The Mermaid from Jeju

by Sumi Hahn

  * * *

  Junja woke up to the sound of water dripping off stones. Dong Min was snoring beside her. His back was pressed up against Gun Joo, whose breathing was slow and steady. The four of them had found refuge in a small cave as the sun began to rise. They would rest and regain their strength before parting ways for good.

  Suwol was no longer inside, so Junja crawled out to find him. He would leave at dusk to return to the mountain, going back the way they had come.

  He was squatting on the ground, sharpening the end of a stick. White shavings of wood were scattered around him. At his side lay a pile of small stakes. His knife continued to move as Suwol sensed Junja’s approach.

  “When the other two wake up, I’ll show you the path to the nutmeg forest. You’ll reach it by nightfall, I think.”

  Junja knelt beside him and reached for the pouch around her neck. Grandmother had begged her to choose wisely, before the girl understood what she meant. She studied the marks on Suwol’s face. Was the scab on his brow from a burn or a blow? Had a knife inscribed that line on his lip? How had she not noticed the hollow of his cheeks, which betrayed his weeks of hunger?

  She let go of the pouch as she spoke. Her hands were clenched. “Come with us. To the mainland.”

  The knife stopped moving. Suwol kept his eyes fixed down on his hands. His breathing formed a cloud of mist. He didn’t look at Junja when he finally spoke.

  “Duty keeps me here.”

  The words that rose to Junja’s throat tasted like bile. The gods had failed his family, and his country had made him an orphan. The only duty left was to survive. She dared not mention what she had witnessed on the mountain and remind him of what he had lost. She held the bitterness in her mouth.

  The knife began moving again, in deliberate strokes. Junja watched the end of the stick turn into a deadly point. Suwol tested the tip with his thumb and set it down before speaking again.

  “My cousin, Mr. Lee, has joined our cause.”

  Junja nodded, feeling numb. “Is he still a lieutenant?”

  “Until he’s discovered. Or dies.” Suwol took out a stone and began sharpening his knife. Sunlight glinted off the blade as his hands moved back and forth. Underneath the wrappings, his fingers were stained, the nails blackened and cracked.

  Junja remembered holding his hand on the day they left Jeju City. She had asked for his confession as they walked toward the mountain pass.

  No more secrets, the boy had vowed as he told Junja the truth. He was not alone in believing that Korea needed to stand free. Those meddling Americans and their war machines would only bring ruin and grief. If fighting for the sovereignty of his country made him a Communist rebel, he would bear the shame of that label with pride.

  He had told Junja about the company he kept, souls far worthier than himself. He described an elderly fisherman whose sons had died in Japan. Because he was illiterate, the Nationalists had hired him as a messenger, not knowing that he could memorize anything he saw in one glance. The former policeman who opened a jail cell to free a village now served as their sniper because he owned the most reliable rifle. A group of haenyeo moonlighting as women of the night would ply the soldiers with drink, kissing their secrets out of them.

  These people who bled for their country would never be known by name. They believed that Korea should govern herself, free of ignorant foreigners who understood nothing about them. Patriots in all but name, they fought for this right with their bodies, armed only by flesh and bone. With knives, hoes, and sticks, they defied an intruder of metal and fire.

  They were desperately short of funds and supplies, so he had emptied his family’s coffers of cash, with his father’s permission. The gold rings belonged to his mother, who wept as she took them off. His grandfather gave him the knife he had once used as a member of the royal guard.

  Suwol had held her hand gently as he confessed. His hands still felt like a scholar’s then, soft and white like paper.

  Someone had been tortured, and someone had been betrayed. When they got the warning, they did what made sense in a house of ill repute: they stripped off their clothes and embraced. The shock of two men in such an unnatural pose proved a useful distraction. While the soldiers were beating them in disgust, the bulk of the funds were spirited away by the women who worked the house.

  He was bound, by oath and by blood, to these people and this cause. He had pledged his life to protect his country, as the men in his family had done for generations. When she listened to Suwol’s confession that day, Junja had been moved by the truth of his words. Once they were husband and wife, she had promised herself, she would seek to join their fight.

  But when the bombs fell from the plane, she saw the demon’s full strength. The enormity of it felled her grandmother, who begged her granddaughter to flee. When the gods went to war, the old woman warned, men always followed in kind. Nothing would stop the tide of blood that was rising.

  Stay and drown, or flee and survive. Her life had diminished to this choice. There was no one left for Junja to mourn, not even the gods. Where could she go from here?

  Sunlight glinted through the bony trees as shadows began to lengthen. The chill in the air grew sharper, threatening another night of ice. The girl shivered as she wrapped her arms around herself.

  Suwol picked up another stick. His knife began moving again. He laughed, a hollow bark more pained than amused. “I wanted to clear my family’s debt to you and your grandmother, but I owe you more now, not less.”

  Junja wanted to cry, but she had no more tears to spare. She was wrung out by loss, exhausted by grieving.

  “There is no debt to pay.”

  “I promise to honor my obligation. If not in this life, then the next.” Suwol was muttering to himself.

  Junja watched her breath turn white in the air. She closed her eyes to feel the last rays of the sun. She would keep running as fast as she could until she could run no more. She remembered what she was holding and gently laid the lighter on the ground, where Suwol could see it.

  * * *

  Junja, Gun Joo, and Dong Min reached the nutmeg forest in the darkest part of night. Dazed with hunger and exhaustion, they wandered through the giant trees. They tried to stay awake, fearful of the venomous snakes that guarded the forest, but collapsed into a sleep so deep that neither the stinging frost nor the bright stare of the moon could wake them. Only the sun, at its height, was able to release them from their feverish dreams.

  When the three of them stepped out of the forest’s shade, they stumbled upon a paved road. A huddle of people stood waiting there, craning their necks and looking expectant.

  Dong Min approached a soldier. His voice cracked from thirst. “Excuse me, sir, but what’s everyone doing here?”

  The soldier didn’t bother to turn his head. “We’re waiting for the bus to Jeju City.”

  The fat boy rooted through his pockets and found his mother’s money. “We’re taking that bus. If I don’t eat a bowl of seaweed soup today, I swear I’m going to die. You don’t want my hungry bachelor ghost haunting you for the rest of your life.”

  Gun Joo glanced at Junja. The girl took one last look at the mountain before she nodded.

  The bus was jammed with people clutching chickens and sacks of sweet potatoes. The group from the roadside pushed themselves inside, grateful for the warmth. Junja clung to a metal bar as the vehicle rumbled down the road. Whenever the swaying mass of bodies around her shifted, she thought she could see the flash of the ocean, far away on the receding horizon.

  Forty

  2001

  Three shamans will preside over the kut for Dr. Moon Gun Joo: a dancer, a singer, a drummer. The beautiful shaman, who will dance, smoothed a paper banner with her hands. She folded the paper thrice into thirds and picked up a pair of scissors. She cut out the patterns like she was taught, as her grandmother’s last apprentice.

  Once, there was a time, when the kingdom stood strong, when these ceremonies were fit for
gods. Ethereal voices would swell the human choir while the very earth amplified the drums. Rainbow-clad dancers would swirl in unison as silk banners fluttered by the thousands. A banquet of offerings would pass by on parade, held high on lacquered palanquins: roast pig and duck, crackling in brown armor; honey wine in silver goblets; rice cakes, glistening like jewels. Smoke from the incense and candles would rise, billowing like clouds in the heavens.

  The beautiful shaman could still hear her grandmother’s voice, describing those courtly spectacles. “Someday, may you preside over ceremonies just as grand. First, you must learn how to dress the altar. Then you must learn to bless the food. When you’ve mastered all of these, in time, you will learn the drum, the song, and the dance.”

  There had been lessons in astrology as well, to track the heavenly bodies. Hours of calligraphy practice, because some words could not be spoken aloud. Herb-gathering trips to the mountain, where strange smells were held under her nose. She had learned to grind powders, mix elixirs, mold incense, brew liquor. All in service to the gods.

  They could be fickle and forgetful, Grandmother had warned, with a fondness for flattery and drink. Though immortal, they grew weak at the end of their cycles, to be reborn with every new age. Some gods grew selfish and greedy as they aged, clinging to the dregs of their power. Others slipped away quietly, still full of grace.

  The last imperial shamans had been cast out of court for predicting the kingdom’s demise. With the dynasty fallen and the country in chaos, Grandmother had escaped with their secrets. “Ours is an ancient lineage, of high-standing seers and soothsayers. We served the kings and queens of Korea for more than a thousand years. Before that we ruled directly, when only shamans could be kings. Our family is as ancient as this land, our bloodline more noble than royalty.”

  The beautiful shaman looked up from her handiwork. The vinyl floor and bare walls made her sigh. No splendor or wonders here, just a bit of threadbare sincerity. She stretched her fingers to release an ache and hoped that her efforts would suffice. She was not expecting the gods, after all, but calling out to simple folk. For them, one more taste of this world was usually temptation enough.

  * * *

  Dr. Moon lit the incense sticks and bowed before the altar. The beautiful shaman poured water, and he drank from the silver goblet. The offering table was an artful abundance, arranged on shiny brass: fruits from field and forest, treasures from the deep, the flesh of beast and fowl. On a table for the gods alone lay the head of a roast suckling pig, lit cigarettes stuck in its snout. The tips of the cigarettes and incense glowed red as smoke curled through the room.

  A shaman began to wail, and the drum began to beat. The drummer was wearing blue, and the singer was draped in pink. The beautiful shaman stepped out from the shroud of a long white robe. Her red tulip skirt was embroidered with peonies, and vines climbed up the length of her purple vest. In her right hand she held a handle, tied to a yellow length of silk. The banners above the altar began to flutter, as if swept by a passing breeze.

  Dong Min whispered to Dr. Moon as he sat on the floor beside his friend. “Those banners are the doorways to all the other worlds. The spirits will come through them to visit with us in this world. It’s like we’re throwing them a party.” He gestured to the altars. “Those are the decorations and food. Next, the shamans are going to call out to the guests of honor to invite them.”

  The two men nodded to the monk from the mountain, who was kneeling on the other side of the room. After sharing their stories, Dr. Moon had invited the man to join his kut. The beautiful shaman’s eyes had opened wide when the monk arrived, and he had recognized her as well. They both did the work of remembrance in the places where blood had been spilled. They mourned the savagery of those lonely deaths while they prayed for the lost and forgotten. As the three shamans took their places, the monk took out his wooden beads and closed his eyes to pray.

  The drumbeat thudded, the cymbal crashed, and the wailing turned into song. The beautiful shaman began to spin, red skirts blooming open. She whipped the silk overhead, the yellow rippling like a snake. As her body trembled in time with the drum, she looped the silk into knots. She freed the knots with a flick of her wrist and began spinning around the room.

  The shaman was a whirl of silk, turning and turning in a widening spiral. The air in the room grew thick with smoke, and the floor seemed to tilt. Dr. Moon pressed his palms against the floor, as if to brace himself.

  Dong Min nudged him. “Kind of makes you seasick, doesn’t it?”

  The shaman dropped her outstretched arms. She walked around the room, streamer trailing behind her. She stopped in front of Dr. Moon and squinted. She pulled out an invisible handkerchief and began polishing an invisible pair of glasses. When she leaned forward to speak, Dr. Moon could smell orange blossom under the smoke.

  The air promised snow when he pulled the two boys aside to ask for their help. They had to leave tracks and be followed, but they couldn’t get caught. Once they reached the mainland, they would stay under cover, leading normal lives. Their mission was to hide in plain sight, until he contacted them again.

  While everyone searched for the missing boys, he stayed behind to guard the radio. He drank from his flask as he waited, allowing his mind to wander. If he survived, he would travel to Greece, to drink wine and taste a tomato. How his mother would despair! If he died in this place, her heart would surely break. If he lived, he would only disappoint her.

  He tossed the empty flask over his shoulder and went outside. He took a deep breath before he started to run, chasing phantoms only he could see. He circled his tent for emphasis and ran back and forth from the main road. When the tracks suggested the number of bodies he needed, he went back inside and dried off his boots.

  He leapt upon the file box, pulling out handfuls of paper. He scattered some pages over the snow and fed the rest to the fire. He attended to the radio next, lifting it with a grimace. As it smashed on the ground, he smiled.

  Ready for his final act, he pushed his glasses back up his nose. His eyelids fluttered before he convulsed, snarling as he attacked. He punched his face with his fists and raked his skin with his nails. He punished himself for his weakness, hating the way he was born. He had to force himself to stop, to clean his fingernails of gore. He threw the soiled handkerchief into the fire and watched the silk melt into the flames.

  He peered at the sun and winced. Time to call back the hounds. He lifted his handgun and aimed at the dark spot on the wall of the tent. He changed his mind and moved the gun to his head. He stood like that, waiting for courage, until his hands began to shake.

  A bullet tore through the top of the tent. He looked up at the hole that glared down at him. When he saw how high the sun was, he fired another round. The soldiers would be returning soon, goaded by those gunshots. With all that meat in their bellies, they would destroy the village in their bloodlust.

  He would play no role in that mess.

  He poked through the pile of wood, searching for the log he had hidden. It was smooth, so it wouldn’t leave splinters, with two bumps that he could grip. He swung the cudgel as hard as he could, feeling his glasses break. The sound of the impact—hollow, blunt—surprised him. He sank to his knees, amused but full of regrets.

  As the scent of oranges faded, Dong Min leapt up to speak. “When the war ended, where did you go? Do you have family?” The fat man had always believed that the lieutenant was a hero who had saved their lives.

  The shaman cocked her head. Lieutenant Lee had died in cave. He was still waiting to be given a proper burial, but this truth was not theirs to know. She turned abruptly and whirled away, pulling the streamer behind her.

  Dr. Moon poked his friend. “Hey, did you tell her about the lieutenant?”

  Dong Min shook his head mournfully. “I guess he didn’t feel like talking. I should’ve thanked him instead.“

  The cymbals crashed, startling the men, who jumped when the wailing grew louder. The thud
ding drumbeat pulsed through the floor as the dancer stamped her feet, waving the streamer around her.

  When she stopped in front of Dr. Moon again, the shaman reached out with both hands. She tousled his hair and pinched his nose, like his father used to do.

  “You waited for such a long time.” The shaman’s voice was husky. “Your father is so sorry that he never came home.”

  He was returning from Seoul when he was stopped at the border, accused of being a spy. Though they smashed all the melons in his cart and found nothing, the soldiers refused to believe him. He didn’t cry when they tortured him, but he wept when they dumped the flour on the ground.

  Maybe they didn’t like his face. Maybe it was just bad luck. He was the only one detained while the others were allowed to go home. He pressed his neighbor’s hand and begged him to deliver a message. “Please tell my wife to take our son and go south, to her sister. I’ll join them there when I can.”

  Gun Joo’s mother started screaming when she saw the empty sack. The sound began as a high-pitched shriek and deflated into a guttural moan. When her breath ran out, she fainted.

  Gun Joo’s father was bound and gagged when the soldiers led him to the forest. As they raised their guns to shoot, the order was abruptly reversed. A tunnel had collapsed in the northern mountains, and more hands were needed for digging.

  He dug for days, which blurred into years. He dug until his back hunched over and his hair turned white. He stared down the length of a shovel for so long, he could only see as far as its blade. During the day, he dug underground in the dark, and at night he dreamed of light.

  The dream was always the same: the tunnel he was digging led home, back to his wife and son. He would drop the shovel, climb out of the dirt, and walk to the front of his farm. There, at the gate, his son would be waiting, just like he always did. His precious son, his brilliant boy, who could count before he turned two.