"What is it, brother? Didn't you have a good time? Aren't you glad that the King was so pleased with the kite?"
Kee-sup nodded absently. "I wasn't thinking about all that. I was thinking about how good he was at kicking the cock." He stopped walking and turned his head to look at the imposing wall of the palace in the distance behind them. Then he turned back and walked on, speaking almost to himself. "Shuttlecock ... a game you can play when you have no one to play with."
Chapter Nine
The brothers reached home just before dinner. As usual their mother served her husband and sons first; she and the girls would eat later. And as usual the meal was eaten in silence. It was considered good manners to give one's full attention to the food. So it was not until after eating that the boys had a chance to speak to their father.
They sat side by side on the floor in their father's room. Kee-sup told him how pleased the King had been with the kite and that they had drunk tea with him. Then he told of the King's plan for the New Year kite competition. He did not mention their growing friendship with the King; instinctively, both boys felt their father would have disapproved. He would have said that the King was their ruler, not their friend.
When Kee-sup finished speaking, their father folded his arms and looked over their heads, staring at nothing. The boys waited.
At last he spoke, addressing Young-sup. "You are to fly the kite. Was this commanded by the King?"
Young-sup hesitated. "I—I'm not sure, Father. No, it was not exactly a command. More like a request."
His father nodded. "His Majesty knows well the teachings of the master Confucius. In his youthful enthusiasm he may have forgotten."
His voice held a tone Young-sup had heard many times before. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, as if to quell the rising dread in his heart.
"Always the eldest son represents the family. When you next see the King, ask him if he would be so good as to grant my wish for Kee-sup to fly the kite at the festival." And he nodded toward the door to dismiss them.
***
The brothers did not look at each other as they walked toward their room. Kee-sup slid open the paper door and stepped inside. Young-sup closed the door behind them.
His face felt like a stone. Bitterness rose through him until he could taste it in his mouth. He could not rage as he wished, for the paper walls were thin, but he spoke in a low voice forced out between his set jaws.
"Always you."
Kee-sup took a deep breath, but Young-sup was still speaking. "You get to go to the mountains. You get a kite for New Year. You fly the kite at the festival. You—you—you!"
"Brother, I—"
"Nothing else matters! Second son—what's that? I might as well be a dog! I don't matter to him—he doesn't care anything about me." Young-sup took care not to raise his voice, but his rage was bubbling over now.
"That's not true! He bought the seventh kite for you—" Too late Kee-sup cut off his words.
Young-sup's fury was interrupted in mid-flow. "The seventh kite? You mean, that day at the market? The day I won the reel?" He could hear his own voice, pitched high in shock and confusion. "No, he couldn't have. I remember—it was a little boy who bought the last kite. I saw him myself"
"The money," Kee-sup explained, misery in his face. "It was our father who gave the boy the money for the kite."
Young-sup blinked and shook his head quickly, as if waking. Then he looked squarely at his brother. "Because you asked him to." There was no answer. "I'm right, aren't I? He didn't do it for me—he did it because it was what you wanted."
Young-sup clenched his fists and stiffened his body, as if the anger in him were a pain he could no longer bear. Then he swung around and seized the first thing that caught his eye—the ceramic jar that had once held the gold leaf. He hurled it to the floor with all his strength and fled from the room.
***
The next morning the boys did not speak to each other. They studied their lessons side by side, as they always did, but even their tutor noticed the tension between them. Young-sup's responses were dull and mechanical, and Kee-sup's so absent-minded that the tutor scolded them both.
For Young-sup, learning the teachings of Confucius and the events of Korean history was not as important as it was for his brother. Young-sup knew he was expected to take over his father's business as a rice merchant. Merchants did not have as much need of education as courtiers. Still, Young-sup studied at his fathers insistence, to keep Kee-sup company and help him whenever possible.
Young-sup usually enjoyed the challenge of learning by heart the words on the scrolls. Today, though, he felt drained of all interest, and it seemed that Kee-sup felt the same way. Finally the tutor spoke sternly. "There is no desire for learning in either of you," he announced. "You are both to study this lesson again and be ready to recite it to me tomorrow."
The tutor left the room, and the boys sat for a few moments in an uncomfortable silence. Then Young-sup spoke. His jaw felt sore, as if his teeth had been clenched from the moment he had learned that he would not fly for the King "You go first," he said woodenly. He picked up the scroll from its place on the table between them and held it so that Kee-sup could not see the words.
The lesson, the Five Virtues of Confucius, was familiar to both boys, but the examinations required perfect memorization of every word. Kee-sup began to recite:
"Between father and son: love from the father, duty from the son.
"Between king and subjects: fairness from the king, loyalty from his subjects.
"Between husband and wife: kindness from the husband, obedience from the wife.
"Between older and younger: consideration from the older, respect from the younger.
"Between friend and friend: faith from each to the other."
He stumbled over only a few words, Young-sup prompting him. Then Young-sup held out the scroll and prepared for his turn to recite.
Kee-sup didn't move to take the scroll. He was staring at the tabletop, his brow furrowed in ferocious concentration, the deepest of frowns on his face. Young-sup glanced down to see what held his interest; there was nothing there.
"Here," he said impatiently, and shook the scroll so it rattled a little. "What are you looking at?"
Kee-sup looked up suddenly and waved the words away as if they were bothersome gnats. "Hush. I was thinking about something..." He jumped to his feet. "We'll study later. There's something I have to do." And with Young-sup still holding the scroll in puzzled surprise, Kee-sup left the room.
***
Later that afternoon Young-sup wandered into the kitchen. He watched listlessly as his mother and the maidservant taught his little sisters how to make man-doo, meat-stuffed dumplings. After a quick glance at Young-sup's sullen face, they ignored him. His mother knew that if he wanted to speak, he would.
Not being allowed to fly the kite for the King—that was the biggest disappointment. Young-sup considered for a moment the possibility of flying his own tiger kite in the competition. He discarded the idea just as quickly. If he should end up flying against Kee-sup, he knew in his heart that he could win. And he also knew that he wouldn't even try. Just as the King had said, a contest with a fixed result was not worth competing in.
But on top of that his great joy in earning the reel had been crushed. He hadn't really won it on his own, after all. The knowledge bit into him like the sting of a centipede, and he felt he would never again use the reel with pleasure.
He stared at the low tabletop, where the hands of the two women were nearly a blur as they flashed about filling and sealing the dumplings. His sisters made awkward, lumpy dumplings; perhaps if he hung around long enough, he could snitch a few of these straight from the pot. It seemed the only thing in life to look forward to now.
It was there that Kee-sup found him, crouched glumly by the low iron stove as the simmering dumplings filled the tiny room with their aromatic steam.
"Come on," said Kee-sup. "Let's go to the
hillside and fly."
Young-sup scowled. "You go. You're the one who needs the practice."
Kee-sup's voice was stubborn. "You come, too." He stepped a little closer and lowered his voice. "We need to talk."
Young-sup sighed and rose to his feet. Kee-sup had left both tiger kites outside the kitchen doorhole, and each carried his own on the long walk up the hill.
As always flying had the power to cheer Young-sup. He never tired of the thrill that ran through him when he felt the tug of the wind on his line. And it surprised him to find that holding his reel again was a great comfort. It was still his reel, fine and shining, no matter who had paid for the seventh kite. The pain eased as he flew, like a swelling going down.
So he was ready to listen when his brother began to speak. Kee-sup's words came slowly, with a night and a day of thought behind them.
"You think it's so easy for me, being the first-born," he began. "Well, you're wrong. I could tell you hundreds of times when I wished things were different."
Young-sup turned in surprise. He had imagined the talk would be about kite-fighting strategy, and no matter how deep his own disappointment he had concluded that not to help Kee-sup would serve no purpose. He had come to the hillside prepared to give his brother a flying lesson.
Kee-sup went on. "Do you think I always want to go to the ancestors' gravesite? Four times a year, the same thing over and over. It was fun at first. Now it's just something I have to do. There are lots of times I'd rather stay home.
"And what about our studies? You know I will take the court examinations in a few years. Study, study, study—that's all Father ever talks about. Remember during the spring rains when we both caught colds? You stayed in bed for days. Not me—I had to keep studying. Father said I couldn't afford to lose the time."
As his brother spoke, Young-sup realized what he had known all along—that he wasn't really angry at Kee-sup. But he dared not be angry at his father, either; it was forbidden by the tradition of filial duty. Whom was he angry at, then?
"Do you want to know the worst thing? No one has ever asked me if I want to be a scholar. I don't. I want to do something with my hands. But that kind of work doesn't get you a position at the court. So I spend all my time working at something I don't even want to do."
Kee-sup stopped talking long enough to bring his kite down. He looked back up at Young-sup's kite and spoke while staring skyward. "Well, today I finally did something I wanted. I spoke to our father and asked him to allow you to fly the King's kite in the competition."
Young-sup was so startled that for a few moments he paid no attention to his kite; it took a great swooping dive and seemed as surprised as he was. Quickly he controlled it again, then asked, "What did he say?"
"What do you think?" Kee-sup's eyes began to twinkle a little. "You ought to know—you're the one who said he always does what I ask."
Young-sup shook his head in disbelief. "How did you convince him?"
"I told him that only the best flier should represent our family honor—and that you were the best. I asked him to come to the hillside to see for himself, if he wanted."
"How did you dare—" Young-sup's voice was almost a whisper.
Kee-sup shrugged. "It was our lesson this morning, the Five Virtues. I have a duty to our father, it's true. But I have other duties as well. To the King, as his subject. To you, as your elder brother. And to both of you, as friends."
Kee-sup grinned. "I counted. It was four duties against one."
Young-sup was too big to cry, but a lump of joy formed in his throat. He could not look at his brother, knowing well that Kee-sup was making light of what must have been a terrible encounter. To confront their father about a decision he had already made was a taboo of the greatest order, and Young-sup did not even want to guess what the conversation had been like.
Kee-sup shoved him good-naturedly. "Come on, little brother. We have work to do if you're going to win for the King."
Chapter Ten
If Young-sup had wanted to win the competition before, it was nothing compared to how he felt now. Now he was flying for the King and for himself But most of all he was flying for his brother—to prove to their father that Kee-sup had been right about who should fly.
The days leading to the New Year were for Young-sup like the motions of a dragonfly's wings—repeated flying sessions that blurred into a single endless practice. He still had to attend to his studies and do all the usual everyday things. But most of his waking hours were spent with the kite, either on the hillside or in his mind.
One night Young-sup awoke with a cry. He was flailing around on his sleeping mat, his arms and hands making desperate movements, as if trying to control a kite line. Kee-sup was kneeling beside the mat, shaking his shoulder.
"Hush, brother, its all right. You were only dreaming."
"He was cutting my line!" Young-sup spoke frantically. "I couldn't stop him. The King's kite—I was about to lose the King's kite..." Not until Kee-sup lit the lantern was Young-sup able to banish the dream demon and come to himself at last.
Of the myriad skills involved in kite fighting, it was the line cutting that most worried him. To help him practice this difficult skill, Kee-sup had hastily made a dozen simple kites. He would fly one while Young-sup practiced the careful positioning and the manipulation of the reel that enabled his line to saw through an opponent's. When he was successful, Kee-sup's kite would fly off into the distance. Sometimes one fell close enough to retrieve, but the boys did not have time to chase those that flew far away. So Kee-sup made sure always to have another kite on hand.
During practice that day Young-sup had twice been able to cut the line of Kee-sup's kite. But after the second time he reeled in, shaking his head.
"What's the matter?" Kee-sup demanded. "That last cut was pretty good."
"The problem is that your kite just sits there, waiting for me to make the right move. That's not what's going to happen at the competition. They'll be trying to cut my line as hard as I'm trying to cut theirs."
"I haven't been just sitting there," Kee-sup protested. "I'm doing my best to try to dodge you."
"I know, I know," Young-sup replied hastily. "I didn't mean—I mean, this practice has been really helpful. But I wish I had some way of being certain that I will be the first to cut the line."
***
After a day of study and practice both boys were exhausted. They could barely keep their eyes open as they rolled out their sleeping mats. That evening Young-sup was feeling especially sluggish. As he spread his blankets out, he felt a sharp prick on his hand.
"Ail" he gasped, and examined his hand at once. It was bleeding from the tiniest of cuts.
"What happened?"
"I don't know. I was just spreading my blankets on the floor when something cut me. It's fine now—it's not even bleeding anymore."
"Yes, but what was it? You'd better find it so neither of us gets cut again."
The boys moved Young-sup's mat and blankets to one side and carefully inspected the tile floor. They saw nothing, so Kee-sup fetched the lantern that hung by the door and held it down low.
Here and there a nearly invisible point caught the light and shone.
Young-sup cautiously touched his fingertip to one such point and looked at it closely.
"What is it?"
"I think it might be a tiny bit of pottery or something," said Young-sup. "Oh, I know." He looked up sheepishly. "That day I threw the jar—remember? You swept it up for me, but you must have missed these tiny pieces. I'll fetch a damp cloth—the broom would probably just miss them again."
Once the floor had been wiped and dried, the boys crawled wearily into bed. Just as Young-sup was dropping off to sleep, he heard Kee-sup's voice.
"Brother?"
"What?"
"That tiny piece of pottery. It actually cut you?"
"Yes—so what? I want to go to sleep."
Kee-sup sounded half-asleep himself as he answered. "Jus
t an idea I have. I'll tell you ... some other time..."
***
When Young-sup awoke, his brother's sleeping mat was still on the floor, but there was no sign of Kee-sup anywhere. Young-sup got up, folded their blankets, and rolled up both mats. As he was putting them away in the low cupboard, the door slid open and Kee-sup stepped inside. He was carrying something.
"Where have you been? And why aren't you wearing your good clothes?" It was the first day of the New Year celebration, and they were to be dressed in their best.
"I forgot," Kee-sup confessed. He put some pieces of broken pottery down on the cupboard and began to change.
"What are those for?" Young-sup nodded at the odd bits of pottery. Some were from the jar he had thrown, others he didn't recognize, perhaps from a pot or bowl that had been broken in the kitchen.
"Just wait. I'll show you later." And for the moment Kee-sup would say nothing more.
***
That morning, as the brothers and their father were finishing breakfast, they heard pounding at the gate. Hwang rushed to open it. The boys' uncle and his family had arrived from the city of Inchon, which lay to the west on the Yellow Sea.
It was the only time of year when the two families were united, for the road from Inchon, where their father's brother worked as a fisherman, was long and difficult. Uncle's family was large: three boys and three girls, all younger than Young-sup. The littlest was only a baby, and some of the younger ones were shy and bewildered, clinging closely to their mother.
The visitors would be staying for nearly the whole holiday. The house filled with noise and activity as the adults bustled about putting away bags and parcels. Then the cousins changed into their holiday clothes. Everyone met in the Hall of Ancestors for the bowing ceremony.
The Kite Fighters Page 5
