by Junghyo Ahn
“Kill him!” Jun urged. “Kill that son of a bitch! Let me beat him, too! He beat me the other night! Let me beat him, too!”
Chandol’s attack was ruthless and overpowering. Shrinking into a ball like a porcupine, Mansik sustained the blows until Chandol, tired of fighting an unresisting opponent, decided that this was enough to teach Mansik a lesson. He finally threw away the stick and dusted the snow off his hands and knees.
“You listen to me and listen well, boy,” Chandol said. “Now you know what I will do to you if you go against my wishes.”
Mansik moaned; he had no strength left with which to say anything.
“From tomorrow night on, you will not come out here to watch us either, Mansik, because I don’t like it,” Chandol went on. “We’re going home now, but you better not be around here when we come next time. Okay, Toad, let’s go home.”
Although he had gotten a sound thrashing without having a chance to return a single blow, Mansik felt strangely happy. The snow melted against his cheek and hands, but he remained sprawling on the snow for another full minute. When he recovered enough strength to raise himself, he realized he should go home right away to wash up so that his mother would not notice his bruises. Yet he did not rise from the rice paddy. Just lying there, his shoulders and ribs smarting and burning all over, he felt his heart overflowing with satisfaction. That nagging sense of guilt was completely gone, totally wiped out by Chandol’s beating. He was neither sad nor worried by the first thought that occurred to him—the fact that he had made his choice, had become an outcast forever.
Mansik breathed slowly and deeply through his mouth. It tasted salty and he spat spittle mixed with blood. Pain began to leave his body slowly. Very slowly. And he began to cry although he was happy. He began to cry because he was happy. Sprawling on the snow, he wept peacefully.
EIGHT
As Sokku entered the room, Old Hwang raised the wick of the kerosene lamp a little higher and sat up, his shadow, silhouetted distinctly against the illuminated halo on the wall, like a sitting Buddha. “Sit down, son,” he said.
Kneeling next to the door, Sokku wondered why he had been summoned by his father in the middle of the night. “Is there anything wrong, Father?” he said.
Old Hwang cleared his throat and said, “Han, the miller, came to see me early in the evening.”
“I know, Father.”
As the old man kept quiet without giving any further explanation, Sokku suspected his father was waiting for him to pose a question so that he would be politely forced to state what he was reluctant to say.
“What did the miller come to see you for, Father?” the son asked.
“He said he wants to leave,” the old man said.
Kangho’s family was going to be the first to leave Kumsan to seek refuge. Several families of Charcoal village had already left for the south but the Kumsan villagers had been delaying, for nobody liked to be conspicuously remembered, possibly for generations to come, as the first to flee in wartime. Now somebody had volunteered to be the cowardly first, and others would follow promptly.
“When did the miller say his family would leave?” Sokku asked.
“They’ll pack their valuables tonight and depart before sunrise without saying goodbye to anybody. The miller seemed to be very ashamed of running away.”
The old man and the son kept quiet for a while, avoiding each other’s eyes. The father blankly gazed at the rice paper of the door which vibrated with the passing gusts of cold wind while the son stared at the flame flickering in the smudged glass ball of the lamp.
“The villagers are restless because the war is going unfavorably to the South,” Young Hwang said to prompt their conversation.
The old man did not reply. Sokku believed his father kept silent because he had something serious to tell him which was too embarrassing to put into words. What matter could have been so urgent as to make his father wake and summon him to this room in the middle of the night?
At long last the old man opened his mouth and said enigmatically, “They have no other choice.”
“About what, Father?”
“Taking refuge.”
“Are you talking about the miller’s family?”
The old man reflected briefly before he said, “And about others.”
Sokku could not comprehend what his father meant. Maybe Father was simply telling him that he approved the villagers’ wish to leave this land. Or—was it possible that Father also considered abandoning this place, the home of the Hwangs for generations, to take refuge? Sokku did not have a ready response and in the ensuing silence they avoided each other’s eyes.
Sokku could understand as well as his father did the reason why Kangho’s father and some farmers, perhaps many of them, wanted to leave now. When the North first invaded the South in June they had felt no sense of danger and also the Communists had swept down too fast to allow them to escape. The whole situation was different this time. Even North Koreans, hundreds of thousands of them, were taking refuge in the south. The villagers worried about what harm might befall them if this land changed hands once more. They knew now that this side of the river was not a sanctuary. Like a herd of cattle, they might all stampede if someone started to run.
Considering what he had heard from the townspeople, Sokku was sure that the National Army and the U.N. Forces were losing the war very fast. A large-scale air raid had taken place over the northernmost Siniju area in early October to wipe out a massive force of Chinese troops concentrating there, but they said that the Chinese commanders had decided to deploy more troops along the Korea-Manchurian border after the American air attack on the bridge over the Yalu River to defend against an imminent American invasion of China. The most generally accepted conclusion was that the Yankees had a lot more cannons and airplanes and tanks than the Communists did, but the Chinese were overpowering them with awesome “Human Sea” tactics. There were simply too many Chinese soldiers to kill. Endless waves of Chinese troops had already recaptured the North Korean capital of Pyongyang. The National Army had retreated as far south as Hwanghae and Kangwon Provinces. And a detachment of North Korean soldiers, which had been isolated in the south during the fast advance north by General Megado’s Army after the Inchon landing, were actively operating as guerrilla forces in the Taebaek Mountains. It was rumored that a detachment of these guerrillas from Hwachon had infiltrated the town to secure a foothold for an all-out future assault by the main Communist Allied Forces. Sokku knew, as most well-informed townspeople did, that they had to seek refuge before this year ended, if they were ever going to leave, for the Communists were planning a coordinated offensive for the New Year season. If Chunchon had really been designated by the Communists as one of the launching points of the New Year offensive, there was no doubt that the Chinese would be here in a matter of days.
The old man lit his bamboo pipe and said between slow puffs, “Village Chief Pae said the foreign soldiers will leave Cucumber Island soon.”
“So I heard, Father,” Young Hwang said. “They’ll be all gone by the end of next week. About half of the prostitutes at Texas Town have already left for Osan and the rest of them will scatter to the southern towns where the Yankees are stationed.”
“I guessed that was the reason why,” Old Hwang murmured.
“What reason, Father?”
“That strange woman called Imugi came to see me the day before yesterday and asked me to buy the snake hunter’s hut. She plans to move to Pusan, she said, and thought it was only proper to return the house to this village. She is a sly woman. We know she cannot stay here any longer but she pretended she is going away to do us a great favor, and she believed she deserved to be compensated for the hut.”
“I hope you did not pay her.”
“No. She begged for only half of the money she had paid. She even tried to flatter me. I couldn’t believe this was the same impudent woman who insulted me so much.”
Sokku was sure that his father had s
ummoned him for something more important than exchanging this kind of small talk. “Do you have anything in particular to speak to me about, Father?” Sokku prompted.
The old man sat up erect, resting the brass bowl of the pipe on the stone ashtray. Staring at his son, the old man said, “We are leaving here, too.”
“Leaving?”
Old Hwang nodded his head slowly.
“But do we have to? You are not healthy enough to travel in this cold weather, and I don’t expect the Communists would harm us even if they come.” In fact Sokku was not saying what he truly believed. He wanted to take refuge, and he was not sure if his family would be safe when the Communists arrived. “I believe the Hwangs should stay here to the last,” he added.
“We have to go. We have a very good reason to.”
“What reason, Father?”
“You know perfectly well the reason why we cannot live in this village any longer.”
Sokku tried to guess what his father meant, but could not.
Finally, Old Hwang forced himself to say the words: “This house is no longer ours.”
“What do you mean?” Sokku asked, surprised.
“I asked the miller to buy this house and he agreed. He made full payment.”
Sokku had anticipated that this final blow would fall upon his family sooner or later but the sudden revelation shocked him. Although he did not want to acknowledge reality, he could now see the fall in plain sight. “Was Kangho’s father willing to buy this house despite the fact that he has no idea when or whether he will return here?”
The old man said with a distressed sigh, “He was doing a favor for me. He did not even take the deed papers, saying I could reclaim the house any time I want in the future.” He paused. “But I don’t think we will ever come back here.”
“Your determination to leave this village is final?”
Old Hwang nodded. “I think now is a very convenient time for us to leave,” he said. “The villagers will never guess we’re leaving for any other reason than the war.”
“But you have to consider. …”
“There is nothing else to consider, son. The longer we stay here, the more shame we will have to endure.”
The son kept silent.
“You’d better start packing secretly tomorrow,” the father went on. “Pack only the most valuable things we will need for our future life in a strange land. We cannot take anything more than what we can carry on the oxen’s back.”
“Where do you plan to go when we leave here?”
“We should go as far south as we can.”
“Even if we reach some safe place like Pusan or Mokpo, how can we earn our living?”
“We will manage somehow because I have some money. Besides the money I received from Han for this house, I also have the money I raised to buy back the snake hunter’s hut after the harvest. Maybe we can open a small shop on a busy street somewhere.”
Sokku was sad when he imagined his father selling candies or vegetables in a shop. The most humiliating degradation for a man of knowledge was to become a merchant. “When do you think we should leave, Father?” he said.
“Get ready as soon as possible. We will stay here no longer than five more days.” 1 see.
“Now go back to your room and get some sleep.”
Sokku raised himself. “Have a peaceful sleep, Father. You have to rest well before departing for the long journey.”
“I know,” the old man said.
When Sokku turned back to open the door, Old Hwang murmured in a low voice behind him, “I have a premonition that I will die in a strange land as a refugee. I hope you will move my remains to our family grave site when the war is over and bury me just below my father.”
The small hill for the family graves was the last and only land left to the Hwangs in Kumsan.
Mansik fumbled in the abandoned water mill and lit the candle he had brought with him from home. He stood the candle on a wooden crate and pulled up the trap door of the secret armory. Dragging out the ammunition box he thought, I will stop them, I will stop them even if I have to kill them both. He opened the ammunition box and took out the pistol. The pipe, fixed tight on the wooden hilt with silk threads and rubber bands, glinted bluish in the candlelight.
Mansik did not hesitate. His mind was made up. Chandol and Toad were already at Dragon Lady Club to watch the rooms and Mansik knew this was the only way to drive them away.
He cocked the hammer of the pistol and loaded an empty M-l cartridge shell with a live percussion cap into the pipe barrel. Turning his face away, he stretched his arm to thrust the pistol into the pile of straw to muffle the sound, and pulled the trigger. The percussion made a cracking sound. The pistol was working fine.
Mansik took a new empty M-l cartridge shell, filled it with millet gunpowder, kneaded several pieces of snipped wire into the ball of molten candle wax, and mounted the wax ball on the open tip of the cartridge. He loaded the pistol with the cartridge. He put several live cartridges, a handful of gunpowder and the wire scraps into his pocket for possible future use, blew out the candle and left the water mill.
“It’s killing me, oh, oh, it’s just killing me,” Chandol whispered between gasps, peering into Imugi’s room.
“It’s exciting over here, too,” Kijun said in a choking voice, watching Mansik’s mother playing with her bengkd’s huge erection.
The boys watched both rooms since Mansik was not out on guard tonight. Holding his breath, Chandol peeked in at the naked bengko, mumbling something in a drunken voice, fondling the flattened breasts of Imugi, who kept kicking the air at his touch, as she sprawled on the floor displaying her wide open black hairy crotch. After several minutes of touching and sucking each other, she pulled the soldier onto her stomach and the Yankee began to pump his groin into hers. The woman began to moan.
Something poked Chandol in his back. He did not have to turn to know it was Mansik, but when he did Mansik was pointing the pistol at him. Kijun stood by the chimney, terrified. Although Mansik did not make any gesture this time, the three boys automatically headed for the hay stack.
When they stopped and stood facing one another, Chandol said, “I guess you need an extra lesson.”
Aiming the pistol at the two boys alternately, Mansik stayed far enough from Chandol to avoid being attacked by a flying kick. “It’s you who needs to learn a lesson,” he said. “This is my last warning. If either of you come here ever, ever again, I won’t hesitate one single moment to shoot you.”
“Give me that pistol,” Chandol said. “I knew you were a whore’s son, but I didn’t know you were a thief, too. Sneaking into our headquarters and stealing our weapon, you deserve to …”
“Stay there. Stay back! I’ll shoot if you come any closer.”
“Let’s go home, Chandol,” Kijun said. “Looks like he’s gone crazy. He may really shoot us.”
“Shoot us? You wouldn’t dare, would you? Give me that pistol back if you don’t want to be hurt really bad.”
“No, you’re not going to hurt me. Not ever again. I will keep this pistol and use it, too, when I have to. I have enough gunpowder and cartridge shells to kill both of you.”
“Hand over the gun, I said.”
“Stay away. Don’t come closer!”
“Give me that pistol.”
“Don’t come closer!”
“You wouldn’t fight me, would you?”
“Stay away!”
“Are you really going to fight me?”
Mansik pulled the trigger.
• • • •
Mike and Fist Nose had come early in the evening, bringing strong Yankee liquor and juicy boiled meat for an advance Christmas party because they knew Camp Omaha would not remain on the islet until the holiday. A little while after the soldiers had gone into their rooms with Ollye and Sister Serpent, they heard the pistol shot. Fist Nose instantly stopped, and sprang to his feet. He snatched his helmet and underwear from the nail on the wall and dashed
out to the hall to grab his carbine. Pulling on his shirt and shorts he charged out of the house and saw two dark figures fleeing toward the log bridge.
Sergeant Mike, still quite drunk, stumbled out of the other room with nothing on his naked body except the dog tag dangling on his hairy chest. He seemed to suddenly turn sober when he saw Fist Nose charge out of the Club with his rifle. He went back to the room and hastily put on his fatigues. He could not find his helmet anywhere and went out to the hall to get his rifle. In the confusion Ollye was still calm enough to gather her soldier’s trousers and boots and hand them to Mike, saying, “Hubba-hubba, hubba-hubba.” What she meant to say was that she wanted Mike to promptly take these things to Fist Nose, who was out in the snow barefoot with nothing on below the waist but his shorts.
When Sergeant Mike went out, Fist Nose was firing warning shots in the air. The rifle shots rang out against the silent sky and echoed somewhere in the distance. Yelling “Halt! Halt!” in Migook language, Fist Nose kept firing. The two fleeing persons apparently did not understand English, but one of them suddenly stopped in the middle of a rice paddy, raising his hands high, frightened by the rifle shots. Waving his hands wildly to show the soldier that he was surrendering, he shouted, “Help! Help! A bengko is shooting at me! A bengko is trying to kill me! Help!” The other one continued to run and vanished down the bank of the stream. When they heard Kijun shout for help, the soldiers realized the two fleeing persons were mere boys.
When Sergeant Mike handed the trousers and boots over to him, Fist Nose leaned his rifle on the wall of the Club and hurriedly put them on. Mike glanced over at the boy in the paddy, blubbering, with his hands high in the air. Then he began to run toward him.
Lights went on here and there in Hyonam, Kumsan and Castle villages, as the villagers woke up startled by the gunshots. Light also went on in the Paulownia House and the papered door opened. Old Hwang leaned out and looked around the village to see what was going on.
