“In this land of ours called Choson, ah . . . farmers make up over eighty percent of the population. The truth is that the destiny of our great nation has always depended on the fortunes of our farmers. Has it not been said since ages past that farming is the very foundation of the world beneath the heavens?”
Never before had they heard such praise for farmers like themselves come from the lips of such an important official. Nothing could have described how moved they were by his speech.
“Now, it goes without saying that we all need to work diligently when it comes to farming, but ah . . . let me also emphasize that there are several methods to go about doing this. The traditional farmer was under the impression that his duty was to weed the fields quietly, but this was where he went wrong. The farmer must now ask himself: How can I make my paddies yield the most grain? How can I make a small paddy yield as much grain as a big one? In other words, he must go about his work with a firm grasp on the best methods of farming. So . . . for example, ah . . . let’s say we have a certain job we need to get done. If we want to find the best man for the job, we have to think about the particular talents of each of our workers, don’t we? Well, the same principle applies to farming as well. How much grain you end up harvesting depends on whether you’ve planted the right sort of crop in the right sort of field. If you plant millet or upland rice in a field that’s best suited for sorghum or beans, you can’t very well expect to have a good harvest. So what I’m saying is that before you plant your crops you’ve got to figure out which fields are best for which crops. And, ah . . . Oh, then of course there’s the matter of compost. The best thing you can do for your fields is to prepare as much compost as possible and work it into the fields come spring. Now, if you all worked just a little bit harder . . . ah, well, what I mean is that you need take advantage of your break time. Cut down a bit of grass and pile it up from time to time, so that after a while you’ll have a good heap of matured compost. By spring, I’ll tell you, it’ll be mighty fine fertilizer. Why take the trouble of going into town to buy chemical fertilizer and lugging it all the way back here when you can make it for yourself in your own backyard?”
That he had gone to the trouble of figuring out the precise logistics of farming made them all feel an incredible sense of gratitude toward the man. They looked around the room at each other, their mouths practically agape.
“Ah . . . and you also should wear dyed clothing. One of the reasons why the people of Choson are so poor is that we’ve always worn white clothes. Please get yourself some properly dyed clothes as soon as possible. When you wear white clothes, you’ve got to keep washing them, which, first of all, is a waste of time, and second of all, wears them out too quickly. And . . . don’t wear rubber shoes, either. Make use of your free time to weave straw sandals. Now, one last thing. Please economize when it comes to spending money on ceremonies, marriages, and funerals. Mind you, if you follow this advice, I’m sure you’ll all be rich men one day. What do you think about that?” he chuckled.
The farmers all laughed as well. It really seemed as though, if they only did what the county magistrate told them to do, they’d soon be living the good life—maybe starting as early as the next year.
“Oh, yes, and one more thing . . . I just want to emphasize, finally, how much effort we’ve invested in making the township an institution that works to help you all enjoy a richer, healthier life here in the village. So it’s wrong for anyone to dismiss the importance of the township office in any way. The land taxes, the household taxes and the various other fees that the township collects from you are used expressly in an effort to create a better life for you. And that’s why it’s so imperative that you pay all your taxes down to the last dime. Well, I have many more things to say that will have to wait until next time, but let me leave you with the simple request that you please follow the guidance of the township office.”
With these words the county magistrate stepped back to his chair and took a seat. Tokho then came forward with a grin plastered on his face.
“Well, now that we’ve had the great pleasure of listening to the wisdom of our county magistrate, I think it is perhaps appropriate for all of us from the township to offer his honor a proper sign of our respect, as a pledge of our commitment to heed his advice. So all rise please.”
The farmers stood up in unison, and after bowing deeply several times they went their separate ways.
Ch’otchae made his way out of the township office along with the others. He took a few steps forward, but then stopped short. But whose land will I work next year? he wondered. The others glanced back at him mockingly, and headed off together in the opposite direction.
46
Ch’otchae had lost tenant rights to his fields. The magistrate said that the township office was supposed to help all the farmers enjoy a better life . . . Does that mean I’m no longer one of the farmers? he wondered. I mean, Tokho is mayor of the township, and yet isn’t he the one who took away my land? And all because I broke some so-called law by smashing a wagon . . . the law . . . the law . . . Hell, I’ll probably be breaking the law if I don’t do what the magistrate said today either. But if I don’t have a field to sow, what use is there in me making compost? The law . . . The more Ch’otchae thought about it, the more his doubts about it seemed to creep under his skin. He told himself he wouldn’t think about it anymore, but this tangled knot of questions kept coming back to haunt him! He couldn’t bring them under control. Ch’otchae still tried hard to abide by this ‘sacred and unbreakable’ thing called the law, but for some reason as the days went by, he’d become increasingly caught up in it.
Having made his way home, Ch’otchae stood beside the woodpile lost in thought.
“What do I do now?” he said softly, sensing the growing darkness of the path that lay ahead of him, just as keenly as he felt the chill of the winter day against his skin.
At the rustling sound of someone twisting straw he snapped out of his thoughts and quickly looked at his house. They’d all been making rope before he’d gone to the township office, so he headed inside, wondering if Yi Sobang had stayed home today instead of going out to beg. When he opened the door, he couldn’t tell immediately who was sitting inside. He could only hear the sound of somebody twisting rope in the darkness.
“Back so soon? What did they call you in for?”
Having taken his seat in the room, only now did Ch’otchae realize that it was his mother twisting the rope. He scratched his head before speaking.
“The county magistrate gave a speech they wanted us to hear.”
His mother pushed aside the rope, her illusions now shattered. When the clerk from the township office had stopped by and summoned Ch’otchae, she had clung to the faint hope that maybe they’d given Ch’otchae back his fields. But her son’s words dashed these hopes for good.
Ch’otchae could feel her disappointment as though she had placed it in the palm of his hand. Indeed, the entire room seemed filled with an indescribable sense of grief. Ch’otchae was unwilling to look at his mother, so he turned away from her and started to twist together a piece of rope. Under normal circumstances he would have had plenty of uses for this rope, and indeed, he kept working away at it as though he would still use it. If he had just sat there doing nothing, all the questions and all the grief building up in his heart would have nearly killed him! He was so sick and tired of everything that all he wanted was to keep himself busy.
“Why the hell did you have to go off and do that? Look at what’s happened to us after all that nonsense of yours. Like it or not, Ch’otchae, when you’re poor like us, you’ve got to do what the rich man says to do . . . I hope you’re happy now, because starting today, we’re out of food. You just can’t wait to send me to an early grave, can you . . . ? With a paddy to farm, we might have been able to get some rice for the time being, granted at extra interest. But just who do you think is going to give us free handouts of rice now?”
“Would you shu
t up for a minute?” cried Ch’otchae suddenly.
“Oh, the nerve of you! You’ve yanked me around by my hair ever since you were a little brat, and here we are going hungry, all because you still can’t control your goddamn temper! Well, maybe you’ll finally learn your lesson when you go hungry, you fool!”
“Oh, so you did everything right, and I’m the one who messed it all up?”
“Ha! Who do you think brought food to your table when you were a little kid? You just wait and see, you little idiot! Do you think I did something wrong because I liked doing it? I was starving, and I did what I did because I had no choice! Just wait and see!”
His mother’s words sank into Ch’otchae, and he felt his heartstrings pulled more taut than he could bear. “I was starving and I did what I did because I had no choice,” she’d said, “Just wait and see!” The words his mother had flung at him felt like a barrage of arrows piercing every inch of his heart. She did it because she had no choice! But what did she mean by that? Once again, that knot of confusion was trying to take over his mind! He tossed aside the straw he was twisting and jumped to his feet. He slid the door open with a clatter and ran outside.
Little drops of frozen rain had begun falling from the sky. In one corner of the yard, where the woodpile had been stacked, the sound of it falling was especially clear. The sight of the sleet that had accumulated there seemed to wring his heart even tighter. Hell, maybe I’ll collect some wood and sell it for a bushel or two of rice . . . But fat chance those idiots in the forest patrol will let me chop down any trees . . . The law? Ch’otchae stamped his foot into the ground.
47
He considered going to a friend’s house. But he remembered how the whole lot of them had laughed at him in front of the township office, so instead he strapped on his wooden pack and set off alone.
The frozen rain that hit his burning face sent pleasant chills through his body.
He stared out at the misty fields in front of him and sighed. He knew that all his hopes and dreams had revolved around these very fields. But now that he’d lost them, what sort of dreams could he have anymore! The only path in life open to him seemed as dark as night.
Before, he used to come to work with a hoe hoisted high over his shoulder. He used to let his mind drift to the far corners of the earth.
Make a living working hard in the fields, sell what’s left over and save up enough on the side to buy a field with the cash. Then marry Sonbi, have a few sons and daughters, and live happily ever after. How many times had this scene played out in his mind! But now he could only snicker at the foolish castles he’d built in the air. He could plainly see how that glimmer in his eyes, which had once burned with such desire, was giving way to scorn and resentment.
Soon he’d made his way to Wonso Pond. He couldn’t help seeing a resemblance to his own lot in life in the haggard grove of leafless willow trees. Yet after staring at the trees for some time, he managed to imagine something strong inside them, a vital energy waiting to sprout forth in the spring. Leaning against a willow tree, he gazed at Wonso Pond and thought of its legend.
“When they broke the law, they were either killed or severely beaten.” He didn’t know when the story had taken place—hundreds, maybe thousands of years ago—but he sensed how much in common he had with those farmers in the olden days who’d found themselves in such dire straights.
The sound of footsteps came from behind him. Probably someone coming to fetch some water, he imagined, but he didn’t feel like turning to see who it was. Whenever people saw him, he always felt they were making fun of him for having lost his fields, and he could feel the color rising into his face.
He sensed, listening to the footsteps, that they belonged to more than one person. Somewhat embarrassed to be standing there, he stepped away from the willow trees and saw two women approaching the path. He felt a surge of blood rush through his body; he was short of breath, and his heart started racing. He stood there frozen in place, and watched them.
The two women were carrying heavy loads of laundry on their heads, and one of them was Sonbi! Beneath that white towel draped down over her ears was a face so lovely that it seemed to glow like a chestnut out of its shell. He could just make it out, obscured as it was by the falling snow. And yet, he no longer sensed the tenderness that had once so touched him. That glowing complexion of hers seemed only to intensify what he now saw as an icy scorn.
The women put down their buckets of laundry, placed the clothes on some stones, and began pounding on them with their laundry clubs. The pounding of the clubs sounded to him like a voice saying, “You idiot, you lost your fields, didn’t you? You lost your fields, didn’t you?” For a moment, he wasn’t sure what he should do. Sonbi then put down her laundry club, started to rinse out her clothes, and stole a brief glimpse of him. He quickly turned to face the opposite direction. He felt dizzy, and everything in front of him started to spin. He took a firm grip on his walking stick. What do I need a woman for anyway! he muttered under his breath. He walked slowly away from the pond.
The sound of the pounding gradually faded as he walked further along. His vision of Sonbi now seemed to turn into a cold block of ice. He stopped short. The lovely image of Sonbi that had fixed itself in his mind was changing—of that much, he was more and more certain.
He climbed up the hill and threw himself onto the ground. With his wooden pack still strapped to his back, he took in the view below him and allowed his thoughts to drift away. He remembered the time he had climbed this hill to get wood when he was younger; he’d found Sonbi here and had stolen some of her sourstem to snack on. The more he thought about the past, the more he realized he’d always had a special place for Sonbi in his heart. But still, he hadn’t even once been able to talk to this girl whom he’d been in love with for so long, and he knew that he’d probably never have the chance to meet her. He picked up his walking stick and pounded it into the ground next to his foot. Then he jumped to his feet.
The frozen rain appeared to be falling heavier now. And through it all, how far away the village seemed! Already there were streams of dinner smoke climbing up out of several houses. The thought crossed his mind that maybe Yi Sobang had come back home.
48
Ch’otchae went around to the side of the hill, cut some dried grass, and headed home with it. When he arrived at the entrance of the village the sound of rice pots rattling and the smell of herring on the grill drifted out of several houses, whetting his appetite terribly. Though he’d had a bit of rice the night before, all he’d eaten this morning was gruel hardly fit for a cow. The very thought of it sent a chill even deeper into his body. But as he neared home, he pictured Yi Sobang with his dirty old sack chock full of rice. This sent him dashing ahead as quickly as his feet could take him.
When he reached his house, he threw down his A-frame and raced inside to see if Yi Sobang’s shoes had been left outside the door. But on the floor of the hallway, swept as it was by that frigid wind, there was but one pair of straw sandals—his mother’s. He came to a sudden stop. Yi Sobang isn’t home yet? he wondered, as he opened the door. His mother had been lying on the warmest part of the floor, but she now bolted upright.
“Yi Sobang, is that you?”
Ch’otchae’s head began to swim, for he now knew for sure that Yi Sobang hadn’t returned. And as soon as his mother saw that he wasn’t Yi Sobang, she lay back down on the floor. The room seemed to echo with the muffled sound of her moaning.
He slammed the door to the room shut and turned to face outside. Why isn’t Yi Sobang back by now? he wondered, staring out into the growing darkness. The path over which Yi Sobang would have carried home his heavy sack of rice was covered with a deep layer of falling snow. Not even a stray dog scampered along it. He left his house and set off with long determined strides on the newly built road into town.
After walking for some time, his head hunched against the cold, Ch’otchae paused for a minute to scan the horizon. Yi Sobang wa
s nowhere in sight. Maybe he’d catch a glimpse of him around the next bend in the mountain road, Ch’otchae thought. But once he turned the bend, all he found was more and more snow—snowflakes falling everywhere, like a swarm of bees—not even the silhouette of a man who might resemble Yi Sobang. By now it was pitch-black, and even Ch’otchae couldn’t make out which direction was which. What if something happened to Yi Sobang? What if he froze to death on the side of the road? Maybe he hurt himself and found shelter in a water mill? One after another, these fears plagued him as the night wore on.
The howling winds that had picked up earlier that evening hadn’t yet subsided. The large, wet flakes of snow lashed him mercilessly in the face. Ch’otchae stopped and stood up straight for a moment to clear his thoughts. There was no way Yi Sobang would come home tonight—he knew this much—so he finally turned around and headed back home alone.
Ch’otchae and his mother stayed up throughout the night waiting, convinced that come morning, Yi Sobang would be home for sure. Yet when morning came, he still wasn’t there. Ch’otchae’s mother was almost certain that something terrible had happened to him.
“Ch’otchae!” She turned to her son. “Yi Sobang must have gotten in an accident. Go into town and see what you can find out.”
Last night, Ch’otchae hadn’t found it difficult to put up with his hunger, so it hadn’t been an obstacle to his going in search of Yi Sobang. But this morning he was so famished that he could hardly move. He looked over at his mother.
“How I am supposed to go on an empty stomach? Can’t you ask someone for some food?”
His mother looked at him, lying there exhausted, and she felt her heart tear in two. She picked up a gourd bowl and went outside, hoping to get a spoonful or two of cooked rice from someone. Ch’otchae watched his mother leave the house, then shut his eyes. He began seeing visions of bowls and bowls filled with rice. It was too much for him to bear. His eyes flashed wide open. Directly in his line of vision, he noticed the jar in which they’d stored their rice until just a few days before. He jumped to his feet and went to look inside it. It was hollow, completely empty. The jar had been chock full in the fall. How could so much rice disappear so quickly? he wondered.
From Wonso Pond Page 15
