Once the Shore

by Paul Yoon

  “It isn’t right,” she said. She clutched the side of the blanket. “I will go to them, Sinaru. Tell me who it was. Please.”

  The boy looked at her with calm and patient eyes, and he appeared much older as he took her hand in his. Her body shuddered from the touch.

  “That’s okay, Auntie,” he said. “It was me.”

  Sinaru slept. She watched him. She heard a car idling on the street. And then another. After some time she left the house and crossed the street. The boy’s aquarium, a large clear plastic bin decorated with stones and seaweed, lay in the front yard of his home. His wooden sword floated inside of it, its pointed end darkened by his blood, which fanned out into the stale water. She picked up the sword and slipped it under a bush that bordered on their property and then approached the door. The sun was brushing the rooftops behind her, sinking. A breeze carried the faint scent of charcoal and fire from the coast.

  She was about to knock but hesitated. Through the window beside the door she saw movement, a silhouette. It turned quickly, like a coin, and then she saw the unmistakable sight of skin, pale and soft. She heard a woman’s voice, muffled, the sound of someone trying to keep quiet. She leaned closer. She held her breath. In the room, against patches of sunlight, there was the lower back of someone, a man’s, a woman’s, she couldn’t distinguish. Then a person’s leg curved around it, pulling.

  She should have turned away but she didn’t, not knowing why. She remained there, listening, feeling her heart, and only when the bodies began to turn did she leave.

  It was while retrieving the wooden sword that she saw a pair of boys watching her from the end of the street, their bodies darkened by the sinking sun. In between them was a ball they had paused in kicking. She rushed at them, flinging the stick, shouting, “Go away!” and they, not knowing what to do at first, stood there and watched her. And then they laughed, running. They called her things she had never heard spoken and they were much faster and ran quickly through the playground and the fields until they vanished behind the forsythia.

  Ahrim returned to her house, where Sinaru remained sleeping on the couch. Shadows shifted across the floor, the movement of clouds. She took a towel and wiped his blood from his wooden sword. She watched his eyes flutter under their lids and knew that he was dreaming and she hoped it was of turtles and the sea and great distances.

  In the evening, after feeding him, she carried him to the bath. The boy hooked the bandaged stump over the bathtub to keep it dry. She let his skin soak.

  “Is it like this?” he asked, and she nodded, said yes, as he scooped water with his hand, mimicking a catch. “And the sea turtles?”

  “As big as the tub,” she said.

  He grinned, satisfied. He was sure she would one day catch one.

  “Let’s practice,” she said. To her surprise, he agreed. And so she counted to three and then he inhaled and slid his back down against the tub, the water rising up to his chin, past his mouth, his nose, until his entire face was submerged. She looked down at his wide eyes below as though his grin were a reflection, his skin breaking into ripples the color of the light bulb hanging from the ceiling. She saw her own silhouette.

  What the boy was thinking she couldn’t guess, but she watched him and considered then that perhaps she had been wrong about the sea. That it was not a globe, it was not contained, but rather it was without boundaries, in constant flux, and if you were in it without purpose, there was the sense of going nowhere and being nothing, the sense of insignificance. And that each descent and surfacing was a struggle against this.

  She rubbed her fingers, then dipped them into the tub and flicked water against his knees. She wondered, as she often did, why his parents had emigrated. Whether it was the work or the boy or something else entirely. In all their time together they had never mentioned his country.

  It was Jinsu who once said, before he was taken, that pilots, while in the air, held their breaths. In the mountains they had been lying in the snow, watching the Japanese planes in the clouds, their wings like glass, their contrails like veins. She asked him why they did so. Because of whom they are seeking, he said. Superstition. For luck. So that they approach in silence. She thought then of these air machines all of a sudden empty and soundless as they soared over the island. Jinsu pressed his fingers to her lips. They were not yet twenty, still children. But we hold our breaths as well, he added. So that we move quickly. So that they do not hear us. And she believed him.

  Sinaru, still submerged, parted his lips. He mouthed words, although she couldn’t tell what he was saying. A pair of bubbles broke the surface. She showed him her fingers, timing his submersion. Slowly, the boy shut his eyes. He lay motionless, the water clear. She inhaled and, in her imagination, joined him.

  THE WOODCARVER’S DAUGHTER

  IN THE LATE AFTERNOON, the farmers, while resting in the shade of a citrus grove, watched two figures ascend the hill forest. Some of them had gathered under a tree, leaning against its trunk; others lay in the grass nearby, their bodies heavy from the sun. They spoke little, passing around cups of cold barley tea and strips of dried squid wrapped in pocket handkerchiefs. When a wind came through the valley their straw hats, hanging on the branches above them, rose and fell.

  They followed the paleness of two shirts, like candle flames moving along that rise of land. They watched as one would watch a flock of geese. From so far away they were unable to distinguish between the pair, unsure of who was leading, the American or the woodcarver’s daughter.

  It was the Yankee, the farmers concluded, for the girl as a child had broken her right ankle and the doctor had set it improperly. She limped from then on, unable to run or stand for a long duration, her ability to work in the fields hindered. Her marriage prospects as well. The gods, it was said, had passed over her. There was pity for the girl, though they kept it to themselves. Discomfort, too, because she remained reticent among them and, before the arrival of the American, spent her time alone or in the company of her younger brother. She did not leave the village often. She was twenty-three now, in the year 1947. Not yet summer and the monsoons would not begin for another month.

  Her name was Haemi. And the farmers had guessed incorrectly. Through the forest she led, gripping the cane her father had made, the last one he would make, for she had grown as tall as she ever would. On the handle he had carved the smooth arc of a seagull’s head, its eyes blank and worn away by her palm. When the incline grew steeper she hooked the handle around the trees and pulled herself up the trail, clenching her toes so that her moccasins wouldn’t slip. In the humidity her pants, cut off at the shins, clung to her thighs, and her braided hair swung in rhythm with her steps.

  Whenever she glanced at the young man behind her, she first caught sight of the canvas bag on his shoulder like some bright wing, then the faded pants of his uniform and the T-shirt he washed by the river. She listened to his dark boots against the earth, keeping track of the narrow gap between them. He could go faster. But he never did. Instead he pulled on her sleeve and cautioned her to slow. She would injure herself, he said, and she hurried even more, ignoring the soreness of her ankle.

  And so they went higher. The air thinned and their breathing sped. The sun split like bullets upon them. They were surrounded by the conversations of birds. “Not far,” she encouraged him. “Not far.” And when the land leveled it came with an unexpected suddenness and almost at once she stopped, feeling her body begin to recover, the pulse in her legs, the swift beats against her chest, the lightness.

  They had reached a clearing. From here the ridgeline was visible, touching sky. Down below, through the trees, she could see her village faintly: a cluster of thatched rooftops, lines of rising smoke, the citrus grove and the crown of a lone willow in the fields. They rested for a moment, facing the other side of the valley, and then she led him across the clearing, slower now in that immense quiet, following the curve of an outcrop until it receded and they stood before a shallow cave. Candles had be
en set near the entrance, some having been lit weeks ago and already burned, puddles of wax hardened against the stones. Farther in, they could see straw baskets filled with grains, their tops tied shut with twine. Pieces of silk, patterned in colorful stripes, hung from ropes. There were toys as well, and dolls made of burlap and horsehair, their shadows spreading against the walls.

  She stepped inside first, over the offerings, heading to the far corner where there was room enough for her and the American to sit. She propped her cane against the wall and took out a jug of water from the canvas bag, placing it between them. The air was cool and damp and she clicked her mouth with her tongue, hearing the echo.

  In the thin light she watched him. His sweat had darkened his blond hair. Against his shirt she could make out the outline of his chest. She wanted him to react to this place in some way, a gesture, a word, but he didn’t. He drank from the jug and she returned to his face, to its blankness which she had yet to grow accustomed to, his cracked lips, the hair on his cheeks hiding his youth. Twenty-five years old and he seemed to her much older, those years between them vast, foreign, and unattainable.

  On the ground beside Haemi’s legs lay a row of sticks, twenty-two in all, each shaved of their bark and the size of thumbs. She opened a pouch she had brought with her and placed a stick beside the others. Now there were twenty-three. One for every year of her life. It had begun with her father and when she was old enough she had brought the sticks herself.

  The American extended his hand, formed in a fist. She unrolled his fingers. She could smell his drying sweat. He was holding a piece of chewing gum, and she slipped the gum into her mouth, savoring the sugars as they melted. She rubbed her ankle, knowing it would need to be soaked in cold water when they returned.

  He reached for her leg. “Okay?” he said, in English.

  “A-Okay,” she said, and raised her hand and formed a circle with her thumb and index finger the way he had taught her.

  He pointed at the sticks, aligned on top of the stones like a bridge. “For the god,” he said.

  “For the bone,” she said, tapping her ankle. “It is a trade. So that he will return it.”

  They leaned back against the cave, their bodies hidden from view. They chewed their gum. The minutes passed, although it seemed longer, as if this ancient space delayed the moments. From deep behind them they heard water falling. In the distance clouds moved over a high mountain. Their breathing settled; then the calm of fatigue.

  He said, “Happy birthday,” and in the shadows she brought her knees to her chest and they were silent among the silk and the dolls and through the forest came the fragments of an old song, a multitude of voices, and they looked down, as if from a window, at the farmers ascending the trees.

  It had been two weeks since Linden Webb, the interpreter, came to them. The village—which lay within a valley in the central part of the island—had grown accustomed to the presence of Americans. The Second World War had ended two years before, and with the departure of the Japanese, another occupying army took their place.

  Throughout that first year the American patrols were seen often. They drove through the village in large trucks, their fleeting faces hidden under helmets and sunglasses. As the months progressed the fighter planes entered the villagers’ lives. Some of the residents paused to watch the steel bellies of the aircraft cutting through the morning sky while many did not acknowledge them at all, keeping their attention on the harvest.

  The children began to expect them. If a plane was spotted they chased it across the fields, tracing its contrails with their fingers, and then they returned on each other’s backs, their arms spread, spitting bombs. If a truck’s engines reverberated on the dirt road they ran to the village entrance and waited for the noises to increase. They waved with shyness. At first the parents ran after them but the soldiers waved as well, slowing the trucks, careful, and in the visits that followed they tooted their horns and the children cheered. Some days the Americans dropped off sacks filled with canned meats, sugar, and coffee. These the villagers saved for the evenings, gathered around an outdoor fire.

  Haemi, too, was often among the crowd, though she remained at its periphery. She sat between her mother, who knitted, and her brother, Ohri, who was not yet five. “Join them,” her mother would say. “Leave me be.” She pointed her chin at the children collecting wood and brought a hand to Ohri’s neck to encourage him but he hesitated, looking up at his sister. “He’s fine with me,” Haemi responded, “but if you want us to leave, then we will.” Her mother shook her head, pretending she had not heard. Nothing more was said until Ohri fell asleep on his sister’s lap and their mother carried him inside.

  On these nights Haemi waited for her father but could never stay awake long enough for him to come back. She followed his figure in the firelight, alongside the other men, and drifted.

  Haemi spent the days with the work that her family delegated to her: feeding the pigs, bathing her father’s pony, working in the garden, or spreading fertilizer throughout the grove. Small tasks, she had overheard her mother tell a neighbor years ago. “Poor child,” the woman said, and nodded in sympathy. The villagers were pleasant enough. They said hello, asked how she was, thanked her if she helped around the other homes. To all this she responded politely. They let her be. For many, it was through her limp that they saw the lives she could have led.

  She would have preferred to go with her father to the market, as she had done when she was younger, and lighter, but now the pony, a dark pinto, couldn’t carry her along with the produce her father sold. She was unable to walk the distance—a two-hour journey—and so every week she escorted her father to the village entrance, her cane in one hand, the other holding the hand of her brother. Her father would bend down to kiss them both on the brow and say, “Take care now, be well,” and she smelled his shirt collar, the scent of the garden, and said, “Be well, Papa, come back soon.” She watched him lead the pony down the road with his shoulders slouched, his straw hat slightly crooked on his head, the pale smoke of his cigarette trailing him. She watched his weariness and thought of how far he had traveled throughout the course of his life. She stayed long after he was gone, as if he were still there in the daylight, the trees bowing over his form.

  With her father there were days when after his work was done he placed his hand on top of her head and left it there as they looked out at the valley and she lifted herself onto her toes just to feel more of his palm. But there were also days when she avoided him, heading down into the grove or across the fields, when his movements were heavy and erratic from his wine.

  As a child she used to sleep between them, her parents, sharing each of their mats. And when she couldn’t sleep she watched their bodies in the dark. She saw them as mountains. She touched their faces, their hair, their fingertips, her mother’s breasts, the scars on her father’s body that had existed since she could recall, alien yet familiar.

  She did not know their origins. “Money,” was all he said, as a way of explanation. Years ago, when there was a food shortage in the village, a group of men had gone to Japan, her father among them. She was told they worked in the mines. Only her father and two others returned. This was during the first two years of her life. She had no recollection of this, though she often wondered if she had felt his absence as an infant and whether it still lingered, as if some part of him had yet to return from across the sea.

  What she knew of those years was that she was cared for by her uncle’s family, her mother unwilling to rise from bed in the mornings. Haemi’s birth had been difficult. Her father told her this once. He had found her in the fields one evening, the wine already in him. He said it in passing, unwilling to look at her, then stumbled into the woods. “It nearly killed her,” he said. She did not respond, running her hands against the high grass.

  From then on, whenever she looked at her mother, she saw this memory in her eyes and wanted to somehow take it away. Instead they bickered.

 
; These days the child Ohri slept between their parents. Haemi took the spare room where it was once intended that she and a future husband could one day stay.

  Marriage had once been a wish. But her brother was born and she took care of him and found happiness through the child. There was the balance of things, she thought, and considered herself fortunate for a companion. Nothing more was asked.

  Some afternoons the children found her in the forest at the end of the village, walking alongside the river, without explanation, in apparent absentmindedness, her brother hugged against her hip. Casting spells, they said, with her cane. They believed that her mother had lain with a god, who, displeased, had cursed the woman. It was known that when Haemi was born it had been in the dark and so when she opened her eyes she first saw nothing but the shadows of her family. “Are the spirits with you?” the children said, under their breaths, when she passed them. When she was gone they ran around, tapping their heads, rolling their eyes, lifting their arms into the air like wild, intoxicated creatures.

  She was unaware that they spoke such stories. Nor was she aware that it was her thirteen-year-old cousin, Haru, who started them. He lived alone with his father at the first house in the village. His mother had been Japanese. She did not survive Haru’s birth. During the war, his older brother had gone to Tokyo to enlist. He never returned. After that, her uncle—Haru’s father—kept to himself. Haru she saw more often, with the other children, though whenever she greeted him he looked down at her leg.