated village radiating from her skin. She had carried her grandmother home on her back, wearing a scowl so forbidding that when they approached the blockade, none of the soldiers dared interrogate them.

  The old woman clung to her granddaughter, whose fury made her think of her own anger, long extinguished. She begged Junja to make an offering to the god of the sea.

  “Where was the sea king while Cloud House burned?” Junja demanded.

  Grandmother had sagged against her, exhausted by Junja’s seething emotions. “The mountain is its own god and has its own ways. Please, promise me you’ll visit the sea king’s shrine.”

  Junja w
as keeping that promise, but not out of piety. She felt sorry for her grandmother, who believed in divinities that were impotent or cruel. Despite her continuous praying, the old woman had not been able to rise from her bed since their return home. This woman who could name every god, great and small, could no longer prostrate herself before them. Her body lay like a broken shell.

  With her first dive into the ocean, Junja’s temper had cooled, out of habit. Water work required complete mindfulness in the depths to guard against deadly mistakes. Now that she was alone, the other divers gone, she was left to reckon with the sea by herself. She held onto her gourd as she floated, forcing herself to remember. The falling bomb. The demon fire. The tiny body. And Suwol by the well, black drops falling from his eyes. When she couldn’t bear any more, she screamed out her rage and grief before diving down toward the sea shrine.

  An outcropping of black rocks jutting up from the sea floor, the shrine resembled an altar, hidden by a curtain of undulating kelp. Upon its flat table a profusion of corals grew, looking like offerings of exotic foodstuffs. Fish of varying sizes drifted above this table in a slow-moving halo lit by beams of sunlight. The shrine had once been home to an eel, so enormous that its girth matched the span of a young girl’s waist and so ancient that it had turned translucent, more spirit than flesh. Some haenyeo claimed that the eel was actually the sea king in one of his many guises, because the creature was always flanked by two large prawns that waved their antennae and rubbed their claws just like the preening attendants of a royal court.

  The shrine seemed to glow as Junja plummeted, arms outstretched. She stopped short of its rocky table, hovering for a moment before floating down to kneel on the sand. She dropped her offering, a large abalone, next to a flame-red piece of coral. As she bent her head and pressed her hands together, small bubbles clustered by her nose.