by Sok-pom Kim
Having crossed over the deep, lonely haze that floated around the execution grounds to the New Road, Mandogi searched for a path closer to the mountains, one secluded from human habitation. He would go to the temple, where the comb was guiding him. No, he had nowhere to go but the temple in the first place. It could even be said that he had a kind of homing instinct that naturally guided him toward the temple. But today, on the road toward the temple, and in the clear morning air, he felt something very unfriendly. In the distance, Mount Halla was hidden behind a thick layer of fog or clouds, and he couldn’t look up to it. As he walked on the unfamiliar soil, down an unfamiliar road, he even thought that maybe there wasn’t a single familiar face on earth. Of course, if he wanted to avoid the public gaze, he first had to find an unfamiliar road and walk down it. But even if you called them unfamiliar roads, they were like the blood vessels that are the proof of life, all held to the breast of the earth. The hilly road, covered in rocks, looked up at Mandogi from his feet and screamed, “I don’t know you! You don’t know this road! You don’t know this road!”
His was now an existence that didn’t allow for loitering around like a living human. Even if the fire of life had started burning inside him once again, it was only the flame of a ghost from the realm of the dead. From the beginning, he had no family register, and he wasn’t the sort of person who could draw people to himself, but now it must be said that the kongyangju Mandogi had completely disappeared from the eyes of the living.
When he reached the slope of the S Hill valley, after walking for about two hours, Mandogi finally realized that he was a human who had come back to life, who had been through the most fearful experience. He cooled his burning throat and washed the wound on his ear at the spring that was the source of the cheerful little mountain stream, then waited in the forest for night to come. He no longer had any trust in the police, so he waited for the middle of the night when they would all be asleep.
In the middle of the night, Mandogi worshipped piously in the darkness outside the temple. Then he went inside at the temple gate, which had no door, and headed straight for the sanctuary. Continuing to chant inside his head, Mandogi went inside the dark building and fumbled around to get his hands on the rosary beads. The brown rosary beads that were held during services had been taken by the police, thrown on the floor, and scattered to every corner of the room, and he had not been allowed to pick them up. He squatted, supporting his weight on his heels, and when he had finished his silent worship, he headed for the priest’s room. Guided by the smell of the comb, he sought to get back to her. He stood in front of the room, and took out the comb once more and smelled it. His voice low, he called out to his reborn mother, “Mother Seoul! Mother Seoul!” Strange, there was no answer. No, it wasn’t strange. She just couldn’t hear him. The proof was in the sound of the snores echoing from her plugged nose. Mother Seoul’s way of snoring wasn’t very feminine, but today it must be said that it was a little too masculine. Mandogi quietly opened the sliding door and went in, and touched his hand to the bedding in the dark, moving his hand and calling, “Mother Seoul! Mother Seoul!” as he shook her awake.
The person flinging the bedding aside and jumping up, shocked and horrified—surely it was the captain. When Mandogi’s smiling face, with its blood-soaked ear, came completely into the beam of light from the flashlight that he had nimbly pulled out, the light rattled back and forth, and the captain screamed, “Gh—gho—ghost! Ghost!” his tongue twisted, blocking off his throat. Mandogi must have recognized the captain, but when he greeted him with “Good evening,” it wasn’t meant to startle him. But Mandogi could see that his greeting had scared the captain all the more out of his wits. If it had been the Mandogi of yesterday, surely he would have gently explained, “I’m not a ghost.” But now, he just laughed, a quiet laugh, like “hee hee hee hee.” As he laughed he almost convinced himself that he really was a ghost.
Soon after, feeling really hungry, Mandogi went into the kitchen, where he caused a ruckus when he came face-to-face with the sentry officer who had come to the kitchen for the same reason. Having escaped from there, Mandogi decided to hide under the altar in the sanctuary. There, the red curtain draped from the altar covered the front, so he wouldn’t be discovered, even during the day. Well, he had figured out where to spend the night, but what should he do next? He no longer had the option of working and eating meals in the company of humans. And he couldn’t get back into his rhythm of chanting. Even if he wanted to see human faces, he had become a ghost of the night, and all they would see in him would be a frightening, twisted, ugly face. Whereas some might consider that a good thing, Mandogi’s personality was not suited well to the sort of advantages it offered. They were very restricted advantages, but perhaps they made Mandogi accept himself as a dead man. Even so, he didn’t want to be arrested or executed by the police again. So, what should I do, Mandogi wondered. Kannon Temple, in the heart of the deep valley, had been burned down. The benevolent old priest was long dead. Despite what he had gone through to escape death, in Mother Seoul’s eyes, he was nothing more than a worm. Hmm, from the beginning, I’ve never had anybody. He started to feel lonely for the first time. In the end, Keiton (dog shit), a lifelong orphan, had become none other than a living corpse during the day, and at night, a ghost, just like the sparrow spirits that wander around the temple ruins at night.
Mandogi fumbled around in the utter darkness beneath the altar and lay down on the floor. He pondered vacantly, his spirit floating, riding from one image to another. It was as if he were in the underworld, recalling life in the world above. It was as if there were a wall of thick haze, but beyond, where it was completely clear, all of his memories had flocked together and were playing there. But in the center of all those memories, Kannon Temple, in the heart of the deep valley, was sitting conspicuously, lit up and shining from behind like the Buddha.
All of these thoughts included, Mandogi’s entire existence revolved around Kannon Temple on Mount Halla. It turned around just like a drawing of a revolving lantern he had seen as a child, and the partisans appeared there too. Based in a nearby cave, the small unit would often come to play at Kannon Temple. The eyes of the young boys, who were in middle school, gave off a clear, strong light, more lively than even the sparkling, flowing stream. The boys’ cheeks glowed red, spit flying as they said that in order to reunite our divided country, we must chase out the foreign armies. He thought the mountain unit was nice and kind. They treated Mandogi like any other human being. The words “idiot” and “dimwit” never came out of their mouths. One day, a young man who was leading a subunit of the mountain unit noticed a rash that looked like ringworm spreading over Mandogi’s entire body. A few days later, he came back, the big mouth in the center of his blackened face laughing, “Hey, Mandogi! This medicine, it works well,” as he held it high in one hand. “Quick, Mandogi, take off your shirt,” he ordered in a joking tone. Then he scooped out some of the white cream with the tips of his fingers and rubbed it all over his dirty skin, which looked like it was covered in fish scales, each big enough to cover up an entire louse. “Does it hurt? It doesn’t hurt? Hold on, just hold on.” Though yellow mucus oozed out and mixed with blood, dying the white medicine on his fingers, he kept rubbing it into Mandogi’s shoulders, back, and armpits. The benevolent old priest had just said that the scabs would fall off on their own and wouldn’t even let Mandogi into his room.
Mandogi got up again and sat cross-legged. If he stretched out his back and sat up straight, the top of his pointed head would nudge the altar, and it would probably fall over. In the utter darkness, where it was just as dark whether he closed or opened his eyes, he sat with his eyes closed. Rubbing his eyes, he suddenly realized that the people of the mountain unit were just like the ghosts registered in the book of the dead. He opened his eyes. In this country, they can’t walk around in the cities during the day. Just like me, sitting in this darkness, they belong to the world of ghosts. Come to think of it, is t
here anyone in this country that’s not a ghost? Well, there’s President Syngman Rhee and the officials around him, and then there’s the American soldiers. And there’s the thieves, like the washed-potato station chief and the captain with the flashy beard had said. But if you aren’t a thief, and you aren’t in the American army, and you aren’t President Syngman Rhee, and you aren’t an official, then aren’t you kind of like a ghost? For Mandogi, this was an important discovery. He had seen that the partisans’ circumstances were much like his own. So maybe the mountain-unit people are ghosts. Something warm was pushing its way out from his chest, forming something like a feeling of camaraderie. It swelled bigger and bigger as time went on, and it felt like it was hardening as much as it was growing.
After hurrying back to the temple, Mother Seoul called the captain of the dispatch station to a private room right away. She also included the captain with the flashy mustache from the police station, who had given her a ride in the jeep, and she asked the two of them about the details of the appearance of Mandogi’s ghost the night before.
Because he had greeted the captain with “Good evening,” she assumed that Mandogi was still a dimwit, even as a ghost, and under the circumstances, there was nothing to do but to cast him down into hell. This wasn’t something to be done halfheartedly. This was the law in these turbulent times, and it couldn’t be helped, unfortunate as it might have been. And in order to cast the ghost down into hell, she muttered, “Hail Amida Buddha.” This was her way of coping with these turbulent times. Mother Seoul informed the two captains that she had decided that the prayer ceremony wouldn’t be a Buddhist service but would take the form of witchcraft. Once she had made up her mind, she couldn’t remain idle, so she cooked the rice herself, washed the fruit, and prepared the offerings for the altar.
When twilight finally crept into the sanctuary, the prayers began. As the service continued, Mother Seoul’s long, narrow face with its narrow eyes bore a more and more demonic expression. Shadows from the candles danced on her face above her eyes, which shined with the same blue light that appeared when she beat Mandogi with the bamboo switch. Behind Mother Seoul, who sat in front of the altar, were five police officers, including the captain who had now shaved off his flashy mustache, and the captain of the dispatching station at the temple, all with their hats off, sitting cross-legged and participating in the ceremony. The prayers were filled with spells and charms against evil spirits. They had concluded that Mandogi’s ghost was a menace to humans, so they decided that they should banish him from the temple for eternity. Moreover, they had chosen a format that included spells for destroying the ghost of Old Man O’s daughter-in-law along with Mandogi. The captain who had shaved his mustache had requested a gentler format, more like a memorial service, but he didn’t get his wish.
The sanctuary was oppressed by the heavy, chanting voice of a woman. Rubbing the rosary beads violently with both fists, the police officers, surrounded by the urgent-sounding chants, quietly bowed their heads.
Let our eyes and ears now humbly receive
Your true and perfect wisdom, oh, Buddha,
Of the deep, profound mysteries
Of a hundred million ages.
She started with a sutra, then continued with spells, a very strange mixture for a prayer, to tell the truth.
Oh, majestic sun, majestic sun
Rising in the east,
We command you with this charm
To cleanse the earth of all evil,
To sweep it into the fiery abyss…
I command thee, quickly,
Surrender, foul spirit,
And be changed
Into a pleasant spirit.
Sitting still, her back straight, Mother Seoul’s face looked like the face of someone possessed. She repeated the spells three times, her upper and lower teeth gnashing against each other in her bright red mouth. Then she turned to face east and spat out the water she had been holding in her mouth. Next, with a thin brush and crimson ink made from crushed cinnabar, she wrote out a mysterious spell. The temple, even with all the participants in the prayer service, looked like a gathering spot for spirits.
From under the altar, Mandogi strained his ears to figure out what was going on in the sanctuary. In the dark, he glared at the curtain that blocked his view. Before long he was breathing heavily, frustrated with being cooped up in the cellarlike space under the altar. Eventually, he could feel his heart quivering with anger. Could this really be happening? He wouldn’t let himself believe it. How could they do something this stupid, he wondered. Putting a curse on the ghost of that innocent, beautiful girl, how could anyone do such a thing? What could these curses possibly have to do with her, who would sit next to him on the porch in the courtyard where you could see the persimmon tree, who had given him a moment’s warm happiness? This was like a thief holding a whip. Mandogi was much more angry on behalf of the girl’s ghost than on behalf of his own living self.
Just like a lion in a small cage, his restricted body shook with anger and he ground his teeth as he lifted his head. The moment his head thumped against the bottom of the altar, he felt his blood freeze, and his neck contracted awkwardly. He wanted to poke his head outside the curtain and jump out of the cellar. He wanted to jump out into the sanctuary, letting his anger explode all over the police, as well as Mother Seoul. Repressing this unbearable urge, Mandogi regretted letting the smell of the comb guide him to Mother Seoul’s room and saying, “Good evening.” If she had been in the room, what woulda happened to me, he wondered. And then, from afar, the rough field of the execution grounds, covered in a flock of crows, came into view. Ah, Mother Seoul is standing there. Mother Seoul is standing, holding a gun, surrounded by dispatching-station police and the captains. They’re looking at me sitting behind the curtain under the altar. They must be waiting for me.
Big tears rolled down Mandogi’s cheeks. How could it be, he thought. How could it be? As soon as he was forced to realize that Mother Seoul would have turned him over to the police, he got upset. This feeling of loneliness, which he had never felt with Mother Seoul, came out in the form of big tears that rolled down his face. Now he could clearly see Mother Seoul’s demonic face looking toward him as she cursed him on the other side of the dark curtain. If he had poked his neck outside the curtain even a little, the blades of countless guillotines would come crashing down on his head. No, they wouldn’t be guillotines. Mother Seoul’s countless eyes, giving off their blue light, would suddenly grow arms and grab him. Mandogi got scared of the light coming through the curtain from her eyes and unconsciously shuffled along the floor in the darkness under the altar, until his back was straight up against the back wall.
Surely, in that moment, there was bitterness toward Mother Seoul in Mandogi’s heart. But it didn’t matter. What would happen, if by some chance Mother Seoul called, “Mandogi! Mandogi—! Kongyangju!” What would he do if that voice reached his wounded ear? Wouldn’t Mandogi stand up, breaking through the altar? Wouldn’t he poke his neck out into the room right away and answer, “Yes”? More than anything, when he heard that voice, his body shivered with a yearning as if he had not seen her for many years, as if she had just come back from a faraway journey. He thought it was fine if she called him a maggot, and fine if she beat him with the switch. He just wanted that voice calling him like his mother, “Mandogi! Mandogi—!” The echoes of that voice had a power to draw him in that others could not imagine. And maybe they would make him come crawling out like a dog being called by its master. But luckily, Mother Seoul finished without ever calling, “Mandogi!” It was a good thing. It could be said that this was the only reason Mandogi escaped nŭngjich’ŏch’am, an old method of execution in this country, where they cut up your limbs, your torso, and your head.
“Shimomura is on fire!” Suddenly, a voice was screaming. It was coming up from the entrance to the sanctuary. “They set fire to Shimomura!” Again the voice screamed. Mandogi was shocked and tried to hear what was going on o
utside, but another screaming voice removed all his doubt, saying, “Hey, look! It’s really burning!” At the disturbance outside, everyone stood up, leaving only Mother Seoul in front of the curtain. Alone, she kept repeating the spiteful curses in her merciless voice. Even from behind the thick, unwavering curtain, Mandogi could see the flames licking violently at Shimomura, where that girl hanged herself from the persimmon tree. Then came the hell fire. The leaders had brought hell fire to the earth, where their fellow humans lived. He had expected the fire, but because he had expected it, anger and sorrow welled up from deep inside his body. From above the flames, dancing wildly high in the night sky, came the voice of Old Man Yi from the sentry post, screaming, “Look! It’s just as I said! They finally burned the village, burned our homes too!” Mandogi knelt, rubbing his forehead on the floor. He covered his head with both hands, stifling the ferocious power in his body the same way he did when Mother Seoul was hitting him. He thumped his head on the floor again and again, and the echoes might have even reached Mother Seoul through the floorboards.
Before long, Old Man Yi’s voice, which had flown down from above the flames, was quietly, quietly whispering in his ear. “The temple too. If they burn the village, you think they’ll need the sentry post and the police station at the temple? Huh, Mandogi? Before long, they’ll burn the temple too. Then this area will be completely uninhabited…”
That night, Mandogi breathed heavily, as if struggling to carry a heavy burden up a mountain. Even as a temple hand, he had no choice but to renounce the temple. Of course, even Mandogi understood that it was a police-dispatching station and not a temple, as the officers had said. If the priest wouldn’t even come near these temple ruins, then who could possibly consider it a temple? But as long as the image of the Buddha was still enshrined there, it must be said that it was a temple too. It was a temple, to be sure. But a ceremony cursing the ghost of Old Man O’s poor, innocent daughter-in-law, along with Mandogi, had been performed at the temple. It was a way of praying that had never even crossed Mandogi’s mind, and it was appalling to him.
