“Bokhi, you are wrong,” I said firmly. “We can not be swallowed up like those little pebbles. We aren’t pebbles. We won’t just quietly sink to the bottom. We can run, we can fight, and we can work. We are not helpless unless we let ourselves be.”
My words were lost in the wind. Staring out at the sea, she said with resignation, “Do you ever feel that we are only building sand castles? Why do so many sad things happen to us? I am afraid the little we have left will be swept away, too. Why bother?” She kicked the rocks. Her hair was flying in her face, and her threadbare blouse hung limply on her thin frame.
“Come on, let’s walk toward school. Teacher Yun has been waiting for you. She misses you, and she’s been counting on me to get you back.” Pulling Bokhi by the arm, I dragged her away from the water and started walking toward our classrooms.
After a few steps, she stopped short and announced, “I don’t want to go anywhere. You go to school alone. I want to be by myself and do nothing.”
I was ready to give up and cry, but I heard myself shouting at her as I never had before. “You don’t even know what you’re saying anymore! You’re not doing nothing, you’re doing something terrible. You are making me sad, and your aunt and uncle sad, and you are going to disappoint Teacher Yun. She loves you and wants to see you. I can’t go back alone. I will just stand here then, just like you!” I rubbed my eyes to hide the tears filling them.
I longed to see Teacher Yun. I needed to see her broad smile, and her bright and clear eyes. Most of all, I needed to hear her energetic voice. She was always able to cheer me up, and I knew she would know what to do about Bokhi. I knew she could make Bokhi forget about the sand castles and the pebbles. Teacher Yun seemed to have some kind of magical power over her sad students. I pulled Bokhi by the arm, and Bokhi, baffled and shocked at my outburst, slowly followed.
Class was in progress when we arrived, and I could hear the teachers lecturing. When I poked my head into the classroom, Teacher Yun rushed out. She immediately handed me her thick book and a small piece of chalk, saying, “Sookan, take this book and copy the rest of the chapter onto the blackboard for the class. ” Then she squeezed my hand, and whispered in my ear, “Good work, Sookan. Thanks for bringing her here. She’ll be all right. Don’t worry.” Smiling broadly, she held Bokhi’s arm and quickly walked her away.
My arms began to ache from reaching up to the blackboard and my fingertips hurt from clutching the small piece of chalk for so long. As soon as I filled the board and the students had copied what I had written, I had to erase the board and fill it again. My hair and clothes were covered with chalk.
Finally, Teacher Yun returned to the classroom with Bokhi. Bokhi’s hair was now neatly braided into two long pigtails that rested on her shoulders. There was a white bow in her hair and she wore a black armband just as Teacher Yun did. We all knew that Teacher Yun wore the bow and armband to mourn the death of her parents and her brothers. I could almost picture Teacher Yun magically transmitting her strength and determination to her student as she fixed Bokhi’s hair, tying the white ribbon in it, and then pinned the thin, black armband to her sleeve.
Teacher Yun had always been able to help me when I was sad about my father and my brothers. For me, it was not so much what she said as the way she looked at me. In her big, sorrowful eyes, I could see how much she cared about me. When she looked deep into my eyes, I felt I had to smile, for otherwise I would make her even sadder. When I managed to smile, her face brightened like the sun itself. I wondered if that was what had happened to Bokhi, too. Bokhi seemed more relaxed, and her eyes, though still red and puffy, were bright. I knew then that she and I would soon be testing each other on vocabulary, and gardening, and talking just as we used to.
That evening, I remained at Bokhi’s, and we stayed up late copying from Teacher Yun’s book all that we had missed over the past few days. Bokhi’s hand busily formed small, square letters that looked like those of a typewriter. She reached for the eraser often, making every letter look perfect. I looked at my sweeping handwriting and laughed. I had used twice as much paper as she. The salty smell of the sea seeped through the plywood walls. We could hear the waves roar and crash against the rocks, and in the distance, we could hear the sounds of life in the little refugee dwellings. The candle was burning low and the pale moon was out.
Feeling tired, I looked at Bokhi and said, “Shall we go out and hear the sea roar?”
“Take my shawl. The night air is cold,” said her aunt.
Wrapping ourselves together in the shawl, we stood on the shore and inhaled the chilly, salty air, and listened to the waves break. I rested my head on Bokhi’s shoulder. I was happy to have her back and grateful to Teacher Yun.
“I’m glad you dragged me back to Teacher Yun today, Sookan,” she said quietly. “She made me realize that my parents can still be with me in my mind and heart. I was so angry and sad, I just couldn’t believe that before. Teacher Yun made me see that they will always be there watching over me and taking care of me. I want them to be proud of me in every way. I’ll try not to be so sad, because I don’t want to bring more sadness to all the people who love me. I hope that I can be as strong and as inspiring as Teacher Yun someday, and help someone else as she helped me.”
“You know, when I grow up, I want to be a teacher, just like Teacher Yun,” I said.
Squeezing my hand, she said, “I thought you wanted to be a writer and a nun.”
“Well, I can be all of those.”
Bokhi smiled and squeezed my hand again.
Chapter Five
The next evening, I headed back home, eager to see Mother and Inchun, and looking forward just to being up on top of the mountain. I missed the friendly voice of the shouting poet.
As I climbed, I suddenly realized that during the last few months, while I had been busy rushing to and from school, the mountain had undergone a transformation. How could I have failed to notice? The mountain was not so difficult to climb as it used to be. The path up the hill had become worn and smooth from constant use. In some of the steep areas that were difficult to climb, people had dug little footholds that made it more like climbing a ladder. Now there were even some plants and shrubs growing along the path, which kept the dry and rocky mountain soil from eroding.
People had all tried to make their little huts more homey by creating their own unique gardens. The once identical shacks all looked different now, each bearing the creative stamp of its residents. Wild lilies, daisies, and azaleas bloomed in some front yards. One hut had nothing but tall yellow sunflowers, while another had morning glories scaling the walls and climbing the roof. Another had rows of tin cans blossoming with pansies and marigolds neatly arranged around the perimeter of the house. It was as if each little house were furiously competing to be the prettiest, most cheerful one on the mountain.
When I arrived home, I was greeted by tall sunflowers, their heads heavy with ripening seeds. I knew Mother was waiting to harvest these seeds. My favorite flower, the wild cosmos, surrounded our little shack, and morning glory vines climbed the larger beams.
I had missed the fresh mountain air and my spectacular view of Pusan. I heard laughter ringing through the mountains, and I looked down at the long line of women and children standing at the well. Children were laughing and shouting, mock fighting with their buckets. Their mothers, while yelling at them to be still, laughed and talked among themselves as they waited in line.
That night I talked to Mother until the thin sliver of moon rose high over the mountaintop. Inchun plugged his ears with a piece of cotton and went to sleep. He grimaced at my endless chatter about Bokhi and Teacher Yun.
The next morning I sprang out of bed. The sun was high in the sky already. Had I overslept, I wondered? Was I late for choir practice? Inchun, who was reading a book, lifted his head and said teasingly, “Afraid your choir conductor will embarrass you?”
“No, I just don’t like to be late for anything. I meant to be up early.”
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I looked around, feeling that something was not quite right on the mountain. Could it have been because I had been away and had gotten used to the seashore? Perhaps I just felt strange because I had overslept. I couldn’t tell what was wrong. So, I went outside and looked over at the other mountain peak where the shouting poet always stood. I ran back in and said, “Inchun, did you hear the shouting poet this morning? I didn’t hear him. I’ve never slept through his morning wake-up call. Did he shout this morning?”
Instead of answering me, Inchun slid down under his blanket. Then he stared intently at his science book as if he were trying to solve a very difficult question. He began to whistle while I glared at him and waited for an answer. I knew something was wrong. Inchun often teased me, but he was never rude; he never just ignored me like that. I ran to the kitchen.
“Mother, did you hear the shouting poet this morning?”
She didn’t answer me either. She methodically checked the rice to see if it was done.
“Mother, did you hear him yesterday? Did something happen to him?”
In silence, she wiped her hand on her white apron and went around to the back of the house. Letting out a long, weighty sigh, she said, “Sookan, come and sit down next to me.
“I should have told you yesterday when you returned, but I didn’t have the heart to bring it up. And you were busy telling me about Bokhi. I thought you needed some time after seeing your friend through that difficult period.”
I knew my shouting poet had died. He wasn’t ill and he hadn’t just moved away or gone somewhere for a couple of days. Mother’s somber expression said it all.
“When did he die, Mother? When? How did it happen?” I wanted to know. My head was pounding and I felt a shooting pain in my eyes. I felt like stomping on the ground and screaming. Why couldn’t I stop these sad and horrible things from happening all around me? What else would happen to me and the people I loved?
“Tell me, Mother, tell me everything!” I yelled. “Tell me how he died and when.”
Mother sighed. “The day after you left for Bokhi’s house, he shouted as usual, but after that, we didn’t hear him anymore. At the water line, I learned that after he shouted that morning, he doubled over in pain. He had an advanced case of tuberculosis and he spat blood each morning after shouting his greeting. The physician at the health center apparently told him not to be out in the cold mountain air shouting in the morning, but he wouldn’t stop. He even shouted the morning he died. They say he was originally from Kwangwon province and he was indeed quite a well-known poet. When the war broke out, he lost all his family and escaped here alone.
“Although no one returned his morning greeting, we all felt the loss. Everyone gave money to buy a tombstone in his honor. I knew you would be glad to know how much people cared. ”
I listened in silence, feeling the sadness and anger welling up inside me. Why did he have to leave us? Why hadn’t anyone shouted back to him to let him know that he was appreciated while he was alive? What good was a tombstone now that he was dead? Why had I never climbed that other mountain to see him? All sorts of thoughts went through my mind as I stared at the empty mountaintop on the other side.
“I heard he was in pain much of the time, Sookan. Now he is free of that pain,” Mother said, trying to comfort me. But it didn’t help at all. I still sat there, numb and engulfed by sadness.
Mother hugged me and stroked my hair. “Sookan, we can go visit his grave. We will read what was written on his tombstone. Then we can plant some seeds and take some of the seashells you collected and decorate the grave. ”
Wiping the tears from my cheeks, I nodded. “I want to take some sand and mix it with the soil, too, so that the plants will grow fast and flower soon,” I mumbled.
“Yes, we will do all of that early tomorrow. Today I still have too much work to get finished,” Mother said.
I didn’t go to choir practice that day. On Sunday, Mother and I went to Mass at dawn, and then we started up the poet’s mountain. This mountain was even higher than ours, and the poet’s grave was at the very top. When we arrived, we saw withered roses, daisies, and cosmos covering the grave.
A smooth, gray stone slab stood in front of the mound of earth and read, “Baik Rin, 1899–1952. May he rest in peace in God’s love. May he shout his morning greeting to us each day in our dreams. From his fellow mountain refugees.” Each letter was deeply and clearly chiseled into the cold gray stone. I traced each letter with my index finger, one by one.
How ironic that his name was Baik Rin, meaning “White Giraffe.” I thought that giraffes did not make any sounds, yet this was the name of my shouting poet. The giraffe was my favorite animal and I had once read that giraffes like to eat the tender spring leaves of the acacia trees as they are filled with morning dew. I promised myself that someday I would come up here again and plant some acacia saplings around his grave. I imagined a tall, graceful white giraffe happily feeding on a grove of acacia trees here at the top of the mountain.
“White giraffe, white giraffe," I kept mumbling to myself, wondering why these words sounded so familiar to me. Suddenly I remembered the story of the white giraffe that my grandfather used to tell me when I was very little. I had not thought of that story for a long time. Grandfather said that ages ago, there was a kindhearted scholar who saw a white giraffe in the forest. He was overwhelmed by its grace and beauty, but he was frightened for it. Without the natural camouflage of an ordinary giraffe, this white giraffe looked very vulnerable and helpless. The hunters and curious villagers would surely spot this delicate, precious creature and scare it or harm it. So the scholar draped himself in a long white cape, wore a tall white hat, and strolled through the forest every morning while the giraffe grazed on the leaves of the tall trees. When the hunters and villagers saw the mysterious white figure walking among the green trees, they simply said, “Oh, that eccentric scholar must be taking a walk again.” And they always stayed far away from that part of the forest.
I could not recall the rest, but I remembered how enchanted I had been with this story. Maybe that was why I had always been so fond of giraffes.
“Come on, Sookan,” Mother said. “Sprinkle some sand over the seeds I planted and then cover the sand gently with red mud. Why not place the seashells around this little area so that people won’t step on it?” I busily covered and packed the seeds so that they would grow and bloom for the shouting poet.
“Good,” said Mother. “I see rain clouds hanging low over the mountains. The rain will be good for the seeds, and soon flowers will blossom and grace the poet’s grave. Come. Now we must hurry home.” Without looking back, I followed Mother down the mountain in silence and thought of the shouting poet in his white T-shirt with his head tilted back and his hands cupped around his mouth. I could almost hear his voice echoing through the mountains.
Chapter Six
Pelted by the rapid fire of raindrops, the tin roofs emitted their deafening cries. “Plank! Plank! Plank-plank-plank-plank! Plank!” I was glad that it was raining so hard. I could not bear to see the sun shine today. I wanted the whole world to weep for my shouting poet.
I went outside and stood in the middle of my dirt yard. My feet sank into the red mud, which was quickly washed away by the torrents of rain. I kept thinking of the poet. Why did he have to die? Didn’t he know that I needed him? I wished I had seen him up close just once. The rain streamed down my face, carrying my salty tears with it. Too many things kept changing in my life and I wondered what else would be taken from me. I couldn’t be sure of what tomorrow would bring. I was afraid. Cold and drenched, I just stood there in the rain, trembling with fear and sadness.
Mother ordered me to come inside. Standing by the door, I continued to gaze outside and watch the rain fall. My poet’s voice still rang in my ears when I looked at his mountain. Behind this veil of rain, I felt I could see his thin, gray figure waving to me. He was telling me he would shout his morning greeting to me in my dreams, just
as they had written on his tombstone. Too tired to cry anymore, I remained standing by the door, looking down the mountain.
A man was walking up the muddy path. Hunched over, with his head bent to watch his next step, he seemed to be heading right for our house. I squinted to see who it was. As he drew closer, he paused, looking right and left. He then looked straight up at our shack. I could see him better. It was Junho.
My heart stopped. What was he doing here? Why was he coming up here in such bad weather? Was he coming to see me? Would Mother let him? It was not permitted for a boy to come visit a girl unless they were engaged. What was I to do? My head ached from trying to think so fast, but my heart raced with excitement. I couldn’t help thinking how wonderful it would be! I could really talk to him, ask him all sorts of questions, and tell him everything I had always wanted to. Was Haerin coming too? I looked down the road and didn’t see anyone behind him.
As he drew closer, I saw that his shoes and the bottom of his slacks were caked with red mud. Even his coat sleeves were red and muddied; he must have fallen several times. It must have been quite a climb for him in this downpour. Not knowing what to do, I just watched him draw closer and closer.
As he came to the door, Mother saw him and jumped up. “My stars! Junho? What brings you here on such a treacherous day? You must come in and dry out. Hurry, Sookan! Run, get a big towel.”
Blushing awkwardly, he said, “Oh, thank you. I’m sorry to intrude. I need not trouble you. I just came to give this to you.” He carefully pulled out a small, well-wrapped package from inside his raincoat. “Father Lee asked me to bring this piece of white silk for you to paint on.”
Echoes of the White Giraffe Page 4
