Read an Excerpt
Monsoon
Daegeori, 1924
The monsoon rain was at its worst that July. The day the sun came out, the women of Daegeori headed for the river with loads of white shirts, white pants, and other white clothing in hand. White had been the colour that commoners wore long before the Japanese empire seized control of the country. From a distance, the laundry looked like melting snow along the riverbanks as the women laid out their wet clothes.
For generations, the remote village had been isolated by the surrounding pine-wooded mountains. In the ancient principles of pungsu jiri, mountains and rivers were key to a balanced and prosperous life. Mountains harnessed the wind and the rivers moved water. This constant movement from the sky to the earth transported energy, qi. In Daegeori, the highest mountain at the rear of the village blocked the wind and protected the fields, and the rivers that flowed from the mountains enriched the many rice fields and allowed for lush fruit and nut orchards to thrive.
It was already late morning by the time Na-Young reached the river. Carrying a straw basket filled with her and her mother’s dirty clothes on her head, she bowed to several of the women and exchanged the usual courtesies. Like them, Na-Young wore a hanbok, the traditional long-sleeved jeogori worn over a full-length wraparound skirt, the chima. The soft pink colour of her clothes reflected her status. Her father was a prominent landowner with the second-largest walnut orchard in their village. Not that that meant much these days. Since the Japanese had taken over Korea fourteen years ago, many landowners across the country had been forced to pay more than half their crops as rent to Japan, effectively making them tenants on their own land. Even Sang-Hoon, Na-Young’s oppa, her older brother, had to abandon his plans to attend university to help out. He had wanted to be a doctor and was crushed. Things were different when Korea had a king, he had told her. Now a Japanese governor-general oversaw control of the country, and the Japanese emperor ruled over the empire of which it was a part. But all of that felt far away on this bright day that came after weeks of rain.
Na-Young spotted her friend Yeon-Soo nearby. Her naturally red highlights, the same colour as wild omija berries, seemed to sizzle against her coal-black hair, which she wore in a bun close to the nape of her neck.
As Na-Young picked her way towards her friend, she passed Su-Bin, Yeon-Soo’s only child, sprawled on the dirt. His blue pants, made of the finest silk, were stained brown and green, and there was a tear in one knee. He was shooting pretend stones into the air with a slingshot.
“Anh-yong,” Na-Young greeted him.
Su-Bin sat up and motioned for her to come closer. He opened his mouth to reveal that he had lost another tooth.
“Soon all your teeth will be grown-up ones, and you will be a man.”
“I’m already ten years old,” he said. He winced when she patted his head, and lay back down on the ground. Na-Young continued towards his mother. “Good morning,” she said, dropping her laundry. “Is your boy doing all right?”
“Good morning!” Yeon-Soo shielded her one good eye from the sun as she peered up. Na-Young noticed her friend’s hands were swollen and bruised.
Yeon-Soo caught her looking. “Su-Bin fell, hit his head, and tore the new pants that his grandmother got him. She was furious,” Yeon-Soo said. “He was chasing a dragonfly.”
Everyone in the village knew that Lady Lee had a temper, and that she looked down on Yeon-Soo because she had worked as a servant before Lady Lee’s eldest son, Jung-Nam, fell in love. When Yeon-Soo became pregnant, a marriage was arranged. Because she had been born blind in one eye and had unusually red hair, all her parents got for her were three bags of potatoes and a large bag of walnuts. “I wasn’t even worth a single grain of rice,” she often said to Na-Young. “You won’t have to worry about that when your family arranges your wedding.”
When Yeon-Soo gave birth to a son, her status in the house was secured, but, like his mother, little Su-Bin had trouble seeing well. He also was prone to repeating sounds he heard around him, and his head often jerked to one side. Lady Lee considered these impediments and felt that Su-Bin was not the heir she’d hoped for. This was just one more reason for her to hate Yeon-Soo, although Yeon-Soo’s husband shielded her from the worst of Lady Lee’s anger. But when he died from a sudden heart attack two years ago, Lady Lee made Yeon-Soo the target of her grief and began to lash out, often beating her for the smallest infraction. As her friend was older, it wasn’t Na-Young’s place to comment on the abuse she endured, but Na-Young knew it probably hurt Yeon-Soo’s hands to do the laundry. Thankfully, she only had Su-Bin’s clothes and her own to wash.
“Let me help you,” Na-Young said, rolling up her sleeves. “How did your son fall?”
Yeon-Soo sniffed the shirt she had been washing and dropped it back into the water. “I got the smell out, but grass and bloodstains are another matter. He was playing with a dragonfly when a bird suddenly appeared and attempted to feast on it. He attacked the bird with his slingshot, running after it until he tumbled over some rocks.”
“He thought it was his father again?” Na-Young whispered.
“Yes.”
“How exhausting it must be for him to believe his father’s spirit still lives in other forms.”
“I don’t think there’s any harm in believing that someone is watching over us.”
“I suppose it’s a bit of a survival instinct given his...” Na-Young stopped.
“Oddities?” Yeon-Soo said. Her lips parted, but she said no more.
Na-Young tugged at her jeogori to allow some cooler air to reach her skin.
“How’s your mother doing?” Yeon-Soo asked.
“Not even the sunshine can draw her outside.” Na-Young sighed as she thought of her mother, cooped up in her room. It started when Na-Young’s older sister, Mi-Young, died seven years ago. They had all grieved the loss, but Mother had retreated into herself. It didn’t help that Na-Young’s father had taken a second wife.
Yeon-Soo nodded in understanding and the two fell quiet as they turned back to work. Na-Young took a shirt from her friend’s basket and soaked it in water, then used a heavy wooden washboard to scrub it. Once the shirt was rinsed and wrung out, she moved on to the next garment.
The water was cool, but soon she was sweating under the heat of the sun. She dipped her braided hair into the river and used the tail to splash water over her face.
In the distance, a dog barked, and Su-Bin mimicked the sound, letting out a high-pitched squawking noise. The dog barked again. So did Su-Bin. The other women began hushing him, calling, “Quiet, Chicken Boy.”
Na-Young had not been there to witness the “Great Chicken Miracle” that had given Su-Bin his nickname. As the only son, Su-Bin had been given the task of killing the chicken that would be the special dinner to mark the one-year anniversary of his father’s death. He was told by the cook to chop the head off at the neck, but he’d botched the task, the axe’s blade landing just below the chicken’s ear holes. Without a head, the bird flew about the yard before Su-Bin could collect it and wrap the open wound with some rags. The headless chicken eventually recovered and now spent its days preening and strutting around like a peacock. Lady Lee was disgusted at first, but then she proclaimed it a miracle. Seeing the financial opportunities, she praised her grandson as a hero: a saviour of all things, including chickens.
Like everyone else in the village, Na-Young was in awe of the Chicken Miracle, and so she was deeply disappointed when her brother told her that it was only because the brain stem, which controlled an animal’s reflex actions, was intact that Headless Chicken was able to keep living after the clotting had stopped it from bleeding to death. As Oppa had been the closest thing to a doctor available when the unfortunate accident happened, he’d been asked to treat the chicken. He had been clever enough to leave a small opening in the esophagus so that the bird could be fed.
But no one was interested in the science or a rational explanation for the headless chicken. Word spread throughout neighbouring villages. Soon everyone came to see Headless Chicken, each willing to pay money they did not have to see the miracle for themselves.
Su-Bin rushed towards them. “I need to go back,” he said. “I need to feed Headless Chicken.”
“You go ahead,” Yeon-Soo replied, “then come back to help me carry the wash.”
Su-Bin showed Na-Young the gap in his teeth again before he dashed off, barking each time he heard the dog.
“I was terrified of having a girl,” Yeon-Soo whispered. “I prayed so hard for a boy; I never thought to pray for a normal one.”
“It’s good to have a son,” Na-Young said to her friend as she watched Su-Bin go. Without Su-Bin and his chicken, things would be a lot worse for her friend.
Farther up the river, the elder women began to sing of their plight. “What, what do we have to live for? Hard work, hard work, hard work—life as a grasshopper would be gentler. Please, may I return as one in my next life?”
Or a headless chicken, Na-Young thought, envisioning it seated at the head of the table as everyone toasted its greatness.
After a while, Na-Young’s hands were wrinkled like prunes in the water. She used her braid to splash more water against her face. The sun was unbearably hot, and she longed for a cool breeze to bring some relief. She could use a nap, she thought. She’d been having bad dreams again, but this time, she kept them to herself. The last time she told Oppa and Mother about her dreams—talking spiders that took over their land or dead chickens falling from the sky—Mother ended up consulting with the village apothecary, who had made wild predictions about an early harvest or a family member’s imminent illness. It was easier to keep her dreams to herself rather than burden her family with such preposterous fantasies.
Yeon-Soo passed her friend a rice cake. “Eat,” she said, indicating that she needed a break. They stepped away from the river and sat on the grass.
Another old woman, this time with a deep, raspy voice, had taken over the singing upstream. The song was more upbeat, and others joined in: “Mountain rabbit, mountain rabbit, where are you going? You hop around all day long.”
“Do you suppose laundry was ever men’s work?” Yeon-Soo asked, leaning back on her elbows.
Na-Young shook her head, although she hadn’t ever thought of the possibility.
“Do you ever wonder what life would be like if you were a man?”
“No, that’s silly,” Na-Young said. She waved her hands lazily at the small bugs that buzzed about.
Yeon-Soo got a faraway look in her eyes. “When I was a child, I wanted to be a hwarang and serve the queens of the ancient kingdom of Silla. There were female warriors, but I always wanted to be a hwarang.”
“A what?”
“A hwarang! They were young male warriors sworn to bravery and loyalty. They were devoted to their family, and, of course, the king.”
Na-Young couldn’t help but laugh.
“I was only a child. Serving a queen just seemed so much better than serving a husband. Serving a queen as a brave warrior seemed best of all. I would have trained to fight in battles with a sword, and learned the art of seoye using the finest brushes and paper.” After a long pause, she went on, “Girls can’t even go to school and learn properly like the boys. The world is unfair to women. That’s why women need other women to teach them how to survive.”
“At least your husband taught you to read and write,” Na-Young said.
“Not that it helps in any way.” Yeon-Soo ran her fingers over the stitch marks and stray threads of her chima.
“You should teach me.”
“I can teach you other things,” Yeon-Soo said. Na-Young knew why her friend had said this: Na-Young’s parents would never agree.
All Na-Young wanted was to learn to read and write, but her mother always told her that no man wanted a wife who was smarter than he was. That didn’t stop her from daydreaming about going to school where there were no clothes or dishes to wash, just books to read and lessons to learn. She had never actually seen a school, but it sounded like a magical place, much like the king’s palace, which Oppa had told her had wooden floors, golden ceilings, and rooms full of books.
“I bet I could have been a doctor,” Na-Young said, “if only I were allowed to go to school. All I have waiting for me is marriage.”
“I miss being married,” Yeon-Soo said more to herself. “I miss how my husband protected me from his family.”
How sad, Na-Young thought,
that we should need protection from our own families. But then she thought of Father’s second wife. Unlike most second wives, who took direction from the first wives, Second Mother had dictated the terms of their relationship, her arrogant confidence fuelled by Father’s obvious affection for her. Although her parents’ marriage had been an arranged one, Mother said she had made the mistake of falling in love with her husband. Love, she warned Na-Young, seduced with the fragrances of magnolias and gardenias, but all flowers eventually died and rotted away. Yet marriage was inevitable: She was already seventeen years old.
A series of piercing screams suddenly cut through the air. Everyone turned around. Several servants from Yeon-Soo’s house were running towards the river, their arms flailing. “It’s Su-Bin! Come quickly!”
Yeon-Soo leaped to her feet. Na-Young ran after her, holding her long chima up as much as possible to avoid tripping. They ran past the farmers with their knees buried in the rice fields, past the open barley fields, and through the orchard of walnut trees before they reached the estate. There, by the inner courtyard, lying on the dirt again, was Su-Bin. His head was turned to one side, blood oozing out of his ear.
Yeon-Soo dropped by her son’s side and started shaking him violently. Na-Young stood watching, her heart pounding, unsure of what to do. Yeon-Soo screamed louder than Na-Young had ever heard, but Su-Bin didn’t move. After several minutes, two houseboys carried Su-Bin’s body inside, and Yeon-Soo went with them, refusing to let go of her son’s hand. Na-Young tried to follow, but Lady Lee stopped her.
“There’s nothing you can do here,” she said sharply, and gestured Na-Young away with her hand. She headed inside, stepping on Su-Bin’s slingshot along the way.
Stunned, Na-Young turned. There in the courtyard, Headless Chicken strutted. Blind and deaf, she had been spared the sight of her lifeless master’s body sprawled on the ground and the piercing cries of his mother. Na-Young couldn’t even think of what was to become of the bird. Her thoughts were on poor Su-Bin.
