[sample translations]jeong ho seung, lover eng by LTI Korea Library

Sample Translations

Ho-seung Jeong LOVER E ng l i s h

Book Information

LOVER (연인) Yolimwon Publishing corp. / 2008 / 35 p. / ISBN 9788970635941 For further information, please visit: http://library.klti.or.kr/node/772

This sample translation was produced with support from LTI Korea. Please contact the LTI Korea Library for further information. library@klti.or.kr

LOVER Written by Jeong Ho-seung

Freedom Love's wind chimes

A pine needle, whisked up by the wind, is tossed against me; the impact breaks its momentum, and it tumbles to the ground. New growth, fresh and green, carried on the air currents all the way from the distant pine forest which surrounds the reclining Buddhas. Before the pine needle touches the ground, the bell's clear ringing peals out from me, the sound spiralling up into the blue skies. When the breeze which bore the pine needle sets me spinning and yawing from side to side, the small, cross-shaped weight responds by swinging back and forth, straining to clang against the underside of the bell. When this happens it transforms me, my body transmuted into a clear ringing sound, chiming serene in every corner of the mountain shrine. The vibrations of my ringing even settle on the blades of grass which cling to the craggy rock face backing onto the main hall, even reach as far as the rice bowl offered to Lord Buddha. On spring days bamboo shoots can be heard sprouting in the thicket, in autumn the hoar frost crackles onto the dead leaves. In winter, the lonely crunch of human footsteps passing along the snow-covered trail. The priests who find my tinkling sound necessary for a night's peaceful rest are by no means in the minority. If people who've come to visit the temple find me still and silent, they can't compose their thoughts as they'd like, and though they linger for a time to try and eke out some peace, their restless hearts tug their attention elsewhere.

No one dislikes the sound I make when I tremble in a gust of a wind; a crisp sound, so clear as to seem transparent, like glass. There are even some city dwellers who hang me up on their apartment balconies and wait for the wind to blow. Those who have already laid eyes on me will know all this, but I am a wind-chime fish hanging from the west-facing end of the eaves of a mountain shrine. The shrine belongs to Unju Temple, found in Hwasun county, South Jeolla province, a green and mountainous place. My body consists of a thin sheet of beaten copper, but clear blood courses through me. My tail is constantly twitching back and forth, alive with movement, and a breeze from far away will set my fin a-tremble as though I'm flying through the air. I have a pretty name, too: Blue Goggle Eyes. Another wind-chime fish hangs from the east-facing end of the eaves: Black Goggle Eyes. It was all thanks to a monk, one of those who live in Seoul's Jogye Temple, that Black Goggle Eyes and I were able to meet. At the time, I was hanging alone from the ceiling of a shop in Insadong, whose signboard read 'Buddhist Supermarket'. I remember a certain afternoon, when the first leaves, barely the size of a person's fingernail, had just begun to protrude from the gingko trees in the street. A monk stepped into the shop, gave me a gentle tap in order to test my sound, and eagerly told the owner he would buy me. “He's perfect for Unju's mountain shrine,” the monk declared. “An excellent timbre. The Asanga monks will love him.” I'd barely had time to wonder what the monk's smile might mean before I found myself being taken down from the ceiling and wrapped tightly in pale pink hanji paper. Just before the paper was folded over me and I stopped being able to see anything, something happened that I didn't really give much thought to at the time: the female shopkeeper opened the door to the storeroom where miscellaneous Buddhist goods were kept, pulled out a wind-chime fish identical to me and placed it on the table.

I gasped, stunned. I'd never imagined there might be someone just like me wrapped up in old newspaper and shut away in the dusty storeroom. My intense loneliness meant I'd recently started yearning for a partner. I'd been offering up earnest prayers for a genuine meeting, to encounter someone with whom I could spend the rest of my life. Would I ever meet them, the someone who would fill my days? Were they somewhere out there thinking the same thing, living each day with the determination to someday meet me? Depending on who we meet, our lives can take an entirely different form. Life is a mosaic of meetings and partings. At that time, though, I still hadn't managed even the most basic kind of a meeting. No wonder, then, that I was so shocked to discover a wind-chime fish identical to myself, who'd only managed to get through life shut up in the storeroom by waiting patiently for the day when the two of us would meet. I stilled my racing heart, looked at him and waved my tail in friendly greeting. “Hello!” “Hello!” he called back. He was looking right at me, also waving his tail, shaking the dust from his scales in the process. If the blue of my eyes resembled that of an autumn sky, his were as utterly black as the last night of the lunar month. “I'll need to give the two of you names. Let's see now, a goldfish with protruding blue eyes, and one just the same but with black eyes: you're Blue Goggle Eyes, and you're Black Goggle Eyes!” After the monk had given us these names he put us straight into his ash-coloured knapsack. This was how it happened: straight into the knapsack, practically as soon as we'd met. Overjoyed at having met my genuine other half, I wasn't thinking about how close and

constricting it might be inside the knapsack. I was simply grateful for the eventual meeting, for the prayer that had been answered. The day the monk brought us to Unju Temple and hung us from the opposite ends of the mountain shrine's eaves, he told us: â&#x20AC;&#x153;Don't fight; you should live your lives with affection.â&#x20AC;? And from that day on we have been Unju's mountain shrine wind chimes, and live facing each other from opposite ends of the eaves. Even now I still haven't forgotten that moment, that heart-racing moment when I first saw Black Goggle Eyes. I can't forget the limitless warmth that flowed through me when I first embraced him, inside the monk's knapsack. Meetings are mysterious. And love is mysterious too. It's through meetings that we each begin to write the story of our lives.

When the wind blows down from the pine forest, the scent of pine needles can be detected in the sound I make. When it blows up from the earth, my ringing smells of the yellow soil which lines the fields here in Jeolla province. The scent of azaleas when the wind scatters petals on spring days; the faint hint of maple when it rustles the turning leaves in autumn. People from Jeolla province's Hwasun county, who come to visit Unju Temple, know all this. They can tell what kind of wind is blowing across the province simply by listening to the sound of my wind chime. Of the various winds, I like the flower wind the best. When the flower wind blows I feel fresh and animated, newly alive.

The flower wind is blowing today. A single azalea petal was blown up against me, and has been stuck there for some time. My body gives off the faint scent of azalea. But my heart is cold. As cold as the carved clothes of the stone Buddha, standing silently with both hands brought together at his chest, like a woman hidden behind a pine tree watching her lover set out on a long road. Where are Unju's thousand towers, which a miracle-working monk is said to have erected in the space of a single night, a thousand years ago? Even though I'm with Black Goggle Eyes now, I'm lonely. My loneliness makes my body sway languid in the wind. Today of all days, I can see neither the farmhand Buddha who guards the reclining Buddhas, nor the Lotus Tower, sights which usually afford me some measure of comfort. Somehow, I don't know how, Black Goggle Eyes' heart changed. From some point onwards, he became indifferent towards me. No matter how movingly the wind blows there is something perfunctory about his swaying, and when the sky is dazzling he remains unmoved, save for the two glittering points of his eyes, as liquid black as those of a calf. Even when I make a sound every bit as delicate as the plucked strings of a geomungo lute, especially for him, he doesn't even pretend to listen. Even when I dance like the drummer in a folk opera, imbued with the sadness of the falling leaves which only he is close enough to notice in me, it never even occurs to him to watch me. Even when I let a slow smile spread across my face like a water lily's petals unfurling, a smile meant only for him, his expression remains utterly blank. This isn't how things used to be. Now, we don't even keep the promises which we'd once been so eager to make. He'd promised to soak up the noonday sun which shone down into the shrine's front yard, let it beat warm within his body, then send it to me when the temperature drops with nightfall, but it's been a while since he's kept to that. He said he

would do the same with the starlight, catching the reflections scattered from those myriad points of light which adorn the October night, then pass their gleam on to me when the next day dawned cold. Another promise he hasn't stuck to. Whenever we see a shooting a star, we'd promised to make a wish on each other's behalf before it disappeared beyond the horizon, but now the thought doesn't even cross our minds. He barely even calls over to me anymore. Even if he does happen to call out my name, 'Blue Goggle Eyes', I can't detect any affection in the tone of his voice. When the morning sees the first snow of the season falling white over the halls and shrines of Unju, it's no longer accompanied by him shouting excitedly 'Blue Goggle Eyes, wake up, quickly! It's the first snow, the first snow!' That's how things are between us, at least; when he watches Red Goggle Eyes, who hangs from the other end of the eaves, the look in his eyes is quite different. A look deepened by warmth and affection, the way he used to watch me a long time ago. Sometimes, when the wind drops and all around us is still, he will inevitably hanging facing Red Goggle Eyes, his gaze like an arrow lodged into her body. Perhaps he is in love with her. The here and now is important in love. To love, one needs the wisdom to know the significance of one's current feelings. Ah, but Black Goggle Eyes is changed, so much changed. Is there no such love that doesn't change, that doesn't forget how the heart first felt? The day we first met, exploring each other's body and mind inside the monk's knapsack, a mutual sharing with neither of us taking precedence, didn't we become one? The day we first arrived at Unju Temple, the day the monk picked up a hammer and personally hung the wind chimes from the ends of the eaves, our happiness was mirrored in the sound we made, a clear, transparent tinkling that matched the autumn sky. That night, listening to our wind chimes in the moonlight, hadn't Unju's stone Buddhas all danced their shoulders up and down? Had Black Goggle Eyes already forgotten the monk's caressing smile, and his words, 'We are

all of us one body. Be affectionate to one another'? The day is as overcast as those preceding it. A chill wind continues to blow. I long to melt the cooled heart nestled in Black Goggle Eyes' breast. But he only sways indifferently in the chill, dusty breeze. There are still patches of unmelted snow here and there. I can see the people who come to visit Unju, picking their way across the lingering snow, participating in the ritual where you write your prayer or plea on a wooden tile. One young woman writes 'fulfilment of wish' using a traditional calligraphy brush. What might her wish be? Does she wish to meet the one person who will be able to fill her life? Birds wheel through the sky. I want to be a flying fish and soar through the air alongside them. In a mural from the ancient kingdom of Goguryeo, fish flutter about in the sky. I too want to be a fish like them, travelling at will through that blue expanse. A life like this one, doing nothing but hanging from the end of the eaves, is no life.

Time passed. As long a time as I'd already spent here, living with Black Goggle Eyes. And still I hung from the eaves like always. Spring came and with it a cold snap, and even when winter brought a violent blizzard my days each passed without the slightest change. My life is tedious. Enduring a tedious life is enormously painful. There are ever more days, now, which I pass in complete idleness, without even the excitement of dreaming. I'm all too aware that today, which I also frittered away, is the tomorrow which the person who died yesterday would have given so much to be able to live. Yet still, the more time goes by, the more idle days that pass. Is there really no better life than one spent hanging from the eaves?

Several more years passed. The pain of loneliness and tedium grew ever deeper, and the more it gouged its way inside me, the more I tried to counter it by devoting myself to love – to loving Black Goggle Eyes. When night fell and the clouds veiled the young moon, I would reach out and caress his fin, the most sensitive erogenous zone. As the dawn stars winked out one by one I would carefully reflect from his chest to mine the starlight that had gleamed there through the night. Of course, love also means making an effort. If nobody made any effort, nothing would ever be achieved in this world. Unfortunately, though, love is one of those things for which effort alone is not enough. “I don't understand why our love has grown cold like this. There's no electricity between us. Now it's as though you don't even feel it when I touch you.” Black Goggle Eyes' sole response was to say “Old love is always like that.” I waited, but he seemed to have said all he was going to say. “Why won't you talk to me?” Only when I shook my tail with annoyance, unable to bear his silence, did he eventually open his mouth to speak. “At first, love is accompanied by many words. But as time passes and love lengthens, it's silence that maintains it.” He was always like that. And I was always dissatisfied with him. “We don't love each other, and we don't not love each other.” One night, I woke from a fitful sleep with the thought that if life is ultimately a mosaic of meetings and partings, perhaps parting might be better than continuing to live like this. “Black Goggle Eyes, let's break up. That seems like the best thing to do. It's not right to pretend to feel something we don't. We're wasting our lives like this – in this state of suspended animation. I don't want to live like this any more.”

My voice trembled as I said all this, but once the words were out, parting really did come to seem like the most natural thing to do. “Black Goggle Eyes, love is warm as sunlight and hot as the sun. But your love is like a withered old tree. Love that's shrivelled up like that, or that makes you sick now you've had so much of it, isn't love. Have you seen birds flocking to perch on a dead tree? Living together when we don't love each other any more is a crime. Only those who love each other have the right to live together.” I pressed my point. “After all, it's not as though we had some solemn wedding ceremony, with official witnesses and the like.” His silence was unbearable. “There's nothing to stop us, we can break up whenever we like!” I shouted. Black Goggle Eyes' lips finally parted, just a little, as though he was about to take a sip of water from a pond. “Blue Goggle Eyes, have you forgotten when the monk first hung us up here? That moment was itself our wedding ceremony. The sky, the wind, and the grass, the birds, the clouds, and the flowers – they all celebrated with us. They were the living witnesses of our marriage. This is all just a misunderstanding on your part.” “No it isn't. What kind of a marriage do you think we have?” “The kind of marriage fish like us have always had. It isn't the same as other marriages. Living together, as we do – that constitutes a marriage in itself. So you should stop with all this talk about breaking up. Our relationship is a pre-fixed part of our lives.” “No, it isn't. My life is something I make for myself. There's nothing fixed or decided in advance. Especially not love.” “You're wrong. Our love has already been decided. If it hadn't been, we would never have been able to meet the way we did, or to love each other for as long as we have. Meeting you has been the most significant event, and the greatest happiness, of my life. It's only

because I'm together with you like this that I'm able to always be happy and grateful.” Unlike their usual dullness, Black Goggle Eyes' eyes had taken on the sheen of a black pearl. “Is what you're saying true?” “It's true.” “No, it's a lie,” I spat out angrily. “If you loved me, how could you act so indifferently towards me? I've spent so many lonely nights I've lost count.” The moon hung bright in the sky. “It's not indifference, it's just a way of maintaining our everyday life. The longer love goes on for, the more it loses that initial thrill. It grows placid, peaceful – that's just the way it is. Even the loveliest fragrance in the world would become sickening if it lingered on forever. It's its very transience that make people prize it, that means it's genuine. Well, love's like that too. When love lasts for a long time it becomes a kind of companionship, and lovers become more like friends who spend their whole lives together.” What Black Goggle Eyes said just wasn't true, and that meant there was nothing for me to respond to. Instead, I chose to keep my mouth shut. If, according to him, words weren't necessary to nourish love, well, then neither would they be necessary to soften the blow of parting.

“Blue Goggle Eyes, do you know what parting is? Parting is like death.” I spent a year with these words of his running through my mind. During that year, nothing in his behaviour showed any great change. He still never wanted to embrace me, and he always fell asleep before me, before even the stars themselves.

Every night I spent alone, gazing up at the stars before eventually falling asleep. Well, I suppose I did have the sound of my wind chimes, tinkling all through the night, to keep me company. I was lonely, and Black Goggle Eyes couldn't understand. “Try to understand me,” I begged. “Loving someone means understanding them. The depth of love can be measured according to how much the lover can understand.” But these words had no effect. Black Goggle Eyes was no more able to understand me than I was with him. When the cold snap set in, I once again began to insist that we break up. “We can each have our own separate lives. Our lives can be better than they are now.” “What other life do we need aside from this one, Blue Goggle Eyes? The most important thing for us is to give happiness to those around us by responding to the will of the wind and letting the beautiful sound of the wind chimes ring out.” His tone was subdued, yet there was passion in it. But it was too late. My love for him had already long grown cold. “No, Black Goggle Eyes, that isn't all there is. I want to fly. I want to make up my mind and go and just go, somewhere far away. Hanging here like this is a real burden for me now. My dreams are all of unfettered flight, of soaring through the blue sky wherever my heart takes me. The last thing I want is to give up on this dream. Your life will only ever be as big as your dream is. Why is it that you don't have a dream? Why are content to just hang here like this?” “What makes you think I don't have a dream? My dream is to live an ordinary life, with you as my companion, bringing happiness to those around me. Perhaps to you this dream seems small and trifling, but to my way of thinking it's the biggest dream in all the world. My hope is that you'll share this dream with me.” “Well, I won't – I can't. It's not my dream, it's yours, and there's no room in it for me. I

don't want to live in your dream as your companion. If you truly love me, you'd help me achieve my dream.” Black Goggle Eyes stared at me in silence for a while. Perhaps he was listening to the soft raindrops, which had begun to whisper down after the new moon had set. His eyes were gleaming with something like sadness. “If, I, truly, love you?” Black Goggle Eyes stammered. “Yes, if you truly love me!” I said in a rush. The wind blew. The lines of rain were thickening. Black Goggle Eyes let himself be tossed about, giving himself completely over to the rain-filled wind as though willing it to do what it would with him. It was the first time I'd ever seen pitching and yawing so violently, as though caught in some terrible turbulence.

The wind is as strong as ever, lashing the temple buildings with rain. I long to pierce this veil of grey and fly somewhere far away. Is there really no way out of this life? I craned my neck and stared at the southern mountain ridge, wondering whether the reclining Buddhas had got up and gone for a walk. A pair of stone Buddhas, lying on an enormous, 13m bedrock, their carving left unfinished. No one else knows this, but they often like to get up and go for a walk, holding hands. As the pale light of dawn begins to wash through the sky, but before the sun has actually groped its way over the rim of the horizon, the pair of Buddhas walk the lonely trail that winds through the pine forest, together. Simply gazing at them from a distance is enough to bring a lump to my throat. Today, perhaps because of this incessant rain, instead of going for a walk the reclining Buddhas are simply lying where they are, getting rained on. But the husband Buddha lies

tilted slightly to one side, towards his wife, and their fingers are as tightly interlaced as ever. “Why do you hold hands like that, Reclining Buddha?” My voice when I spoke seemed drenched with the rain. “I'm sheltering my wife so the cold rain doesn't make her shiver. I've been doing this for a thousand years, whenever it rains or snows.” A thousand years – the very idea was like a fleeting shadow, impossible to grasp. I simply couldn't imagine how the husband Buddha could love his wife like that. “In that case, is that what love is?” “Indeed. This is what love is. Blue Goggle Eyes, do you know why I am an unfinished Buddha, even though I've been here for a thousand years?” I wasn't at all sure what I ought to say, and luckily the reclining Buddha sensed this. Without waiting for an answer, he continued: “It's because love is an unfinished thing. There is no completed love in this world. There is only the ongoing process of love's completion...love is that process itself.” The reclining Buddha kept his hand raised, warding off the pouring rain. The cold rain splashed against the back of his hand with utter indifference. “What about partings, reclining Buddha?” When I'd decided to part from Black Goggle Eyes, what I'd been most overwhelmed with was fear. I wanted to ask the reclining Buddha what I ought to do in order to free myself from that fear. “Parting means not being able to see someone even if you miss them.” “And is it something frightening?” “Parting is something to fear, yes, when the heart yearns for what it has left behind. But whenever there is a meeting, a parting must necessarily follow. Do not fear parting too much. Parting only to meet again – such are our lives.”

The rain continued to come down thick and fast. There was something pitiful about those fat drops bursting against the stone. Even if I parted from Black Goggle Eyes, I doubted that he would miss me. If partings were something to be feared only when the heart misses the other person, then it seemed like all I needed to do was not miss him – then there would be nothing to fear. “Reclining Buddha, there are times when I don't want to be a wind chime anymore, I want to be the wind that shakes the chimes instead.” “Then you are forgetting your duty. If flowers were to try and become roots, what would be the use of them?” “Even so, a life spent doing nothing but hanging from the eaves is terribly painful.” “The problem lies with your heart.” “Sometimes I want to become the wild rain, whisking through the sky. How can I free myself from this aimless, dangling life, what do I need to do to obtain great freedom?” “Again, that is a problem you yourself have to solve. The problem is that you don't truly want what you think you want.” “Reclining Buddha, you're saying I don't truly want it? That's not right.” I brought both hands to my chest like a stone image and looked up at the reclining Buddha, trying to demonstrate my utmost sincerity. “No. Your desire is still not genuine.” Continuing to shield his wife's face from the falling rain, the husband Buddha looked down at me as though sympathising with my plight. “I will ask you something. There are two monks watching a flag fluttering in the wind, and they are arguing. One monk says it is the flag which moves rather than the wind, and the other monk claims it is the wind that moves. Who do you think is correct?” “Well...”

Just off the top of my head, I had no idea. But when I considered the problem from my own perspective, which was that of a wind chime, the answer seemed relatively obvious. “The flag is moving. Just like how I myself move when the wind blows – it's the same principle.” “Is that really the case?” 15

“Yes, it is.” “No. It is neither the wind that is moving, nor the flag. The only thing that moves is the hearts of those arguing monks.” I automatically bowed my head at the reclining Buddha's words. Everything seemed to be growing brighter in front of my eyes, as though the night's darkness were dissolving away and a new day was dawning in the eastern sky.

* The problem was with my heart. If I truly wanted to be a flying fish, if I truly wanted great freedom, the reclining Buddha assured me, none of these things would be beyond my grasp. But I didn't know how to go about making myself truly want something. The rain stopped and a fresh breeze blew in its wake, its playful currents setting me quivering at the end of the metal cable which linked me to the eaves. Only the return of spring was able to lure Black Goggle Eyes' ever-indifferent gaze in my direction. But in my heart a burning brand had been kindled, and was blazing with a constant flame. The knowledge that I could achieve my dream as I long as truly wanted it, though I still didn't know the way, ensured this fire would never burn out. One day a swallow flew up to me and nudged me with its beak. “I want to make a nest here, beneath the eaves of the mountain shrine; is it okay?” As the swallow looked at me, I saw my own image, swaying in the wind, reflected in her eyes.

“Yes, it's okay. Please do come and live here.” I shook my body happily and a flurry of chimes pealed out like a fall of bright petals. “Are you sure it's okay? The monks won't have a problem with me building a nest in this place, that's supposed to be sacred and pure? What will I do if they're angry?” “It won't be like that. If anything, they'll be happy.” “That doesn't seem very likely to me...” The swallow turned circles beneath the eaves in an agony of indecision. “Well, I'll ask the reclining Buddha.” I craned my neck towards the southern mountain ridge and fixed my eyes on the reclining Buddha. He raised his upper body ever so slightly, and nodded twice. “He says it's okay. No one has ever built a nest here before, but he says not to worry and build it anyway.” “Thank you.” The swallow gave me another grateful nudge before flying off. While I waited for the swallow to return, a new fire was lit in my heart. That's what it's like when you're waiting for someone, someone you can't wait to see again – like having a lamp burning in your heart. Only after several days had passed did the swallow return with her mate and diligently set to work building a nest. Tens of times each day they would arrive with mud, straw, and shortish twigs in their beaks – I had no idea where they were getting them from – to use as building materials. Just as the swallow had said, they built their nest right beneath the eaves of the mountain shrine. These eaves were made of brightly painted boards, covered in a multicoloured lotus pattern, and the swallows' small, jar-shaped nest was built directly onto the

board. After the swallows had begun to build, the Unju monks who came to do dawn worship saw them as they looked up, and the lines of their faces settled into a new harmony. A silent smile played around their mouths; perhaps they were thinking back to the homes they'd left before coming to the temple. Even Black Goggle Eyes' now-placid gaze seemed to have recovered some of the old shine I'd seen when we first met, all that time ago. I'd kept back a special sound all this time, holding it in reserve for the swallows. The day their nest was completed, I let it fall from me in fresh little shards, a sound with all the qualities of newly-sprouted blades of grass. The female swallow laid her eggs and both parents started to spend their days flitting back and forth, busying themselves with flight. How I envied them! How I wished I could fly like that myself! Once the eggs had hatched, the swallows became even busier. Again, I didn't know where they were getting them from, but no sooner had the night's darkness gone to roost than they would arrive with their beaks stuffed full of insects, ready to feed to their waiting young. When the mother swallow brought food in her beak the babies opened their mouths wide and loudly chirped their hunger. To me, that sound was even more beautiful than that of the wind chimes made by Black Goggle Eyes and myself. It was one such day. A mild spring breeze was wafting down from Mt Mudeung, and Unju's stone Buddhas were enjoying a languid nap. I was watching the swallows' nest opposite me, trying to quiet the sound of my wind chimes as much as possible so as not to disturb the stone Buddhas from their slumber. One baby swallow had poked its head out of the nest and was peering down into the shrine's front yard. The mother swallow was nowhere to be seen; perhaps she was off looking for food somewhere. The baby swallow was incredibly cute, a mass of downy feathers.

As I was gazing at that little bundle of fluff, I was suddenly seized with the desire to have such a cute baby all of my own, and to be a good mother to it. That was when it happened. Perhaps because it was hungry, or perhaps because it was missing its mother, who still hadn't returned. The baby swallow poked its head a little further out of the nest, lost its balance and tumbled out altogether. Instantly, I plunged after it. There was no thought in my mind other than to save its life. Luckily, I managed to clasp it in my fins just before it struck the stone steps of the shrine. Startled, it burst into tears. “Don't cry. It's alright, it's alright. Your mother will be here soon.” I picked the baby swallow up gently and put it straight back in the nest. But there was something truly strange, something that hadn't had time to occur to me as I flew after the baby swallow: my body and mind had never felt so light and free. I quickly glanced up at the end of the eaves where I'd been hanging. The wind chime still hung there, but the fish had fallen off of it. There was no fish, there was only the metal cable where the fish had been hanging, shivering in the wind. Ah, I really was flying! I'd finally become a flying fish and shucked off my old life of hanging from the eaves. When I'd hurled myself down towards the yard, impelled by nothing but sheer desire to save the baby swallow's life, the metal cable that had been attached to my dorsal fin had snapped. I knew intuitively that the moment to part from Black Goggle Eyes had come. He was watching me with a stupefied expression, his black goggle eyes bulging out even further than usual. “Look how well I can fly!” I exclaimed, turning a circle beneath the eaves. “How is this possible?” “I'm a flying fish now. Look, watch what I can do.”

I showed off in front of Black Goggle Eyes, and as I moved my fins like wings, they really did turn into actual wings, propelling me through the air. Black Goggle Eyes was so shocked he couldn't stop gaping at me. “I'm going away from here.” “Going away!” “Don't try to stop me. This is what I truly wanted.” “Where on earth will you go?” “I've only been hanging from these eaves because for a while I didn't know how to truly want something. But now my life is all freedom, the greatest freedom there is. Because I understand it now: it's when you think only of others, and how to help them, that your own dream can come true.” A few swift wingbeats and I was over by the stone lantern that stands in the shrine's front yard. “Blue Goggle Eyes, don't go! This is where I live!” I kept my gaze fixed firmly in front of me, as though denying the very possibility of returning. “Blue Goggle Eyes, I'm asking you not to go...” I could hear Black Goggle Eyes' sobs. I flew right out of the yard, gliding on towards the southern mountain ridge, where I took my leave of the reclining Buddhas; after all, who knew when we might meet again? “I'm leaving, reclining Buddha. I'm going to leave this cramped little world and become a real fish.” “I wish you well. Great freedom is yours now. But be careful. With freedom comes responsibility. If there's something you want to talk to me about, do, no matter when it is or where you are. However far away you are, I will be able to hear what you say.” The husband Buddha stretched out the arm that he'd been allowing his wife to pillow her head on, and waved at me.

“Don't hesitate to come back, whenever you might want to. I'll be waiting. Though our bodies may be far apart, we will always be together in our hearts.” That voice kept on ringing in my ears, mingled with the sound of Black Goggle Eyes' sobs. I left Unju Temple, pretending not to hear. I left my place at the side of Black Goggle 20

Eyes, whom I had loved.

The flying life thrilled me. I was so giddy with excitement it didn't even occur to me to think about where I was going. Unju Temple soon vanished from my field of vision. Hwasun County was next to go. I flew high and far, how long for, I don't know. “Blue Goggle Eyes,” someone called out to me. “Where are you going?” When I turned to look over my shoulder, there was the wind, the very same that used to shake the wind chimes. “I'm not sure.” Only then did I realise how I'd let the sheer fact of flying overwhelm me. As I slowly calmed myself down, I gradually became aware of my surroundings. I was somewhere over the vast flanks of Mt Jiri; the Seomjin river was little more than a slender white thread, like a line someone had drawn on with pencil. Ah, I'd flown up too high without realising. Suddenly I was afraid. I was at a total loss as to what I should do. “Wind, where should I go?” “Where do you want to go?” Sensing my mounting unease, the wind grasped my wing

tightly. “Well, a life of flying was really all I had in mind. I don't have any kind of plan.” “Then have a good think about it now. Where do you want to go? As it's your first time I'll take you there myself, just this once.” “I didn't realise setting out on a journey would be so frightening.” “Haha, don't be too frightened. Everyone's a little bit afraid of the unknown. A life without fear just doesn't exist.” The wind laughed heartily and pushed against my back. I suddenly thought of the sea. More precisely of its smell, that sharp, salt tang I'd occasionally been able to detect on the wind when it shook the wind chimes. The memory of that fishy, somehow blue smell welled up within me. “I've got it!” I shouted, excited again. “It's the sea! I want to go to the sea. Wind, please show me the way to the sea.” “Alright, good choice. A look at the sea should be enough to show you the meaning of life for birds.” The wind pushed against my back again, steering me in the right direction. I shrugged off fear and stretched my wings. The sea was a long way away, much longer than I'd imagined. The route which took me there would break off periodically, only to join up again. How far had I flown? The strength was starting to fade from my wings. Actively driving my body through the sky was many times more strenuous than passively hanging from the eaves. Perhaps, after all, the really difficult thing wasn't making your wish come true in the first place, but hanging on to it afterwards. I flexed my muscles and screwed up my courage. Now there was no one around to help

me. The wind only showed me the way to the sea, and once he'd left I didn't see him again. How far had I flown? I began to smell that sharp, briny tang. Just as I'd picked up its scent, exactly the same as the wind had sometimes brought all the way to Unju Temple, there it was, the sea, spread out before me in an instant. The moment I saw the sea, I let out an unwitting 'ah!' and breathed a long sigh. Its vast expanse of blue was like an enormous silk wrapper spread out over the ground. I flew down a little closer to the water. Every so often, the gentle rippling pattern on its surface kicked up waves that smashed white in the sunlight. The fact that I'd escaped from my idle, tedious life and was now living a new life of free, unfettered flight, felt more real to me in that moment than it had at any point previously. I flew down a little closer to the water. The further down I flew, the louder the boom and roar of the waves became. Their sound was most beautiful when they hurled themselves against the cliff, a crash fading into a sizzle. I alighted gently on the edge of the cliff and stood side-by-side with a solitary pine tree, the two of gazing out to the horizon. The sun was setting. Red lotus flowers were blooming in riotous profusion over the horizon. At first they appeared one by one, as the horizon seemed to be drawn quietly upwards, then as time passed a great red blaze roared up and the individual flowers were consumed. “I wonder what lies beyond the horizon,” I muttered, gazing at those flaming colours as though having lost all sense of self. At that, a Kentish plover that had been sitting on the pine tree said “There's an island.” “An island? What's an island?” “An island is like a stone set between one sea and another. It makes the sea more beautiful. The sea is beautiful because there are islands.”

As the bird was a similar size to me and our breasts were a similar silver colour, we were able to treat each other like very close friends even though this was our first meeting. “Is it far from here?” “Oh yes, it's far. I live right here on the coast, and it's somewhere even I can't get to easily. But I went there once. My mother told me not to, she said if you fly out to sea you die; I went without her knowledge. I really did almost die. However far I flew, there was no end to the sea. I flew and flew, but there was only the horizon. The strength drained from my wings, and I was just about to tumble down into the water; just then, I saw the island. I almost thought I was hallucinating: an island in the sea. If it hadn't been, I would be dead now. My friends were like me, they'd been brought up to believe that you die if you fly out to sea. I taught them the truth about the island, but none of them are brave enough to go there. They don't even want to go there, particularly; they're happy with their lives here on the shore. But I need to go back, even if I have to go alone. I'm just waiting for the right opportunity.” The plover spread his wings, his wingtips straining towards the sea as though he was about to set off there and then. “Then go with me.” An island that made the sea beautiful – that sounded like somewhere worth going to. “Okay, let's go together!” As a sign of approval, he flitted from the northern end of the branch to the southern end. The next morning. The plover and I took our bearings from the direction in which the pine tree's twigs pointed as it waited for the sun to rise, and flew out to sea. The sea's flat plane was dazzling as the light glinted off it. If only Black Goggle Eyes was with me now – but that was only a fleeting thought, and the memory of my former partner soon vanished from my mind. The plover went at a fast pace. Scrambling confusedly in his wake, I tried my best to

hurry. But we weren't even that far out from the cliff when, as if out of nowhere, a blue-grey hawk appeared. The hawk nose-dived like a bomber plane, followed by a sudden climb and then, entirely without warning, flew straight toward us. In that moment, I regretted having left Unju Temple. Hopes and memories were a vague jumble in my mind at the thought that I was going to die here. I wheeled back around in the opposite direction and flew for the cliff with all the power I could muster. The hawk followed suit, without slackening its speed an inch. It was so fast, surely its prey – myself – was as good as caught. There was certainly no way I could outrun it. I reversed directions again, wavering away from the cliff and tilting towards the horizon. That was when it happened. “Get out of here! Quickly!” the plover shouted urgently as he beat a swift path towards the hawk. I turned back towards the cliff again, and as I did I saw the hawk's talons rip into one of the plover's wings. It was all over in an instant. The hawk snatched the plover in mid-air, left off its pursuit of me and wheeled away towards the cliffs. I saw those sharp talons and beak begin to stab into the plover's breast and belly. All I can say is that I was frightened. I was afraid that another hawk would come divebombing out of the blue, and this time there would be no escape. So I left the dying plover there, the blood streaming from his already-shredded body, and flew inland as fast as my wings – and my fear – could carry me. How far had I flown? I saw Mt Jiri again, and far below, the curve of the Seomjin river, like a single strand of white cotton thread. My inner turmoil subsided a little at the sight of the river. I alighted on Seomhojeong

pavilion in Hadong county, which has the best view of the Seomjin, and looked down at the running water.

Only then did the tears spring to my eyes. I recalled the plover's small wings,

how pitifully they'd fluttered as he was snatched by the hawk. Why had the plover thrown away his life for me? How could I ever repay this debt? Was it possible that he himself had been the island in the sea that I'd felt myself drawn 25

towards? Through the depths of the night, I never moved from my perch on Seomhojeong pavilion. My gaze remained locked on the Seomjin river, even when darkness smothered its contours from my sight. From over towards Gurye county, a cuckoo's hollow, plaintive call sounded, once, then was silent.

Without fail, another morning comes to brighten the sky. The sun's rays expose the pale waters of the Seomjin, the scintillations thrown up off its the surface the same as they ever are. I gazed blankly out from the roof of Seomhojeong pavilion, seeing nothing but the river's undulating surface. My first glimpse of the river had been a shock, but it was nothing compared to the shock of witnessing the plover's death. What is death? Why does death have to be an inescapable part of life? I spent the whole night unable to sleep. I couldn't find a single word with which to address the stars. I'd left Unju Temple in search of love, yet my first experience had been of death. Back when I'd lived beneath the shrine's eaves, the thought of death had never once crossed my mind. Countless times I'd watched the flowers that bloomed by the stone Buddhas and towers wither and fade, but it had never occurred to me to think of that as 'death'.

With no idea where else to go, I ended up spending several nights at the pavilion. As the afternoons wore on and hunger began to gnaw at me, I would flit down to the banks of the Seomjin, take a few sips of river water, then fly right back to my perch. Time passed. Every night, the stars that studded the night sky seemed as vast a multitude as the grains of sand which formed the Seomjin riverbed. Time seemed to stand still for them, but down here it kept on passing, flowing by just like the river. I knew that the time had come for me to leave the pavilion. But as long as I remained baffled by death, what hope was there for me to understand life? How could I make the right decisions about what to do with the life that was given me? One night, still paralysed by indecision, I softly asked the stars to let the reclining Buddha know I wanted to speak to him. The reclining Buddha quickly found me, the starlight taking on the form of his weathered features. “What is death, reclining Buddha?” The question had been running through my mind for so long, I blurted it out without so much as a word of greeting. I could feel his eyes looking down on me. After a long silence, his starlight-mouth opened. “When you were still a wind chime at Unju, weren't there days when there was no wind?” “Yes, there were.” “When there hadn't been any wind for a while, did you think the wind had died?” “No, of course not.” “If the wind drops for a while, does that mean it won't pick up again?” “No. It always came back again soon enough.” “In a way, death is like that wind. The wind stops a while, but that doesn't mean it has

died. Did you get your first look at the sea?” “Yes, I saw the sea.” “Did you see the waves?” “Yes, them too.” “And did they smash themselves to pieces?” “Yes, they smashed against the cliffs in a spray of white foam.” “As the waves destroyed themselves, did the sea disappear?” “No. The sea was always there.” “In a way, death is like the sea, too. It's like the waves. Even though the waves themselves vanish, the sea remains as it ever was. It's not the case that the presence of death means the absence of life. Death is a part of life, just as the waves are part of the sea. Don't let sadness overwhelm you, then; set out on your journey again, and seek your great freedom.” The starlight tracing the reclining Buddha's features seemed to intensify. Gazing up at those points of light, I felt as though I really did understand death a little better, albeit only a very little. The wind isn't dead, even when it seems to have stopped blowing – that was something I'd experienced first-hand as a wind chime. Many times, the wind would drop for a while and leave me hanging silent and still, only to pick up again and send me spinning, the sound of my chimes tinkling away. “Then why does life have to end in death, reclining Buddha?” I couldn't keep my thoughts to myself. Again, he took a while before answering. “Ultimately, it's for the sake of life that death exists. If there were no death, neither could there be any life. It's because of death that we are all able to exist in the first place. Death is both the cause and the natural result of life.” “But I don't understand why the plover died for me. Why was I saved, and why did he

die?” “You'll have to think about that yourself. It's time for you to gain a true understanding of life and death.” The starlight shifted; the reclining Buddha was gone. The stars resumed their silent vigil. As I was mulling over our conversation, I drifted off into a deep sleep. But even there, I still heard the sleek pull of the flowing waters, returning to the distant sea.

The sun's rim rises above the railroad bridge which crosses the Seomjin river. A train passes over the bridge, lit up by the rising sun. I follow the train with my gaze, sitting by the stele that stands in front of Seomhojeong's garden, and quietly recite the poem “Hadong Port”.

80 Ri from Hadong Port Gulls cry 80 Ri from Hadong port The moon rises. A person writing poetry On the terrace of Seomhojeong A man of refined taste Who left a certain hometown

I measured out the syllables one by one, making sure to match the rhythm to the sense. The image of a stylish, elegant young man conjured up by the phrase 'man of refined taste'

made me think of a young poet jotting down lines on Seomhojeong's terrace. Just then a young man came up and spoke to me. “You've got a excellent voice for reading poetry. As clear as the sound of wind chimes.” “Who are you?” I took a swift hop backwards. “Don't be frightened. I write poetry; in fact, I wrote the poem on that stele, the one you were just reading.” He was wearing small, round, gold-framed spectacles, and a dark blue jacket. “Well, I've certainly never seen a fish like you before.” I didn't shake myself free when he gently took my wing. Anyone who writes poetry on Seomhojeong terrace must surely have a beautiful heart, and was no one to be afraid of. “Your wings are actually attached! How peculiar. Of course, I knew there were such things as flying fish, I just never expected to meet one personally. Well, I'm pleased to have done so, anyway.” He clasped my hand and shook it warmly, bearing out the truth of his words. “When I was a child I used to come and play here at Seomhojeong. My friends and I would play with marbles or pasteboard cards, right on this very spot! But I'm forgetting my manners – I haven't asked your name?” “Blue Goggle Eyes.” “My, what a beautiful name. But your face tells me you're suffering – what's the matter? Are you sad about something? Please tell me about it. I could write some poetry to make your sadness go away.” Just as I'd guessed, he really did have a beautiful heart. Before I'd even said a single word on the subject, he'd seen right through to my inner sorrow. “My friend died for me. A hawk attacked me, and he deliberately drew its attention

away from me and towards himself.” When I spoke about the plover's death, my heart began to shudder and throb again. “I've been the cause of a friend's death myself. When I was young, I went for a swim right over there beneath that bridge. The current sucked my down and I would have died if my friend hadn't dived in to save me. But though he managed to rescue me, he couldn't stop himself being pulled under. So in the end, he died for me.” He gave my wing another squeeze. My heart was threatening to collapse at the thought of our dead friends. “But why did the plover die for me?” “That was because he loved you.” This answer came without a moment's hesitation, and the poet's voice was suffused with affection. I shook my head, unable to believe those words. “We hadn't even known each other for a full day and night. How could he have been able to love me in such a short time?” “Love doesn't need as much time as you think, Blue Goggle Eyes. Love is a thing of a moment. It can happen at first sight, in the blink of an eye.” “Even so, love can't do without time.” “That's right. But you needn't think of that as negative thing. What's more important is how you love, and how much you love. When it came to the plover's love for you, time wasn't all that important.” I missed the plover. His love had passed straight through me like a bullet, disappearing as though it never was, just like the ripples on the Seomjin river. “Even now, decades later, there are times when I rack my brains thinking about why my friend had to die when he saved me. And no matter how much I think about it, I always come up with the same answer: love. It was because he truly loved me that he died saving me.

Sacrifice, I think, is the essence of love. Without sacrifice there can be no love. Many people remain ignorant of love because they do not know the meaning of sacrifice.” We were silent for a while, and looked deep into each other's eyes. In the blue of the poet's irises, I found lingering traces of the sky overhead. “Sir, you have blue goggle eyes too!” He smiled, seemed to find my words amusing. “Blue Goggle Eyes, you need to understand how to give love as well as receive it. No matter how strong it might be, love that only goes one way ultimately ends up lost.” The poet's smiling face caused a great calm to descend over me. That smile seemed to be telling me to go ahead, say what was on my mind. “Sir, I don't understand why death has to be involved in love.” There were still so many questions I needed to ask. That's what it means to live in this world – an endless series of questions. “That's because, quite often, it's only through death that love achieves its perfect form. Several years ago some first-year students at Jeonju Middle School rescued primary school students who'd fallen into the water, sacrificing themselves in the process; for me, their sacrifice represents the most perfect form of love which humans can possess. Without love, how could such a perfect death be possible?” “But death isn't a beginning but an end, no?” “That's not true. Your relationship with the plover didn't end because he died. He lives on inside your heart, even now – love will keep the two of you forever connected.” “I'm not sure. I'm not sure how to live. I thought that a life of free flight would be more significant than one spent hanging from the eaves; now, when I think it over again, it seems there are more important things to life than the form it takes.” “Perhaps that might be true. The form life takes isn't so important.” “Then what is the most important thing?”

“Having a loving heart. Giving everything of yourself for the sake of the one you love. Love is the be all and end all of life.” Beneath the pavilion, the tall bamboo susurrated in the low breeze. I understood something, at least, of what the poet had been trying to say.

The wind is getting up, shaking the bamboo thicket. My heart trembles in its wake. I have to devote myself wholeheartedly to the business of living, starting from today – the tomorrow which the plover would have lived. The plover who sacrificed all he had for love. “Sir! Mr Poet!” I cried my goodbyes, leaving my place by the side of the man writing poetry on Seomhojeong's terrace, and flew in the direction of the railroad bridge. I didn't have to wait long before a train passed over the bridge. I alighted on its back and let it carry me onwards. Eventually, after passing through first Suncheon and then Daejeon, the train pulled in at Seoul station, where it stopped altogether. Yet I already understood enough to know that the train hadn't died just because it had stopped moving. The fragrance of lilacs filled the vast cavern of Seoul station. The place was filled with people who had come to greet arrivals, friends or family – loved ones. I found all this very moving. They passed heavy bags from hand to hand, gave each other a swift, easy embrace, then went on their way together. There was no one waiting for me, of course, no one to tell me where to go. But my heart was swelling with anticipation at the thought of a new meeting. There was a post office in front of the station, and I slowly made my way in its

direction, following the scent of the lilacs. When some vagrants who were drinking alcohol on the station overpass spotted me, they shouted “Let's snare ourselves that tasty morsel and dine on raw fish!” Seoul was a scary place. I had a gut feeling that danger lurked around every corner here. The atmosphere was completely different from that of my one-time home, the Buddhist department store in Insadong. Yet I also felt the vague conviction that there was no immediate need for fear. Perhaps my experience of the hawk's attack and the plover's death had left me inured to such things. My first night in Seoul was spent huddled by some bins underneath Yeomch'eon bridge – no different from the vagrants who'd jeered at me. But my eyes stayed dry, and the night's chill was warmed by the lights from the trains, rattling past all through the night. When the new moon drifted into view between two soaring buildings, I saw that even Seoul could be beautiful. I spent several nights underneath Yeomch'eon bridge, avidly watching the trains go by. The days passed quickly, given that I did nothing but let my imagination run free, thinking how beautiful the night sky would be if the trains grew wings and soared across its black canopy, how exciting it would be if there was a train that could carry its passengers up from the earth to the sky. One day, an ash-grey pigeon flew in under Yeomch'eon bridge and alighted next to me. “You're from the countryside,” the pigeon remarked. It was never still, its neck constantly swivelling here and there, on the lookout for something to eat. “How did you know?” “I've been watching you for a couple of days now. I knew you couldn't be from Seoul, the way you just sat and stared at those trains. In Seoul, you have to be always on your toes if you want to get by.”

“Seoul is very beautiful,” I said, changing the subject. “And it feels even more beautiful now you're here.” “Well, that's not something I hear every day. Occasionally, yes. But there are plenty of people who feel sickened by living in the city, who can't appreciate its beauty. And their number seems to be always growing, that's the real problem.” The pigeon chattered on, seemingly pleased by my praise. “I live on the roof of Seoul City Hall, though I sometimes come to Deoksu palace, or near here, to the plaza in front of Seoul Station, to look for something to eat. But what made you come to Seoul?” Something on the ground caught the pigeon's eye and his beak darted to it in mid-sentence. “I've come to Seoul to look for my partner, my true other half. The kind who'd come out to meet me at the train station after a long journey.” “You're saying you came all the way to Seoul to find a partner?” “That's right, all the way from Unju Temple in far-off Hwasun county, to find my true partner.” “Well, as for finding another flying goldfish in Seoul, I can't say I rate your chances. In all the time I've lived here, I've never once set eyes on someone who looked like you.” “As long as I want it enough, the meeting will happen. I've learned that things work that way.” “If you ask me, you're too naïve. I'm a Seoulite born and bred, and there's times when even I get scared – and they're not so few and far between, either. I wouldn't be surprised if people try and catch you. Put one foot wrong, and you might well end up in someone's pot.” Looking extremely worried, the pigeon showed me his right foot. To my surprise, there wasn't a single toe left on it. “Do you know why it's like this? Because I got my toes tangled up in a nylon washing line that someone had thrown away. The blood couldn't flow into my toes anymore, so in the

end they rotted and fell off. Plastic and rubber â&#x20AC;&#x201C; you'll want to watch out for them over anything else if you want to survive in Seoul. I've even got a friend who once ate some plastic by mistake, and choked to death when it got stuck in his throat.â&#x20AC;? While I was talking with the pigeon, several trains with the lights off in their carriages slowly wended their way towards Susaek Station, to sleep in whatever way trains do. But tonight, I thought, those trains will sprout wings, and soar through the sky above Seoul. I believed this, just as I believed that somewhere in this city there was a goldfish waiting for me.