The Curious Tale of Mandogi's Ghost

by Sok-pom Kim

  He had been brought here with someone long ago, but after he had moved to S Hill Temple, he hadn’t stopped here, not even on his way to Shimomura. But today, he suddenly remembered the story of the poor young man who had died facedown on this boulder. In fact, while he had been walking alone along the undulating path he had just felt the feverish sensation coming back to life in his fingers, which this morning were digging into the back of Mother Seoul’s body. The smell of the comb reawakened in his nose, and the blood between his legs swirled around violently like the smoke in the kitchen without a chimney. A raw urge, even more pronounced than when he was touching Mother Seoul’s body, was welling up in his body. In this wilderness, with no sign of life, Mandogi felt desire.

  Mandogi crouched patiently in front of the boulder and closed his eyes. As he sat there the powerful feeling in his abdomen grew more and more pronounced. It got harder, then even harder, until it was almost painful and Mandogi couldn’t sit down any longer. Stroking the surface of the rock with both hands, its moss thick and slippery, he stood up, put down his chigae, and lay facedown on top of the boulder. The rock, which had already spilled the blood of one human being, felt warm, like a living thing. He touched the hard thing between his legs to the surface of the rock, and using the weight of his own heavy body, pushed it down into the stone, pushed it down, pushed it down until the pressure was unbearable. After that, he could finally relax a little. Then, as if holding both sides of a lover’s face between his two hands, over and over he gently stroked the dry side of the rock, which wasn’t covered in moss.

  At length, he held his rosary beads in his hand, the beads making noise as they rolled against one another, and he started chanting. He started out chanting for his own sake, to calm the cries of his own body, but before long he was earnestly chanting the sutras for that young man.

  The story of the young man begins, “Long ago, there lived in the village a brother and sister who were very close.” He was a ch’onggak (an unmarried young man) with a beautiful, diligent heart. His sister loved her younger brother very much. She wished that her brother could get married to a pretty (if poor), hardworking girl, and in the same way the brother wished only for his sister’s happiness.

  One day, as the two were returning from a field at the base of a faraway hill, they were suddenly met with a heavy downpour. The rain beat down heavily on the two of them, soaking them to the skin, the rainwater frothing as it rushed down the little path at their feet. Eventually, the black clouds and thunder went away, and the sun started to shine through. The soil had been completely washed off the path, so it was covered with rough, uneven rocks. The brother was delayed because he had to fix the wet straw strings that held his chigae together, so he ended up following behind his sister.

  Somewhere along the line, as he followed behind his sister, the brother’s eyes were drawn to her shoulders and her back, and then even lower. No matter what he did, he couldn’t stop his eyes. The brother was wearing workers’ clothing called p’aeŭi, which was made out of hemp and dyed with persimmon juice, but his sister, just on that day, was wearing a thin linen cloak. The wet linen fabric was drawn in tight, and her wet skin showed through. And her wet skirt clung to her backside, showing every line on her body. The brother would look away, but his eyes were always drawn back. In this way, the brother probably saw something he was not supposed to see.

  And so, before long, when the sister stopped and turned around, she did not see her brother. She waited for a bit, but there was no sign of him. The sister turned back down the road and searched for her brother. Then she went even farther back down the road and searched for her brother. Then she discovered her brother lying dead, facedown on the big boulder. There was something amiss about his figure. With one hand he was holding onto a rock, which was dyed bright red with blood. His bottom half was soaked in blood, which dripped down to the ground and blended with the rainwater. The blood was coming from between his legs. He had pushed the stiff thing between his legs against the surface of the boulder and had crushed it with the rock in one blow. Perhaps he had been aroused by the sight of his blood-related sister’s backside, and had felt a strange change in his own body, and had been shocked, troubled, and ashamed.

  There are two ways to conclude the last few lines of this story. First, there is the traditional ending, in which the sister, overcome with grief, faints and falls down on the spot. And in the other one, of course the sister grieves over her own brother’s death, but when she comes back to her senses, she faces her brother’s dead body and says something like this: “Oh, this wasn’t worth dying for. If you wanted it that badly, I would have given it to you.”

  It must be said, as the Taoists insist, that the former is a more fitting ending to a story about innocent youth encumbered, as it were, by the burden of Confucian morality. When Mandogi heard the story from the middle-aged women at the temple, he had been a little disturbed by their behavior. They laughed lewdly, nudging one another on the knees as they told what should have been a sad story, but that was probably because they disagreed with the Taoists and took the latter ending. No, this was clearly the work of some practical joker, maybe even a man, who must have twisted the meaning to make it into a joke. Something about it rubbed our Mandogi the wrong way, but he couldn’t quite come to understand the true meaning of their laughter. To him, it just seemed like a strange, sad story.

  By the time he had finished chanting the sutras and stood up from the boulder, Mandogi felt completely calm. Now, even more, Mandogi felt that the grief of that beautiful sister, who had lain facedown on her brother’s dead body, had been passed down to him. Then, out of nowhere, the figure of Old Man O’s daughter-in-law came dancing into his mind, and he saw her along with the sister. Mandogi felt a little sad but soon smiled to himself and set off down the path that was lined with the barely blooming marigolds. He felt satisfied, as if his heart had been washed clean.

  Mandogi, who had loitered along the way, headed toward Shimomura, where Old Man O and Old Man Yi were probably waiting for him. The sun was getting higher and higher, and by the time he could see the village, it had been two hours since he had left the temple. The village was filled with tall poplar trees. The houses, with their low, thatched roofs, stretched all the way back to the horizon, lined up along the river that came out to greet Mandogi. He went into the village, and before long he noticed a crowd on the lane that led to the house he was looking for. He saw a tree that looked like a persimmon tree, so he knew that it must be Old Man O’s house. Even so, what could this crowd possibly be for? Mandogi stood thinking for a bit and concluded, Oh, this is wonderful! The O family could easily have been shunned by the village, but instead the villagers must be gathering at their house for the funeral. How wonderful! Mandogi, suddenly worried about his loitering along the way, was inspired to hurry along, mumbling to himself, “Oh, good. That’s good,” his robe fluttering in the wind.

  Mandogi walked along, smiling to himself. Somewhere along the line, a group of naughty kids wielding sticks had gathered, and they were following along behind him, stirring up dust on the narrow street. It seems that children everywhere are loud and outspoken. Mandogi’s priest’s robe and chigae looked all the more strange in the eyes of the children, so they started making fun of him at once. “Hey! Dimwit priest! Whatcha carrying a chigae for? Whatcha carrying that empty chigae for? Hey! Dimwit priest! You should carry a coffin way up the mountain with that thing! Huh? Huh?” Of course, the children’s taunts would always be accompanied by some kind of substantive action, like throwing stones. In this case, throwing stones was surely the thing to do, but they threw them slowly and softly, just enough so that he would know they were throwing them.

  Here, it must be said that our Mandogi was quite foolish. He had to stop and turn to face the children, saying, “No, you’re wrong,” and giving them a stern look. “This chigae? No, I ain’t carrying a coffin with it. This, I’m carrying it to bring back the groceries, the millet and the pollack an
d the jujubes.” He didn’t say these words out loud, but in his heart he kept arguing with the children. If he just said, “No, you’re wrong,” and stopped there, that would have been plenty of rebuttal for the taunts coming from behind him. So he smiled to himself and turned around and kept walking in his original direction, pretending not to notice. After walking for a while, he stopped, saying to himself, “Hey, wait a minute.” A moment ago, he had said to the children, “No, you’re wrong,” but then he thought, “No, they’re right. They’re exactly right.”

  Mandogi started thinking. If he were, in fact, carrying a coffin, just like the children said, if he were, say, bringing a coffin for the daughter-in-law, he might need a chigae, he thought. If she didn’t have a coffin, he could give her the two boards on the legs of his chigae. He could put her dead body on them, and maybe he could cover her up with some kind of white cloth. Even if they didn’t have a coffin, they must at least have a white cloth. But surely they didn’t have anyone to carry the body. And then, he himself could carry it up to the sanso (cemetery), he thought. He admired the wisdom of the children. And so, facing the naughty children once more, he bowed and said, “Thank you.” That was the kind of person Mandogi was. Even though these brats were only children, they realized that Mandogi’s behavior was worthy of a smile. And, beating noisily on tin cans, and shouting, “No, you’re wrong! No, what?” they marched in a victory parade.

  It wasn’t until he got right up behind the crowd that Mandogi realized that this wasn’t a gathering for a funeral. Beyond the jumble of people’s heads and shoulders, he could see that the police were making one of their ever-welcome visits. Two jeeps were parked in front of the house, and the police were pacing back and forth with their guns.

  Mandogi bent down to ask the man in front of him, trying to get a peek at his face from underneath his peasant’s straw hat.

  “What on earth is going on?”

  “Sheesh, can’t you see? They’re about to take them away.”

  “What are they taking?”

  “What are they taking? It’s human beings, they’re taking them.”

  “How come?”

  “How come?” Without even turning around, his face completely obstructed by his straw hat, the man snapped, “Look, they’re always taking people away, don’t ya know?”

  They’re always taking people away, don’t ya know—what did that mean? If there were a thief, they would just take him away. But there are no thieves, no murderers in Old Man O’s house, so maybe it’s like Old Man Yi said at the sentry post this morning: they must be taking them away because they’re red.

  Mandogi suddenly heard the clamoring voices of the children coming from behind him. He turned around to see the brats’ victory parade coming nearby. Just as he was about to turn toward the parade and wave at them, he put his hand down. One woman’s face froze as she turned in their direction. She opened her mouth to scream, “Oh no!” and in the same moment, she was running toward where the children were coming from. Two or three women were chasing them back, scolding them in stifled voices. The ones who were calling a name as they scolded the children must have been their mothers. As if driving livestock, the women stretched out both arms, saying, “Get away! Get away!” and they drove the children off the street. Then, their expressions stiffened, and they returned to the street. The women feared that the crying voices of the children could stir up the silent crowd, inviting trouble from the police. When Mandogi, who had watched the whole thing, finally understood what they were doing, he smiled to himself.

  Mandogi was shocked once he peered into the courtyard of Old Man O’s house through one of many cracks in the fence, which had been made by piling up lots of pieces of volcanic rock. What the hell could have happened here? Bellowing and stomping their feet on the ground, a few police officers pulled Old Man O out of the house, his hands tied behind his back. Crying and screaming, his old wife tumbled off the porch and into the courtyard.

  “Kill me! Please, kill me! Please, kill me and eat my flesh, but let my husband go! What’s his offense? What’s his crime? How can you take my husband, faint of heart and quiet as a mute? Give my husband back to me! Please, give him back!”

  Mandogi pushed his way through the center of the crowd and finally reached the open space in front of the mob. From there he could see the opening in the fence that led into the courtyard. Mandogi slowly, silently entered. All at once, every villager’s mouth opened wide with shock. Some weird-looking priest wearing a chigae was butting into police affairs? What on earth could be going on now?

  “Hey, who’s that?” The moment he turned that way, the look-out guard raised his voice in confusion and flew toward the courtyard. “Hey, hey! Grab that guy!”

  In times like these, the police look so confused. If you try to look at it from their perspective, always hostile and always wrapped in hostility, being caught off their guard is probably their worst fear. So, now that they had him under control, they left bound Old Man O behind and a few of the police rushed in on Mandogi. His immediate reaction was to swing his arms, so Mandogi unintentionally knocked down two or three of the men. He had not really intended to resist, but the police, who depend on outnumbering their enemies, quickly lost their tempers. They surrounded him and pointed their guns at him right away.

  Agitated, one of them shouted, “Put your hands up!”

  “Put my hands up? Like how?”

  “Just put both your hands up! Do it now, or I’ll shoot!”

  “Put your hands up, like when you say ‘Long live the Emperor!’ ”

  Mandogi put his hands up just as he was told. Mandogi was surrounded on all sides by the police, their guns pointed, and then he was handcuffed. A relieved, satisfied look appeared on the faces of the police.

  “Where did you come from?” The captain who had been watching came over, wearing a police cap decorated in gold, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. Watching his face curiously, with its bad complexion and weak Colman mustache, he answered honestly that he was a kongyangju at S Hill temple. Rubbing the hair in his mustache the wrong way, the captain asked him his purpose in coming here. Mandogi answered that he had come for the funeral of the poor, innocent girl, to perform the service to comfort her spirit.

  “Hmph, a funeral?” The man with the Colman mustache, who, it could be said, bore the most responsibility for the girl’s death, suddenly twisted his face into a scowl. “A funeral? I hate you overly pious bastards. Nowadays, you think we live in a world where we can have funerals? I don’t know whether they had a funeral at this house, and I don’t give a damn. The police aren’t here just for show. This is a red family. We got word this morning that they’ve been communicating with the commies in the mountains.” Making sure that those around could hear him, the captain raised his voice and said this last part angrily. Not only that, he turned to face the crowd outside the courtyard and repeated the same thing. Then, he turned back around and added, “Officer Chŏng, take his one away too!”

  Mandogi said that he really had come for a funeral at this house and requested that he please be allowed to perform the service. But the captain just screamed, “There’s no one here to have a funeral for!” and left. The short officer called Chŏng finally came over to Mandogi’s right shoulder, and with another even shorter officer on his left they took Mandogi away.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Shut up!” said the two officers, looking up at Mandogi’s face. “When

  we get to the substation, you’ll find out.”

  “What am I going to the substation for?”

  “Shut up! You’ll find out when you get there.”

  When the police brought Mandogi and Old Man O out of the courtyard, a big wave of murmurs ran through the crowd. Taking the chance to run over, O’s old wife clung to one of the captain’s legs and pleaded with him to leave her husband and take her away instead. With one leg in the jeep, the captain kicked the old woman down. The moment she was pushed off, she somehow
found the agility to get up, faster than a dog. Half crazed, she charged after the jeep. But soon the engines started, and the jeeps drove away, leaving the old woman in the dust.

  “Ugh, fucking murderers! You kill my poor daughter, but that’s not enough, is it? You have to take my precious husband too! Fucking murderers!” The old wife cursed as she cried and screamed.

  From the jeep, Mandogi turned around and looked at her. As the jeep sprinted away, her figure sitting on the road, pounding the ground with both fists and wailing, and the women trying to comfort her, got smaller and smaller. The villagers stood surrounding her. Just then, looking at a single old man in the crowd, Mandogi thought, Oh, over there, that must be Old Man Yi. He had recognized someone he knew standing near the old wife, but he had been distracted by the old woman, and strangely he hadn’t realized right away that it was Old Man Yi. With the people crowding in closer and closer, Old Man Yi, who had passed that night at the sentry post with Mandogi, watched the jeep drive away, almost in tears.

  1 Sanzang is a central character in the sixteenth-century Chinese novel Journey to the West. In the novel, Sanzang is accompanied by three powerful disciples who protect him on his journey.

  2 A to is an antiquated Japanese unit of measure equal to about eighteen liters or about half a bushel (koku).

  The two jeeps drove swiftly down the bumpy country road, churning up dust as they went. Sudden gusts of wind stirred up the dust, which fell noisily onto the rear jeep where Mandogi was riding, pulling a hazy curtain down over his field of vision. This is just like a runaway horse, thought Mandogi, who had never ridden in a jeep before. But then the sight of Mother Seoul’s frightening face appeared in his head. How on earth could he explain these unfathomable events so that she would understand? What would he do if he were late for cooking the dinner rice? He wasn’t worried about the police, but what about the offerings for the altar? And to have taken the chief mourner away from a funeral … Mandogi couldn’t begin to understand. However, he was able to glean, from the conversation of the police officers riding in the same jeep, that the police substation on the New Road had been attacked by the mountain unit last night. They were saying that the battle had continued fiercely until almost dawn, and that two of their friends had been killed, but they had killed many of the enemy, and that the commies were quick and nimble like monkeys. So Old Man O must have been arrested in connection with the battle.