Princess Bari

by Sok-yong Hwang

  “Xiang, come eat.”

  I tried to wake her, but she frowned and struggled to raise her head.

  “I don’t eat breakfast,” she said, and rolled over and went back to sleep.

  I ate breakfast alone and then asked Luna to tell our boss that I couldn’t go to work that day. I told her I wasn’t feeling well.

  When the minutes clicked by and I didn’t show up upstairs, Grandfather Abdul came down.

  “I decided to stay home today,” I told him. I debated whether to tell him about my dream, but decided to hold off.

  “Okay,” he said. “Looks like you have a visitor?”

  “Yes, an old friend from back home.”

  “Then I guess I’d better use this opportunity to go out for a change.”

  He would probably drop by the mosque or to one of the neighbourhood parks to have a leisurely chat with his friends. I played with Hurriyah and then heated up some food for Xiang, who didn’t wake up until noon. Ayesha showed up in the afternoon, but when she saw I was there she headed back home. For the first time that day, I discovered how dirty the house was: all the blankets and rugs were soiled with spilled food and the baby’s spit-up. I pulled the sheets off of the mattress, undid the duvet covers and packed up the bedding with Hurriyah’s dirty clothes and my own. I looked down at her as she scampered from this toy to that, first chasing after a rabbit that hopped at the push of a button, then playing with a doll that could speak.

  “Xiang, would you mind if I ran over to the launderette across the street?”

  Xiang sipped her tea and smiled. “Of course! I’ll take care of things here.”

  “If the baby cries, check her diaper and change it if it’s wet. Otherwise just hold her for a bit and she’ll stop.”

  Xiang patted the giant sack of laundry on my shoulder and told me not to worry.

  As it was a weekday afternoon, the launderette was mostly empty. There was just one other woman, a grandmother, who had also come to wash rugs and bedding, like me. She sat in front of the machine and stared vacantly at the fabric spinning around. After I’d put the laundry into the machines, inserted some coins and started them up, I went to a Sainsbury’s a few blocks down to get groceries. By the time I’d bought some things for dinner and returned to the launderette, the clothes were nearly done. It took another hour or so to dry everything, and then I left.

  When I stepped into the alley that led to our building, a strange, sinking feeling came over me. The alley was empty, and all the houses on either side looked deserted. With the laundry sack on one shoulder and the grocery bag in my other hand, I started to walk faster. When I set down the bag and inserted the key into the lock, my hand was shaking. The moment I opened the door, I shouted and clapped my hand over my mouth. Hurriyah Suni lay at the bottom of the stairs like a crumpled-up rag doll. I rushed to pick her up.

  “Suni-ya! Suni-ya!”

  Her head fell backward. I screamed and screamed, but the building must have been empty because no one came.

  Even after taking her to the hospital and confirming that she was already dead, I couldn’t believe it. Grandfather Abdul showed up and tried to lead me away by the arm, but I sat there and refused to move. I couldn’t even cry.

  “Little Mother,” Grandfather Abdul said, shaking me by the shoulder, “don’t you know? Hurriyah’s spirit isn’t here. She’ll be waiting for you at home.”

  Only then did I lean my head into his chest and cry.

  When I got home, the flat was a mess. Xiang had ransacked it the moment I left. The bottom drawer of my wardrobe was sticking out – she’d found our emergency stash. After Xiang rushed out, leaving the front door open behind her, Hurriyah must have cried and cried and then tried to make her way to Grandfather Abdul’s flat, where she played everyday, by crawling up to the second floor.

  I had thought at first that I’d finally found Ali in my dreams, but later I realized the opposite was true. Ali had found me in order to warn me of something. Now I understood the look of pain on his face.

  After coming home from burying my daughter, I didn’t leave the flat for two weeks.

  I’d wanted to have her cremated, but Grandfather Abdul objected cautiously, saying that as Hurriyah was a daughter of Islam, her body shouldn’t be destroyed. She was buried in a Muslim cemetery tended by the mosque.

  I locked myself in my room and did not go to work. Hurriyah Suni’s tiny clothes and toys covered my dresser and shelves. I picked up a rubber baby doll and pressed its belly button. I love you, Mummy. I love you, Mummy … The doll muttered the words over and over, then cut off. I hugged it to my chest and collapsed on the floor in tears. After a while, I gathered up all her clothes, sweeping them into the canvas sack I’d used for laundry. I took the sack into the yard, held a match to a bundle of newspaper, and set fire to it. When the flames caught and the clothes started to change colour and shrink as they turned to ash, I bent over and collapsed on the ground again. I covered my mouth, but the words burst out of their own accord.

  “Xiang, you hateful woman! I’ll kill you!”

  Later I understood that all Xiang had really done was remind me of something I’d kept locked inside of me all that time: the bitterness I felt toward every hardship I’d suffered over the course of my long journey.

  For the first few days, Luna came by and tried to cheer me up with funny stories, but I had nothing to say in response. I refused all food but water, and would lie in bed all day or sit in a chair by the window and stare out into space. Grandfather Abdul came downstairs now and then with plates of food, but I lay on my side staring at the wall and wouldn’t move. He must have been frustrated with me, because one day he took a look at the plate he’d set out the day before, now crusted with untouched food, and confronted me.

  “Everyone dies,” he said. “It doesn’t matter whether we die of an accident or illness or by our own hand. Death is not the end. This is a new beginning for Hurriyah. You have to wait until your time comes too, and you can see her again.”

  I finally responded: “Why does God keep making me suffer? I never did anything wrong. What difference does believing and having faith make?”

  “God watches over us, but doesn’t interfere in our lives. He has no colour, no shape, never laughs or cries, neither sleeps nor forgets, has no beginning and no end, but is always there. Pain and suffering are the results of things we’ve already done wrong. The purpose of life’s good and bad is to teach us to be better people, which is why you have to overcome this and appreciate the beauty of life. That’s what God wants from us. So hurry up and eat something and get your strength back!”

  “Just leave me be!”

  Grandfather Abdul picked up the plate and turned to leave. At the bedroom door, he paused and added: “When my wife and daughters were shot and I fled Jammu and Kashmir, I was angry at God, too. I didn’t understand how He could make good people suffer. But the truth is that all of us who are flesh are already in Hell, on Earth. Anger is a Hell of your own making. God waits silently for us to free ourselves and get closer to Him.”

  He closed the door quietly and left. I was so exhausted that I just lay on the bed and wept.

  Twelve

  The ceiling opens, and I float up into the dark. As always, a white path appears. I glide over the path to where Chilsung is waiting for me, his tail wagging. I drop toward him, as if I’m collapsing, and try to put my arms around him. But he backs away just a tiny bit and keeps wagging his tail, always keeping the same distance between us.

  I’m too sad to live, I say. Please cheer me up.

  It’s okay, Bari. You’ll pull through.

  Chilsung leads the way. I glide behind him along the white path. We stop at a beach covered in white sand, with large boulders here and there. Grandmother is dressed in white and stands with her back to the sea. The hem of her skirt flutters in the breeze.

  Grandma, first I lost my family, and now my husband and daughter are gone.

  Consider the world, she
says, as I burst into tears. The people who brush past you on the street are gone as soon as that moment passes. Think of those you saw yesterday, or even a moment ago. They’re gone. You can’t hear them or see them. Your daughter Suni is here with us.

  Grandmother gestures behind me, and I turn. There she is. She stands next to Chilsung in a white, doll-sized Korean blouse and skirt that match my grandmother’s. I put my arms out to pick her up, but just like Chilsung, she takes a step back with each step I move forward. I struggle to reach her, but she keeps her distance.

  Don’t bother, Grandmother says. Your body that you treasure so much in life is not you. It houses your spirit. When you leave your body behind, you’ll become like us. Sadness, happiness – that all belongs to the world of the living.

  Then I’ll join you now.

  No, you still have work to do. You’ve met a lot of people on your travels with questions they need answered.

  Yes, and in the old tales, Princess Bari told them she would find the answers during her journey to the otherworld.

  Yes, yes, that’s right. And you have to find the life-giving water.

  Grandmother turns toward the sea. An old, wooden Korean ship with two yellow sails appears. The ship is five, maybe ten times my height. An arched ramp comes down so Chilsung and I can board. Grandmother gives me a little push.

  Get on!

  As usual, Chilsung goes first and I follow. When I look back, the coastline has disappeared and the ship is floating in the middle of the blackness. We sail through the sky instead of on water. Chilsung and I stand on the ship’s bridge, under the canopy.

  First we’ll cross a sea of fire, Chilsung explains. Then a sea of blood. Finally, after we pass the sea of sand that swallows even the lightest goose down, we’ll reach the iron castle.

  Where is that?

  At the end of the western sky.

  We leave the darkness, and the blazing sea of fire begins. Flames shoot into the air on either side of the ship, and acrid clouds of dark smoke billow around us. I cannot make out any shapes in the fire below, only sounds. I hear the thunder of bombs exploding, guns firing, bullets whizzing, airplanes and helicopters and tanks and armoured cars flying, racing, and rolling by amid constant gunfire and explosions. A crowd lets out a tremendous roar. Women and children scream. Voices shout.

  March!

  Hands up! Don’t move!

  Exterminate the devils!

  Glory to God!

  Shoot them all! Kill them! Smash them! Wipe them all out!

  The din threatens to make my head explode, no matter how hard I press my hands over my ears.

  Then the flames and smoke vanish, and darkness surrounds the ship again. The noise fades and finally stops. I lower my hands.

  Oh, that was awful, Chilsung says. That hell was built in your world first. That’s why it looks the same in this world.

  The sky slowly fills with a reddish glow as in the late evening, and down below I can see waves of dark red: the ship is crossing the sea of blood. I begin to make out shadowy buildings far off in the distance, like a city skyline.

  What city is that? I ask Chilsung.

  Those are the ships of the dead. They stay here in the sea of blood.

  As we get closer, I see grey ships of different shapes bobbing this way and that. Standing on the decks in the dim lamplight are men, women and children, naked or dressed in rags. Among them, I recognize the people I met on the road and in mountain villages between Musan and Puryong. Thinking I might see my sister Hyun or the rest of my family, I search the crowd.

  Finally, I spot them. There’s my mother and Jung and Sook, who were sent to Puryong. Hyun, who froze to death in the mountains, is with them. Ah, so they all died after all. Just as I can always tell when I’m dreaming, I know that this place is not the world of the living but a vision of the otherworld. I call out to them.

  Mother! Sisters! Hyun!

  But all they do is stand in a row and face front, as if they cannot hear me.

  The scene changes without mercy, showing me every corner of the inside of the ship in turn. People of all races are on board. It carries souls from every corner of the world who were starved, tortured, worked or beaten to death, or who were terminally ill, bombed, burned, drowned, or who died of a broken heart.

  Someone leans over the front of the ship and shouts: Tell us the reason for our suffering! Why are we here?

  It’s Becky.

  I don’t understand this, I call to her. Why are you all in the same boat?

  This is the inside of your mind. Don’t forget my question.

  As the ship she is in slides past mine, I shout: I’ll give you an answer when I return!

  Another ship passes slowly. Glowing red torches light every inch from stern to bow. Standing in rows inside it are people wielding spears, arrows, knives and guns, people with their hair dishevelled, their arms torn off, legs severed, heads missing, people dressed in blood-soaked uniforms, wrapped in gauze, leaning on crutches, eyes bandaged, people struggling to escape.

  I see Lady Emily’s father and grandfather. I see American and British soldiers, and I see my husband’s younger brother Usman with a long beard and a round, white topi prayer hat on his head. He calls out: Bari, tell us why evil wins! And why we are stuck here with our enemies!

  I shout: I’ll tell you when I return!

  The ship I am in slowly glides over the surface of the sea of blood. Another ship approaches. It is jet-black from sails to hull. Inside this ship, men and women stand, their mouths shut tight, chests and stomachs hung with clusters of explosives. Some of the men are stripped naked, their bodies twisted and deformed by burns and shrapnel, while others have no bodily form at all and instead their flesh – which had been blown apart and scattered in every possible direction – hovers in the air like a swarm of flies forming the vague shape of a person.

  Old and young men with long beards and stubborn faces. Women with hijabs and haggard faces, or with distorted faces that look like they’ve been burned, bodies covered in bruises and open wounds from the lashings they received. Women covered from head to toe in loose, shapeless burqas. I see an unfamiliar man with grenades strapped to his chest shaking his fist at me.

  He yells: Tell us the meaning of our deaths!

  A burqa-clad woman standing next to him murmurs behind the fabric covering her face: Tell me what my death means, too.

  Unsure of what their questions even mean, I reply: I’ll tell you when I return.

  Another ship approaches. It seems to have no torches or lamps, nor even a single passenger on deck. It drifts toward us as silent as death, without even the slightest sign of movement on board. Then, in the darkness, I begin to make out faint shapes.

  The silence is broken by a spooky laugh. The government officials who took my father away are there, as are the men who chased us from our home and the men who tormented and sold my sister Mi after she crossed the Tumen River alone. The loan sharks in Dalian, the men I saw on the smuggling ship: they are all on board. The snakeheads who shoved us into the containers, the men who raped us in the dark belly of the ship, even the fat brothel owner who laughed when she saw my flat chest: they are there too.

  Ah, and the worst of them all: terrifying, hateful Xiang twists up her face and glares at me. As the ships we are in slide past each other, she shouts: This boat carries the people you hate most. When will we be set free?

  I tear at my chest and yell back: I will never set you free!

  When will we be free of you?

  I shudder and say automatically: I’ll tell you when I return.

  The ship crosses the sea of blood, and is enveloped in darkness again. The sky grows light. Fine sand floats in midair like fog. Below the ship stretches a wilderness of sand with no end in sight no matter how far I look. There is nothing but sand all the way to the faint horizon.

  This is the sea of sand that swallows even the lightest goose down, Chilsung explains.

  What kind of place is th
is?

  Just what it sounds like. It swallows up everything.

  I look out over the clean, peaceful-looking white sand. Something is moving. People, each in different attire, hold sacred texts aloft. They talk loudly in languages the others cannot understand, barely able to keep their footing in the sand. There are more: religious leaders from every corner of the world are assembled there. From their wigs to their hats and their gowns and their black and their white, they all look the same. They speak different languages, each saying different things, which makes their words sound like some kind of peculiar incantation.

  They are so intent on drowning each other out that their words become garbled and lose all meaning. Their faces flush dark red, their eyes bulge and they raise their sacred texts with one hand while waving the other at the ground and at the sky. But there is no chance that the sand will simply leave them be – they struggle to keep their balance as their legs slowly sink into it. They sink to their waists, their chests, their throats, and then their heads disappear and all I can see are their flailing arms before they vanish without a trace, and there is nothing left but sand. All is quiet for a moment, but suddenly the sand spits them back out; their bodies fly up, and they resume their endless talking and arguing. Then the sand slowly sucks them under again. Over this monotonous, noisy, ludicrous sea of sand that swallows even the lightest goose down, our ship drifts silently.

  The ship arrives at a beach that looks similar to the one from which we departed. The sand bristles with rocks, and dark stone mountains tower in the distance. Standing firmly at the top of one of the mountains is a cast-iron castle, rusted to a reddish-black. Each square window in the perfectly square castle glows with light.

  You have to go in there and bring back the spirit flower and the life-giving water, Chilsung says. But I cannot bring myself to leave the ship.

  I’m scared, I tell him. I can’t do this on my own.

  The story that’s been handed down to us from long, long ago says that Bari is the only one who can do this.

  No sooner do I set my foot on the gangplank than I am already standing on land. Chilsung holds a wrapped bundle in his teeth; he tosses it over the side of the ship. When I open it, a copper rattle, a copper mirror and gaetteok made from sorghum flour are inside.