by Hwang Sunwon
“Then let’s take a break and cook one up,” said Chun’gŭn.
“Yeah?” said the young man, the back of the hand that held the newest pair of frog legs wiping the sweat from his forehead. The legs touched his forehead, leaving a trace of blood, but the young man seemed oblivious and proceeded to gather grass to make a fire.
Chun’gŭn helped, taking care not to step on the frog’s body, its viscera exposed where the back legs had been. The dry grass smelled not so much of grass as it did of earth, along with the scent of millet seeds after threshing.
Chun’gŭn had just reached out for another handful of grass when he recoiled. Crawling out of the grass was what remained of the frog, innards trailing behind it. Chun’gŭn kicked the crawling frog into the grass as hard as he could—how sordid the attachment to life could be! And with that thought he disposed of the other frog remains in the same way.
Beside the path the young man found a pair of sticks to enclose the fire, then touched a match to the grass within. Chun’gŭn placed the frog legs over the fire and they disappeared in a cloud of yellow smoke.
By and by the young man turned the frog legs.
“Smell good, don’t they?”
Chun’gŭn watched the frog legs turn dark red and leak oil and then turned away, managing to suppress a wave of nausea.
“And they’re tasty too, believe me. All right, I think they’re ready—help yourself.”
“I guess I don’t really feel like it.”
“What? You’re the one who dragged me out here for this.”
“Well, I used to really like frog legs when I was a kid.”
The young man pulled one of the legs free of the willow stick and sampled it, ash and all.
“Sure you don’t want some? Afraid they won’t agree with you?”
“That too.”
“Don’t be squeamish—just pop it in. Me, I could practically digest a rock once it’s in my belly.”
Chun’gŭn took a well-cooked chunk and pushed it even farther into the flames.
“Hey, they don’t taste good burned,” said the young man. “There were so many frogs where I used to live, we kids went frog catching instead of fishing.” He looked off toward the village. “Have to admit, the village looks pretty good from here with all those poplars.” Then he exclaimed, “Darn, I almost forgot—my father-in-law’s coming!” He rolled down his pants legs. “You know what my mother-in-law says about my legs? She says they’re straight as sticks—she thinks I’m deformed! Well, heck, I can run as well as anybody. And you know what—she doesn’t even realize her own daughter’s deformed—she’s got a growth to the right of her belly button that’s as big as an egg! Heck—all I have to do is give it a tap and she says, ‘Ow—I can’t stand it!’ So when I kicked her in the stomach that time, that’s the spot I aimed for. Can you imagine how that must have hurt? She must have thought she was dying. Anyway—if that’s not deformed, then what is? And my father-in-law’s a blockhead; all he does is beg me to put up with her. Well, sorry I have to run off like this.” And with that, he loped into the sorghum field and disappeared.
Myŏngju’s head and the back of a bull came into view, moving through the millet field that bordered the sorghum field. Suddenly the bull jumped, its horns shooting skyward, and trotted away. Chun’gŭn set off, intending to drive the bull to the perimeter of the millet field. Behind him, Kŭksŏ came running from the corner of the sorghum field. Kŭksŏ passed him and Chun’gŭn followed, hoping to overtake the other man, but before he could catch up he collapsed. Presently Kŭksŏ ran past him going the other way, this time with Myŏngju. Chun’gŭn lay where he was, retching and spitting up bloody gobs of mucus. He noticed that the wild strawberries dangling from their stalks in front of him were more scarlet than his blood.
The cheeping of newly hatched chicks rose to a crescendo in the village.
Next to the cockscombs the balsams had lost their petals and were bursting with sun-ripened seeds.
Dogs lay prostrate in whatever shade they had managed to find. Chickens strutted in the shadows, but if the dogs so much as wagged their tails, the chickens fled, heads bobbing.
Chun’gŭn was sitting at the threshold to his room, cleaning the shade of the kerosene lamp.
In a shady corner of the yard his father was talking with Chaedong:
“In any event, we’ll have to start plowing that land ourselves next year.”
“Well, like I said, next year I can plant millet or I can plant sweet potatoes, and either way I can give you a share of the crop or I can pay you.”
“Speaking of sharecropping, you should give us a share for this year.”
“Well, I don’t see as how I’ll have much of a crop. I could kick myself not planting earlier in the year.”
“Shows you how hard up we are when I’m thinking about having to plant the ancestral graveyard in order for us to get by.”
“And I got nothing but sweet potatoes to get me through the winter.”
“In any event, just so you know,” Chun’gŭn’s father said, emptying his pipe on the ground.
“And I don’t even know if I got enough of them,” said Chaedong. And then he departed, shaking his head vigorously and muttering, “Nothing doing!”
A balsam seed popped and fell onto another seed, which popped in its turn.
Chun’gŭn put the shade back on the lamp, took his walking stick, and set out after Chaedong.
As Chaedong’s bent back disappeared beneath the poplar trees, a green frog croaked. The leaves moving in the breeze made a swishing sound like that of falling rain.
Chun’gŭn followed the bending path near the poplars and quickened his pace, catching up with Chaedong near the hills. “So, I guess the sweet potatoes are ready,” he said.
Chaedong turned to Chun’gŭn, jaw quivering.
“Tell you what, let’s dig them up tomorrow and divide them—what do you say?” Chun’gŭn wanted to laugh at his own joke, but his mouth merely twitched instead.
Not until they were close to his thatched hut did Chaedong say, just loud enough for Chun’gŭn to hear, “No way, not this year.” And then he seemed to shake his head, but Chun’gŭn couldn’t tell for sure because of the man’s quivering chin.
Clouds flew by overhead, but unlike the wind they seemed to presage clearing rather than overcast skies.
Chun’gŭn’s faint fever had returned.
His hand reached out in the dark like a feeler, located a match, and struck it. The flame was reflected in the shade of the kerosene lamp. A cricket hopped out from beneath the lamp. Chun’gŭn thought he could feel autumn through the cricket’s unseen antennae.
A chill wind blew outside.
He recalled what Namsuk had said back in the city as she listened to the spring rain: “Are you really going home? I hope you’ll come back before autumn.” Sitting beside her, he had kept silent, listening to the rain. “The country air will be good for you, but I need you here with me.” A strong gust of wind had followed, and she moved closer to him. “Why aren’t you saying anything?”
All he had said was, “I’ll have to make sure I don’t tell my parents about the tuberculosis.”
The sound of raindrops and wind grew distant.
“Aren’t you going to ask where I’ve been?” Namsuk asked in an undertone.
“You’re the healthy one—why should I be keeping tabs on you?”
“I went to a clinic,” said Namsuk. “Remember that time you told me our generation should be the last one? Well, I’m on birth control now.”
“I don’t see why you have to do that to yourself.”
After a time Namsuk said, “Remember, you have to come back by autumn. I won’t ask you about home anymore.”
While he was thinking these thoughts the matchstick in his fingertips burned out. When this finally registered he struck another match, but then he saw the perpendicular shadow it cast on the wall and the floor and he tossed it aside, rose, and left.
Chun’gŭn was making his way among the graves when in the faint light of the moon in the western sky he spied Kŭksŏ, coming down the spine of the hill. Chun’gŭn came to a stop. He could just make out Myŏngju at the far end of the sweet potato patch toward which the other man was heading.
The insects sounded louder in the silence.
Kŭksŏ approached Myŏngju, placed a hand on her shoulder, and turned her around. The empty basket in Myŏngju’s hand fell to the ground and rolled off into the gathering gloom.
Myŏngju indicated the millet field before them. In the faint shade cast by the moon Chun’gŭn could see, where the millet field met the sweet potato patch, Chaedong’s bent back with a fully loaded A-frame backrack turning out of sight.
Standing among the graves, Chun’gŭn rested his gaze on the tangled growth of the sweet potato patch, which he could only now make out, and on Myŏngju and Kŭksŏ side by side nearby. He took in the rain-dispelling breeze, a smile of satisfaction lighting up his face as if he had been presented with a scene of beauty.
Intermittent midday rain showers preceded Kŭksŏ’s family’s cow back to the village.
From the hollows in the hills the rainwater streamed down through grass and pebbles, collecting in puddles and making the moss growing among the pebbles jiggle like water bugs.
Chun’gŭn observed the reflection of his face in a puddle. White clouds filled the background of his image.
The young man joined him, hopping over the puddle. “Best view in the village as far as I’m concerned—better even than over there where we were looking down on the stream running through the fields.”
“It’s the season. And the fact that the leaves are still on the trees.”
“For sure. You know, it looks lonesome when the leafy trees, the poplars and such, are all bare.”
A solitary pheasant crept out from beneath some tiny pines at the foot of the hill, then dashed toward another pine some distance away. The young man hefted a rock, bent over, and approached gingerly. The pheasant emerged from beneath the pine and set out toward the hill. The young man followed, his stumpy legs disappearing from view.
Knock—the sound of the rock hitting a tree trunk.
The young man returned, wiping his sweaty brow with the back of his hand. “It shot into the pines and I couldn’t find it. Makes me mad!”
“How come it didn’t fly off?”
“Maybe it got crippled, or an animal took a bite out of it. Makes me mad!”
“You ought to be thankful you’re healthy enough to run after a pheasant. Me, I’m spitting up blood.”
“Don’t tell me you’re overdoing it again.”
“Not so much that—it’s just that I can’t get to sleep at night.”
“Once I lie down, I’m out.”
“I worry about that, now that the nights are getting longer.” So saying, Chun’gŭn reached out to snap off a wild chrysanthemum, but at the touch of his hand most of the petals fell off.
The young man kicked a stone lying at the foot of a pine. “What are these rocks doing at the bottom of every tree?” he said to himself.
“They’re for trapping the caterpillars when they come down off the trees in late autumn,” said Chun’gŭn. “I put some there myself once, when I was a kid. And when we came up here for wood in the winter and it got cold, I’d move the rocks and build a fire on top of the caterpillars. If the fire started to spread I’d put it out by beating on it with a branch, and then smother whatever was left. I’d end up scorching my hair and my eyebrows without realizing it. I can’t believe that these same trees where I used to make fires on top of the caterpillars are so big now. A lot of them must have been cut down. I’ve never been as healthy as I was when I was putting rocks under these trees.”
“This one would make a pretty decent post,” said the young man as he passed a hand along the trunk.
“And so I thought I’d spend winter in this lonesome village looking at these nice evergreens.”
Suddenly Myŏngju emerged from the shade, and just as quickly she hid herself behind a nearby pine. The two men saw her hand take hold of her beribboned braid and remove it from view.
The young man picked up a rock.
Realizing the young man was going to throw the rock at the tree that concealed Myŏngju, Chun’gŭn began half-heartedly to beat the tree next to it with his walking stick. To his surprise, the young man’s rock hit the other tree, the impact louder than that of Chun’gŭn’s walking stick, and shattered.
“Right on the mark,” the young man muttered. He approached Chun’gŭn. “She’d do quite nicely, that one,” he said, his long lips breaking into a grin.
“She must be out looking for grasshoppers to feed the baby.”
“You know, I’ve always been open with you, but I just now realized why you want to be out here by yourself—you’ve got a good thing going.” The young man produced a resounding laugh. .
“Don’t get the wrong idea,” said Chun’gŭn. “She’s sweet on one of the local boys, Kŭksŏ.”
“Me, on the other hand, I spill out everything. In recent days I’ve been going to the in-laws’ to talk about the divorce, and when I have to spend the night, guess what—I sleep with my wife. The divorce is only a few days off.”
With renewed interest Chun’gŭn observed this young man who had been studying law in Seoul—he was like a section of a worm, surviving even after being cut in two. With this thought, Chun’gŭn walked out to the grassy area beyond the pines.
“I guess I better not come out here anymore,” said the young man with another boisterous laugh.
Chun’gŭn considered telling the young man that the day they had cooked the frog legs, Myŏngju’s family’s bull had gotten loose and when he and Kŭksŏ had gone after it, he had collapsed trying to catch up to Kŭksŏ and had vomited blood. But instead he said, “I’m glad you’re open with me. And I won’t hide anything, either. The fact is, I’ve been so hot for her I can’t stand it. Those swarthy cheeks and big bosom—I want her to be mine. She’s the only one I know who could produce a healthy baby for me. These days, as soon as it gets dark all I think of is running away with her someplace—not Seoul, but someplace far off.”
The young man’s eyes lit up in excitement.
For the first time in a long while Chun’gŭn was able to laugh aloud.
The barking of the village dogs close by sounded strangely muted as Chun’gŭn went out into the fields, the sun on his back.
The millet was almost ripe. Grasshoppers flitted everywhere amid the sorghum and above the raised paths that led through the fields.
The stream looked clearer and colder. A lone crab shell lay in the muck beneath the sweet flag. A carp stole up and pecked at it, eliciting only a few barely perceptible movements, after which the shell returned to its original position.
As Chun’gŭn was about to return home, the young man appeared, striding briskly toward him along the main path through the fields.
“Didn’t see you in the hills, and wondered where you were. I guess it’s better for you down here in the fields. They did a good job of stacking that hay.”
“I figure it’s gotten cooler up in the hills—that’s why I’m down here.”
A flock of sparrows settled onto a field where millet had already been harvested.
“Ah, yes,” said the young man, “you wanted to be by yourself again.” There followed his characteristic laugh.
The young man had assumed that a tryst with Myŏngju was the real reason for Chun’gŭn’s desire to be alone in the hills, and now that Chun’gŭn realized this, the laugh that he would otherwise have shared with the young man came out as a grimace.
“And even if you didn’t, I’ll soon be leaving you alone,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.
“So everything’s settled?” Chun’gŭn asked, sensing that the young man was about to unburden himself again.
“It will be by the end of the day. The divorce is going through, but get this—she say
s she’ll do anything to stay with the baby, even if it’s just to nurse it. No way in hell will she do that. I never should have let her take care of the baby in the first place. She wants to be a wet nurse for it? No way!” And with that he clamped his mouth shut.
Chun’gŭn realized he had been wrong to speculate that the baby would help the troubled relationship between the young man and his wife, but strangely, this realization gave him a certain pleasure.
“It must be a relief to finally take care of this.”
“Well, there’s still a few things to do,” said the young man, “so if you’ll excuse me. Oh, and remember to take advantage of the sun—catch it from in front instead of turning your back to it.” And then he was off.
“Thank you,” said Chun’gŭn.
In no time the young man had disappeared behind the scarecrow that stood in the empty millet field, only to reappear briefly before going out of sight among the sorghum stalks.
The scarecrow’s shoulders wore a blanket of shade—the result of the swarms of grasshoppers and flocks of sparrows on their way from the hills to the fields and from the fields to the village.
Chun’gŭn closed his eyes and let the sunlight gather on his chest. He felt as if the shadows of the grasshoppers and sparrows were layering themselves about him. He shook his head, imagining the shadows turning into white snowflakes and flying off on the wind. He imagined a blizzard. And when he imagined the snow weighing down on his shoulders, he opened his eyes.
Instead it was the lofty sky and the sunshine that he felt on his shoulders. He squatted where he was.
Before him was a pool of stagnant water. A dragonfly with torn wings hopped across the pool, dipping its tail in the water. As Chun’gŭn watched the resulting ripples spread out, he came to a decision: back in the city he would allow Namsuk to be her own woman.
