Lost Souls Read online

  At this point the second man tosses his cigarette into the water. “Say, do you hear a voice? Isn’t that the woman you came with calling from over by the lighthouse?”

  The first man looks toward the lighthouse. “It’s the sound of the waves.”

  The second man scoops up sand with both hands. “All I’m going to do at night is walk this beach. This beach that’s so like Wŏri’s body. And over and over I’ll feel this sand that’s cold like Wŏri’s body colder even than our flowers. The harder I grab this cold sand the faster it slips through my fingers.”

  The first man also grabs some sand, and proceeds to scatter it over the water.

  “And I’ll scatter this sand over the water too. Just now I had a feeling that I simply ought to go into the ocean. There’s seaweed in that ocean. All I have to do is go into the ocean and that seaweed will wrap itself around me. Just like Wŏri’s body. To go to sleep wrapped up in seaweed—what else could I ask for? And if the fish want to take a bite out of me when I’m decomposed, that’s fine. All I have to do is jump into the ocean. And it would have to be a night like this, a night when there’s no moon and the stars are faint. Simply turn my back on that lighthouse, go into the ocean, and let the seaweed wrap itself around me.”

  The first man looks out to sea again.

  “I even thought of leaving my will on a sand dune. And even if Wŏri comes here, I won’t be happy. The real Wŏri is in the ocean. If I get washed away by the wind and the tide before daybreak, it’s fine.”

  The first man takes another handful of sand and scatters it over the water.

  There is only the sound of the dark sea.

  The first man walks off in the direction opposite the lighthouse, whence he came.

  “Wait—isn’t that the woman calling you?”

  The first man comes to a stop. “It’s the waves,” he says, but with no indication that he has listened for a voice. He resumes walking.

  White teeth gnaw at the dark sea’s sandy edge.

  A woman, walking quickly, appears out of the darkness from the direction of the lighthouse.

  “Why didn’t you follow me? It’s so pleasant watching the ocean from the lighthouse.”

  The second man merely looks out to the dark sea.

  “You know, at the lighthouse the smell of fish scales carries on the breeze more than the smell of seaweed.” She approaches the second man and starts. “Who are you? Where did he go?”

  The second man simply points toward the sea, in the direction the first man has gone.

  “What?! He went in? Then he must be underwater. Save him!”

  “He’s down too deep.”

  “Won’t you save him—please?”

  “He’s all wrapped up in seaweed.”

  The woman squats in a heap.

  “I had something to tell him. Didn’t he say anything?”

  “I’ll bet he left a note on that sand dune saying he used to be quite happy.”

  “Oh? Well, I don’t believe it. It’s a lie. And when I said it’s nice at the lighthouse at night, I was lying too. I guess he wanted to find happiness on his own.”

  The woman buries her face in her hands and begins to sob, her shoulders heaving.

  The lighthouse lamp continues to wink on and off. The horizon, the sky, and the sea are a seamless black. Without a word, the second man disappears over the sand dune and into the darkness.

  SWINE

  The chickens cluck furiously, beaks gaping, as they retreat from the straw mat where the millet has been hulled. Yongt’ae’s mother is searching the grain for bugs. She flicks the bugs aside and the chickens flock to where they land, then disperse. Yongt’ae’s mother shoos the chickens away and pours the grain onto a winnow.

  Suddenly the chickens flock together, combs bristling, as a pig appears, snout to the ground. Interrupting her winnowing, Yongt’ae’s mother drives the pig off with a stick.

  As the pig runs past the bamboo fence that borders the vegetable patch, the bamboo casts vertical shadows along its back.

  Yongt’ae’s mother turns to see the chickens pecking at the millet in the winnow.

  “Shoo, birds. . . . How come they don’t feed that pig?” she grumbles.

  “Did you feed the pig?” asks Ujŏm’s mother. She and Ujŏm are out in the paddy. She’s using a chipped wooden bowl to water the rice shoots.

  “Uh-huh.”

  The rice shoots tremble as the muddy water splashes them. A sodden mole cricket grapples with one of the shoots, trying to climb it.

  Ujŏm, when her mother isn’t looking, throws a clod of dirt at the cricket.

  Again her mother’s voice: “Did you shut the pigpen tight?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  The rice shoot droops under the weight of the mole cricket.

  Ujŏm examines the cricket as it struggles to climb the shoot.

  “Are you sure you fed the pig?” her mother asks. She straightens and proceeds to pummel the small of her back with her soiled hands, her shadow flickering on the surface of the muddy water in the irrigation pool.

  Yongt’ae’s mother moves the winnow under the eaves and continues to sift the millet for bugs. “Grain’s never going to ripen,” she mutters.

  Yongt’ae is inside picking stray bits of reed from a reed mat. “We haven’t had any rain, that’s why.” He goes to school in Seoul, and speaks in the Seoul dialect.

  Grains of millet bounce above the back of Yongt’ae’s mother’s hand.

  Yongt’ae’s eyes follow the bouncing grains.

  “All we get is the halo around the moon, and not the rain that’s supposed to follow,” he says.

  His mother’s hand sifts the grain more quickly.

  “I wonder if your father found some water for the paddy.”

  Kŭnhu wipes his sweaty face with his sleeve. There’s scarcely a breath of wind, not enough to ruffle the sleeve.

  “Hey, Ujŏm, is our Yongt’ae still inside?” he shouts.

  “Don’t know,” says Ujŏm, content with her mole cricket.

  Ujŏm’s mother shouts back, “Why don’t you let him be? A boy needs his rest after all that studying.”

  “Rest? What for?”

  “‘You can let an only son die, as long as the grain doesn’t burn up.’ Is that it?”

  There’s no breeze, but somehow wisps of cloud come together and float gently overhead. Before long they’ve vanished into the clear blue sky.

  The water in the paddy is drying up. The yellowish-brown color of the rice shoots is getting darker.

  Kŭnhu keeps digging into the irrigation ditch. The flow of water increases with each shovelful of dirt that’s removed. Sunlight glints momentarily on the wet tip of the shovel. Herons skim the paddies, looking in vain for a place to light. The water level in the ditch drops as the water soaks into the dry ground.

  Yongt’ae’s mother is still picking through the millet, searching now for tiny cocoons, which she crushes between her fingers.

  “That pig got loose again.”

  “Weren’t Ujŏm’s folks going to slaughter it and use the head for a rain ceremony?” says Yongt’ae.

  “That’s right.”

  “And the shaman’s going to bring us rain?”

  “Don’t talk like that, child. She did last time.”

  Yongt’ae returns to his work with the reed mat.

  “I tell you, that pig is a runt. They don’t feed it right.”

  “The one they bought with the money they got for Ujŏm’s elder sister?”

  “That’s right.”

  The pig works its snout beneath the bamboo fence and roots around in the vegetable patch. It finds a runner of baby squashes, uproots it, bites through the runner, and is startled by the resulting snap. The pig runs off, only to startle again, this time at the rocks in the path. It turns and runs in the opposite direction.

  “Remember how they sent Ujŏm’s sister off to her in-laws with just the clothes on her back, because they spent her bride price on
the pig? Too bad for her, if you think about it. But she’s a bit thickheaded, that one. She couldn’t put up with all the children he had by his first wife, so she came back home. What an awful thing to do! I heard even a shaman got involved. But what can a person do if it’s her fate to marry a widower?”

  An insect bounces off the back of her hand and out of the winnow.

  “Her in-laws live up in the hills, don’t they?”

  “Yes. Up there the millet and sorghum are still doing all right.”

  “Not their rice plants, though. I’ll bet they’re shriveled up.”

  “Now that you’ve got the sleep out of your eyes, go see how your father’s doing. He was up all night trying to get some water to the paddy, but I’m afraid the sun has dried it out again.”

  With his weeding hoe Taegŏn digs a channel through the earthen barrier that Kŭnhu has built to dam the flow of water to the other paddies. Beside him Kŭnhu frantically shovels sod to re-block the flow.

  Taegŏn scrapes furiously at the dam. “You’re only looking after yourself—what about the rest of us?”

  “What about us?” Kŭnhu says.

  The back of Kŭnhu’s shovel slants toward Taegŏn’s shoulder, misses, and bounces off the ground. Off balance, Kŭnho tumbles, writhing, into the paddy.

  Kŭnhu crawls back up to the elevated path through the paddies, blood oozing through the soil caked above his eyebrows. He claws at the mud, attempting to repair the dam.

  The chickens gather beside the winnow.

  Yongt’ae claps his hands to shoo the chickens away. Instead of scattering, they merely bob their elongated necks.

  His mother works the winnow. Perspiration spreads through the clothing on her back.

  “Does it get this hot in Seoul?”

  “Even hotter.”

  His mother pours the winnowed millet into a wooden bowl.

  “I hear in Seoul they’ve got all kinds of wild animals that people can go see. How can animals live in this heat?” She settles the grain in the bowl.

  Yongt’ae scatters the bits of reeds in front of the chickens and rises. Instead of the chickens it’s flies that swarm about the reed bits.

  “I guess you don’t need to go check on your father. He’s probably all right.”

  Yongt’ae dons his straw hat.

  His mother rises as well, bowl in hand.

  “You’re going after all?”

  “You, child!” calls Ujŏm’s mother, just as Ujŏm reaches out for a dragonfly resting on a withered mugwort stalk.

  The dragonfly’s head moves back and forth. Just as her shadow is about to cover the dragonfly, Ujŏm moves to the side.

  “Where are you, you little mischief?”

  The dragonfly flits away from Ujŏm’s fingertips. It seems about to light where it was before, but then flies high into the air.

  Ujŏm whirls around. “What’s the matter?”

  Her mother runs up to her, brandishing a fist. “What are you doing, you little bitch? You’re supposed to be looking for the pig.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Kŭnhu’s mud-covered form appears in the distance.

  “Ujŏm,” he calls, “send Yongt’ae here.”

  “All right.” Ujŏm’s gaze drifts in the direction the dragonfly has flown.

  “Grain’s never going to ripen,” mutters Yongt’ae’s mother as she enters the kitchen.

  The cloudless sky looks too far off for it to be evening already.

  A bee falls to the ground. It’s coated with pollen from the squash flowers.

  Head to the ground, the pig makes its way through the vegetable patch. Its shadow, cross-hatched by the silhouette of the bamboo fence, is as long and thin as can be.

  THE BROKEN REED

  A single broken reed, one from the previous year, swayed above the new grass on a patch of undeveloped land. Swarms of mosquito larvae rose and settled in the black soil bordering a mud puddle. Maggots crawled out of the puddle to the thick, dark mud, then returned to the water.

  A mangy dog with a bone in its mouth came slinking past the puddle and curled up next to a decaying log. After gnawing for a time on the already cleaned bone, the emaciated animal let it drop from its mouth, sniffed at the air, and rose. Completing a circuit of the surroundings, it returned to the bone.

  A girl made a ball of mud and threw it at the dog as it licked the bone. The mud ball missed the dog, which hunched up and whimpered nonetheless.

  The girl plopped herself down on her haunches and felt the boils on her calves, then drew her elbows in close to her sides and squirmed, as if the intermittent sunshine landing on her back tickled. A precocious smile played at the corners of her mouth.

  The weather was as pleasant as could be.

  The dog went toward the hut where the girl and her family lived, off to the side of the patch of undeveloped land. The girl’s grandfather emerged from the hut and called to her:

  “Sweetie, come check on your father.”

  But the girl remained squatting, her mouth still in a forced smile.

  The girl’s grandfather noticed the dog’s bone underfoot. He found a large rock, placed the bone beneath it, and tamped down on the rock with his foot.

  The dog disappeared behind the straw mat that draped the entrance to the hut.

  Inside the hut the girl’s father brought an opium-filled syringe to his yellowish-blue arm. His hand shook so much that the syringe kept slipping as he tried to penetrate the skin. Brownish mucus ran from his dark, flared nostrils and gathered on his lips. Finally managing to insert the needle, he gradually became still.

  The dog licked the girl’s father’s face with its milk-colored tongue and went back outside.

  The dog was beside the puddle licking its bone. Its tongue looked even milkier now.

  The girl came walking past the decaying log, followed by a boy with a book bag strapped to his back.

  “Can you tell what’s in that dog’s mouth?” she asked.

  The boy looked from the dog to the girl and shook his head.

  “It’s a bone—a human bone!” With a satisfied smile the girl peered into the boy’s fear-stricken face. “Once that dog eats a hundred skeletons it’ll turn into a person. There are all kinds of bones here, you know. This place used to be full of graves. That puddle used to be a grave too. My grandfather was a grave keeper here. He still checks the graves every night. Pretty soon this place will be filled with big houses. Then there will be ghosts everywhere. The ghosts already put my mother under a spell and she ran off, and my father’s possessed and he’s going to die.”

  The heavens could no longer hold back the rain. The dog kept shaking the rain from its fur, losing its balance, and toppling over.

  The rain was followed by a gloomy night. The dog continually whimpered.

  The girl’s grandfather looked off in the direction of the whimpering, then sat down on the log.

  There was a wheezing sound beside the girl’s grandfather. A woman from the streets had sat down at the end of the log. The woman’s face and hands floated pale in the darkness, like a reflection on the surface of the puddle.

  The girl’s grandfather rose and walked toward the hut. From behind him the wheezing came to a stop. He looked back. From beside the log came a feeble gesture—a hand, perhaps. He went back toward the log.

  The faint outline of the hand had disappeared, nor was the woman herself there. The girl’s grandfather flinched, afraid of stumbling into a pine tree he knew was nearby, and came to a halt. Looking more closely, he spotted the pine, several steps in front of him.

  From out of the gloom came the whimper of the dog.

  Eyes closed, the girl’s father trembled. The dog’s tongue, darker now, licked his runny nose and his lips.

  The dog left its bone beside the log and made a listless circuit of the surroundings.

  Just as listlessly, the girl approached the dog. Her legs were still ridden with boils. Already the dog was yelping, tail between its legs.


  The dog curled up beside the puddle and trembled. And as the dog trembled, the bone kept slipping from its mouth.

  The girl brought another boy with a book bag strapped to his back. They sat down on the log.

  “Can you tell what’s in that dog’s mouth?” she asked.

  The boy shook his head.

  “It’s a human bone. Once that dog eats a hundred skeletons it’ll turn into a person. There used to be graves all over here. You don’t have to dig too deep to find a lot of skeletons. Want to try?”

  The boy promptly shook his head.

  The girl, smiling to herself, observed his face and said, “My grandfather checks on these graves at night. He used to be a grave keeper here. Soon this place will be full of big houses, and then there will be ghosts everywhere. They’ve already possessed my mother, and she ran off. They’ve possessed my father too, and he’s going to die. When that happens, my grandfather will bury him and then that dog will dig up his bones.”

  The dog was no longer able to hold the bone in its mouth

  On a day when clear weather had given way to more rain, the dog fell dead to the ground.

  * * *

  The rain was lighter that evening but still cold.

  The girl’s grandfather emerged from their hut with a shovel and set out toward the puddle.

  A dark shape was moving near where the dog had died, and from the shape came a wheezing sound.

  The girl’s grandfather quickly approached. He thought he caught a glimpse of the street woman’s milky face turned toward him, and then she ran off toward the street, the dead dog in her arms, and disappeared from view.

  The grass on the patch of undeveloped land was higher now than the broken reed. The needles of the gnarled pine were greener.

  The sun was stinging hot, and moss had reappeared on the decaying log, growing in crevices in the bark. Seductively green, the moss crawled with tiny red, threadlike insects.

  Mosquito larvae once again thrived in the puddle. Maggots began to appear from the foul water. Cloudy or not, the sky was no longer reflected on the surface.