White Chrysanthemum

by Mary Lynn Bracht

  She dreams she is floating in a warm pool next to the shore enclosed by an outcrop of black rocks. The water is shallow, and the absorbed warmth from the afternoon sun flows through her limbs. She can feel the heat on her cheeks and hear the seabirds cry overhead. A sea lion barks somewhere nearby, and Hana thinks she should open her eyes and find her mother. The impulse to do so is strong, but try as she might they are glued shut, and she is floating in darkness beneath a radiating sun.

  Hana awakens in the night. The heavy breathing of the sleeping Mongolians fills the hot air. Her eyes adjust to the dim light of the embers still glowing in the fire. Even in the mild autumn evening, they keep the fire alive, but with only a hint of life. Slowly, she lifts her head and makes out three people sleeping nearby.

  The woman is lying nearest to her. A dark mound to the left of her is too deep in shadow for Hana to see the face, but its size is definitely male. Beyond that mound is a smaller one, not much larger than the woman. It must be the boy who took the horse from them when they arrived. With no sign of the other two Mongolian men, Hana feels content to lie back down and settles deeper into the blanket.

  Unable to go back to sleep, she listens to the sounds around her. The man’s deep rumble at the end of each sonorous intake of breath; the woman’s quiet exhalation, which cuts off in a soft sigh; and the boy’s constant tossing, as though he’s suffering through a nightmare. The winds outside have calmed, and even the dog seems to have gone to sleep, but the ponies occasionally stamp their feet, and the thud of earth reminds her of her journey to this place. Where has Morimoto gone, she wonders, and what will happen to her when the sun rises?

  Hana, come home … Her sister’s voice sounds close, as though she is standing just outside. Hana sits up and listens for it again, but nothing rises above the snores, the breathing and the intermittent crackle of the fire. Uncertain whether the voice was real or where it came from, she takes her time deciding whether she should go outside to investigate. Hana almost lies back down, but then an owl screeches high above the ger and she crawls to the door and slips outside.

  The stars beyond the ger light up the night sky, and outside is brighter than within. Thousands of white pinpricks illuminate the black ether, and she sinks to her knees. After the peaceful moments the Mongolian woman bestowed upon her and the restful sleep she awoke from, the beauty of the night overwhelms Hana, and she can only gaze, wide-eyed, at the speckled sky.

  The dog interrupts her reverie, growling somewhere nearby. She turns her head in the direction of the low grumble. A small mound not far away changes shape as the mongrel rises. Its full size is cast in shadow against the glowing backdrop of starlight on the flat plain. It growls again, barely audible, a warning. Hana takes a last glance at the starlit heavens and ducks back inside the ger. She crawls to the fur pelt and covers herself with the soft blanket. The woman stirs beside her, the man is no longer snoring, and the boy is still. They are awake but say nothing. After a long pause, the tension eases out of the ger, the fire’s embers intermittently crackle, and they are all clothed in a red glow. Hana cannot forget the stars shining brightly in the night sky. Staring up above her through the smoke hole in the centre of the ger’s roof, she glimpses one, perhaps two, white eyes peering back at her.

  The Mongolian woman wakes Hana with a gentle squeeze on her hand. She sits up immediately, her heart already racing. The woman smiles and softly touches Hana’s cheek, calming her. She hands Hana a pair of suede boots and motions for her to put them on. Then she bids her to follow through the door flap.

  Outside the sun has barely breached the flat horizon. The deep-purple sky is empty of stars. The dog growls when she emerges, but the woman hushes it with a hand signal. It lies down, its tail rapidly beating the dirt. Still tethered to the stake in the ground, the dog stays as near to the ger as the rope allows. The woman hugs Hana, a grand motion, and then she takes Hana’s hand in hers and leads her towards the waiting dog. Alarmed at the woman’s intentions, Hana instinctively pulls back, but the woman looks her in the eyes and shakes her head, her face an open smile. Hana relents.

  As they near the mongrel, the woman speaks softly to it. The dog responds in kind, and it is as though they are talking to one another, the woman with words and the dog in wistful whines and half-barks. When they are within touching distance, it lets out a low growl, the same warning it gave Hana last night. She hesitates, but the woman insists and slowly places Hana’s hand near the dog’s nose. Hana watches the dog closely, fully expecting it to snap at her hand and rip it from her arm.

  The dog’s silken grey fur stands upright like the fur of an angry cat. It sniffs her hand and sneezes three times, as though allergic to her foreign scent. The woman says something to it. It lets out a long and mournful whine. Hana wonders if the mongrel is really related to a wolf. Its yellow eyes glare at her, but it lowers its snout and bows its head.

  The woman releases Hana’s hand and motions for her to follow her lead and pet the dog. As the woman runs her fingers through its thick fur, she speaks softly and curiously to the mongrel. Hana leans in very slowly, preparing her hand to touch the top of the dog’s head. Perhaps if she grazes just the tips of the fur on its forehead, and it decides to bite her, she can yank her hand away quickly enough before its teeth can sink into her fingers.

  It feels like ages pass before the tips of her fingers come into contact with the mongrel’s fur. She pauses, giving the creature a moment to decide whether it likes her or not, but when it does nothing, she pets it in one long motion from head to neck. After a second daring stroke, its tongue lolls sideways in its teeth-filled jaws, and it flops onto its back, revealing a soft underbelly. The woman motions for Hana to continue petting it, and she does, enjoying the downy fur and the genuine pleasure spreading through her own limbs. Before she knows it, she, too, is speaking gently to the dog.

  ‘You’re a magnificent animal,’ she says, gently scratching its stomach. ‘Please remember this moment, when you and I became friends.’

  They linger with the dog a few minutes longer, but when it licks Hana’s hand, the woman motions for them to rise. The meeting successful, it is time to move on. Hana follows the woman behind the ger. She stops suddenly, amazed by the sight before her. Far beyond the rolling plains, blue mountains rise up into the morning sky. The majestic scenery leaves her breathless. The woman urges her towards a small pen. Hana is still marvelling at how she didn’t see the mountains yesterday.

  Inside the pen, a shaggy ox with engorged udders lifts its head as they pass through the gate. Four ponies of short, stocky stature and various colours greet them with quiet, alert eyes. Behind the pen is a second, smaller ger with three double-humped camels tethered to a stake near the door frame. Hana guesses the other two men must be asleep inside. Perhaps they are not blood relatives, she thinks, while taking the bucket the woman holds out to her. With their metal pails, they enter the pen and corner the ox.

  It bellows at them but seems to consent to the milking. Hana tries not to think of the leg she stole from the injured ox after her escape. She focuses on the woman as she kneels and milks it. Hana watches, taking mental notes. When the pail is nearly full, she rises and motions for Hana to give it a try.

  She dutifully kneels just as the woman did, places the pail beneath the udder, and takes hold of two teats. Her shoulder smarts, but she pushes past the pain. Nothing happens with the first few squeezes, and the woman helps her with the technique, squeezing softly higher up the teat and gently tugging downward until a stream of milk squirts out. After a few successful tries, the woman picks up her pail and heads out of the pen towards the ger, leaving Hana alone with this chore.

  At first she struggles with the teats and begins to wonder if the milk is dried up, but after she tries two different teats, the milk flows again and the pail slowly but surely fills up. Before attempting to lift the heavy pail, Hana wipes the sweat from her brow. Her sore shoulder throbs with heat, protesting against the motion. She massages
it while gazing at the brightening landscape. Undulating waves of green capture her attention. Heavy shadows drift lazily across the flat grassland as billowing clouds pass overhead. It could be the ocean, and Hana imagines the South Sea.

  A gust of wind blows a lock of her hair into her eyes. As she tucks it behind her ear, she senses movement to her right. The ox steps away and she turns, her heart speeding up as she expects to find the mongrel preparing to leap onto her and tear out her throat. Instead a boy leans against the pen, his chin resting on his crossed arms, smiling down at her.

  Hana recognises him as the boy who took the horse the day before and the same boy asleep in the ger across from the woman. She turns quickly away and stands, lifting the pail in one swift motion. It takes two hands, but she manages not to stumble as she leaves the pen and heads back to the ger. Her shoulder is angry at the task, but she doesn’t let it show.

  Before she knows it, the boy is next to her, trying to take the pail from her hands. She stops walking and jerks the handle away from him. Milk spills over the metal rim and splashes onto the ground. He reaches for the pail once more, but she takes a step away, holding it out of his reach. He smiles at her, bemused, and then places his hands behind his back. She carefully sidesteps around him and continues towards the ger.

  Like a curious dog, the boy follows her. He remains far enough behind her not to cause alarm. She peers over her shoulder only once to ensure he isn’t sneaking up on her, and when she reaches the ger, she ducks through the curtain without looking back at him. He doesn’t enter the ger immediately, but after she manages to pour the milk into a container near the door as instructed by the woman through hand motions, he slips inside and sits next to his rolled-up bed mat. When the woman notices him watching them, she chastises him, and he quickly exits the ger, though not before making eye contact with Hana. His peculiar actions keep Hana on alert. She hasn’t seen the other men yet, but this one, even though quite young, seems to be attempting to make a claim on her.

  For the remainder of the day, she makes sure she stays close to the woman, following her around like a dutiful child. The day’s chores are simple enough: gather fresh water from the stream beyond the first rise to the east of the camp; feed the ponies, ox and camels; churn the fresh milk into butter, cheese and fermented drink; rework and repair footwear and clothes and parts of the ger. The day passes quickly into night. The approaching dark unnerves her.

  The men are gathered in the interior of the main ger. They have just finished their meal; the dishes are wiped clean and the men begin to sing around the stove, enjoying the fermented milk. Their laughter dances through the quiet air, and their festive mood fills Hana’s gut with dread.

  She loiters outside the ger, hidden in the dark night, and pets the pony tethered to the stake near the door, as though it is there in preparation for an imminent journey. Though fully grown, it is the size of a young horse and reminds her of the breed she has seen from afar on her home island. The Jeju horse is prized among the islanders, and she feels an affinity for this creature that reminds her of home. She saved a few pieces of pear from her meal and holds them in her palm. The pony’s soft nose nudges her hand before its lips pick up the first piece. The sound of its teeth grinding the pear’s flesh into pulp reminds her of the wooden wind chimes clacking beside the door to her home. A wave of homesickness rushes through her.

  As she runs her hands over the smooth coat, they come to rest upon the peculiar wooden saddle. Unlike the soldier’s black horse, this Mongolian breed is short enough for her to mount without much trouble. One leap and she would be astride it. Her hand finds the horn of the saddle. She holds on to it tightly, feeling the aged wood beneath her palm. She could ride off into the night. It would be difficult for them to follow her in the dark. She could do it.

  The dog whines behind her, and she turns. Someone leans down and pats its head. The shadow reveals a slender outline. The boy. Turning back to the pony, she drops her hands to her sides. Has he seen what she wanted to do? His footsteps approach her, crunching the sparse grass beneath his leather boots. She feels his presence behind her and turns.

  She looks towards the ger’s door, listening for the men inside. The curtain is held partially open with a rope to let in the cool night air. Their guttural songs drift towards her. The dim light from the triangular opening illuminates the boy’s face. He is not smiling. Instead, he appears apprehensive, perhaps nervous. Then he motions for her to enter the ger. Examining the entrance, she wishes she had slipped away with the pony. Her feet are heavy as she heads towards the ger. She feels as though she is wading through wet sand. After what seems an eternity, she ducks beneath the curtain flap and enters the circle of light and warmth beneath the wide canopy.

  Inside the ger, silk pillows are arranged in a semicircle around the stove. The woman is seated at the far end of the circular room. She motions for Hana to sit on the pillow beside her. Hana tiptoes around the seated men, who continue singing through the interruption. The woman glances at the boy as he follows Hana in. He plops onto a pillow nearest the door, and the stove partially conceals him from where Hana sits. The royal blue of his coat shines in the firelight as he joins the men in song, clapping and swaying side to side, intermittently revealing his happy face.

  Without joining in, Hana watches and listens to the foreign songs of her new captors. The men grow more inebriated with each refilled mug of fermented brew. They slap one another’s knees, direct smiles and laughter towards the woman, who refills their cups when empty. As the stove’s dying light threatens to snuff out, Hana prepares herself for the inevitable attack, which she has learned follows drunken men enjoying themselves. Her hands held stiffly in front of her, palms facing down onto her lap, she does not sway along with them during their songs. A smile does not grace her lips. Her eyes remain sharp, preparing for the moment when her new clothes will be torn from her body and the stink of these foreign men will permanently imprint on her mind. This was her purpose after all, the real reason Morimoto brought her here.

  The pony remains tethered outside. The men are drunk. She could get up and quietly step past them, exiting as though to relieve herself. Once outside, she could silently lead the pony away, mount it, and ride off into the darkness before they know what’s happened. She could, she thinks, but then the boy catches her eye, and she realises he is not drunk. And he is watching her closely. He would hear the pony’s hooves. He would stop her.

  The last of the fire’s orange light fades, replaced by a red glow. Their faces now in darkness, silence descends upon the sombre group like a heavy fog. The singing suddenly stops, and a hand touches her arm. It’s useless to shrink away. It’s happening now, she thinks, but the hand lifts her to her feet and leads her away from the men, who have begun to stir. It is the woman’s hand, and she leads Hana to the same sleeping space as the night before. The woman places the thick fur pelt onto the floor, and Hana lies upon it, waiting. To her surprise, the men exit the ger. Their voices float back inside, and she listens intently, wondering which man will come for her first and how they will decide.

  The pony snorts. Its hooves clomp against the dirt as it is led away. Its steps quicken into a gallop, which begins to fade. One man re-enters the ger. His footsteps softly pad past where Hana lies and he finds the woman. His silk coat, stiff with padding, crinkles as he kneels. He undresses and lies down beside the woman. A faint murmur escapes the woman’s lips, and then Hana listens no more.

  The familiar sounds of man and wife remind her of her parents. She recalls the quiet of their lovemaking in her home as she lay falling asleep beside her sister. Before her capture, it was a mystery what went on between them under night’s cover. Now she blocks out what she assumes is consensual desire, and possibly love, between the man and woman. Her parents loved like this. Like her, the boy is silent, but she knows he has yet to fall asleep. The man and woman soon grow quiet, and then snores fill the dark spaces within the ger. Hana closes her eyes. Sleep does not c
ome. She cannot stop wondering whether Morimoto has truly left her here for good, or if he intends to return.

  Emi

  Seoul, December 2011

  Emi is sitting on the edge of the bed in her small hospital room. Surrounded by her family, she tells her children the story of their aunt’s abduction when she was a young girl. She tells them how their aunt sprang from the sea, hiding their mother beneath the rocky cliff. The story rolls off her tongue as though in one long breath, with no pauses for thought, and when she finishes, the silence that follows is broken only by her daughter’s discreet sniffs each time she wipes her tearful eyes.

  Her son speaks first. ‘All these years we thought you were an only child.’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry.’

  He doesn’t pause. ‘Now you tell us you have a sister who you think might still be alive? And you’ve been coming to these demonstrations hoping to find her? I mean, what are we supposed to think?’

  ‘Calm down,’ Lane says, her voice soft. ‘Remember, your mother’s not well.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us any of this before?’

  His words are heavy with scorn. His anger fills the room with heat. Emi forgot about her son’s temper. Anger is the emotion he expresses first, before thought and understanding can follow. She waits for him to calm down before she answers him. A stiff silence fills the small hospital room. Her daughter sniffles a few times and blows her nose into a tissue. Lane’s arm never leaves YoonHui’s shoulders. Emi finally answers her son.

  ‘I couldn’t bear to burden you with my shame.’

  ‘Your shame?’ Her daughter suddenly finds her voice. ‘Mother, you did nothing to be ashamed of.’ She takes her mother’s hand and steadies it.