Moving over, Yosŏp began to dig a small hole in the ground. After he scooped out several handfuls of dirt, the consistency of the soil became damp and mixed with leaves. He continued digging, and about a handspan further down, the soil became soft, pink, and tender. After sorting out all the little pebbles and patting the bottom of the hole down to make it firm, Yosŏp took out the leather pouch he’d been keeping on him. Untying it, he took out the tojang-shaped sliver of bone that had once belonged to his brother and placed it in the hole. He filled it back up with dirt. Just as one might do to put a baby to sleep, he kept patting the little mound of dirt that was left.
You’re home now, Big Brother, were the words Yosŏp wanted to say out loud.
11. Matrix of Spirits
WHAT WILL BECOME
THE WIND BLOWS HARD. All the grass on the hillside is flattened in one direction; the tips of the blades tremble violently, as if they are being washed away by a powerful ocean current. Particles of dirt smash themselves against his face and earlobes as the wind pushes against his chest and thighs. Even the crows can’t seem to fly properly. They flap their wings over and over but eventually, the moment they pause for even the briefest instant, they plummet towards the ground. The crows fall, but just as they are about to graze the earth they suddenly soar back up into the sky and disappear, flying swiftly in the opposite direction like a piece of paper blowing away in the wind. Their thin, naked branches shivering, the trees scream.
A long line of people, hunched over at the waist, all move in one direction. They look as if they are each dragging something extremely heavy behind them. The endless parade has no visible beginning or end. A winding path passes through the field, leading up into a faraway lavender mountain ridge. They do not speak. From here, only their backs are visible.
The sun is setting. Clouds soaked in twilight flow past. Just like the birds blown away by the wind, the clouds, too, stream backwards into oblivion. The reddish skies darken, and the moon rises like a piece of cloth in faded indigo. Under the moonlight, the parade of people moves on, making slow progress. The high, steep path up the mountain ends at the peak. He can see the stripe of river etched in white and the lights of the village far below.
Like a bird, he soars up and over the scene. Below him a series of hills and a thin stream race by. He hears the cows moo in the distance and hears the hens cackle as they lay their eggs. He hears the people in the paddies, singing as they plant next year’s rice crop. The fast beating of drums is superimposed on the buoyant, metallic sound of cymbals. He hears the mother call to her children.
Kids, time to eat.
Once again, Reverend Ryu Yosŏp woke up from another early morning dream. It wasn’t time to go yet. He pulled the curtains open and looked out the window at the deserted streets. The streetlamps remained unlit; Pyongyang was still covered in darkness. In the apartment complex across the road, though, several lights were on — around the middle and towards the top of the building. Has someone gotten up already to get ready for work? A car drove by, slowly, along the empty road. He gazed at himself as he was, reflected dimly on the windowpane. It was the face of the most familiar man in his whole world.
12. Farewell Guests
EAT YOUR FILL AND BEGONE!
Hamujagwi, the widower’s ghost, mongdalgwi, the bachelor’s ghost,
gorge yourselves — begone!
Kŏllipkwi, the ghost of the shaman, sinsŏn’gwi, the ghost of the blind,
gorge yourselves — be on your way!
T’ansikkwi, the ghost of the widow, hogugwi, the ghost of the maiden,
gorge yourselves — leave us!
Ghosts of the hanged, up in the mountain’s drooping pine branches,
ghosts of the drowned, down in the bottomless waters,
hat’algwi, the ghosts of the women, shedding all those endless tears—
some died giving birth, some while still pregnant,
all clutching their rice bowls and mats made of straw—
their skirts always tucked, their hair all disheveled,
with scissors and thread still attached to their belts,
gorge yourself — begone!
Ghosts of those shot, pierced, even battered,
ghosts of those bombed by planes overhead,
ghosts of those burnt to ashes by flames,
ghosts hit by wagons, tanks, trucks, or trains,
ghosts made by smallpox, ghosts made by plague,
those made by typhus, consumption, or cholera,
ghosts still resentful, ghosts far from home,
all those who linger, each with its own tale,
today eat your fill, ’til your heart is content,
gorge yourselves — be on your way!
Behold today’s feast, see our devotion,
the ghost of this land, the ghost of this house,
eat your fill and know when to be silent.
Fill your bellies, quench your thirst,
eat your fill and pack up what’s left—
take it all with you, women on your heads,
take it all with you, servants in your aprons—
accept our goodwill, take some coin for the road
and be on your way, up into the heavens.
About the Author
HWANG SOK-YONG is arguably Korea’s most recognized and renowned author. Drawing artistic inspiration from his own experiences as a vagabond day laborer, student activist, Vietnam War veteran, advocate for coal miners and garment workers, and political dissident, he is embraced as a writer and champion of the people. His historical novel Chang Kilsan, an extensive parable about a bandit that described the contemporary dictatorship, was serialized in a daily paper from 1974 to 1984 and sold an estimated million copies in North and South Korea. In 1993 there was international outcry when Hwang was sentenced to seven years in prison for an unauthorized trip to the North to promote exchange between artists in North and South Korea. In 1998, he was granted special pardon by the new South Korean president. The recipient of Korea’s highest literary prizes and shortlisted for the Prix Fémina Étranger, Hwang has seen his novels and short stories published in North and South Korea, Japan, China, France, Germany, and the U.S. Hwang was born in 1943 in Xinjing, Manchuria (now Changchun, China).
Notes
1
Ansŏng-daek: traditionally, women who married into the family from a different area were referred to by their place of origin instead of their given name — Ansŏng-daek would originally be from Ansŏng.
2
Chosŏn: Korea.
3
Chŏgori: a short, blouselike top, tied with a long ribbon — part of the traditional Korean costume known as hanbok.
4
Village sarang: a communal room or meeting area used primarily forrecreation.