But because of the kites, their bows were rather ... untraditional.
When Kee-sup went to his knees, he dropped his reel. At once it skipped across the ground, as the wind-aided kite dragged it along. Doubled over in an otherwise proper bow, Kee-sup twisted his neck in an effort to see where the reel was headed.
Young-sup tightened his grip on the smooth wood of his precious new reel—not for a million won would he have risked its being scratched or scarred. Instead, he knelt with the reel held straight out to the side, to prevent the line from getting tangled about his body.
He hoped fervently that he did not appear disrespectful, but his extended arm felt as conspicuous as a giant red flag. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Kee-sup trying to catch a glimpse of his reel, and he knew that neither of their bows was perfectly correct. What would the King think? What if he were displeased—what would he say or do?
"Rise," the King commanded. Both boys stood up, keeping their heads bowed, but Young-sup stole a quick peek at His Majesty's face beyond the partially opened curtains of the palanquin. It was difficult to tell, but the King did not appear to be angry.
"So," he said. "It is you who hold the leashes of the tigers. I saw them from my garden."
Kee-sup answered. "Yes, Your Majesty."
"Ha!" The King gave a sudden shout of laughter and pointed at Kee-sup's reel. "You must make haste to catch it before it escapes!"
Kee-sup turned to go after the reel, turned back to the King, hastily bowed his head, and then ran down the hill.
But the reel had too great a head start, and Kee-sup could not catch it. The King turned to his guards. "You four! Assist him in the task!" The guards bowed their heads, then charged off in pursuit of the runaway reel.
Young-sup was not sure if he, too, should join in the chase. But he still held his own reel, and he glanced at it now. He knew that if all the line should pay out, it would be difficult to reel in again. Did he have to ask the King's permission to get his kite under control?
He looked up to see his brother and the four guards some distance away. Just as they drew near the reel and stooped to grab it, it hopped and jerked out of their reach. The five figures looked as though they were performing a very strange dance, bending, stooping, straightening, and skipping to the beat of unheard music.
The King began to laugh. "Ah—it eludes them yet again!" he exclaimed. "It would seem that the reel does not wish to be captured!"
Young-sup swallowed a smile. He was not sure of the correct behavior; was he allowed to laugh in front of the King?
Finally one of the guards pounced on the reel and held it up in triumph. The King applauded in delight as the guard handed it to Kee-sup. Then the little group made their way back up the hillside, with Kee-sup reeling in his kite as he walked.
The King looked skyward again. Young-sup's kite had taken up nearly all his line and was so far away that its stripes could no longer be distinguished.
"Bring it closer," the King commanded. Young-sup immediately began the careful process of reeling in the kite. He manipulated the reel to draw in the line a little at a time. It could not simply be wound in continuously; if Young-sup did not take care to read the wind, the kite might take a sudden dive when it was still very far away.
Young-sup brought the kite in until its stripes showed proudly again. Then he turned to the King and bowed his head.
"Would Your Majesty like to hold the reel?"
The King jumped out of the palanquin. Now that His Majesty was standing, Young-sup could see that they were about the same height. The King wore a heavily embroidered scarlet silk gown and an elaborate jeweled cap.
He took the reel without even replying. Young-sup saw the look of delight on his face; he knew the feeling well.
A few sticks, a little paper, some string. And the wind.
Kite magic.
Chapter Six
Young-sup watched helplessly as Kee-sup tore yet another miniature kite to pieces and threw it savagely on the pile of crumpled paper at his side.
At the end of their encounter with the King, His Majesty had issued a royal command.
"Make me a kite—a King's kite. Bring it to the palace when it is finished. The guards will let you in." One of the men with the King—not a guard, since he was not dressed as one, perhaps a royal adviser—had suggested that any number of kites could be purchased for the King at the marketplace. But the King was adamant. Not just any kite would do; he wanted a kite that would fly like Young-sup's tiger.
The brothers had walked home from the hillside in silence. As they approached their home, Young-sup finally spoke. "You will make him a kite, of course. But it may not fly as mine does."
Kee-sup nodded wordlessly. Young-sup saw the thoughtful expression on his brother's face and tried to imagine what it would be like to serve the King with his own two hands.
***
What could it possibly look like—a King's kite? Young-sup suggested another tiger, but Kee-sup shook his head at once.
"It would not be right, brother, for the King to have the same kite as we do. It would be almost ... an insult." And Young-sup could see how this would be so.
He felt useless as Kee-sup struggled in an agony of indecision, producing model after model. No design that he drew seemed good enough.
The boys had told their father of meeting the King, and though the elder Lee rarely showed emotion, it was clear that the news impressed him. He had freed Kee-sup from his usual studies for as long as it would take to build the kite.
The frame was completed first. Kee-sup took extra pains with it, of course, but with the experience of the two tiger kites behind him, its quality was assured. It was the design that was the problem—and time was passing quickly. The King had not mentioned a deadline, but both boys felt it would be disrespectful for Kee-sup to take too long.
Finally, after dozens of tiny paper kites had been made and rejected, the brothers consulted their father—and wished they had done so from the first.
Their father had answered at once. "A dragon, my son. Our country's symbol for His Majesty."
A dragon! Of course! Young-sup knew at once that his brother could do it. It would be beautiful—truly fit for a King.
The whole family had a role in the endeavor. Young-sup helped by fetching supplies; he would sometimes stay to talk a little, or just to sit and watch. Their mother kept the little sisters away from the room so Kee-sup could work. Their father bought two rolls of the finest-quality rice paper. He, too, stopped by the boys' room from time to time to check on the kite's progress.
At last the sheet of paper was complete. The brothers stood side by side and surveyed the work critically.
The paper was indeed beautiful. Dozens of identical red scales covered it. Each scale overlapped its neighbor, and the rows of scales overlapped one another in perfect, symmetrical rhythm. Every scale was outlined in black.
"You've done it, brother! It will make a wonderful kite!"
Kee-sup knit his brows, and for a fleeting moment Young-sup thought how much he looked like their father. "What's the matter? Aren't you pleased with your work?"
Kee-sup shook his head. "It's good, I know. But it's still not quite right—something's missing."
"What do you mean? It's amazing! All you have to do now is fit it onto the frame. Not even Kite Seller Chung has made such a kite as this!"
"It's still not right. I don't know exactly what it is..." Kee-sup's voice trailed off.
Young-sup felt a familiar impatience at his brother's artistic scruples.
Two days later Kee-sup was still refusing to cut the paper. Arguing over it yet again that evening, the brothers looked up in surprise and bowed hastily when their father entered the room.
He frowned at Young-sup. "You were arguing with your older brother," he said.
"Father, I was only trying to express that it would be disrespectful to keep the King waiting—"
Shaking his head abruptly, his father
cut off Young-sup's words. "Your brother has been capped. He is no longer a boy. You must not forget this. You cannot quarrel with him as if he were a puppy. You will not treat him so discourteously again."
Young-sup kept his head bowed throughout his father's speech, as was proper when accepting a reprimand. He fought to keep his face blank, even as his throat tightened with the feeling of injustice. It's just a bat, he thought rebelliously.
Kee-sup cleared his throat. "Father. I have worked hard. I find the design very good. But—" He hesitated.
"Something is missing."
"Yes."
Silence again. Then, "Sleep now, my son. Perhaps morning will bring you an answer."
Young-sup felt a fleeting curiosity; he knew his father well enough to know that nothing he said was ever without a reason. But the wondering soon left his mind as other thoughts seemed to fill up the darkness. He tossed about, unable to sleep.
Kee-sup is my brother, the same as he has always been. But now, somehow, I'm supposed to treat him differently. After spending what seemed like half the night in restless thought, Young-sup decided to speak respectfully to Kee-sup when they were around others—especially their father.
Sternly he told himself that he had to try, for nothing would change the fact that Kee-sup had been born first.
***
The boys' father was known in his work as Rice Merchant Lee. The farmers whose rice he bought respected him because although he demanded the highest quality from them, he treated them fairly. And his customers knew that their rice would always be white and pure, without stones or leaves or other debris to pad out the bags' weight or bulk.
So he was able to provide a good living for his family. But long years in the business had taught him caution. One year of drought or flood would mean hard times for the farmers and for himself. Lee was not a stingy man, but always he watched his earnings carefully.
The greatest part of his income was spent on hiring the best tutor he could afford. The tutor came to the house every day to give his sons lessons. Lee's plan was for Kee-sup to enter the King's court as a scholar. It was such men—those with much learning and education—who were held in the highest esteem in society.
Entry to the court was by examination. The examinations were held every three years, and Kee-sup would be taking them in the next cycle. Lee saw to it that the boy studied hard, for the examinations were extremely difficult. Only those with the best scores earned places at the court.
As for Young-sup, perhaps one day he would take over the rice business. Lee loved both his sons, but the family honor was dependent on his first-born. This was the custom, the age-old tradition.
There was no other way.
***
The next day, after the evening meal, the boys' father came to their room. He held out a little parcel. As Young-sup looked on, Kee-sup opened the paper wrapping to discover a small ceramic jar.
As always their father was a man of few words. "Gold leaf," he said.
"Gold leaf ?" Kee-sup echoed.
"Paint. With real gold in it."
Young-sup understood in the same moment as his brother. "For the King's kite," they said in unison.
"Yes. Now go finish." Their father left the room then, but not before both boys had seen the shadow of a smile cross his face.
***
"Outline each scale in gold, brother. That would look very impressive."
Kee-sup shook his head. "I thought of that already. There isn't enough."
"Well, what about a little spot in the center of each scale? That would look good, too."
"But such a small spot might not show up well from a distance." Kee-sup frowned at the dragon paper, deep in thought.
Young-sup scowled. He was doing his best to help, but Kee-sup was rejecting every suggestion he made. He tried one last time. "How about a Chinese picture word painted in gold? You could write 'Royal dragon' or something like that. Something that tells of its whole character, its whole—whole ... I can't think of the right word, but do you know what I mean?"
Kee-sup looked up suddenly. "What did you just say?"
Young-sup sighed in exasperation. "Weren't you listening? I said to paint a Chinese word—"
"No, no, not that part. The part about showing its whole character."
"Oh. I just meant, we should think of something that shows its whole ... essence—that's what I was trying to think of before."
Kee-sup clapped his hands in excitement. "That's it, brother! You've done it!"
Young-sup grinned. "You like the idea? What word do you think would be best?"
"I'm not going to paint a word, brother." Young-sup's face fell. "But never mind—you've given me an idea. Now I just need to work out how to do it." And though Young-sup pestered him all throughout the day, he would say no more.
***
Even when Kee-sup finally declared that he knew how he would use the gold leaf, still he delayed. Each day Young-sup would ask if today was the day to finish the kite paper, and each day Kee-sup would have an excuse—he was too tired because he hadn't slept well, or he wanted to think about his idea one more time. Several more days passed.
The evening meal was finished, and the boys were in their room. Their father's shadow fell across the doorway. He glanced at the painted paper on the shelf, still red and black, as it had been for days, then looked at Kee-sup.
"The paint is gold. Not magic. It will not paint the kite by itself." And he turned away as quickly as he had come.
The boys looked at each other. Young-sup felt a pang of sympathy for his brother. All the same he knew their father was right.
"Enough delay, brother." Young-sup spoke gently. "You can do it—no one better. It's time, you know."
Kee-sup nodded without a word.
Young-sup spread a linen drop cloth on the floor and took the dragon paper down from the shelf. Kee-sup opened the jar of gold leaf carefully. He picked out a rabbit-hair brush, then spoke. "I need the knife, too."
"The knife?"
"The one we use for kite making, to cut the bamboo sticks. Fetch it from Hwang for me."
"All right, but why—"
"No questions," Kee-sup said firmly. "And when you bring it back, I want to work on this alone."
Young-sup did not argue. The King's kite was of greater importance than his own curiosity.
Chapter Seven
Kee-sup was so busy with the King's kite that he did not have time to fly his own. Young-sup went alone to the hillside nearly every day with his tiger. It was not only for the pleasure of flying. Now he was practicing with a purpose.
The New Year was approaching. It was the biggest holiday of the year. The celebration lasted for fifteen days—gifts were exchanged, grand meals were eaten, visitors came and went. But this year the holiday had gained extra significance for Young-sup.
Every year the holiday culminated in a kite festival. Hundreds, even thousands, of people traveled to the royal park in Seoul to fly kites. And the most important part of the festival was the kite fights.
Young-sup had seen them for the first time the year before. Two competitors stood within large circles marked on the ground. The object of the contest was to get the opponent's kite to crash by bumping or knocking it. To ensure fair play, and to render a decision if both kites crashed at the same time, judges observed the competition.
The most skillful fliers could sometimes maneuver their kites so that their lines, taut and strong, actually cut through the lines of their opponents. This did not happen often, but when it did, it produced the most exciting victory. As the defeated kite was cut loose and floated off into the sky, dozens of boys chased after it, for the kite now belonged to whoever could reach it first.
Every day, under his tutor's watchful eye, Young-sup struggled to concentrate on his lessons. Normally he prided himself on his studies; indeed, of the two brothers, it was Young-sup who most enjoyed poring over the texts for the challenge of learning the words by heart. But these d
ays all he could think of was the coming festival.
When the lesson finally ended, Young-sup would stand, bow his head, and wait. Sometimes the tutor spent a few moments tidying the scrolls or preparing for the next day's lesson. Young-sup looked like the picture of the dutiful scholar, but every muscle was tense with impatience and inside his head he was screaming, "Hurry up! Forget about all that! Leave!"
When the tutor had stepped through the door, Young-sup was finally free. He walked politely for a few steps, until he saw that the tutor had made the turn for the outer court. Then Young-sup rocketed to his room, grabbed his tiger kite, and raced out to the hillside.
He had but one goal: To be the winner of the boys' competition this year.
***
Young-sup's tiger floated far, far overhead, using nearly all of the line on his reel. He relaxed and let the kite fly almost on its own; practicing was hard work, and he needed a rest. He was alone on the hillside again; Kee-sup was at home studying, trying to catch up on all the lessons he had missed while making the King's kite.
Idly, Young-sup glanced at the landscape. Far down the road that wound around the base of the hill he could see a dark blot approaching. It was too big to be just one person; it must be a group of people. As they slowly drew nearer, Young-sup could make out more details.
Scarlet uniforms. A palanquin. The royal standard atop the palanquin.
The King!
At least this time I'll he ready, thought Young-sup. He began to reel in the line, wishing that Kee-sup were with him.
By the time the King's procession had advanced up the hillside, both the kite and Young-sup were down, the kite with its line wound neatly on the reel and Young-sup on his knees with his forehead touching the ground.
The King dismounted from the palanquin. "Rise," he said. "Where is my kite?"
The Kite Fighters Page 3
