by Paul Yoon
She had caught him some months ago watching her pee in the forest. She had been washing clothes in the river and was too tired to walk to the house. He was shocked by her speed. She caught his arm with the handle of her cane, her pants still around her ankles, and he lowered his head, turning away. “See all you want,” she said. “Go ahead.” She grabbed his chin and pulled him toward her body but he shook his arm free of the cane and fled. She watched the boy run and she did not know why she had done such a thing. She thought to apologize. She never did.
All through those weeks the trucks continued to appear in the village. They brought flyers now, too, though the villagers, having never learned to read, used the paper for cigarettes.
Whether Linden was on one of those trucks he never did say. But she would, all her life, remember that morning, at the end of spring, when he appeared. She had been pulling up a bucket of water from the well at the edge of the village clearing. The children saw him first. He came in from the road alone. Unused to an American without a truck, some of them ran away while others were too shy or afraid to do anything but stand there and watch as the young man walked past the village entrance. She searched for Ohri, then saw the top of her brother’s head pass the window of their house.
She returned her attention to the soldier. He walked slowly with a rucksack strapped over his shoulders. He was unarmed. Tied to his wrist was a white sock and he held this up high, his hand in a fist. He walked the length of the road and stopped, close to where Haemi stood. She remembered the strong light of the clearing. Then the high ridges darkening. The swaying of water. She strained her arms to keep the full bucket aloft. His eyes were the shape of coins. Thin lips. The palest hair.
He approached the nearest house, Haemi’s, and waited in front of the entrance. The children had by then returned to their homes. The door opened and with his eyes cast downward, he bowed to Haemi’s mother.
She remembered, too, his boots placed outside, like a pair of abandoned seashells, catching an hour of rain later that afternoon.
He was given the shed behind the house where her father once worked and where they now stored the spare tools, clay pots, and the baskets for the harvest. Her mother pushed it all to one side and swept the room. She unrolled a mat along the floor. He placed his rucksack in the corner of the room and cleaned the shed window, long neglected, with his shirt and spit. It faced south, toward the grove, where the farmers paused in their work to watch him. The children came to visit, though they stood at a distance. Yankee, they called him, and he responded to it, waving behind the shed window, and they grew embarrassed by his acknowledgment.
It had been decided that he would work the fields. He joined the farmers on that first day and Haemi’s father showed him how to fertilize the soil and prune the trees. He was a quick learner and worked with diligence.
Haemi’s mother prepared him a dinner of rice cakes stuffed with crushed red beans and sesame seeds. He thanked her and walked to the willow tree, eating there. When he finished he washed the bowl by the well, left it at the house entrance, and then retired to his shed. In the evening the farmers prepared a bonfire and drank wine, Haemi’s father joining them. She looked for the American but he did not return outside.
The next morning she awoke to find Ohri missing. She had woken earlier than usual, disturbed by dreams, though she could not now recall them. So she went to check on her brother, as she often did. When she slid their door open she saw her parents lying on their mats, their long graying hair unbraided. But the boy was not there. She hurried to the front entrance. A brightness surrounded her from the open door. She squinted, shielding her eyes. She kept silent, unable to call, although that was what she wanted to do, imagined doing.
Soon her vision cleared. The sky was pale and bright, the trees thick-leaved, the air smelling faintly of smoke. At the edge of the clearing a group of figures stood like the silhouettes of trees. One was tall with broad shoulders: the American. Beside him were the children, craning their necks and looking up at the man who now brought his arms behind his back, his hands closed. Haru was there, too, taller than the rest. A girl pointed at one of the American’s hands and he opened his palm. The girl stamped her feet, choosing the other hand.
It was Ohri, in due time, who chose the correct hand. And once more the American opened his palm and offered his gift, which the boy placed into his mouth as Haemi watched, curious, leaning against the entranceway of the house. The game went on.
“Ohri,” she called, and the boy ran to her across the clearing. They met in the path and she lowered herself onto one knee to embrace him and felt his body and the fabric of the shirt their mother had made for him. He smelled of sugar. He said, “Look,” and craned his head back with his arms around his sister’s neck. He had opened his mouth as wide as he could, the chewing gum on his tongue twisted in the shape of a pink worm and riddled with teeth marks.
She looked past him at the American, who remained standing with his back straight, his shoulders brilliant from the sun. He threw a stone up into the air and attempted to keep it aloft with the insides of his boots, his legs kicking like the shadow puppets Haemi saw when the performers used to visit, their shows about the gods, the entire village gathered in the clearing. The performers departed at dawn the next day and she would wake to the rattle of their cart, filled with the desire to follow them down the road for a while. Instead, she pretended to sleep, forcing her eyes shut, until the sound of the wheels faded.
She clung to her brother and he squirmed, fixated on the American’s game with the stone. The other children had formed a circle around the young man. “Sister,” her brother said, though he did not continue. He said it and grew calm, watching the American kicking his legs. She rested her chin on his shoulder and looked up at the boy’s profile, his dark eyebrows, his nose the size of a berry. She told him he shouldn’t leave the house alone, that he should have told her—that it wasn’t safe. He asked why. He said that she was asleep. “Then wake me,” she said, and kissed him. “Promise.”
The boy pointed at the American. “That is Linden,” he said, rolling the “L.”
“Are you now friends with him?” Haemi asked. She spoke quietly into his ear but he did not respond.
Linden missed the stone. He picked it up and kicked it again. The villagers were stirring; she heard footsteps, voices from within the walls of the homes. Her uncle walked toward the well and greeted her, yawning.
She told Ohri to go inside. “Be with Mama,” she said, and the boy, without hesitation, obeyed. It surprised her yet she was also pleased.
In the kitchen she prepared a bowl of rice and vegetables. Ohri was with their parents and from within the bedroom she heard their mother’s laughter, the boy chewing the gum loudly, the burst of a bubble. Balancing a pair of chopsticks on the rim of the bowl, she returned outside and offered it to Linden. He bowed, thanking her, and then walked to the field where he sat beside the willow and ate. The children scattered and she waved to Haru but he avoided her and joined his father at the well.
The next day Linden wasn’t outside so she carried the food along the short path to the shed. She tapped the end of her cane against the old thin door and placed the tray at the entrance. She returned to the house. Through the back window she waited for the door to open. When it did she saw him bend down and bring his head close to the tray, as though he were examining the food, his long nose like a fox’s.
Once again he ate as far from the village as possible. Later she learned it was out of courtesy. Except for that first day he would never enter her house in all his time here. Nor anyone’s.
The third morning she knocked on his door and then went around to the side of the shed, pressing her back against the wood. She peered around the corner and when he bent down, his profile in plain sight, his blond hair hanging forward like the willow tree, she spoke to him. She said, “It isn’t poisonous.”
She was disappointed. She had meant to surprise him. She had already pictured t
he American’s startled expression, his wide eyes, the sudden jump he would make, bumping his head against the doorframe.
But he did nothing. He did not even glance her way. He said, “You never told me your name.”
His voice was unsettling in its tranquility. And although he had not perfected the language he was easily understood. She stepped out from hiding. She told him.
“And I’m Linden,” he said. “Thank you. It is just right.” And then he gave her a short bow and went inside.
She stood there for a moment longer, outside the door, listening to chopsticks and the wood of the floor creak.
It is just right. She wasn’t sure what, in particular, he had meant. The food? Her name? She returned to the house. In the main room her mother was on her way to the garden. “Will you finally help?” her mother said, and Haemi apologized, following her to the backyard where they worked beside the shed. She felt herself blushing. She did not once look at her mother. If her mother noticed she didn’t say.
The next day in the fields, as the farmers watered the grove, she worked close to Linden, always visible. They pruned the trees using machete blades. During a break he went past the well and took the trail to the banks of the river. From a distance she followed him. On the banks he took off his shirt, squatted, and dipped a bar of soap into the water and she watched as he washed his face, his hair, and his arms. His even shoulders.
She grew used to preparing food for him in the afternoons. She carried it with one hand. He sat under the willow and she waited, standing off to the side, leaning her weight on the cane, because he had asked her to stay. The day was bright. He offered her the meal but she said she had already eaten, that she wasn’t hungry anymore, which was untrue. They kept quiet. She listened to him chewing and a wind came and pushed the branches, and their shadows stretched and curved.
He was never present when the American trucks came throughout the following weeks, though no one was ever sure where he was. It was understood he did not want to see them. As for his reasons they never asked. It did not seem to matter. Help was appreciated. They treated him no differently than any other migrant worker. He was respectful. He spoke their language. And to the children he was kind.
They were low on kelp, her mother said, and her father nodded, filling the sacks with vegetables. They were in the garden. The pony stood beside Haemi, dipping his nose into the open bags. Linden helped them.
“Just a few days,” Haemi had overheard her mother say the morning Linden arrived. “That’s all.” “He’ll work well,” her father said. “He’ll do as we wish. And then he’ll go.” Her mother went outside without responding.
Whether her mother’s opinions of Linden had now changed Haemi could not tell. The woman hardly spoke to him. And if her parents knew she spent time with him, as they must have, they never mentioned it. Sometimes the villagers waved at the pair, though some of them glanced away quickly, continuing to work. If there were objections they were not voiced. Other times her parents called for her and she and Linden parted and she hurried to help in the kitchen or in the garden, her brother occupied with the pony.
Linden now tied the spring cabbage with twine, holding one cradled against his arm and looping the string around the leaves to retain the moisture. They wouldn’t sell as well as the winter ones, but each year they tried regardless. He picked dirt off the heads although Haemi had told him he didn’t have to. She herself stacked sesame leaves that were in the shape of small spades and then she helped her mother place the soy paste into ceramic jars. Linden, unused to its smell, frowned, and so she placed a small amount of it on the tip of her finger. “Taste,” she said.
“Don’t bother him,” her mother said. Haemi fed it to the pony instead. She returned and sat on a stool and twisted the jars shut as tight as she could. She asked her brother for help and the boy wrapped his arms around the circumference of the lid, attempting to turn it. “Good, good,” she encouraged him, and pride entered the boy’s face. These were her father’s words when she herself was Ohri’s age, when he spoke of her strengths. She assumed he would recognize the words but he kept his attention on the vegetables.
Beside her father, on the grass, was a rucksack filled with the wooden animals he had carved years ago, each wrapped in cloth. There were foxes, pigs, tigers, and several made in the image of his pony. For every visit to the market he attempted to sell them. He had sworn he wouldn’t make anymore until they were all purchased and years later this promise was kept. Once in a while he gave some to the children on their birthdays. They called him the woodcarver because of these gifts, none of the villagers aware that he no longer pursued the craft.
The evening before it had rained and now its scent rose with the humidity already present so early in the morning. The sun had yet to reach the rim of the forest. The day had turned blue, its colors sharp. They filled two sacks with vegetables. Haemi’s mother tied the sacks together with twine, bridging the pair, and Linden hauled the bags across the pony’s back, which was covered with a blanket. The pony stirred and grunted and her father stroked the animal’s mane and spoke to him. To his family, he said, “Be well,” and he tugged on the rope and the pony followed, keeping his head down low to the path and the road. “Kelp,” her mother called, and without looking back her husband raised his hand.
He passed the village entrance and was nearing where the road turned toward the eastern side of the valley. Smoke from a cigarette rose above his head in a thin stream. She hoped her father had brought a hat in case it rained again. She watched the pony’s white legs and saw how the right pair moved as one and then the left pair, fluid as a watermill, and she wondered if the pony was aware of all the times he had traversed this route. She had known the animal all her life.
To Linden she spoke of the market. She recalled the potters and their ceramics and the stalls lined with shellfish from the sea women. The voices of the medicine men, hoarse and vibrant, the sharp smell of their teas and ginseng powders. The auctions for the livestock—the oxen, the pigs, the goats—and all the hands rising and falling.
She had not gone in years, she told him. She tapped her leg with her cane. A two-hour journey by foot wasn’t possible, she added, repeating her father’s words, though whether she believed this anymore she was not sure. It was unfruitful of her time, her father used to say as well. In those hours she could work the fields, help her mother. She could help him, she once said, but he shook his head, telling her he would manage.
Perhaps he was ashamed, she thought, although she didn’t share this with Linden. Perhaps guilt still remained.
Her father had by then gone and she turned her attention to her house: its thatched roof and the walls of stone her greatgrandfather had built, each stone carried from the hills. Her great-grandmother had woven its first roof, replacing it every year, spreading its parts along the field like a great blanket. It was a house intended to outlive them, and briefly Haemi pictured it abandoned, empty.
They entered the grove, carrying a newspaper filled with the last of their kelp. Dried, the strips were dark, like night clouds. She placed them into a bowl and with a pestle ground them into a powder. Linden held the bowl and Haemi sprinkled it onto the damp soil under the citrus trees, letting it seep. They walked the rows. At both ends of the grove there were tall evergreens, to decrease the winds, and she threw what was unused around the roots. She licked her fingers, stained dark, tasting the salt bitter sea.
She admitted that in twenty-three years she had never seen the coast. There were times when she forgot she lived on an island. It did not bother her, she told him. There was the knowledge of other things. She knew what time she woke by the distance of the sun from the valley ridge. She knew how to make her father meals when her mother was feeling ill. She knew where the soil was the best for planting new seeds and knew how much a pig weighed by the girth of its belly. She knew when the pony dreamed and when he had slept badly.
“We keep each other company,” she said. “We do ou
r best.”
They approached the river. She thought if they walked far enough they would reach the ocean and that perhaps one day she would go there and visit the caves on the coast. Perhaps, too, she would be able to go aboard an aircraft and see the island from above, how large it really was. Or how small. Either one. It did not seem to matter.
“It would be beautiful,” she said. “It would all be beautiful.”
In the distance they heard the engine of a truck but she knew it was far off, across the river, and that today they would not be coming in this direction. Ever since Linden’s arrival the trucks had passed through the village several times, bringing flyers and food. There was an interpreter with them and he spoke through a loudspeaker, telling them of news in the cities and on the mainland. When they left she searched for Linden. The first time she found him among the forsythia that grew in the southern fields. Last week he was by the river, crouched beside a large stone. She asked if he, too, had ever spoken through the machines and he nodded, his eyes restless.
“I should leave,” he said. “Soon.”
“Soon,” he said often, whenever she was with him. She had grown accustomed to this response, no longer sure of whether he would, in fact, leave.
They stopped where the river widened, the sound of the rushing water around them. Above, the sky expanded in color, stretching out from the crest of the valley and arcing over the village.
By the banks Linden knelt and took out his bar of soap. He washed his neck and his face and then gave it to her and she did the same, smelling its scent of mint. She examined his features, which she often did, his eyes in the shape of coins. She could not imagine his parents or his home or his childhood because it seemed he set foot into the village fully formed, as though what existed before vanished in his wake. She did not ask him about any of this, did not have the desire to, and instead imagined that all his years were in constant motion. He had crossed seas and she thought of that, too. Not once had she crossed this river.