Lost Souls

by Hwang Sunwon

  The master of the house, scowling at the brazenness of the pibari, gathered his fishing gear. Chuni did likewise. But for some reason he couldn’t think completely ill of her behavior. For the drenched, sparsely clothed young woman with the hook in her mouth who had appeared before him and then returned to the water reminded him of a huge fish. And even though that fish had jumped back into the water, Chuni was left not with the disappointment of losing a fish but with the thrill of reeling in one just hooked.

  On their way home Chuni heard a story that shocked him. Perhaps because his landlord had found the pibari’s behavior so intolerable, this man of few words launched into the tale as soon as they set off in their boat for Sŏgwip’o. The pibari, he told Chuni, had killed her own brother. Her family had always lived in Pŏlmong, a village a mile or so east of Sŏgwip’o. During the Cheju Rebellion her brother had gone up into the high country with the partisans. The authorities decided to liquidate them. About that time, the brother’s wife was found dead at the foot of Halla Mountain, killed by an unknown hand. She was survived by her two young children. On a subsequent night, when the liquidation campaign was about over—the authorities estimating that some thirty partisans remained in the high country—the pibari’s brother had appeared at their house. And that was when she had killed him, shooting him with his own rifle as he emerged from the outhouse. It was the landlord’s theory that she had been outraged at the death of her sister-in-law and the helpless situation of the little ones, and blamed him for the plight of their family. Or perhaps the brother had come down for plunder and the pibari had acted out of fear of what might happen to the family as a result. The landlord added one more thing: for a while, people had praised her for what she had done, but inwardly they found it repulsive and they avoided her.

  Chuni found the story plausible. It would explain why the landlord and his wife never greeted the pibari in spite of her frequent appearances at their house, and why the landlord, so mild of temperament, had been intolerant of her maneuver with the fishhook. Chuni suddenly found himself visualizing a pukpari or tagŭmbari flopping about, spear wound and all. He couldn’t rid his mind of this image.

  Late one afternoon Chuni was on his way home from a dip at the chaguri baths when he encountered the pibari. It seemed too early for her to be returning home. She remained where she was, looking expectantly in his direction, and Chuni realized that she was waiting for him. She wore traditional unlined cotton summer clothing—pants that ended at the knee and a short-sleeved jacket. In one hand she held the gourd float and net bag she used when diving. Her eyes were the same as always—not sleepy, but lacking a sparkle. He had to say something to her, he told himself. But then it occurred to him that as long as she was waiting for him she should speak first, and then he could respond. And so he walked on by, avoiding her gaze. She didn’t move aside for him, nor did she say anything. He quickened his pace, and as he did so he wondered if perhaps he had become afraid of the pibari since hearing the landlord’s story. But there was part of him that denied this.

  At home Chuni’s mother placed before him some sliced raw abalone.

  “The pibari was here—she seemed to be looking for you. Too bad you were gone—she might have given you something extra,” she said with a smile. She couldn’t hide her delight at the improvement in his health since they had arrived in Sŏgwip’o.

  Chuni told himself to ignore his mother’s jesting. Still, why had he behaved like such a dolt in the pibari’s presence just now? His face burned.

  It was a few days later. The climate on Cheju is such that even at the peak of the summer heat, refreshing offshore breezes come up as the sun begins to set, and in the morning the cool air creeps over you just like in autumn on the mainland. But on this particular day the heat persisted into late afternoon, and Chuni went to the chaguri bathing area. It so happened that most of the regulars had left, and all he could hear was the water pouring over the rock wall. Soon the townspeople would finish their supper, and when dusk began to fall, the womenfolk would occupy the bathing area. As he always did, Chuni entered the pool, washed his face, dipped himself in the water to remove the sweat, and then stood beneath the rock wall. Again today, he had to retreat not long after the count of ten. He was not quite out of the pool when someone else jumped in; he looked more closely, and saw it was the pibari. Startled, he squatted in the water to cover his nether parts, then waddled out. Without bothering to soak first, the pibari went straight to the rock wall and stood under the water. Chuni seized the moment to get up on the bank and throw on his clothes. After buttoning his short-sleeved shirt, he glanced back at the pool. The pibari was still standing under the waterfall, modestly covering her groin and chest. Almost by reflex, Chuni started counting. When he reached twenty, a shiver began to creep over him and he gave up. He started back home along a side path threading among the rocks, but before very long the pibari was beside him, wringing out her sopping wet hair. Wouldn’t Chuni like to see some orange trees? she asked without preliminaries. There were quite a few of them in her village. Chuni knew the island was well known for its orange trees, but he hadn’t yet seen them, either in the town of Cheju or in Sŏgwip’o. Even so, he didn’t immediately respond to this frank proposal but looked off instead toward the western sky. She would walk him home if it were dark, she added. Without waiting for an answer, she started off.

  Like the other seaside villages, Pomok, where the pibari’s family now lived, occupied the verge of the mountain. Just offshore was Grove Island. After walking a mile or so, they arrived at the shore. Explaining that this was the village where she lived, she pointed to an orange grove beside the settlement, shaded by the mountain. The rows of trees had dark green leaves, and the light green fruit, no bigger than a baby’s fist, dangled from the branches. Weren’t the summer oranges supposed to be larger? Chuni asked.

  A girl came running toward them from the village. She was barefoot and Chuni guessed she was six or seven. Deftly the little thing avoided being pricked by the vitex shrubs that were spread about the area. The girl came up to the pibari and babbled something to her. It turned out she was the pibari’s niece. By listening carefully, Chuni was able to understand that a horse to be sold on the mainland the next day had run off. The pibari told Chuni she would return shortly, and proceeded toward the village with her niece.

  Originally, Chuni knew, horses had run free on Cheju, to be rounded up once or twice a year. But the experience of the recent rebellion and then the outbreak of war the previous year had convinced people to take their horses in at night. It appeared the little girl had been tending the horses that evening and had discovered one of them missing.

  Chuni sat down. The waves broke against the not-too-distant shore at regular intervals. But even without this regular sound, Chuni could tell where the ocean was. He could tell by the direction in which the vitex shrubs bent. These shrubs have round, thin leaves with the well-developed cuticle characteristic of seaside flora, and white fuzz sprouting from their backs. Their small but abundant deep-purple blossoms resemble an annual. These pitiful-looking dwarf shrubs mature while hugging the ground and pointing away from the ocean because of the offshore winds.

  Before long the girl ran up to Chuni and handed him two of the light green oranges, then ran back the way she had come. The two of them together weren’t even a handful, but already they had the fine nap and the dimpled surface of a ripe orange. He sniffed one orange and then the other, and as he listened to the breakers, dusk began to steal over the area. The houses and orange trees gradually faded from view, along with the flickering outlines of people that Chuni occasionally saw. And then the land and water blended together. The moon appeared on the horizon, a thin, distant crescent.

  Chuni heard someone approaching out of the dusk from the direction of the village. At first it sounded like a herd of people. But the moonlight revealed only the pibari and a pair of horses. The pibari approached Chuni, stroking the neck of one of the horses. “We’re selling you o
n the mainland tomorrow.” And then she drew that horse up behind the other horse. In the dusk, Chuni could make out dapples of white. Why had the pibari brought these horses? He had no idea. Suddenly the horse to the rear whinnied and mounted the other horse. Chuni flinched. In the dusky light of the moon the two huge bodies became one. The pibari turned to Chuni and took his wrist, then ran off with him in tow, leaving the horses to themselves. Arriving at the shore, she threw off her clothes and rushed into the water. She called to him. Chuni hesitated, bewildered, conscious only of his burning face. The pibari emerged from the water, came up to Chuni, pulled his shirt apart, and undressed him, the buttons popping loose and falling to the ground. The two oranges dropped from Chuni’s hands and his fair, white skin was revealed in the dusk. The pibari searched Chuni’s body with greedy hands. Chuni wanted to free himself, but a stronger force held him back and to that force he yielded. Her hands grew more insistent, and Chuni noticed a faint smile on her lips. He felt her hot breath as she nibbled on his neck. Relaxing beneath the weight that clung to him, Chuni tumbled to the ground. The bristly vitex pierced his flesh, but he ignored the pain. The distant sliver of moon whirled in the sky, seemed to drop before his eyes, then returned to its place.

  Every night that moon filled out more, before returning to its crescent shape. And every night Chuni met the pibari there at the seaside.

  One night when the moon had waned almost to nothingness, Chuni returned from his nightly rendezvous feeling ill, and the next day he kept to his bed. He had a slight fever, and his joints ached so that he couldn’t stir.

  His mother was the more upset. Since they had come to Sŏgwip’o, with its change of water, Chuni’s rashes had disappeared and he had regained his health. How delighted she had been! But now he was flat on his back. She had a hunch about her son’s nocturnal doings, but was reluctant to scold for fear of irritating him. It had always been that way. As a youngster Chuni had loved dried squid. He couldn’t go to sleep unless he had a couple of them beside his pillow. Once he ate so much of it that he practically fainted. The doctor had told his parents never to bring dried squid home again. But Chuni would pester to her wits’ end, and when she returned from shopping, there in the folds of her skirt was a squid, concealed from her husband’s eye. And now, mother that she was, she couldn’t bear to confront her son as he lay sick in bed. So she decided to take out her frustrations on the pibari. She began buying seafood elsewhere. She’d bought everything from her until now, but she felt the pibari had taken advantage of her and the seafood she was passing off these days was no good. Of course, there was no substance to this complaint. Before long Chuni’s mother had stopped mentioning the pibari altogether.

  But the pibari continued to visit, bringing abalone, conch, or pukpari she had caught that day. She would observe Chuni in bed, keeping her distance, then leave for home, her catch unsold. Always her eyes were the same—neither dull nor sparkling.

  Chuni for his part seemed to disengage his mind after the fever and joint ache set in. It seemed as if the events of his recent life had happened to someone else. Despite the pibari’s almost daily visits, he felt little interest in her. But as he nursed himself back to health with the medications his mother journeyed to the town of Cheju to buy for him, his fever gradually eased, the weariness in his body dissipated, and it was only a matter of time before he grew nostalgic for the pibari. One day he asked his mother to buy a pukpari from her. Dismayed though his mother was, she couldn’t deny her son’s request. Chuni then asked her to fetch some water from the ocean. Into a large bowl of this water he placed the fish. Bloody from where it had been speared in the spine, it pursed its mouth open and shut, fins and tail working vigorously. How impressive, Chuni thought. But it wasn’t long before the fish began to keel over. With an effort it righted itself. But presently it tilted again, and as the minutes passed it tilted farther and farther. Chuni had seen enough: he asked his mother to take the bowl outside, and he refused to eat the fish for dinner.

  Two weeks passed, and one day when Chuni had recovered sufficiently to go outside and brave the wind, a letter from his uncle arrived. When Chuni and his mother had lived in the town of Cheju, every time an acquaintance left for the mainland they had asked the person to inquire as to the uncle’s whereabouts. And finally the uncle had made contact with them. After fleeing Seoul he had planned to settle in Pusan, he wrote, but circumstances had forced him to stop in Taegu. There, a “federated” school had been established, and it appeared that classes were now in session. Chuni and his mother should join him there. All along Chuni’s mother had been wondering from one day to the next if they would hear from the uncle, and as soon as the letter arrived she packed up, telling Chuni they would leave on the first bus the next morning.

  That same day, for the first time in a while, Chuni put on his straw hat and set out for a walk beside the button factory at the southern tip of town. The factory still hadn’t resumed operation. In these lonesome surroundings, the flowers of the sweet oleander bushes had passed their peak.

  From the bank he looked out toward Firewood and Mosquito islands, and as he walked back toward town along the pebbly inlet he looked out at Grove Island. As before, several diving women were at work, disappearing underwater and then surfacing with a whistle.

  The braids of water that flowed through the village looked clearer and colder now. The waterfall looked like a real waterfall. He visited the chaguri bathing pool but had no urge to take a dip. The mere sight of the water cascading over the rock wall that bordered the pool like a folding screen sent a chill through him. He looked up to see the tip of Halla Mountain’s lofty summit distinct against the brilliant azure sky. The sun gently prickled the back of his neck. Thus had summer turned to autumn while Chuni was sick in bed.

  Chuni turned in the direction of Pomok Village. This in fact had been his destination when he left his house that morning. He had to see the pibari one last time. The days were shorter now and Chuni walked slowly, and by the time the Pomok seashore came into sight, the entire village was draped in the mountain’s shadow. The fruit on the orange trees beside the village was more noticeable, bulging clusters in the shade. Now as big as a grown-up’s fist, the oranges had taken on a yellowish tinge. Chuni decided to wait for the pibari where the vitex spread along the shore, and there he sat. The surge and ebb of the breakers sounded at regular intervals.

  Figures descended toward the shore, trailing a herd of horses. The animals seemed tame and easily led. Chuni inspected the group of villagers, wondering if the pibari’s niece was among them. And then a woman came into sight leading a horse dappled with white into the village. She rested one hand on the horse’s back and stroked its belly with her other hand. It was the pibari. And that dappled horse whose belly she was stroking was certainly the horse he had seen that first night. The pibari must have taken the day off, Chuni thought. Or else she had returned early after a poor catch. Chuni rose to his feet. There was the niece, holding a long set of reins. She spotted him first and told the pibari. The woman looked up and approached without hesitation. Chuni sat down again.

  The pibari greeted Chuni warmly, taking his hands in hers. Had he recovered from his illness? she asked, rubbing the backs of his hands. The black pupils within the dark eyebrows were the same as ever—neither dull nor sparkling. Chuni felt his face flush as he told her he was leaving on the first bus the next day. And then something unexpected escaped from his lips: Wouldn’t she like to join them? He hadn’t meant to say this; the words had leaped from his mouth. But after a moment’s reflection he realized he really didn’t want to leave her behind. If he implored his mother, she couldn’t very well refuse. The hands that clasped his tightened as he repeated his proposal: “Let’s go live on the mainland.” For a moment the pibari looked at Chuni with those eyes that were neither dull nor sparkling. She shook her head. And finally she spoke. However much she wanted to follow Chuni, something inside her would not allow her to leave for the mainland. So she had m
ade up her mind that when the day came, she would see Chuni off without a word of protest. What Chuni heard next was at first shocking, almost incomprehensible. The reason she had killed her brother wasn’t what people thought—the fear that his tainted background would be the downfall of the other family members. The brother was her favorite from childhood. And it was she who risked every danger to secretly ferry food and clothing to him in his mountain hideaway. Then one night he came down from the high country, saying that his only hope was to escape to Japan. But he fell ill, and it was all he could do to get around; he simply couldn’t subject himself to further hardship. She urged him to give himself up. For a time he looked into her eyes, and then he set down his rifle and went into the outhouse. It was then she knew: it was by her hand that her brother’s body would return to the Cheju soil—that was his wish. From that point on she felt something inside that prevented her from ever leaving Cheju. Bringing her story to a close, she told Chuni she would think of him whenever she saw a horse leaving for the mainland. And with the same hand that had stroked the dappled mare, she stroked her own belly several times, then embraced Chuni’s neck.