Gilded (5 page)

The sweet potato lady eyes me from under the green scarf wrapped around her head. She wobbles over in her bulky trousers and stuffs a dirty towel on my bleeding hand. I’ll probably get an infection from it, I think dully.

She rattles off something in Korean, but I’m too dazed to listen. I do notice she’s holding a piece of my coat. I peer over my shoulder and realize the back of my coat is shredded as if some wild animal with giant claws has ripped through it.

Impossible.

“Flee!”
the wind whispers into my ear.

I run the rest of the way home.

We leave Seoul hours before sunrise the next morning. Dad hopes to avoid the Han River traffic. Still, five a.m. seems a little extreme, especially since I hardly slept last night thanks to that horrible Haechi creature attacking me. Or as it seemed to believe, “protecting” me. Some protection.

I’m still not sure what to think about last night. Was it real? It felt real.

But none of it could possibly have happened. That stuff belongs in movies and fairy tales. I rub the egg-sized bump on the back of my head. I’m guessing I hit my head and then dreamed up an insane story.

I stare out my window as the first rays of sunlight sparkle across the skyscrapers on the other side of the Han River while, on my right, concrete buildings line the edge of the road like a massive wall.

Haechi. Glittery Guy. Palk. Why had I imagined those creatures?

Last night, mind racing, I’d dug through my unpacked
boxes until I found the book of Korean folktales Mom read to me every night as a kid.

“These are your stories, Jae,” she’d say. “They are a part of who you are.”

Never once had I imagined those stories would come to life and attack me.

I cross my legs in the backseat of the car and rest Mom’s thick hardcover in my lap. The pages are soft and worn under my fingers. I flip through them until I find the illustration of Haechi.

Underneath it is the definition:

Haechi—A legendary creature resembling a lion; a fire-eating beast; guardian against disaster and prejudice.

It looks exactly like the creature I hallucinated last night. I flip to the index and search for Palk. He’s listed as one of the two great immortals and the counterpart of Kud, the immortal of darkness.

Palk—The sun god and founder of the realm of light. He is the personification of all that is light, good, and beneficial.

I press my palms against my eyelids as if to push away last night’s memory. For a year after Mom died, I saw a psychologist to help me cope with my nightmares. Maybe moving to Seoul reawakened those nightmares, but at a whole new level this time. Because last night in the street facing those creatures felt real.

Too real.

I tuck the book to my chest. I can almost hear Mom’s voice reading to me like she would when I was little. When she was sick, really sick, I’d lie next to her, watching the shadows creep across the walls like the hands of a clock.

“Read to me,” she’d say.

So during her last days, I was the one who would read until my throat would ache and my voice would rasp.

It hadn’t always been that way. Before Mom got sick, we were busy. She with her paintings and I with my archery tournaments. If she was here now, would I have talked to her about last night? If she hadn’t gotten sick, would we have ever gotten that close?

My heart balloons up until I can’t take the pain of it anymore. I throw the book across the car.

“Jae!” Dad says, jerking me back to reality. “What is wrong?”

What is there to tell him? That I’m losing my mind?

“School,” I finally say. “Too much studying.”

We merge into the three-lane Gangbyeon Expressway as Dad nods solemnly. “Well then, it will be good for you to take a break for this holiday.”

Cars clog the highway, reminding me of L.A. at rush hour. Dad maneuvers through the traffic, hands gripping the steering wheel. Even when he drives he’s got that intensity and determination. People used to say I looked just like Mom, but I have got my dad’s personality. Maybe that’s why we don’t sit down and just chat. Sitting and introspection aren’t exactly our strengths.

Soon we ease out of the city, and rolling hills and greenhouses replace skyscrapers and concrete. The hills, packed with evergreens, feel alive compared to the desert-like landscape of
California. We pass a dormant rice field, brown stalks chopped off like a bad haircut. An airplane soars above us—we’re quite close now to Incheon Airport—and a pang runs through my chest. I wish I was on one of those planes, whisking over the Pacific to L.A. If only I could convince Dad to move back home.

I’m in the middle of a daydream in which I’ve secretly stowed myself on a plane when I realize we’re already driving off the ferry onto a tiny, two-lane road on Muui Island, where Grandfather lives. Metal-framed shacks line the curb with vendors selling crab and tangerines, an odd combination. We curve inland and climb a hill, passing an old man spreading his peppers out on blankets to redden them in the sun.

It turns out that Grandfather’s house isn’t on the beach but above the coast, built on the edge of a cliff. It’s a traditional Korean home, with the fluted roof line and cross-beamed walls. I wonder how old this place is. It’s absolutely stunning. As I scoot out of the car, the scent of pine and that icy smell of winter wash over me.

A servant answers the door with a bow and whisks away our bags. I slip off my boots, as is customary in all Korean homes, and follow Dad through the entryway into the main room. The house has an airy feel even in its old age due to its sparseness and the geometric screened windows overlooking the ocean. A near life-size stone statue of a winged horse rests on a wooden platform by the far wall. A gold plaque labels it Chollima. On the other side of the room is a uniform fitted on a manikin. I move closer to study it.

“Do you know anything about this?” I ask Dad, but he’s busy studying the mural of a tiger on the far wall. It’s painted in
traditional Asian style, with the tiger stretched out as if running. Its jaws gape wide, revealing sharp, jagged teeth.

“Annyeong hashimnikka,”
Grandfather greets us as he enters the room. He’s wearing loose black pants and a silken gray tunic that buttons down the center. We bow as is expected.

“That is a reproduction of General Yu-Shin Kim’s uniform,” Grandfather says, nodding toward the manikin.

I don’t know what to say and apparently neither does Dad. The silence that follows is painfully awkward. I find myself thinking of my friends back in L.A. who would rush into their grandparent’s arms with hugs, and my chest aches for that kind of openness. But they didn’t have thousands of years of tradition and ancestors hanging over them.

I tap my fingers against the sides of my thighs, waiting for his eyes to turn to mine and frown. When his attention does slide to me, his eyelashes squeeze tight and he nods once. I squirm and lower my eyes, not expecting that response.

“So she stays,” Grandfather says.

“Abeoji,” Dad says, “We’ve just arrived. Please try to keep the peace.”

“Peace?” Grandfather scoffs, settling onto a pillow at the traditional square table in the room’s center. “Peace is what I live for. What our ancestors lived for.”

“Good,” Dad says, now smiling. His shoulders relax and he, too, sits.

“Sit, sit.” Grandfather waves to me, his gold ring flashing as he does so.

We sit cross-legged on silk cushions on the oak floor as a servant sets out tea and
tteok
for us. I choose a pink-colored one
and pop it into my mouth. Sesame and brown sugar have been tucked inside. These are the best rice cakes I’ve ever tasted.

“How do you like Korea?” Grandfather asks me.

“It’s okay, I guess,” I say, studying the tea leaves in my cup. “But I miss my friends back home.”

“I am sure you miss your American education,” he says.

My head jerks up, and I search his face. He looks dead serious.

“She attends an international school,” Dad says. “They have the same American education as any top school in the States.”

Grandfather nods while crossing his arms. “Do you not think boarding school in America would be more appropriate for Jae Hwa? Many families send their children to boarding schools. Taking her away from her homeland must be difficult.”

I nearly drop my teacup. “There are boarding schools in L.A.”

“Is that so?” Grandfather asks.

Boarding school! Why hadn’t I thought of that? Maybe Grandfather’s antagonism might work for my good.

“It’s out of the question.” Dad’s scowl is firmly back in place. “Jae needs more time to adjust. Besides, she’s far too young to be off by herself.”

“Jae seems quite mature,” Grandfather says. “I would be pleased to contribute any funds needed for such an enterprise.”

“No,” Dad says flatly.

“It is merely a thought. I do not see why you keep resisting my generosity.” Grandfather’s eyes are tight with anger. Or is it worry?

“I love your painting of that tiger,” I say, deciding to switch the topic. “It almost looks alive.”

“Ah yes, the Tiger of Shinshi,” Grandfather says. “You remember the legends, yes?”

I reach for another
tteok
. “Something about him protecting the Korean people throughout time?”

“Excellent memory!” Grandfather beams. “It is he who watches over the Golden Thread that binds our people as one.”

“Speaking of time, when are the others supposed to arrive?” Dad’s still on edge.

“I commissioned an esteemed Korean-American painter to create the mural,” Grandfather says, ignoring Dad’s comment. I can’t blame Dad, though. It’s strange no one else from our family has arrived yet. “It serves as a continual reminder of my duties here on Earth.”

Yep. He’s completely
michutda
.

“Jae Hwa, would you care to take a stroll with me on the beach?” Grandfather asks.

My hand freezes while I’m reaching for my teacup. He wants to take
me
for a walk? The granddaughter he’s so ashamed of that he’s thinking of ways to get me out of the country? Or have I somehow exaggerated how he feels about me? Mom had always said I go overboard sometimes. Still, this could turn into an opportunity—like boarding school.

The servant hurries over and hands me my coat, scarf, and boots. As we step out the back door, Dad calls to Grandfather, his forehead bunching up like it does when he’s worried.

“Just a walk, Abeoji,” he says. “None of your stories, remember? She doesn’t need nightmares.”

Nightmares? Two days ago I would’ve glared at Dad for treating me like a five-year-old. But today I start to wonder if Dad isn’t right.

Once outside, I draw in a breath of salt air and gaze down into the dark-indigo ocean, the afternoon sun scattering rays across its surface.

Mom would’ve wanted to paint this place.

Crops of rounded hills rise up out of the water. Sluggish waves lap against the black sand like fingers touching a keyboard. It’s such a contrast to the ten-foot waves that crash against the Malibu beaches where my friends and I hung out.

“These are the tidal flats.” Grandfather swings open a waist-high gate and starts down a set of wooden stairs that lead to the beach. “Soon, very soon, all the water will be gone, leaving only mud.”

I can’t imagine how that much water could disappear. I hurry after him. The sound of wind and rushing water grows once I hit the dark sand, hard and icy. I scramble to catch up as he strides out to stand at the muddy water’s edge, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes tuned to the skyline.

“They said it was impossible to land an army here in
Incheon.” Grandfather’s wrinkles appear deeper in the daylight. “That is why General MacArthur surprised the North Koreans and won the war. He took the impossible and made it possible.”

Now I know where Dad gets all his sayings. Dad is big on motivational stuff like “The best way to predict your future is to create it,” which he has hanging over his desk.

“So you think it’s possible for me to go to boarding school?” I ask.

“Of course. I must first convince your father.”