Jade Rooster

by R. L. Crossland

  The fisherman pointed to the great white birch and repeated “sonang namu,” which meant the sacred, cosmic tree. It was a tree that served as a ladder between the worlds of the living, the dead, and the gods. He then pointed to the mudang and said, “sanshin,” meaning she was the shaman of a thousand spirits. The birch was as big around as the core of a gun turret and it held Hobson’s attention.

  Hobson knew these ceremonies were infrequent, lasted a long time—sometimes days—and that he had been lucky to find one.

  The mudang was holding several knives that she was sharpening to a fine edge. She used them to cut several stakes and prepare a spear.

  The mudang began the ceremony and balanced a pig upon the spear. The villagers took this as a good omen. She changed her clothes and her voice and bearing changed. She changed her clothes a second time and her voice and bearing changed once more. It was a strange forceful voice. She was preparing to make a trip down the cosmic ladder into the underworld and she was polling the spirits for a guide, with each change a different spirit took control of her body. The forceful voice was that of a long-forgotten hero and the long-forgotten hero was trying to raise the spirit of the sea dragon

  In the ceremony, the mudang, controlled by the spirit of the long-forgotten hero, called upon the sea dragon and there was an answer. The mudang emitted a very strange deep and bubbly sound. Contact had been established with the sea dragon. The mudang spoke as if the long-forgotten hero was conducting a conversation with the sea dragon that only the hero could hear. She then changed her clothes once more to those of a general-at-sea. The sea dragon had designated General-at-sea or Admiral Yi Sun Shin as the guide to the underworld for the ceremony.

  The crowd whispered excitedly among themselves. Several needed desperately to make contact with departed spirits.

  Her voice was now rough and manly and the voice recounted the pedigree and many accomplishments of the Korean sea hero. It was all a matter of form since the lowliest Korean schoolboy knew the story of Admiral Yi Sun Shin. He was a particular favorite this evening because he had repelled the two Japanese invasions centuries ago. It would seem that he needed no introduction, but he, in recounting of the successful actions of his Korean turtle ships against the Japanese galleys, struck a responsive chord with the assembled villagers. Several called out in praise.

  The mudang chanted and danced for a while and the dance simulated a long journey. Hobson saw a series of long knives staked parallel, cutting edge upward near the middle of the grassy hollow.

  Finally the mudang and the spirit of Admiral Yi Sun Shin—in one body—walked across the edge of the knives, not once but several times.

  They had crossed the bridge into the underworld. It was a bridge as fine and delicate and dangerous as the edge of a knife.

  The Admiral seemed to speak to several persons and get answers that, at different times, pleased, amused, and sometimes sent particular villagers into depressed and horrified swoons. Many were there to resolve spiritual problems. They were invited by the mudang’s assistant to ask their questions of Admiral Yi. Sometimes Admiral Yi answered the questions, and sometimes other spirits stepped forward. Coins were dropped into a basket or goods came forward as barter payment.

  At the approach of dawn the Admiral turned to Hobson and for a short moment changed back into the mudang.

  “Traveler, you are both of the land of our people, the people who dress in white, and yet not of this land. You are equally from the land of the great rice paddies and not of that land either. You search for a resolution of unhappinesses. I can only see the path to one resolution, the lesser one.”

  For just a moment, she was the mudang, and then she changed to Yi again. Yi said a man had drowned aboard a great foreign junk named for a bird, Jade Rooster. Yi pronounced it awkwardly, and then the mudang’s posture changed so she seemed taller and she became that person and cried out in anguish. Hobson found himself talking to a ghost, the ghost of still another Asian.

  Hobson asked if the ghost could describe where Jade Rooster sank. The dead man’s ghost described his last visual recollection. The man was tied to a mast. Directly ahead of him, about a li, he could see a small island and directly off his right shoulder he could see two immense rocks. A kingfisher skittered about searching for fish. The tide was low and he could see broad tidal flats over his left shoulder. He knew it was low tide because there was nearly thirty feet in range between the present tide level and the dark green line of slime on the island’s shingle and on the two rocks which marked the tidal crest. Near one rock was a gourd buoy painted red.

  Hobson asked where the sun was and the mudang described its position. He asked if the man could see smoke anywhere on the horizon and the man said no.

  He asked who the dead man was, but the spirit would not reply.

  Secrecy even after death, Hobson thought.

  There was great anger in the drowning man’s voice…and then the voice ceased as if it was cut off, as if the dead man had been pulled back. Then there was a new voice that was even angrier. The voice changed, then changed again, there were several that seemed to be jamming through the mudang at once. The ancestors, some recently departed, were extremely angry. The dead man was clearly not among friends this night.

  The word “mansei” was repeated over and over again. They foretold of great massacres of Koreans being burned in buildings, executions, the forbidden use of family names, and desecration of honored symbols. Koreans would be forced to dishonor and deny their ancestors. The voices changed more quickly now and they became louder. Then there was a hush. It was the Admiral speaking now, Admiral Yi Sun Shin who had protected Korean against the two Japanese invasions. His voice was cold and controlled, yet the loudest and angriest. He said there would be terrible vengeance against the island invaders, more terrible than any Korean could ever guess. This was a time of great darkness, but retribution would come in a great flash of light and heat. Nothing could stand before the great retribution and the ancestors would again be honored and could rest in peace again. The voice of Admiral Yi wavered and warned that Koreans would not be able to rest for many generations for the great retribution would be a long time coming.

  Yi’s spirit squared on Hobson and spoke gruffly as an admiral would have spoken to a lowly seaman of his Turtle Fleet, “You will be connected to the Great Retribution, both as an honor and as a terrible, terrible deed.”

  Then she was the mudang again and she was staggering toward the bridge of knives. She crossed the knives several times in her bare feet, then took a few steps and collapsed. Her assistants came to her aid, but she could not be revived and fell into a dead sleep.

  Hobson dropped several Mex into the basket and waited.

  “You should come back after you have completed your search, there were other ghosts I saw on my journey when I went looking for the ship.” She attempted to pronounce “Jade Rooster,” but could not. The mudang said those few brief words and then turned her attention to the villagers. She was totally feminine and an old woman once again.

  She seemed totally refreshed and at ease.

  The villagers watched him. Some warily and others with curiosity. Hobson did not know what to make of it all, but sensed that he was in great danger. He had been a spiritual witness to foul play. That knowledge, however ethereal, could have consequences for someone. He left the village and for several days carefully retraced his circuitous route from Chemulp’o. There were checkpoints to be avoided and travelers to be watched. Falling in among a group of silent monks with bamboo lanterns, he trudged half-asleep by recumbent sentries. Days later, Hobson returned hungry, footsore, and in need of a bath. He slept through the next day.

  Witches and seances? Was it anything to trust? Could Jade Rooster be found if she was underwater? Was this enough to work with? What about the masts, would they still be visible? Had they been cut down? Was the depth great enough to submerge a
barque with masts erect, so close to shore? Hobson didn’t think so, since in the mudang’s description there were mud flats nearby. There were few places near the Korean coast in the West Sea that could swallow 80 vertical feet of barque at a minimum. The masts had been chopped down and hidden. A barque’s draft would be somewhere between 12 and 15 feet. The coast was visible from the west and there were twin rocks, mud flats and an island visible at low tide. Jade Rooster was not taken for herself he felt, but for her cargo.

  Who was the man and why had he died a slow death to the incoming tide?

  It all seemed as substantial as a morning fog, yet it was his only lead. A strangely detailed lead.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  With Hobson’s new lead, Sabatelli fell into his element, organizing and salvaging. He was somewhat skeptical of information derived from a medium, but at least the information suggested an approach and he was sophisticated enough not to look too closely at the source, especially considering the detailed nature of the information. Each mudang was close to those matters that troubled her village, he could understand that. In a mudang’s capacity as a seeker of spiritual assistance she heard and saw many things…

  Hobson, the product of a missionary background, could not accept shamanism on a spiritual basis, but he sensed a rational basis for its results. A mudang learned much from her clientele and could extrapolate from that knowledge. A mudang could be an insightful advisor who used ancient time-accepted trappings to legitimize her points.

  With Sabatelli, Hobson gathered a collection of coastal charts and Sailing Directions—though portions of the coast were uncharted. The weary’ Hobson had Sabatelli telegraph for the draft and freeboard of Jade Rooster. He added six feet to that figure for the depth required to drown an upright man tied to a mast. That would be the approximate minimum depth at low tide. Sabatelli questioned fishermen about snagged nets and collected homemade charts from pilots. He went to Major Koizumi and requested permission to charter a steam cutter to search for Jade Rooster off the coast of Cholla province. Koizumi, his glasses on the tip of his nose, questioned Sabatelli condescendingly.

  “Do you have new information about Jade Rooster barque?”

  Koizumi had a photograph in his hand and Sabatelli realized it was a copy of the heads-in-baskets photograph. Their interest was serious and it continued.

  “No, just a hunch. Accounts describe a network of islands, and the drifting boat had been found in the southern West Sea. The returned crewmen say they were returned on a course pretty near ‘due Northwest’ to Chefoo. Korea’s on the reciprocal of that course. There’s some talk of Mokp’o.”

  Hobson remained silent and assumed his usual station one step back, and to Sabatelli’s right.

  “Has some one talked to you about Jade Rooster? I think this is a matter for the police to handle. It is an American ship, true, but its cargo must be secured. These Koreans are thieves, all of them. It’s their nature, but that will be corrected in time.”

  “No one has mentioned Jade Rooster to us.” Hobson said to Koizumi.

  Was a ghost no one? Was a woman shaman speaking the words of a ghost no one? The mudang had not directly mentioned “the loss of Jade Rooster. In any event, Hobson was not ready to share the fine points with a Japanese officer until he had some indication those fine points would be reciprocated.

  It took quite a while to get the approvals from the Japanese authorities, but at last they came. Koizumi informed them that a military police noncommissioned officer named Matsuda, would accompany the steam cutter. Hobson smiled inwardly upon hearing the name of their assigned police shadow. How many Japanese military policemen spoke English?

  It was a gasping, wheezing old Japanese steam cutter manned by three Korean crewmen, which throbbed along at a respectable 6 to 8 knots. A beamy forty-foot’ bathtub, its well-maintained white hull and cabin wrapped around a boiler that took a dominating position about a third of the way back from the bow. In its cindered splendor, it could beat the four-knot currents that plagued the Korean coast. Hobson would have preferred sail, but this was the most efficient way to check the ten or so possible sites. She did have a sooty steadying sail, which made her ride easier and another sail just forward of the cabin. Together, the sails offered marginal help heading downwind. She also had a steam windlass that would make kedging easier. She had exaggerated bilge keels so she could sit easily in the mud when the tide went out. Neither Sabatelli nor Hobson had any illusions about a slow examination of Cholla’s West Coast. With a 30-foot tidal range, they anticipated finding themselves mudbound frequently.

  The steam cutter had served as a pilot boat and never operated outside of Chemulp’o harbor so Sabatelli set about outfitting her for coastal work. The cutter had not been configured for berthing; they would have to pitch tents and sleep ashore. There might be a benefit there. It might allow Hobson to take side excursions. Sabatelli bought anchors, a compass, lead line, tide books, coastal charts, and a Ross glass. Her decks were covered with baskets full of coal, tins of food, a shepherd’s stove, and tent bags.

  “Lighthouse is never going to accept this expense. How am I going to explain going on a coastal picnic…er, expedition based on native superstition and hocus-pocus. Believe the word of a some Korean gvpsy medium? They’ll think I’ve gone Asiatic,” Sabatelli said with skepticism, but surprisingly did not offer much resistance.

  “Different ships, different long splices. This is Korea and answers will come in their own way,” Sabatelli said with finality and a hint of desperation.

  So Sabatelli, Hobson, Matsuda, and the steam cutter’s crew cruised down Korea’s rugged West Coast under a dark cloud of their own making…across the West Sea which billowed gently like blue silk.

  The steam cutter towed an ancient, once-painted sampan. Hobson had tried to find a Whitehall, but none of the Western merchant ships would sell or lend him one. He’d put three rowlocks on the sampan, two on the gunwales, and one in the middle of the transom. Two oars for rowing and a longer one for sculling. Oddly, Hobson knew the Chinese name for the sculling oar, yuloh, but not the Korean word. His strange interest in rowing was known. Foreign naval sailors—an acknowledged strange breed—had rowing competitions. The new interest in exercise had not yet caught on in Korea. Physical exertion was physical labor, and physical labor was confined to the lower classes. And no one in his right mind did physical labor without compensation. Even among the Europeans, the merchant marine sailors suspected that betting heightened the average matelot’s interest more than the prospect of good clean exercise.

  So rowing was done seated while sculling with a long oar could be done standing in the Korean manner. Standing you could peer down into the depths and not go very fast. In some ways, the sampan was a better choice than a Whitehall. The name “sampan” meant “three boards” and the boat was simply constructed, about three planks wide, and no one gave a second thought to anyone—even a Westerner sculling a sampan.

  As far as the crew knew, they were cruising along the coast looking for a wreck broken on the rocks. On this coast, the rocks spiked skyward like turrets, spires, and pillars. Another prospect was the barque had become a drifting derelict. The story was they were cruising the coast without a specific itinerary, but Hobson had a dozen sites he wanted to inspect. His “recreational” rowing would obscure the true intent of these special excursions.

  The cutter was uncomfortable at first, not physically uncomfortable, but culturally uncomfortable. The Koreans were constantly in motion, the massive Japanese military policeman had assumed an “official” posture, and the two Americans thrashed about with charts and navigational instruments. They shared no common language. Matsuda spoke some English and some Korean, the Koreans spoke some Japanese, and Sabatelli spoke only English. Hobson was the common link. He spoke Korean, but would not let on to the crew or Matsuda that he also spoke Japanese. He spoke Pidgin English or Korean to Matsuda, but never Japa
nese.

  Matsuda and Sabatelli were very conscious of their positions. The Koreans stoked coal and did heavy lifting, Hobson noted with irony, even though both Matsuda and Sabatelli dwarfed the largest men in the Korean crew. Boredom set in and when it became clear that the launch leaked badly, they each took turns at the pumps, each in their shirtsleeves and gallowses. With a chill in the air, they too puffed forth a stream of steam.

  Hobson helped to pitch the tents, took the wheel, cast the lead line, and helped kedge the cutter out of trouble when the cutter invariably got caught in the mud during a rapidly falling tide. Hobson lost track of the hours they spent carving mud with their keel.

  At each village they drew fresh water for the boiler, and Hobson discreetly eyed the local baskets.

  It was culinary preferences that eventually eroded the barriers of class and culture. Matsuda regarded Sabatelli’s tinned American food with repugnance. The Koreans trailed fishing lines and began pulling fish aboard. They hadn’t asked if they could do it, it seemed too natural to them. Why ask permission to breathe? Matsuda’s eyes were large with interest.

  Hobson soon found himself trying to identify the fish for Matsuda, pollock, cod, and snapper. Not long thereafter, Matsuda was participating in the fishing with the crew. Hobson and Sabatelli preferred fresh fish, to corned beef hash, too.

  From time to time, fishing boats would approach like bumboats with their wares. Hobson was surprised how many Japanese fishing vessels now prowled the Korea coast. Hobson eyed their baskets, too.

  Italian, Japanese, and Korean cuisine gradually merged into a one pot and pan culinary muddle. Apart from his need for coffee, Sabatelli was happy to go with anything else grown or caught locally. The crew watched Sabatelli manipulate his coffee grinder with amusement. With fresh water from the boiler, there was no lack of fresh coffee.