Korean Short Stories
Kim Jinkyoo To Swallow the Moon 달을 먹다 Translated by Sora Kim-Russell
Information This work was previously published in New Writing from Korea . Please contact the LTI Korea Library. library@klti.or.kr
To Swallow the Moon My standard for beauty was Father. Though it is a wicked thing to judge people at first glance by their face or body, it does not mean you can entirely ignore what you see. As much as I tried to avert my eyes as I grew up, I could not always succeed and therefore felt discouraged each time I unconsciously judged someone. Of course, I had already learned from Father that a person's appearance does not always align with what is in their hearts. But I was young, making it all the harder to shake that standard, so beauty was goodness itself to my immature eyes. Therefore, Jindae, I associated her with badness. The first time I saw Jindae was the night before the first full moon of the new lu-nar year, the night of Treading Bridges-that is, the gentry's night of Treading Bridges. Being of noble blood, we were loath to mix with commoners, so we chose the night be-fore to get together. The night after the full moon was further reserved for women so we could avoid the menfolk. For three days, the capital was bustling. In the capital, people walked over all of the bridges that spanned Cheonggye Stream. The night began at Daegwangtong Bridge, the largest of the bridges. From there, my mother, Hayeon, and I, along with Suweol and our female servants, walked together across the other bridges nearby. There were many bridges. From Baegun Village at the base of Mt. Inwang to the lower reaches of the stream outside Hongin Gate, there were over twelve bridges, and well over thirty in total if you added in Samcheong Village and the mountains to the north and south, as well as bridges I did not know about on Ongnyu Stream in Chang-gyeong Palace. Of all those bridges, except the ones inside the palace, we came and went as we pleased across twelve of them. Twelve bridges to ward off misfortune and ensure the health of our legs for the next twelve months. That year, I went with Father. It was just the two of us. After Seoni died, a gloom had settled into Mother's bones and refused to let go, even after a year had passed. Mother was disinclined to take an outing. It was disappointing to see Mother mope all day, only smiling now and then when she saw Hayeon, but she was my little sister after all, as Mother made sure to remind me. Even with most of his face concealed in the shadow of his tall horsehair hat, Fa-ther
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was still lovely to behold, his beauty immediately apparent. Everyone who walked by snuck a glance at him. Now and then, I made eye contact with someone turning to look back out of some particular interest, and when that happened, nine times out of ten they made a show of clearing their throats. Father's face looked serene from below. I felt proud of my comely father. His hand was soft where it held mine inside the quilted muff. I had lost track of which bridge we were on, my feet burned from walking all day, and I was nearly dozing off, when we made a final stop at a small shop. The round lan-tern with the word incense written on it in large strokes outshone the moon. It was as bright as the joy of a long-awaited night without curfew. But Jindae's face in that red and yellow light was not the face of a human being. It was the face of the Male General of All Under Heaven carved onto village guardian poles, and at the same time it was that of the Female General of All Underground. Father bought something, keeping a firm hold on me as I cowered. It must have been incense, but I tried not to look at the small paper case. I was afraid it might contain something strange and magical. Suddenly wide awake, I returned home and told Mother about it. "I already know." It was not the reaction I had expected. * Jindae was an incense maker, an expert in agarwood who was known only by insiders. The reason she was only known by insiders was because she was a woman. She had no chance at fame. Her brother took care of all public and formal affairs. Jin-dae's family had been making incense from well before the Goryeo Dynasty. Because of their considerable expertise, there was demand for their incense in the provinces as well as in the city. Her father, who had made incense for the Royal Infirmary, had long since stepped down, and Jindae and her two brothers Seonggil and Hyeonggil ran the shop. It was a large workshop with around twenty-seven apprentices. All of the incense there was produced under Jindae's careful watch. Agarwood is made from a tree that does not naturally contain resin in its vascular tissue but has the unusual trait of producing resin to protect itself when it becomes damaged or rots. This resin is the source of agarwood's fragrance, which changes depending on
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how rich the resin is. When a certain amount of resin is produced, the wood becomes dense enough to sink in water, which is probably why agarwood is also called sinking incense. To collect the resin, a mark is left with an axe in the bark of a tree that is at least ten years old. As rainwater seeps into the crack, the fragrance grows more intense. After a few years, the tree can be chopped down and used, or buried in the ground for a long time, after which only the remaining resin from the rotted wood is treated and dried in the sun for use. But we had to rely on China, our more powerful neighbor, as the tree did not grow in our own country. When Jindae first took over the shop, she was full of youthful zeal. She traveled all the way to Beijing, insisting that she oversee the transaction in person. The deal was a success. But when she returned, scandal followed. In fact, she had been welcomed warmly by the merchants and craftsmen over there who admired the quality of her work, but people paid more attention to fabricated stories than to the truth. Jindae's skills were ignored. Because of the rumors that a plain woman had had an affair with a foreigner, she had no suitors. There were many artisans' workshops in the capital. Though they were not all incense makers, their circumstances were practically the same, as they were officially in charge of making such goods as straw hats, silk hats, horsehair headbands, jade ornaments, silver objects and needles, mirrors, deerskin, embroidery, knives, sculptures, ink, and cosmetics. But none would have anything to do with Jindae. Just one-only my father was ungrudging in his respect for her work and held her in high regard as a woman. Father was more attractive than most women and so did not focus on their looks the way other men did. Or perhaps it could be said that he viewed them as separate parts. Instead of faces, he saw eyes, noses, and mouths, and with bodies as well, hands and feet were distinct objects. If even one of those were attractive, then that was enough for him. Seoni, who had given birth to Hayeon, did not have a pretty face. But the voice that came out of her red, ripe lips was unusual. It had a babyish lisp. A single word from Seoni's mouth could trigger the protective instincts of men who were otherwise uninterested in her mediocre looks. That might have been why Seoni continued to be called by her first name alone, like a child, even after giving birth to her own child, and even after dying. Father, who had acted on that impulse, saw a rare talent in Jindae, along with a certain fellow feeling. It was the tacit understanding of a man who was not externally manly with a woman who was not womanly in every way. It was an exchange
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between two human beings. The kindness that was apparent in his voice when he talked about her in front of me was clearly of a different order. For the first time, I wished that I, too, were good at something. Meanwhile, another woman came between them. She was from the Gang family and was the widow of Hyeon Ingyeong, a government translator, so she could only wear white mourning clothes. She used to stop by the incense shop regularly and linger for a time, and Jindae would serve her personally. She came and went quite frequently. It was inevitable that she would meet Father. He was excited by her spotless white clothes and round eyes that looked all the more chaste because of them. Their reckless first night together took place in Jindae's private quarters. Jindae-I have no idea how long she had been in love with Father. But Mother knew better than anyone else how Jindae always selected only the finest incense for him. Her feelings were transparent. Nevertheless, Mother had no interest in Jindae. She was satisfied with having incense that was vastly superior in quality compared to the price. * With her white clothes and hair hanging loose in mourning, Jindae's entrance was a dramatic one. Moreover, there was her pure, transparent sorrow. I wanted to ask whether Father was worthy of such grief. The situation was treacherous. Asking her to stop would be disrespectful to the deceased, but I was also uncomfortable doing nothing. On the other hand, Mother seemed relieved. The tears she could not cry for herself were being shed by another. The dead man had done nothing for her as a husband, but that did not make it right not to cry. Keening was mandatory on the path to the next world. Since Jindae was there to do for her what she should have done herself, even if forced, she was free. When keening, you were not supposed to fall on your face and cry. Nor could you urgently gasp for air or give off slack yawning cries, wail in an affected voice or scream in harsh tones, or bray with laughter like a cow or horse, shocking the ears of listeners. As you minded the sound of your own keening, your sorrow would inevitably fall to the wayside. But Jindae put her whole heart into her keening while meeting those exacting conditions.
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The servants whispered to each other in the corner. "Her wailing is so heart-rending." "Despite the way she looks, she acts refined." "But did you hear? That woman, from the Gang family? She has a daughter, but she was kicked out. The day it all happened, her mother-in-law drove her out." "Of course she did. What family would want a daughter-in-law like that? Still, it's too bad." "Nothing will happen to Lady Myoyeon, right? What must her husband think?" "She didn't do anything wrong. It just makes her more pitiable." "Anyway, women always bring trouble." "She probably fell in love with our master at first sight and seduced him. She's not much to look at. What could he have seen in her?" "True." "If a man is good-looking, he will always be surrounded by women. Our master was handsome. I bumped into him at the gate one time, and I swear my heart skipped a beat‌" "Ha! That happened to me, too!" "Ssh! You can't laugh like that here! Gives me the chills." I wanted to drag Father out of his coffin. I wanted to tell him to come out and say they were all wrong then die again. I wanted him to expose the truth that he took with him. Better still, I wanted to climb inside the coffin and lie down. I prayed for the complicated funeral ceremony to end soon. I wanted to forget Father. *** Heui-wu's Third Story The rain came at dawn. My body sensed the vibration before my ears could and woke me. I grew wet where I lay. Since yesterday was the seventh day of the seventh lunar month, today's rain would be the tears of parting the tragic celestial lovers, the Herdsman and the Weaver. Their tears always came easily and with confidence. The courtyard was deserted. The darkness delighted over the wet hour. The elders
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would probably be rising late. The slack soles of my feet were chilled. The rain, which gradually grew stronger, bore through me and seeped into the ground. I pitied my scarred body. And sometimes, I pitied myself, too. * Even though Airing Out took place every year, on the seventh day of the seventh lunar month, it was still a curious sight. Now that the rainy season was over, all of the dampness that had worked its way into our daily lives had to be shaken out. Scholars dry books, farmers dry grain, and women dry clothes-in observance of the old saying, everyone was busy at their stations. After working hard, the men paired off and climbed to the top of the mountain where they dropped their trousers to air their bellies. Airing Out was carried out extensively before the middle of the month on the day that promised to be the clearest, even if it was not exactly the seventh. The day of the seventh was usually overcast or rainy: a gale of tears, rich with protest, from the Herdsman and the Weaver. They cried for joy when they met and cried again out of sadness when they parted. That is why the rain was also called by its more poetic name, Rain of Tears. A long time had passed since they first parted, and they were positively ancient by now; they should have been accustomed to meeting only once a year already, yet they still unleashed their tears without fail. Our house never skipped a year when it came to drying books. In the palace as well, they never failed to dry out the official chronicles every two years. Because the books were mostly paper, they would rot in the humidity or be eaten by insects if they were stored for too long in the study. They had to be dried out in the sun. The books from the Hakseonjae, our family study, were greeting the sunlight and enjoying the breeze for a change. The books, which were lined up in the yard exposed to the sun, gave off dust each time they were touched. As I looked around carefully, covering my sneezes, I kept spotting books anew. Most of the authors of the Hakseonjae books had florid names. The titles as well, including The Great Compendium on Human Nature and Principle, were as grandiose as could be. I read everything, whether it was Chinese characters, the colloquial alphabet, or even
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storybooks. I just had to keep it a secret from Grandfather. He detested novels. "Those books are worthless. You don't have room enough in your brain to absorb the world's sutras in one lifetime, let alone waste it on books. Tsk, tsk! Novels weaken your heart and lead you astray. Heui-wu, don't even think about going near one of those filthy books!" But if I put my mind to it, I could read all the novels I wanted. Sometimes an indi-rect satire of a rotten world was stronger than the plain, harsh words of a sage. It was also easy to understand the morals of the stories, and easier to accept than the grand discourse of treacherous men. The lives of the cruelly fated and oppressed filled the pages of those books. A common device, yet I never became immune to them no matter how much I read. I could not just see them as simple plot lines but would wear myself out with my own in-terpretations. I read my own life into them. I wanted to make sense of my own situation, which was unsatisfying and hard to accept. Of course, I was not unaware of this. In the end, I could not see any logical solution that was in keeping with pure reason. For the characters in the stories, they had the power to convince even the gods, but that was nonsense. Clinging to books for comfort or charity was nothing more than vulgar self-deceit. * On the enclosed grounds four walls away from the Hakseonjae, they cleaned the well. The well was silent. The air circulated regularly inside the unmortared bricks, and the breath that flowed through the cracks between the stones was pure. The water was always fresh, and when you whiled away the time by shouting down into the well and heard it return as a muffled echo, you felt comforted by the wave of moisture. The well was an eye emerging from the earth. People hanging over the side of the well, where absolutely nothing could be seen within its immensely quiet depths, would lose their nerve, as if standing before someone's steady gaze. While Dalgu and Mojiri cleaned the well, the women scrubbed inside and out with the bailed water. Each time the well bucket was brought up, the gourd dipper was snatched up. It was a cacophony of sound from water, voices, and feet. The house cooled in an instant.
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Sometimes there were leaves floating in the bailed water. When that happened, the unmarried servants joked and played, exchanging dippers and offering bowls of water to passersby, telling them to drink slowly or they might grow tipsy from the water. Then, as if for fear they would be overheard, they struggled to muffle their laughter. "Crazy girls, stop playing and get to work," the elderly head servant scolded and pretended to hit them. She was rash in her behavior and second to none at talking back. The girls rolled their eyes and laughed again. After the well cleaning was complete and Steward Bak carried out the first in-spection, Father's meticulous re-inspection began. If he could, Father would have climbed down on a rope to inspect the bottom. With half his body folded into the well, Father dangled precariously. When he finally righted himself, his eyes were swollen. His face was red from where the blood had rushed to his head. "That'll do. Good work, everyone." Sighs of relief were heard here and there. Then everyone hurried to set a table for the prayer service to the God of the Seven Stars: Bless us with long life, Bring us the things we want, Help the children to grow up healthy. The prayers were properly solemn, but Dalgu broke the mood. He shouted out, as if to make sure everyone heard him, his wish to wed Pilsun. Standing beside him, Mojiri slapped Dalgu on the back of the head, and as a result of their light scrap, the well side became disorderly for a moment. When the ceremony was over, steamed rice cakes topped with red bean, wheat noodles, small wheat crepes, and fruit punch, were brought out. Dalgu gently nudged the housekeeper, who was serving the food. "Let's hear the rice cake song." "Moon cakes for the first full moon, half-moon cakes for Cold Food Day, mugwort cakes for the first day of spring, buy some rice cakes, buy some rice cakes! Zelkova cakes for Buddha's Birthday, herbal cakes for Dano, flour cakes for Yudu, buy some rice cakes, buy some rice cakes! Sweet punch for the summer rains, red bean porridge for the first day of win-ter, thimble-shaped cakes on the last night of the year, buy some rice cakes, buy some rice cakes! Triangles of pumpkin cake, squares of bean-dusted cake, tasty honey cakes, pretty white cakes, tart yeasted cakes, buy some rice cakes, buy some rice cakes!
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Long, plain white cakes, friendly cinnamon cakes, three in a row when the new sprouts show, buy some rice cakes, buy some rice cakes! Brush case-shaped cake for the young man in the village school, spool-shaped cake for the young woman in the front house, steamed cake for the three-year-old, buy some rice cakes, buy some rice cakes!" A lively tune flowed from her mouth. She had been grumbling all day over some-thing but was now softening up. The housekeeper was always full of talk and song, all of it rough and bawdy. She was often told to hush, that she sounded like she'd swallowed a sparrow. But she was giving and open-hearted-those who spoke seriously with her usually came away looking like they had slaked their thirst. Her generous hips rose and fell in time with her song. Buy some rice cakes, buy some rice cakes! The row of hearts around the well played along with each refrain. The jar of rice liquor had already run out, but Father gave more alcohol to Dalgu and Mojiri, who had taken turns inside the well. Dalgu and Mojiri were one year apart in age but they were a perfect match for each other. Dalgu was born in the year of the Monkey, and Mojiri was a Snake, but their birthdays were within just two months of each other. They seemed to have reached a mutual agreement without any discord over who was two months older than the other. The peach punch suited my palate. The watermelon punch was refreshing but was invariably followed by a stomachache. I was excited at the mere sight of peaches sliced thin in the shape of gingko leaves and preserved in sweet water. When I acted displeased, as if to say, Is this all you brought? Nani scolded me briefly and left. Who was Nani to me? If there were no difference between noblemen and com-moners, then you could say she was a cousin by my mother's sister. But no one said that. Then did that mean we were unrelated? No one said that either. I had stopped asking. Because the blood of my mother's father flowed in both our veins, we could not be strangers to each other, yet his blood alone was not enough to make us family. Like Mother and Grandmother, I just called her Nani. Just Nani, omitting all the rest. I would have been better off not knowing. There are children like that, who listen and are at peace all the time as if there were nothing wrong. But that nothing had become some-thing, and it sometimes exasperated me.
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* It was a merry and restless night. It was the last day for rest, a break from our usual monotonous days. It might have been because of the alcohol from Father, but Dalgu and Mojiri could not sleep and were wagging their tongues, saying they needed something to eat, and taking out potatoes to roast. The potatoes were thick. They stacked up pine twigs and lit them on fire. Though you could not chop down pine trees without permission, you were allowed to gather twigs. It was good firewood. Tak, tadak, tak, tak. The popping of the wood rang in my ears. While the potatoes cooked in the fire, the pine-scented smoke drifted over to me. Wriggling, that was it. That was the right word for the sudden movement of the spool of memories that had laid coiled and unmoving inside my head. The most recent memories began to unravel first, following the scent of the pine. I was powerless to control their unspooling. Time ran backwards, and Nani shrank and grew younger. The last image, naturally, had to be Nani standing in the door, holding the wet nurse's hand. It had to be Nani's too-short cotton dress as she hovered there, her eyes dark and blinking with fear and the thumb of her right hand lodged in her mouth. That was my earliest memory of Nani. But there was one more. The thread unwound to re-veal at last the knot that held it tight. Mother was always praised for her knots when she sewed. They were invisible unless you turned the fabric over. But they held firmly in place and allowed the thread to pass all the way through without slipping. That was the strength of that small kernel of thread rolled into shape between two fingers. The knot of memory. One single memory was the final anchor that kept the rest of my memories from slipping through: the smell that day Nani was born. It was the im-perfect heart of my boyhood that froze from shock without anyone knowing. It was the beginning of Nani. I simply had not been able to overcome my curiosity about what was happening in the wash room. It bothered me that there could be something important to Mother and the wet nurse other than me. So I was just going to take a peek and feign ignorance. Through the crack in the door, the warm air was cloaked in the scent of burning wood and a sour smell that I did not recognize. The sound of water boiling had me on edge.
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"The baby is too small‌" At the wet nurse's words, which sounded like a shout, mother said something, but I could not hear her. A red lump of flesh pulled from the steaming bucket was squir-ming and crying. * After returning from Gamseon Temple, Nani soon took over my meals. The family elders worried, wondering what was wrong with me since I was at an age where my ap-petite should have been voracious enough for me to break rocks with my teeth, but I was weak. Each time I swallowed food, I could feel the path it took inside my body. I knew whether it was rough or soft, cold or warm. Mother boiled ginseng and ginger and fed me the water, saying it would warm my stomach. But my stomach was full after just one or two sips. Next she tried red ginseng. It was worse than the water. I grew irritated each time I had to eat it, but then Nani came up with a solution. She sliced the red gin-seng thin and dipped it in boiling water, then squeezed all the liquid out and candied it in honey. I tried a couple pieces, and it was quite good. Strangely enough, after eating it, my belly grew warm. Above all else, Nani knew how to soothe my insides. As the days passed, I became more and more dependent on her. My body and heart were repeatedly betraying my already flagging will. Copyright 2009 Literature Translation Institute of Korea
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