Lost Souls

by Hwang Sunwon

  A few heavy drops plopped on the ground and then rain was spattering all about. The sedan chair’s dark outline blended into the haze of the downpour. Sŏgi remained where he was, peering toward it.

  Precisely three years earlier Sŏgi had been caught in a similar cloudburst on his way to the brook for a bath. He took shelter in the lookout shed in the melon patch worked by Suni’s family. There minding the shed was Suni. Upon Sŏgi’s arrival she stood and looked away. Sŏgi noticed the roundish profile of her chin and the flush beneath her ear. The oily stains near the breast ties of her thin summer jacket loomed prominent. She’s not a little girl anymore. Already for a year or two Suni had been avoiding his gaze if they happened to meet outside her house or at the village well. But not until the encounter in the shed did it occur to him with visceral certainty that she was no longer a girl. Adjusting her pigtail ribbon, she climbed down from the shed, shoved some ch’amoe melons and a sickle inside so he could eat, and set off toward the village—just like that. Sŏgi watched as she picked a large pumpkin leaf from the path and covered her head with it. But her clothes were sopping wet and they clung to her body, clearly revealing the undulations of her ample figure. Once again his own body reminded him of what he had just realized about Suni.

  The mist of the downpour alternately veiled and revealed the sedan chair in its gradual advance. The vehicle passed the old weeping willow, then disappeared among the dwellings in the village.

  Sŏgi had stood motionless the whole time, oblivious to the rainwater streaming down his spine and chest.

  Old Pak’s family and Sŏgi’s family had long been on friendly terms. It so happened that the Pak family’s fields were located in the village where Sŏgi’s family lived. And during the harvest, or at any other time when the Paks found it necessary to come to the village, they always lodged with Sŏgi’s family. But Sŏgi himself had had no direct ties with Pak until he began to study under the old man.

  Sŏgi’s paternal grandfather, Squire Hong, after some untoward incident in the capital, had exiled himself here to Umulkol in the Hadong countryside, to live out the rest of his days in utter seclusion from the outside world. He would take Sŏgi along when he went out to oversee the work in the fields, but otherwise he never ventured forth from his seat in the master’s room. Nor was he the sort of man to dwell on such matters as his son’s conduct and progress in the world. He seemed to want to make a farmer out of him.

  But the son, Sŏgi’s father, had different ideas. While he respected his parents’ wishes and went quietly to seed here in the countryside, he wanted his own son to turn out more respectably. And so as soon as Squire Hong passed on, Sŏgi’s father saw to it that Sŏgi applied himself to studying. Always awaiting Sŏgi in the master’s room, where he studied, was a bundle of ash switches.

  The year he turned fifteen, Sŏgi left home at his father’s bidding to study reading and writing under Pak. He shared a room with Pak’s son, his elder by a year, taking his meals and studying with him. Because of all the Chinese medicine the elder Pak had taken in his earlier years on account of his frail health, his hair had turned white even while his cheeks retained a rosy glow. Somehow Sŏgi found these features more intimidating than his father’s rebukes or the ash switches.

  The incident at the lookout shed had occurred after Sŏgi returned home from his three years of study under old Pak. During that period Suni had become a young woman inside and out.

  Sŏgi recalled the times his father had caught him playing with Suni as a youngster, occasions that might result in a whipping. To fuel the boy’s enthusiasm for learning, his father liked to offer Sŏgi various goodies after he had finished his studies for the day. Sŏgi had taken the chestnuts, the Chinese dates, the persimmons, and other edibles to share with Suni, and had been discovered by his father. This encounter with the offspring of such a lowly family had earned Sŏgi a lashing across the calves. But now, this was merely an insubstantial memory from his childhood.

  After the encounter at the lookout shed Sŏgi had begun to regard Suni with new interest. During the Tano Festival it was Suni more than the other girls who seemed to produce the fragrant scent of sweet flag and ch’ŏn’gungi. The night of the Harvest Moon Festival she looked ever so comely, wheeling about under the moonlight in the circle dance. It was inevitable: Sŏgi waited for Suni and took her by the wrist as she was walking home. Her hand trembled ever so faintly. Sŏgi felt the warmth of her blood. He began to lead her away. For a moment she seemed poised to resist, but then she followed without a word. They arrived, breathless, at the oak grove on the ridge behind the village. The brilliant moonlight was no longer welcome. They searched for a place that was shadier still.

  The previous spring, old Pak’s son had visited. While he and Sŏgi were out for a stroll among the dry fields, they saw Suni approaching, a round wicker lunch basket balanced on her head. She made way for them by stepping down into a furrow. Pak’s son wondered which family she came from. She wasn’t strikingly beautiful, he remarked, but he liked her lovely eyes and the clean profile of her ears. She seemed to have eyes for Sŏgi—was it true? Sŏgi had better be careful: her fleshy lower lip suggested that once she had begun to think about someone she wouldn’t give up easily.

  Sŏgi smiled. “Since when have you been a face reader?”

  Pak’s son took a quick glance at him. “Well now—you’re just as interested in her, aren’t you?” he said with a laugh.

  “Don’t be silly,” Sŏgi had responded. But his face had flushed and he had quickly turned away.

  Around the time when the ears of barley were ripening to a golden yellow, news arrived that the elder Pak had taken ill. Sŏgi’s father paid a visit and returned to report that the old man’s chronic backache, dating from a bout of palsy in his youth, had flared up. Day and night the family were taking turns massaging his back.

  A few days later Sŏgi was asked by his father to look in on the sick man. It would have been unthinkable to refuse. Confucian precepts required a person to treat king, master, and father as one, and Sŏgi was as indebted to old Pak for his favor as he was to his own father. So he went. He discovered that Pak’s face was pale, lacking its attractive flush.

  That fall, around the time the Chinese parasol tree outside Sŏgi’s father’s room shed its leaves, there was a further report on Pak’s condition. The old man’s back was no longer a problem; instead he had lost all movement from the waist down. Sŏgi called again and found that there was a complication: Pak had trouble keeping warm from the waist down. The old man’s complexion had turned sallow; his white hair, once so shiny, was a dull ashen color; blotches had appeared around his hollow eyes.

  A well-known doctor offered a remedy: the patient had to be warmed from the waist down, and this was best done with the body heat of a young woman. Pak’s family decided to try this approach, and the woman they chose was Suni.

  Suni’s family had always sharecropped Pak’s land, and so in return for their daughter’s service they received an acre of paddy. And it was decided that when Pak died, Suni would be given land of her own so that she could live out the remainder of her life in dignity.

  And so it was that on a frosty morning in November, Suni climbed into the sedan chair and left for Sŏjetkol. Two nights previous, Sŏgi had instructed her younger brother Kwidong to have her meet him in the oak grove up on the ridge. When she arrived, all she did was weep. What was to be done? Sŏgi wondered. He couldn’t very well interfere if Suni was being asked to tend to a sick man.

  But as the days passed, Sŏgi began to suffer. Never before had he felt compelled to see Suni’s face every day, and now that they were apart he yearned for her. He could have gone to Sŏjetkol, some four miles away; he could have gone two or three times a day. But he never did, not once. For there he would encounter the forbidding gaze of Pak’s son, even if he pretended to be visiting the sick father. More intimidating still was the prospect of the awkward behavior he would most certainly display in Suni’s presence. In thi
s troubled state Sŏgi awaited the day when Suni would return.

  His father urged him to take the state civil-service examination in two or three years’ time. Sŏgi stayed up late, his books in front of him, but all his eyes did was search for some distant place. And when he went to bed the dizzying dream would return. Sŏgi realized for the first time that he would never again encounter a woman as precious to him as Suni.

  This was Sŏgi’s state of mind when he witnessed Suni’s return.

  Suni spent the night with her family, and the next day, shortly before lunchtime, she visited Sŏgi’s family.

  “Well, look who’s here? I heard you were back, and I thought of visiting you myself. Please, make yourself at home.”

  Sŏgi, studying in the master’s room, detected the note of delight in his mother’s voice. He had reckoned that Suni would come calling that day. But it wouldn’t be seemly to leave his room just then for the person he so longed to see.

  Again he heard his mother’s voice: “How is the old gentleman these days?”

  “About the same,” came Suni’s soft voice.

  “I guess it’s not an overnight kind of malady, is it? I don’t envy you. Your face shows the strain.”

  Suni remained silent.

  “When must you go back?”

  “Tomorrow. If I’m away even a day. . . .”

  “Of course. It’s not like other maladies.”

  Sŏgi heard a rustling from the other room; it sounded as if Suni was getting up.

  “I’ll say good-bye now in case I don’t see you tomorrow.”

  His mother urged her to stay for lunch, but Suni felt obligated to return home.

  That evening Sŏgi cautiously sought out his mother in her room.

  “Mother, could you give me some money?”

  The abrupt request puzzled her.

  “I’d like to take a trip—could you spare some money?”

  “Where to?”

  “I thought I’d stop by Grandpa and Grandma’s. . . .”

  Sŏgi was referring to his mother’s parents, who lived in the city of Chinju.

  “What do you need money for, then?”

  “I thought I’d head for Seoul afterward. I need a change.”

  Sŏgi’s mother took a closer look at her son. His oval-shaped face had always been attractive, but now his cheeks were hollow, making his eyes seem larger.

  “You haven’t said anything, but I’ve been wondering if something’s wrong with you.”

  He was fine, Sŏgi replied.

  The boy’s studies must be wearing him down. Perhaps this would be a good time to let him go off on his own for a change. But the decision was not hers alone to make.

  “Have you talked with your father?”

  “I just told him I’d be visiting Grandpa and Grandma.”

  If her husband had given Sŏgi permission to visit his grandparents, then there shouldn’t be a problem sending him off to Seoul on his own afterward.

  “When were you planning to leave?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “And when will you return?”

  “First I’ll go and see what it’s like, and then maybe I’ll stay for a while.”

  His mother fished out the money bag she kept hidden deep in the wardrobe and gave him fifty silver pieces and fifteen brass coins to live on. And so he wouldn’t have to hoard this money, she made him take some of her wedding jewelry as well.

  * * *

  That night Sŏgi arranged through Kwidong for Suni to meet him at the oak grove. He had been absorbed in thought the entire day. He was prepared, if Suni did not appear, to hide the next day where the road to Sŏjetkol left the village, and take things into his own hands.

  The night was far along when Suni finally arrived. Her only thought was to see Sŏgi and cry her heart out.

  The outstretched hand that took her wrist was strong and reassuring. Before she could burst into tears, he led her off through the oak grove. They came out where a road crested on a height of land. What Suni saw now in the light of the moon frightened her: Sŏgi was dressed for a long journey.

  From the pass they could go in one of two directions: northeast past Sŏjetkol to Samch’ŏnp’o, more than twenty miles away, or southwest seven or eight miles to Hadong. The road was a rugged backcountry track that was some distance from the main summit of the Chiri Mountain massif.

  Sŏgi chose the road to Hadong. The moon had a bluish tinge. Almost full, it inched its way toward the horizon. Suni was all giddy with anxiety. Now she would have to follow Sŏgi wherever; now they would be pursued.

  Startled birds took wing from the woods beside the road. Almost without realizing it, Suni wasn’t holding Sŏgi’s hand anymore. The flapping wings of the birds and the bluish tinge to the moon no longer frightened her.

  Before sunrise they were within sight of Hadong, and there they set about changing their appearance. Sŏgi loosened the pigtail that marked him as an unmarried man and made it into a topknot, then donned the traditional man’s overcoat he had been carrying. Suni combed and redid her hair and tidied her clothing.

  They lodged for several days at a peddlers’ inn, and with the help of the proprietor were able to find a place of their own to live.

  For work they decided to try fishmongering. Inexperienced as they were, they were constantly cheated, but miraculously they found at the end of each month that their losses were minimal. This was almost more than they could have hoped for.

  Winter passed and the ground began to thaw. One day Sŏgi returned home to find Suni’s face filled with anxiety. After a moment’s hesitation she sat down beside him and said she had noticed a young man staring at her as she was doing laundry at the village well. Certain she had seen the man before, she grew apprehensive and rushed to finish the laundry before returning home. She sensed the man had followed her.

  Around sunset four days later they had a visitor. Suni opened the door a crack and started. It was the same man.

  Sŏgi went outside. He recognized the young man as a distant cousin of Pak’s.

  The young man asked Sŏgi to follow him and Sŏgi felt compelled to do so. He had secretly dreaded this day, which he had known was inevitable.

  After walking some distance they arrived at a path running through a paddy. Awaiting him there were several young men from Pak’s extended family, among them his son.

  “I thought I’d never see you again,” said Pak’s son. He was dressed in mourning. “And then a few days ago my cousin had some business here and he discovered you. Once I knew where you were, I had to do something.”

  His tone was polite, but without the feeling of intimacy that had characterized their conversations when they were friends.

  “You knew my father didn’t take that woman as an ordinary concubine. He didn’t use her for his pleasure; he needed her because he was sick. What you did was no different from stealing a sick man’s medication.”

  Sŏgi’s gaze was drawn once again to the son’s mourning outfit. Pak must have passed away. This bothered Sŏgi, but he realized he couldn’t undo what he had done.

  The other young men began to clamor for revenge:

  “Rip his head off!”

  “Break the bastard’s legs!”

  “I understand how you must have felt. But for human beings there is such a thing as duty. That woman came to our house as my father’s concubine, and no matter what anyone says, she was his woman. And doesn’t that make her my stepmother? What you did was wrong. You disgraced your teacher’s wife and your friend’s mother—that’s what it amounts to.”

  The young men showered Sŏgi with more curses.

  Pak’s son continued:

  “I wanted to put the whole affair behind me and never see you again. That way I could prevent rumors from spreading and avoid soiling our families’ reputations. But when I found you were here, my duty as a son forced me to act. I think you can understand.”

  The young men swarmed closer and heaped more abuse on Sŏgi.
<
br />   “Off with his topknot!”

  “Cut off his nose!”

  Sŏgi tried to brace himself for what would happen next. Following Pak’s cousin to the paddy, Sŏgi had resigned himself to the prospect of physical attack. But he had never anticipated the horror of having his nose cut off. He had to get away. But the next moment he realized it would be useless. These vengeful young men would spare no effort to track him down, and when they found him, Suni would suffer as well.

  Before Sŏgi could think of an alternative, Pak’s son spoke again:

  “Cutting off your topknot accomplishes nothing—it would only grow back. And a man has only one nose, so that won’t do either. Instead I’m going to cut off one of your ears. From the time you were a boy, my father tried to drive home to you the Confucian moral precepts, but apparently they didn’t sink in. Since your ears seem to serve no useful purpose, I’ll take one of them off.”

  So saying, Pak’s son produced a knife from his waistband.

  Sŏgi recoiled, but the young men closed in and held him fast. Resistance would just make things worse. Better to let them have their satisfaction. He closed his eyes.

  Off came Sŏgi’s right ear. Pak’s son tossed it into the paddy.

  “This is the end. There’s no reason for you to see me, and I’m of no mind to see you ever again. One last thing: you’re a burden to me, staying in this area. I want you out of here. Go someplace where I don’t have to hear about you anymore.”

  Sŏgi had already decided he could stay no longer in Hadong.

  Sŏgi spent a sleepless night. Quite apart from the burning pain where his ear had been, the question of where he and Suni would go next kept him awake. Around daybreak he finally dropped off to sleep, but he was soon awakened by the sound of a door opening and shutting. Suni, who should have been beside him, was gone. But it was too early for her to have been preparing breakfast.

  Sŏgi opened the small door that led down to the kitchen. Suni’s white form drifted into view in a dark corner.