Eerie Tales from Old Korea

by Brother Anthony of Taizé

  Piqued at this dispraise, one of them said, “If I tell you, what difference will it make, anyway? We have you now securely. There are, in truth, only two things that we fear, namely the wood of the eum tree and the hairlike grass called gimipul. Now tell us what you in turn most dread.”

  “Well,” answered Jin, “it may seem strange, but my greatest aversion is a big bowl of white rice with sauerkraut* and boiled pig on the side and a beaker of white beer** at my elbow. These invariably conquer me.” The fiends made a mental note.

  And so they fared along toward the regions of the dead until they came to a field in which an eum tree was growing. The fiends crouched and hurried by, but Jin, by a single bound, placed himself beneath its shade and there, to his delight, found some of the hairlike grass growing. He snatched it up by handfuls and decorated his person with it before the fiends had recovered from their first astonishment.

  They dared not approach and seize him, for he was protected by the tree and the grass, but after a hurried consultation, two of them sped away on some errand while the other stayed to watch their prey. An hour later, back came the two, bearing a table loaded with the very things that Jin had named as being fatal to him. There was the white rice, the redolent sauerkraut, the succulent pig, and the flagon of milk-white beer. The fiends came and placed these things as near as they dared and then retired to a safe distance to watch his undoing. Jin fell to and showed the power that these toothsome things had over him, and when the fiends came to seize him, he broke a limb off the tree and belabored them so that they fled screaming and disappeared over the horizon. So Jin’s spirit went back to his body, and he lived again. He had long been aware of some such danger and had warned his wife that if he should die or appear to die, they should not touch his body for six days. So all was well.

  Many years passed, during which Jin attained all the honors in the gift of his sovereign, and at last the time came for him to die in earnest. The same three imps came again, but very humbly. He laughed and said he was ready now to go. Again they traveled the long road, but Jin was aware that they would try to steer him into hell rather than let him attain to heaven, and he kept his eyes open.

  One afternoon Jin forged ahead of his three conductors and came to a place where the road branched in three directions. One of the roads was rough, one smooth, and on the other a woman sat beside a brook pounding clothes. He hailed her and asked which was the road to heaven. She said the smooth one, and before his guards came up, Jin was out of sight on the road to Elysium. He knew they would be after him, hot foot, so when he saw twelve men sitting beside the road with masks on their faces, he joined them and asked if they did not have an extra mask. They produced one, and Jin, instead of taking his place at the end of the line, squeezed in about the middle and donned his mask. Presently, along came the fiends in a great hurry. They suspected the trick that Jin had played, but they saw it only in part, for they seized the end man and dragged him away to hell, where they found they had the wrong man, and the judge had to apologize profusely for the gaucherie of the fiends.

  Meanwhile, the maskers were trying to decide what should be done with Jin. He was in the way and creating trouble. They finally decided that as the great stone Buddha at Ungjin in Korea was without a soul, it would be a good thing to send Jin’s spirit to inhabit that image. It was done, and Jin had rest.

  Jin taught the Koreans one great lesson, at least, and that was that the devils are afraid of eum wood and the gimi grass, and since his time no sensible person will fail to have a stick of that wood and a bunch of that grass hung up over his door as a notice to the imps that he is not at home.

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  * A reference to kimchi.

  ** I.e., makgeolli.

  THE GHOST OF A GHOST

  A Korean country gentleman, Kim for convenience, had become a widower with a small son on his hands, and as this threw his domestic arrangements into confusion, he looked about for a number two to share his joys and sorrows and, incidentally, to cook his bap. In this quest he was successful, and in time another son was born. But by this time the firstborn had grown into a young man and had developed a violent dislike to his stepmother and his little half brother, and a person even less astute than the father could not fail to foresee that upon his demise the elder son would show small favor to the wife and the child.

  For this reason the old gentleman, upon his deathbed, gave to his wife a piece of paper on which was drawn a picture of a man and his son and told her to keep it with great care, and that when the time came that she could no longer make ends meet, she should take the picture to the local magistrate and ask redress. He unhesitatingly affirmed that justice would thus be done her.

  Not long after this he breathed his last, and it was but a month or two later that the elder son began to show his teeth. The property was all taken from the widow, and no provision whatever was made for her support. She had only one small box in which she preserved the picture. The little boy pleaded with his big brother to help his mother but was driven from the door with blows. Finally, the unhappy woman reached the point of destitution that her husband had foreseen, and, taking the picture, she went to the office of the prefect and told her story.

  The prefect looked long and intently at the piece of paper, studied it from every point of view, but said at last that he could make nothing out of it. The enigma was too deep for him. He told her to leave the picture with him overnight, and he would think it over. As he pondered the matter he concluded there must be some solution and was piqued at his own inability to find it. Late into the night he sat and thought about it, but the more he thought the more insoluble became the riddle. About midnight he called his servant and ordered a bowl of water. After drinking a little, he set the bowl down, but in doing so a portion of the water was spilled upon the picture that lay on the floor beside him. He was startled, for this might injure the picture and render the solution wholly impossible, so he picked up the paper carefully and held it near the candle flame to dry it, when lo! the riddle solved itself. The porous paper was made semitransparent by the water, and the light, shining through, revealed a written communication concealed between the two thicknesses of paper which formed the substance of the picture. He glanced around to see whether his servant had noticed it and was relieved to find that he alone was the possessor of the secret. His first act was to destroy the picture, after which he retired as usual.

  In the morning when the ajeons came to pay their respects, he ordered one of them to go down to the house of the man who had treated his stepmother so badly and announce that the prefect would call there at two in the afternoon. This created something of a sensation, and when the prefect arrived, he found the place swept and garnished. Quite a crowd of the townspeople had gathered out of curiosity to see what this visit might portend.

  As the prefect entered the gate, he saw the master of the house and the others gathered about the steps of the sarang (reception room), but on the left the yard was empty. The host came forward to greet him, but, strange to say, the prefect waved him aside and looked intently to the left. Then, folding the front part of his coat about him as the Korean does in the presence of a superior, he advanced a few steps toward the left, bent forward in a deferential manner and said:

  “Yes, certainly no, never before without doubt … Oh no, no I could not think of it … yes, quite sure … no difficulty whatever … It shall be done at once … Indeed I shall not forget.”

  All this in reply to apparently unheard questions of an unseen interlocutor! The people stood openmouthed with wonder. Had the prefect indeed gone mad? But the play was not yet finished. The prefect went toward the gate as if taking leave of someone, said good-bye with the utmost deference, and then came back to the amazed group of spectators and said:

  “Who was that man?” They hesitated, but at last one of them made bold to answer:

  “There was no one there.”

  “What—? That man I was just talking to and who has
just gone? You didn’t see him?”

  “No, we saw no one nor did we hear anything but your words.”

  “Amazing! Wonderful! Astounding! I saw an elderly gentleman standing there, and he had the air of a great official. He spoke to me and said that in this town his widow and her little boy were suffering because the grown-up son had defrauded them of their rights. He told me he had foreseen this and had buried beneath the floor of that deserted house, over there, three caskets of silver and two of gold for the use of his widow. He told me to take two of the silver caskets and give the rest to his widow. And you never saw him! Well, well, it was a singular hallucination. Let us think no more about it.”

  But what company of people would rest satisfied with this? They protested that there must be some reason behind the vision and urged the prefect to dig for the treasure. He demurred and said it was foolish but was finally persuaded. Mattocks were secured and they all hastened to the deserted house where, sure enough, the caskets were unearthed. Instead of thinking the prefect was crazy they now concluded that he was inspired. He took it very modestly and, calling the widow and her son, turned over the valuable treasure to them.

  “The old gentleman told me to keep two of the silver caskets for myself, but I am going to venture to disobey him and keep only one.”

  A murmur of admiration went around the company, and they and the woman begged him to take two, but he protested that even the fear of the spirits’ anger would not induce him to take more than one.

  Thus the woman was vindicated, the prefect enveloped in the odor of sanctity, and his exchequer replenished, for the writing in the picture had only revealed the position of the buried treasure but had made no provision for the prefect’s squeeze.

  THE TENTH SCION*

  Long, long ago there existed a family of learned men; there had been nine generations and in every one of them one only son. Each man had no sooner passed his examinations and taken his degree than he died. Thus the tenth generation had been reached, which again consisted only of one single representative.

  Now, when this tenth scion was ten years old, there came one day a monk to the house to beg alms. The mother sent her son to hand the alms to the monk. The latter looked the boy for a moment in the face and said: “Poor boy, thou art in a bad case.”

  When the boy heard this, he ran to his mother and told her what the monk had said, and she at once sent a servant after the monk to recall him.

  Being asked the reason of his strange exclamation, the monk replied: “When the little monk looks into the boy’s face, it seems to him that the child will be killed at the age of fifteen by a wild beast. Should he, however, escape the disaster, he will become a great man.”

  The lady then inquired how the evil could be warded off. The monk replied: “It will be best to get the boy’s traveling kit ready at once and to let him go wherever he likes.”

  Whereupon the widows (mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother), after embracing the boy and weeping bitterly, sent him away according to the monk’s word.

  As the boy did not know where to go, he simply wandered in this and that direction. Thus the time passed quickly, and in a twinkle his fifteenth year had arrived.

  One day he strayed from the main road and lost his bearings. He inquired of a passerby: “Will I be able to reach human dwellings if I go in this direction?”

  The man replied, “There are no human dwellings in these hills except a monastery. But a great calamity has befallen it, all the monks have died, and it stands empty now. Whoever enters its precincts is doomed to death.”

  Innumerable times did the man try to dissuade him from going. But try as he would, the boy, having conceived the wish to go there by hook or by crook, set out for the monastery.

  When he reached it, he found it exactly as the man had told him: it was empty throughout. As it was winter just then and the weather very cold, he searched for charcoal and, when he had found some, made a blazing fire in a firebox. He then mounted with it to the garret above the Buddha image in the central hall and thus made himself invisible to any unforeseen caller.

  After the third watch (after 1 a.m.), there arose a great uproar. He peeped stealthily down and saw a crowd of animals enter. There were a tiger, a rabbit, a fox, and a great many other animals. Each one took its place, and when they were all seated, the tiger addressed the rabbit: “Doctor Rabbit!” (The rabbit is thought by Koreans to be the learned one among the animals.) Receiving a ready response, he continued: “Will the professor turn up a page of prophecy tonight and let us know whether we shall have success or failure?”

  The rabbit assented, pulled a small book from under the mat on which he was sitting, read in it, and, after meditating a long while, announced his discovery: “Tonight the diagrams are strange.”

  “How is that?” asked the tiger.

  “The prophecy runs as follows,” replied the rabbit. “Sir Tiger will receive heaven-fire (heaven-fire is also equivalent to “great disaster”) and Master Rabbit will meet with the loss of his goods.”

  Scarcely had he said the words when the boy threw a few live coals down on the tiger. This created such terror among the animals that they all took to flight.

  The boy descended from the loft and, on looking about, found the little book out of which the rabbit had been reading. He picked it up and wondered whether he would, after such a find, meet with his predicted misfortune.

  He at once went outside the gate of the monastery, looked about in all directions, and noticed a light gleaming in a mountain valley towards the east. Thinking there was a human dwelling there, he set out in that direction and found a one-room straw hut.

  When he called out for the master of the house, there appeared a maiden of sweet sixteen who welcomed him without any embarrassment. Thinking this a lucky circumstance, he entered the hut.

  He began to tell the girl about his past life. But as he was very tired, he lay down while the girl sat and did some needlework. Now, when she was threading her needle, she moistened her finger with her tongue, and he noticed, to his horror, that it was a black thread-like tongue, like a snake’s.

  This discovery set him all atremble, and he was thinking of running away, when the “thing,” guessing his intention, said, “Although you escaped the former calamities, you shall not escape me yet. Before the bell in the monastery behind here rings three times you shall have become my food.”

  Now, while the boy was inwardly sorrowing and expecting his death every minute, the bell rang all of a sudden three times. The girl had no sooner heard it than she threw herself at his feet and implored him for her life.

  He, pretending to possess immense power, shouted at her in the most imposing manner he could muster. The “thing” then drew a square gem from its side, offered it to him, and again pleaded with him for her life.

  He took the gem and asked what it was. She replied, “If you strike one corner and say, ‘Money, come out!’ money will appear. If you strike the second and say to a dead person, ‘Live!’ he will rise at once. By striking the third you can produce whatever you wish.”

  As she stopped and did not give any explanation about the fourth comer, he asked her, “What does this corner do?”

  When it seemed as though she was never going to tell him, he said to her: “Only if you tell me about this fourth comer will I let you go.”

  Then, as he insisted on getting an answer, she could no longer refuse and replied, “If you say to hateful people, ‘Die!’ they die.”

  At once the boy pointed at her and cried, “Above all you are the most hateful to me. DIE!” Scarcely had he uttered the words when a huge snake as thick as a pillar rolled at his feet and died. This gave him such a fright that he left the house at once.

  As he was anxious to find out what could have made the bell ring so suddenly, he went back to the monastery and found a cock pheasant with a stone in its beak lying dead in front of the bell.

  But what had this pheasant to do with him? As he tried to
recollect the past, he remembered that when he was seven or eight years old, he had one day gone with a servant up the hill near his house and found a cock pheasant that, being pursued by a hawk, had hid itself in the pine thicket. The servant had been for killing and eating the bird. But as he had cried with all his might and begged for it, the servant had, after warning him several times not to let it go, given it to him. He had taken it in his arms and admired it. The sheen of its feathers had been just dazzling, and he had thought it was altogether very beautiful to look at and would make a splendid toy. But then the pheasant had looked as though it had been shedding tears, and out of pity he had let it fly.

  “Now,” he said to himself, “without doubt, the pheasant has remembered that kindness, and when I was near dying, it saved me.” Weeping bitterly, the boy took off his waistcoat, wrapped the bird in it, and buried it in a sunny spot.

  In this way he had passed his fifteenth year and become sixteen years old, and it seemed to him that his fatal period was now ended. He therefore went to his native place and showed himself before his mother.

  You should have seen the fuss they made about him. His mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother laughed and cried in turn. Their sobs shook them so that one would have thought it was a house of mourning.

  By and by the boy was married, had three sons, and became, so they say, the founder of a great family.

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  * Translated by Rev. G. Engel.

  THE STORY OF JANG DORYEONG

  In the days of King Jungjong (r. 1506–1544) there lived a beggar in Seoul whose face was extremely ugly and always dirty. He was forty years of age or so but still wore his hair down his back like an unmarried boy. He carried a bag over his shoulder and went about the streets begging. During the day he went from one part of the city to the other, visiting each section, and when night came on he would huddle up beside someone’s gate and go to sleep. He was frequently seen in Jongno (Bell Street) in company with the servants and underlings of the rich. They were great friends, he and they, joking and bantering as they met. He used to say that his name was Jang, and so they called him Jang Doryeong, doryeong meaning an unmarried boy, son of the gentry. At that time the magician Jeon U-chi—who was far-famed for his pride and arrogance—whenever he met Jang in passing along the street, would dismount and prostrate himself most humbly. Not only did he bow, but he seemed to regard Jang with the greatest of fear, so that he dared not look him in the face. Jang, sometimes, without even inclining his head, would say, “Well, how goes it with you, eh?” Jeon, with his hands in his sleeves, would reply most respectfully, “Very well, sir, thank you, very well.” He had fear written on all his features when he faced Jang. Sometimes, too, when Jeon would bow, Jang would refuse to notice him at all and go by without a word. Those who saw it were astonished, and asked Jeon the reason. Jeon said in reply, “There are only three spirit men at present in Joseon, of whom the greatest is Jang Doryeong; the second is Jeong Buk-chang; and the third is Yun Se-pyeong. People of the world do not know it, but I do. Such being the case, should I not bow before him and show him reverence?”