The Boy from the Pond
To the lonely, the presence of a young child is like a breeze blowing in from a warm climate.
The Dowager Consort Cheolin began looking forward every morning to the arrival of Jin, who was as dainty as a leaflet of a crabapple tree. Ever since having young Jin’s vigor, speech, and childish mannerisms by her side, the dowager consort nitpicked on the young lady attendants less. She wrinkled her brow less, answered the greetings of the lady attendants cordially, and accepted her meals without complaint.
“Chun, gwi, man, su, nak . . .” Whenever she felt gloomy, the dowager consort taught Jin the characters engraved on the Dowagers’ Chambers’ patterned wall. “Gang, man, nyun, jang, chun . . .” Clever enough to hear them once and immediately commit them to heart, Jin read the characters back with no mistakes. Whenever her tiny mouth recited each character’s meaning and sound, the dowager consort smiled broadly. She never reprimanded her, even when Jin ate the dishes on the dowager consort’s meal table that the dowager consort hadn’t touched yet, or when Jin made childish scrawls on the patterned wall.
Jin received the love of the Dowager Consort Cheolin during the day and the care of the woman Suh of Banchon at night, and her cheeks grew round and pink with good health. No trace remained of the listless girl who had just lost her mother. Her black hair shone, and her arms and neck became plump. Even when the woman Suh prepared Jin’s hair before Jin set out for the palace, Dowager Consort Cheolin would insist on sitting the girl before her and lovingly comb her hair again herself. When Jin napped, the dowager consort would place the back of her hand on Jin’s forehead. Sometimes she would sigh deeply and gaze into the child’s face for a long time.
The dowager consort was loath to part with Jin, and Jin was returned to Banchon later and later.
Meanwhile, after a decade or so of regency rule, Heungseon Daewongun, or the Regent, stepped down from the throne as the Enlightenment reformists came into power. Japan managed to force Korea into opening its harbors. Western powers such as France and America, which had failed to forge trade relations in the face of resistance from the Korean people, cheered in unison as this secluded kingdom on the eastern edge of the Eurasian continent opened its gates. Jin turned seven the year the other powers rushed to enter Korea before Japan could establish a monopoly. She was in her second year as the child companion of Dowager Consort Cheolin. This was also around the time when Korea sent seventy-six emissaries to Japan on a twenty-day trip to experience the fruits of Japan’s modernization.
It was an evening when Jin was returning as usual to the woman Suh’s house in Banchon.
On the back of Lady Attendant Lee, Jin was the first to spot an unfamiliar person standing next to the apricot tree in the courtyard. Jin’s eyes grew wide with surprise. His face and clothes resembled that of no one else she had seen before. The stranger wore a black robe that came down to his knees. He was tall, with a curly brown beard that reached below his chin and down to his neck. His face was white, and his eyes were blue.
Lady Attendant Lee was just as surprised as Jin. Still carrying Jin on her back, she fell backward, causing Jin to bite her own lip. It swelled and began to bleed. Lady Attendant Lee put Jin down in front of the woman Suh and gazed at the strange man.
—Oh, mon Dieu!
Strange words came out of the man’s mouth as Jin’s lip bled.
Suh hurried into the house and brought out a towel to wipe Jin’s lip. Despite having injured Jin, Lady Attendant Lee fearfully vacated the premises through the courtyard gate without a hint of apology.
Next to the blue-eyed stranger stood a boy wearing a linen jacket so soiled it was gray. He looked like an untamed seagull.
His sun-darkened face indicated poverty and loneliness, but at the same time hinted of an ambitious force that could break old fetters. He wore nothing inside the linen jacket, and his shoulders and arms were half-bare. He had walked for so long in his straw sandals that they were misshapen beyond recognition, with some of his toes peeking through.
The boy with the skinny shoulders met Jin’s gaze. He shyly prodded the apricot tree with a sandaled foot.
—This is Father Blanc.
—Blanc . . .
Just as she had done when Dowager Consort Cheolin had patiently recited chun, gwi, man, su, nak to her, Jin imitated the shape of Suh’s mouth and said, “Blanc.” Blanc smiled as Jin said his name despite the injury to her lip, its bleeding stanched but still clearly swollen. Blanc extended a hand to little Jin.
—Yes, my name is Blanc. Jean Blanc!
This time it was the Korean language that issued forth from the priest’s lips.
When Jin hid her hand behind her, Blanc smiled and patted her on the head instead. Jin looked up at the priest’s dangling cross hanging from a chain over his black robes.
—You should stay in my house for now. I don’t think there is any other way.
Jin could only cling to Suh’s skirts and look up at Blanc. The more Suh tried to get Jin to greet him properly, the more she tried to hide behind Suh’s skirt.
—I think she’s shy.
At Suh’s observation, Blanc smiled again and looked down at Jin.
—She must be surprised as well. Is this the child you spoke of earlier?
—She is.
—She must be returning from the palace?
—Yes.
Jin pulled tighter at Suh’s skirts as she heard the accented Korean coming from Blanc’s mouth. She looked as if she were about to cry.
—Don’t be afraid of him.
Suh gripped Jin’s hand. With her other, she pointed to the boy standing by the apricot tree.
—How old is the boy?
—They say he’s seven. Some say he’s six. I don’t know for sure.
—They’re both shy. I’m sure they’ll be friends.
—Do you think so?
—They’re children after all.
Jin kept trying to hide behind Suh’s skirt, and the boy continued to stand by Blanc. They looked at each other.
There were people who leaped into the waves of mountains to hide. They melted into the valleys where rocks and pine and other trees lived out centuries as if they were a day and became part of primordial nature itself.
On the hill where the Sobaek and Noryeong mountain ranges split, along the path between Namwon to Jangsu, was an incline wide enough to clear for farming. The clearing was concave and surrounded by mountains, making it difficult for travelers to spot. This hidden clearing was a paradise to those fleeing the persecution of the Catholics years before. They managed to settle and grow crops, aided by a spring that flowed all year round. This was the beginning of the Subunli village at the split between the Geum and Seonjin rivers.
Blanc searched for Subunli as soon as he set foot in Korea.
He was looking for Father Ridel, who was said to be fulfilling his missionary work and living in a nearby cave. Blanc’s party had met the boy in a village along the way to Subunli. The boy was an orphan who slept in the kitchen next to the earthen stove of whatever household would have him and lived off of their leftovers.
—Whenever I ask him where he lives, he always points to a pond.
Blanc patted the boy’s head as he told the boy’s story to the woman Suh. After Father Blanc’s group spent a night in Subunli, the boy insisted on following them. The boy wore rags at the time, so Blanc had cut out the lining of his clerical robe and covered the boy’s shoulders with it, a kindness the boy apparently had not forgotten.
—What do you call him?
—Yeon, as in pond. We gave him the surname of Kang. He points to a pond whenever we ask him where he’s from, so there must be a pond near his home. The people of the village called him Sobaek. Only because the village was close to the Sobaek Mountains.
—Kang Yeon . . .
Little Jin murmured Yeon’s name, just as she had done with Blanc’s a moment before. Suh and Blanc both smiled at her. Despite his being the topic of convers
ation, Yeon continued to silently tap the apricot tree with his foot. His hungry belly protruded like a tadpole’s. His kicks could hardly do any harm to the apricot tree.
Suh took Blanc and the boy to a room recently vacated by a Sungkyunkwan scholar who was off taking his first exams for officialdom. She opened the door and showed it to them. There was a neat pile of folded futons and linens in one corner, but the room was otherwise empty. Blanc was still examining the room from the outside when the boy simply slipped in.
—He must be very tired. We walked a great deal today.
Blanc closed the door with the boy lying inside and left the house saying he had some people to meet. Suh stood outside the room for a moment, looking down at the tattered straw sandals the boy had left on the stepping-stone in front of the porch and sliding door. They wordlessly conveyed the boy’s vagabond days of begging on the streets.
Suh drew water from the well and poured it into the iron cauldron built into the stone oven.
Water can be carried or poured in any shape. It can fill up any contained space and flow in any direction. Its basic nature is immutable, which is what gives water its power.
Little Jin followed Suh as she went back and forth between the well and the cauldron. Once it was full, Suh opened the furnace door underneath the cauldron, placed some firewood inside, and lit the fire.
—To think you can walk around in broad daylight wearing a Christian cross now . . . Even being caught with rosary beads used to earn you a death sentence.
Such deaths were never suffered alone. Entire households with only a single Catholic member were extinguished as a group. Suh went on.
—They say that forty people at a time would starve in the snow when they ran for the hills. The little ones would be dead with their eyes closed, as if they had been too weak from hunger to open them. Even the beasts of the house were killed, just because of one believer in the family. Such were the times.
But for those who survived, their faith laid even deeper roots. The more it was suppressed, the more Catholicism spread into the daily lives of the Koreans.
Suh fell silent as she thought of Jin’s mother. A woman whose eyes were always filled with fear, eyes that seemed to have seen things they should not have seen. Jin’s mother was so careful with her words and actions that Suh had felt sorry for her. How could anyone be expected to live out their years in such constant vigilance? She wondered if that was how Jin’s mother fell ill.
And how could she have breathed her last with this little one on her mind? Suh gave Jin a consoling pat on the back.
—I wonder if they ever thought that the Lord they believed in was unfeeling?
—. . .
—Listen to me go on . . . How would you know of such things, little one?
Suh paused in shoving more kindling into the oven and looked at Jin.
—That child in the room. He has nowhere to go. Shall we ask him to live with us?
Jin shook her head.
—You don’t like him?
—. . . He’s dirty.
Jin watched the fire dance. Her cheeks took on the red of the flames. She didn’t hate the boy. But she shook her head anyway. She tilted her head, confused by her own feelings.
—Dirt can be washed off.
—. . .
—Anything that can be washed clean is not really dirty. Just unwashed. You mustn’t think a person in rags is a dirty person. They’re poor, not dirty. There’s no fault in being poor.
—. . .
—But if a person’s heart were dirty, that can’t be washed clean. That is sin.
She patted Jin’s back again, thinking she had spoken too much to the child, when from somewhere they heard the faint strains of a bamboo flute. Suh and Jin both turned in the direction of the music. It was the room where the boy was. Where in those rags had the boy hidden a bamboo flute?
A sound that moves the heart makes one listen even amid chaos. It makes one close one’s eyes.
The two listened to the boy’s music as little Jin snapped kindling in half and Suh pushed it into the oven. Crouched in the light of the oven, Jin buried her face in her arms and closed her eyes.
—They do say playing the flute at night attracts snakes . . . but how sad a child’s music can be.
Suh kept murmuring to herself. Once the water in the cauldron was hot enough, she had Jin stand back. She transferred the water into a large earthen jar in the backyard. She did this for Jin whenever she bathed her. Carrying the water made Suh’s forehead bead with sweat. The bamboo leaves whispered. Once she had poured the hot water with some cold and tested the temperature, a satisfied smile spread across Suh’s face.
—Get Sobaek.
Jin looked at Suh with a quizzical expression, as if to ask, Who is Sobaek? Suh replied, “You know, Kang Yeon,” then laughed.
—I wonder if you’re older than him?
—. . .
—Don’t you want to be a nuna to him?
Little Jin narrowed her eyes at the mention of being an older sister.
—Wouldn’t you like a little brother like Sobaek? Well, maybe he’s your oppa instead.
Instead of fetching the boy, Jin shook her head and crouched down again in front of the stove.
Smiling, Suh fetched the boy herself. “Sobaek-ah!” Jin could hear Suh calling for the boy. Just as Suh had done, Jin tried calling his name softly from her solitude before the oven. “Sobaek-ah.” The music of the bamboo flute ceased.
The boy, who followed Suh to the kitchen, stopped when he saw Jin and took a step back. When Suh left through the door that led to the back and instructed the boy to undress, he only gripped his clothes tighter and stared at Jin. Suh said, “Baby, go to our room.” Jin made a sour face and ran out of the kitchen.
—Come here, Sobaek.
The boy fidgeted as he approached her. Suh regarded the child who looked as if he did not want to give up his rags.
—Don’t you want to be clean?
The boy kept grasping at his clothes.
—Do you like going around in such a dirty state?
—. . .
—Let’s clean your body and wash your hair. Once you’re cleaned up and wearing new clothes, Father Blanc will have a nice surprise. “What a handsome boy you are,” he’ll say. Maybe he won’t even recognize you.
At the mention of Father Blanc, the boy loosened his grip on his clothes.
—Do you like the priest?
The boy nodded.
—I see . . . Well, good. When you like someone, life gets a bit easier. Hardship from helping someone you like is a happy price to pay. You are rich. You have the priest in your heart. It’s only those who have no one who are truly poor.
The boy undressed and climbed into the earthen jar filled with heated water. She gently pressed him deeper into the water by his shoulders.
The boy, still shy, kept his gaze fixed on the bamboo forest where darkness had descended. Suh began to softly sing the “Ode to the Five Friends.”
You that is not tree nor grass, who taught thee to be so straight, why must your insides be hollow? You who are so green in all seasons, that is why I love thee.
As she dipped from the hot water in the jar and poured it over the boy’s shoulders, Suh stopped singing. She could feel the sharp bones of the boy’s body bumping against the palm of her hand. How would such a scrawny boy ever manage to grow? She thought he might already be eight or nine. As skinny as he was, the length of his bones suggested he was older than they thought.
—You’re very good with the bamboo flute.
The boy looked her in the eye for the first time. The heat of the bath drew color to his face, which was studded with water droplets.
—Who taught you?
—. . .
The child didn’t answer.
—Did you learn on your own?
As she asked this, Suh suddenly realized something, and she felt her heart break in two. She had never heard the boy speak.
—Oh
, Sobaek!
She could see the boy’s eyes, like little dark grapes, blinking up at her from the jar, beads of water hanging over his cheeks.
—. . . You can’t speak, can you?
The boy broke his gaze. His hands grasped each other underwater and his skinny neck bowed in shame. The two were silent. Blanc had never told her the boy couldn’t talk. Perhaps he thought he was only quiet. Suh poured another gourd of water over his back and cleared her throat. What could be done for such a child? Sympathy welled in her heart.
—Close your eyes.
While waiting for the hot water to soften his skin, Suh combed through the boy’s tangled hair with her fingers. She scrubbed the dirt and dead skin from his back with a handful of mung bean powder and rubbed his scalp with her fingertips. The boy put up no resistance as he submitted to her handiwork. He was so solemn that Suh tried tickling his armpit, but the boy didn’t so much as smile and only twisted his body away from her.
Suh wrung the water from his washed hair and fastened it into a knot so it wouldn’t get in the way, then scrubbed the dirt and dead skin from his neck, arms, and back. Her hands kept feeling hard knobs of bone as he had not an ounce of excess flesh. A bamboo shoot grows quickly once it breaks through the earth, and a bamboo shoot after rain makes those who see it wonder if it is the same shoot they saw the day before. As Suh rinsed the boy with more hot water from the cauldron mixed with cold water from the well, she wished for him to grow like a bamboo shoot into a pristine bamboo tree. The boy who had refused to smile was now beginning to open up. Seeing his shy hint of a smile, Suh gave the boy a playful slap on his reddening back.
To her surprise, the boy grabbed her hand and pulled it toward him, spreading the palm wide. Suh’s hand was more used to giving than taking. It was the hand of someone who knew nothing of idleness, a hand that was constantly making things. The boy gazed at Suh’s rough hand as if it were an icon of worship, and then used an index finger to trace letters on her palm.
When my father played the flute, the people gathered.
Despite the overlapping letters, Suh had no trouble putting together the sentence in her head.
—He must’ve been very good at it!
The Court Dancer Page 4
