Lost Souls

by Hwang Sunwon

  Sŏgi brought home the seafoods that Suni enjoyed so much, but mostly the two of them kept to themselves.

  When they had exhausted most of their money, Sŏgi took to the shore and helped with hauling in the communal fishing nets. In return he received a share of the catch.

  Eventually most of their jewelry was sold. Finally Sŏgi was at his wits’ end and decided to ship out on a fishing boat.

  The day before he left, Suni sold the sole remaining item of jewelry Sŏgi’s mother had given him—a silver ring. With the proceeds she bought Sŏgi a pipe and tobacco. For lack of tobacco, Sŏgi had given up smoking during their time in the hills.

  The day that the boat was scheduled to return came and went. Two more days passed and still the boat did not appear. This was very strange, for there had been no sign of rough seas.

  The families of the fishermen kept a daily vigil at the dock, but Suni remained long after the others had left, watching Mirŭk Island, across from the dock. Its outline seemed to grow ever more somber.

  On the third day after the boat’s scheduled return one of the crewmen appeared. The boat had run into thick fog and broken up on a reef, the young man reported. By a stroke of luck he had grabbed one of the timbers and a passing boat had rescued him.

  The wails of family members enveloped the dock. But no tears flowed from Suni’s eyes.

  The following day the family members went out to sea with the young fisherman. They had given up on finding survivors but held out hopes of retrieving the bodies. Suni joined the others. In the course of those several days her hair had turned noticeably grayer.

  They located the reef but found no trace of the boat, nor the bodies.

  There was nothing to do but return. But as the boat turned back toward land there was a splash. Suni had jumped overboard. Her body was never recovered.

  Something occurred to the young fisherman: “I couldn’t figure out what made her husband tick, either. He kept saying his tobacco tasted different than it did on shore—asked how long it took for tobacco to taste the way it ought to when you shipped out. And he kept saying he wanted a couple of live cod to take home.”

  To the left of the path that ascends Mirŭk Island, across from Haep’yŏng Dock in T’ongyŏng, there sits a small, round, moss-covered gravestone that reads, IN MEMORY OF THE VIRTUOUS WIFE OF HAEP’YONG. The simple story of that woman and her husband can be heard even today from the people of T’ongyŏng: many years ago, a man and a woman drifted into town and settled near Haep’yong Dock. They kept to themselves, and no one seemed to know their family names or their ages. They had an unusually harmonious relationship. And then one day the husband, to provide for them, went out to sea on a fishing boat and the vessel broke up. Learning of this, the wife located the place where her husband had been lost and threw herself into the water. The following day a passing boat discovered two bodies floating on the surface. The corpse of the wife was embracing that of the husband.

  November 1955

  PIBARI

  From the water, practically all you can see of the island called Cheju is a huge mountain. Passengers from the mainland first see it as a faint purple blotch on the horizon. “Look—Cheju!” they exclaim. In truth, Cheju appears less like an island than a large mountain with two linked summits, the higher one to the right. For Cheju is a volcanic island formed by this mountain—Halla Mountain.

  Not surprisingly, then, most of the island’s fishing villages and farming hamlets are right at the shore, clinging to the foot of the mountain. Only the town of Cheju gives the impression of being on flat land removed from Halla’s base. Look closer, though, and you’ll see that this side of the island is where Halla slopes most gently. Directly behind the town is a hill and then a notch, another hill and notch, forming a fluted ridge all the way to the base of Halla’s main summit.

  On a normal day the main summit is wreathed in clouds or mist. On a mountain so large and lofty you might think that water flows down its creases. But this is not the case with Halla, so fresh water is always scarce on Cheju. You can often see children going about with water jars in a bamboo basket strapped to their back. If they come across water, all they have to do is scoop it into the jars.

  Sŏgwip’o is the sole exception. Like Hallim, Mosŭlp’o, and the other seaside villages and hamlets, it clings to Halla’s lower slopes. But because it’s closer to the mountain itself, the water you wouldn’t find elsewhere is abundant. Descending in clear, clean braids from the mountain gorges, it trickles and rustles around the back corners of houses and alongside the courtyards. Ultimately it collects at a rock wall to the rear of the village, providing a place for the men to take sponge baths, and then, at a low outcrop facing the sea, it forms a small waterfall that produces a fine spray.

  It was in the summer of 1951 that Chuni and his mother moved from the town of Cheju to Sŏgwip’o. Chuni had always been a fussy eater. His mother wondered if this was why his neck was white as a girl’s even though he was already past twenty. In addition, his skin was sensitive to water. Previously they had lived in Seoul, and when the Northerners retook the city in January of that year, he and his mother were told it was easiest for refugees to leave by boat. But the vessel they boarded at Inch’ŏn had moored at Cheju rather than their expected destination of Pusan. And in Cheju the first thing that bothered Chuni was the water. Drinking it had caused him several times to break out in a rash, and to get rid of it he had to rub his flesh raw with rock salt. His mother interrupted her daily chores to find sources of water recommended by the villagers, but even then she always boiled it before allowing Chuni to drink. For a good six months they had lingered in the town of Cheju, awaiting word from Chuni’s uncle, who had left Seoul before them by truck. Their plan was to return to the mainland as soon as they heard from him. But in spite of all their inquiries to other refugees, they were unable to learn his whereabouts. They couldn’t set out blindly for the mainland in search of him, so in the meantime they decided to move to Sŏgwip’o in the hope that a change of water would be good for Chuni. Chuni’s mother had also heard that Cheju had more than its share of hunchbacks and cripples because the island’s water lacked sufficient iron, and that’s what ultimately convinced her to make the move. The water in Sŏgwip’o was better, several people had told them. Before moving, she sold those belongings of hers that would fetch a good price.

  The day Chuni and his mother arrived in Sŏgwip’o, it was brisk and clearing after several days of heavy rain. Their bus passed villages surrounded by stone walls two or three times a man’s height, constructed during the Cheju Rebellion a few years earlier, and Chuni recalled from a recent report that guerrillas had been sighted in a hamlet in eastern Cheju. It was almost midday when the bus reached Sŏgwip’o. Chuni was confused. Was this sleepy town the place they had heard about? The bustle of Mosŭlp’o, visible earlier through the bus window, was nowhere in evidence. Nor was there an imposing stone wall surrounding the town. But the next moment it occurred to Chuni that here was a place where he could get a good rest before he and his mother moved on. He felt even more certain of this when he looked down to see a rivulet passing right in front of his feet. The sight refreshed him as nothing else had for a long while. The water was clear and clean—not muddy—in spite of all the rain. Chuni removed his socks, dipped his feet in the water, and gazed out to where small breakers were cresting in the sea. The ocean was a deeper, clearer blue than any he had ever seen. Looking inland, he saw Halla Mountain. Clouds streamed from its summit, making the northwest sky overcast, while above Sŏgwip’o, to the southeast, the azure sky was like a lake.

  Chuni spent most of his time outdoors, wearing a straw hat for protection against the sun.

  At the southern edge of town sits a one-story building with white plaster walls and a tin roof. There, buttons are made from the shells of clams, conch, and abalone gathered from the nearby seashore. The shells of Sŏgwip’o are supposed to have the finest texture of any shells on the island. Next to this small f
actory is a heap of shell fragments discarded during manufacturing. For some reason the factory wasn’t operating, and Chuni never saw any activity inside. The building was hedged with sweet oleander, whose pale pink blossoms were at their peak.

  If you walk around to the other side of the factory you come upon a small breakwater. Directly before it is Firewood Island, a small piece of land so close you can almost reach out and touch it. Trees ring the islet, which is otherwise flat. Just beyond it is even tinier Mosquito Island, a graceful curve between ocean and sky, and the southernmost part of Sŏgwip’o. Unlike its sister, Mosquito Island is crowned with a few trees, and rock beds form its circumference. The passage between the two islets is narrow, the current swift. Even the haenyŏ, or diving women—called chamnyŏ by the people of Cheju—dare not venture too close.

  If you turn back from the end of the breakwater and follow the pumice-covered shore, another smallish island—Grove Island—comes into sight across the water. It might be about the size of Firewood Island. And like Mosquito Island, it is topped with trees and rocky along the shore. Grove Island is known for its medicinal herbs and for a variety of bellflower root with white flowers. For Sŏgwip’o’s diving women, the most popular spot for foraging is off this island. In May, when it’s time to pick seaweed, they converge there from every direction. You can see groups of them—all belonging to the divers’ guild—not only from Sŏgwip’o but also from Pomok, the nearest village, and the villages of Tonghong, some two and a half miles away, and Pŏphwan, five miles distant—all gathering in the waters about the island.

  Chuni and his mother had arrived in Sŏgwip’o at a time when the local people were especially busy with farm work, so the diving women had yet to appear in full force. Still, Chuni could see half a dozen of them every day diving and surfacing in the waters near Grove Island. He heard their distinctive whistling, noticed the way they dove, extending their legs straight up in the air like a boat’s mast. Sitting on the shore, he watched the women dive and tried to guess where they would surface. But it was generally a different place where they shot up, whistling. Next he’d try to guess how long they would stay underwater. Like the divers, he held his breath, but in some cases he would have to take in air three times before the diver surfaced.

  Next, Chuni would visit the small waterfall. If it got too hot for comfort, he went behind the town to the place where the men took sponge baths. They called this kind of bathing chaguri, but Chuni had no idea where this word had come from. Ever since arriving on Cheju, in fact, he had heard quite a few words for the first time. The verb endings were sharp and harsh, compared with those of the standard dialect, but not enough so to prevent him from guessing the meaning of the words. Other words, though, were incomprehensible at first. For twaeji, “pig,” they used the word tosaegi; tak, the standard word for “chicken,” became tok; talgyal, “egg,” was toksaegi (they even had a different word for “chicks”—ppingari instead of pyŏng’ari); manŭl, “garlic,” was k’oktaesani; muu, “radish,” was nomppi; sŏngnyang, “match,” was kwak; mŏnji, “dust,” was kudŭm; ch’ŏnyŏ, “young woman,” was pibari; noch’ŏnyŏ, “old maid,” was chaksan pibari; and so on. As for the place where the men took sponge baths, he heard it referred to as the chaguri bath and assumed it was a traditional indoor public bath—until he found that it was out-of-doors.

  The bathing area itself is a pool some five or six yards in diameter. The near side is bounded by dark, round rocks that have been rolled into place any old way, and the bottom of the pool is covered with pebbles. The deep part of the pool, such as it is, doesn’t reach an adult’s navel. Still, the place has a couple of unique features that make it particularly appropriate as a summer bathing area. The pool is clear and chilly, and the water that pours over the rock wall that screens it in back is always clear and clean—and much colder than the water in the pool. The first time Chuni ventured under this cascade, he shot out of the pool at once, shuddering all over. The goose bumps and the chattering of his teeth lingered for some time. He had returned after that, had gritted his teeth and waded in, but had never been able to last under the cascade to a count of ten.

  Finally the day came when Chuni, after splashing water on his face and dipping himself into the pool as he usually did, counted all the way to thirteen beneath the cascade. Then he retired to the rounded rocks on the near side of the pool to bask in the sun. He had been sunbathing there nearly a week, but his skin had scarcely any color to show for it. He just didn’t seem to tan easily. His rounded shoulders and his back were tinged with pink, but the skin under his arms and on the inside of his thighs remained pale, almost translucent.

  In Sŏgwip’o Chuni and his mother rented a house from a middle-aged couple and their grandson. Their son had been killed during the Cheju Rebellion after being drafted into the Volunteer Army. According to the woman next door, the daughter-in-law had then given birth, but had abandoned the boy soon after his first birthday, before she had even weaned him. A rumor circulated that she was sharing the bed of a man in Sŏngsanp’o, but the grandparents made no effort to find her and raised the boy themselves.

  They were a taciturn couple who survived by working a patch of land and raising a pig and a dozen chickens. On market day the wife, following Cheju custom, took the eggs to town in a box-shaped wicker basket and sold them. It appeared that she did most of the farm work as well. This included grinding up clam shells to feed the chickens and cutting grass for the pig. The master’s sole duty, it seemed, was to look after the grandson. When it was naptime he took the little fellow outside, laid him in a basket in the shade of the bead tree, and rocked him to sleep. To Chuni the grandfather’s rocking seemed forceful enough to wake a sleeping baby, but instead it put the boy right to sleep.

  The master had time to spare and he sometimes took Chuni fishing, not so much to add food to the table as to keep himself occupied. When the tide went out they lifted up rocks on the shore, and out came the lugworms. These creatures, thinner but firmer than earthworms, were bottled together with a sprinkling of salt to kill them, then used for bait. Grove Island was where they liked best to fish. They rented a boat, found a spot on the island, and threw in their lines. You could forgive Chuni since he had never fished before, but the master himself was quite clumsy, and so their catch never amounted to more than a few mackerel and sulmaengi. From time to time, though, Chuni had another diversion: he could watch the diving women. The distinctive whistle and the surface dive with legs straight up, which he usually saw from a distance, were now happening right in front of him.

  One day, after their usual meager catch, Chuni and the master had taken a nap on the crest of the islet in a grassy area adorned with white balloon flowers, then set out for home. Along the way they noticed someone behind them. They turned to see one of the diving women, her shoulders still wet, a kind of shawl draped over her torso. In her net bag were abalone and conch, which she would eventually sell. Chuni suspected she was aware that he always came home from fishing with little to show for his efforts. She must have decided he might like to buy some of her catch to make up for it. The abalone and conch were certainly large enough, and they looked appetizing. Chuni had always preferred seafood to meat, and since arriving at Cheju he had insisted that his mother not buy meat, especially pork. For the pigpens on the island were located below the privies. All you had to do was approach a privy and the pigs would roll their eyes and poke their snouts toward the hole in anticipation of a meal. More than once this prospect had sent Chuni fleeing from the toilets, his business unfinished. He made up his mind that pork would never touch his lips again as long as he lived. Fortunately, the fish to be had on the island were of good quality. And the fish of Sŏgwip’o, because of its clear water, had a tender, delicate appearance and a fresh taste. Chuni that day invited the young diving woman to follow him home, and there he bought several abalone and conch.

  Chuni and his mother could now buy fish without stepping outside their door. The young diving woman
brought them what she had caught and they bought whatever they needed. Sometimes she visited daily; other times, perhaps when she caught little, she missed a day or two. Besides abalone and conch, she brought a fish called pukpari that looked like a perch but had a slightly larger mouth and was mottled with reddish orange. These were fish you speared, she explained. There was another fish they speared—the tagŭmbari. It also resembled a perch, but its mouth was even larger than the pukpari’s. Its spines were light blue, its belly silvery white. These two fish, even after being speared, would continue to flop on the cutting board.

  Almost without realizing it Chuni and his mother began referring to their source of seafood simply as the pibari, rather than using the standard words for a young, unmarried woman or a diving woman. They couldn’t tell from looking at her just how old she was, but they had no doubt she was unmarried, and she couldn’t have been much more than twenty. One day she did something different: after selling Chuni and his mother a tagŭmbari, she had turned to leave when suddenly she produced a good-sized abalone and placed it in Chuni’s hand. Chuni accepted it on the spur of the moment, but then he wondered whether it was proper to have done so. On the other hand, he and his mother had bought a fair amount of seafood from her, and perhaps this was her way of thanking them. But in that case it would have been more appropriate to give the abalone to his mother when she paid for the tagŭmbari. Chuni looked with new interest at the pibari as she walked away. Her firm body and the copper sheen of her skin appeared in a new light. Chuni suddenly realized his face felt warm.

  The following day Chuni followed the master of the house back out to Grove Island. He set the line, but for a long time there was no action. Suddenly the bobber was pulled underwater. Chuni was looking elsewhere at the time, and the master had to alert him. The instant Chuni took hold of his rod, he could tell he had hooked something big. The rod bent every which way. The master rushed to Chuni’s side and helped him steady the rod, and they carefully reeled in the line. And then Chuni found himself sitting on the ground in a state of shock, the rod tossed aside. For attached to the line was a human head. The head, he now saw, belonged not to a corpse but to a living person. The head emerged from the water, then the body, coming up the small bank along the shore. It was a diving woman, and none other than the pibari. The hook was caught in her mouth and blood seeped between her lips. Ignoring the master, she looked at Chuni, her black eyes set between equally black eyelashes glaring at him. They weren’t sleepy eyes, yet they didn’t sparkle. She removed the hook from her mouth, and then a faint smile formed on her bloody lips. Finally she turned and dove back into the water, her legs forming a graceful mast before disappearing beneath the surface. Chuni was speechless. He couldn’t help cowering at that scolding look she had given him. But when he saw her turn away with the faint smile he realized it had been no accident. She had taken the hook in her mouth as a joke. He felt his face flush. He looked out toward the water and already the pibari had emerged near a group of diving women off in the distance. The sound of her whistling carried across the water to him.