Gilded (6 page)

“That might be more difficult than you think.”

He chuckles, his chin coming up as he does. “Jae Hwa, your father and I have disagreements. But my greatest concern is for your safety.”

My stomach rolls, wondering how he could know about my hallucination. But he couldn’t know. He’s probably thinking about boys. I smile. “I don’t think you need to worry about me, Haraboji.”

If he only knew. Like when the third-grade class bully, Jacob Cantor, strutted up to me, pulled my long braid, and called me a worthless immi (short for
immigrant
). If he’d been smart, he would’ve picked on some other immi. But unlucky Jacob picked me. I stood and knocked him a blow that sent him tumbling into the trash can. Where he probably felt right at home.

I say, “I have a black belt in Tae Kwon Do. Besides, Seoul is way safer than L.A.”

Except for what happened last night,
I think. I rub the back of my head, pushing away that thought.

“Not for you,” he says.

I press my lips together and resist rolling my eyes. Here comes the whole girls-need-to-be-protected lecture.

I’m about to explain to him how I can take care of myself when he motions to a set of smooth rocks to our left and sits on one. I follow, dragging my boots so they make a snakelike trail in the sand behind me. Great. I’ve let myself get lured out here with my lunatic grandfather.

“In ancient times there was a daughter of the spirit of the river.”

I’d rather discuss potential boarding school options. “I thought Dad didn’t want you telling me stories,” I say, trying to steer the conversation back on course.

“Her name was Princess Yuhwa,” he continues, ignoring my comment. “In fact, she was about your age. She had such beauty, anyone who laid eyes on her fell in love with her. One hot day, she and her sisters were bathing in a pond. This was the very day Haemosu, a demigod, decided to pay a visit to the people of the earth and set his mark on the land.”

Demigod?
I press my chin to my tucked-in knees and stare out at the rounded island just beyond our beach.

“He saw her and fell instantly in love,” Grandfather says. “Haemosu decided he must have Princess Yuhwa as his wife. But she refused. He gave her a beautiful bracelet gilded of heavenly gold and promised he would change her mind. Four more times he returned, entreating her to come with him to his beautiful land. Yet still the princess refused. This infuriated him, and he decided to marry her against her will.”

“Why don’t princesses ever
do
something in all these old stories?” I interrupt. “Like try to escape or get someone to help them?”

“She did tell her father, the water god, Habaek. When he
discovered that Haemosu did not follow the proper marriage ceremony, he fought with Haemosu. Habaek lost. Helpless, the princess was taken away in Haemosu’s chariot, Oryonggeo, driven by five dragons to the Spirit World.”

I dig the toe of my boot into the sand. “That’s a great story. But if you’re worried about me getting whisked away, you don’t need to. I can take care of myself.” Although a chariot driven by five dragons does sound pretty cool.

His eyebrows knit as he frowns. “I have not finished.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” It’s then that I notice the tide has pulled back about twenty feet, leaving behind a bank of mud. I sit up. When did that happen?

“What Haemosu underestimated was Princess Yuhwa. She secretly withdrew a golden pin from her hair, cut her way through the bottom of the chariot, and fell back to her people.”

I’d always thought princesses were more of the fainting type. Good for Yuhwa. “I guess Haemosu wasn’t too thrilled about that,” I say.

“He was furious,” Grandfather says, fingering the ring on his finger. “The legend says he searched everywhere for her, but she remained hidden in her father’s palace. Secretly, she bore Haemosu’s son, Chumong, who later became the founder of the Koguryo kingdom in ancient Korea.”

Is this some warped idea of happily ever after? “So it all worked out. Good for her.”

Grandfather rises, smoothing out the wrinkles in his tunic. “But it didn’t.”

I’m not sure if it’s from the tone of his voice or the oddness of the story, but a heaviness presses on me like a storm cloud.

“What the legend does not mention is that the princess fled to China, where Haemosu had no power.” Grandfather focuses on me. “Even today Haemosu still seeks her.”

Chills slither up my spine as I think about this twisted fairy tale. I nearly jump when one of the servants rushes up to us. “Sir,” he says in Korean. “Your brother’s family has arrived.”

“Well then.” Grandfather stands and pats me on the shoulder. “I must greet them. I had hoped for us to have more time together. Perhaps tomorrow?” When I don’t answer, he says, “Do you wish to join me? You have yet to meet the rest of the family.”

“Maybe later,” I say with a shrug. Meeting another set of strangers sounds even more painful than listening to Grandfather’s psycho stories.

“As you wish.” He starts off, but stops and glances over his shoulder. “Do not go to the outer island without me. It would not be wise.”

He turns and heads back to the house, his stride sure and quick, even with the wintry breeze whipping at his tunic.

I stare out at the island, wondering what Grandfather meant. A sound of rushing water catches my attention, and I notice how the water level is rapidly decreasing. A makeshift bridge of stepping stones from Grandfather’s beach to the tiny island not forty feet away appears. The stones must have been hidden under the water, and now that the tide has pulled back, their surfaces poke out of the mud, slick and shiny in the winter sun.

I slide off the rock and rub my hands together. Curiosity tugs at me like the tide, and I can’t stop myself. I cross the stepping-stone bridge, careful not to slip on its mud-slathered surface.

Once on the island, I follow an overgrown trail across a
meadow, which leaves me at a series of volcanic-like boulders that spike up, jagged and taller than a two-story house. Looking around, I can’t figure out what’s so dangerous about this place that Grandfather had to warn me explicitly about it.

I start climbing the rocks for fun, trying to remember the moves I learned at summer camp two years ago in Montana. I’m halfway up a rock side when I spot a narrow passageway between two boulders that twists its way from the beach to the rocks. I drop to the ground.

The passageway is so narrow I have to shimmy sideways. Above, the sky looks like a zigzag streak of paint between the uneven rock walls. At the end rests a wooden door, typhoon weathered.
Why in the world is there a door here?
I wonder. I turn the handle, and, with a click, it opens.

Is this place Haraboji’s? Sure, he’s my grandfather, but what do I really know about him? I peek inside. It’s dark as pitch. On a stone ledge just inside the door sits a metal box from which I extract a lighter. I ignite the torch lying against the wall, and instantly the long, rock-walled corridor is illuminated.

This is absolutely the most fascinating place I’ve ever seen. I know I shouldn’t be here. I could head back to Haraboji’s house to meet the distant relatives and attempt smiles, all the while tortured with curiosity over what lies at the other end of this corridor.

Or I could explore.

I glance over my shoulder, licking the salt from my lips. I’ll just go to the end of the hallway, I promise myself. Grandfather will never know.

Musty air saturates the corridor as I follow the torch-lit path,
trailing my hand over the smooth walls that must have been carved out by ancient waves. A sharp breeze howls through the tunnel and slams the door shut behind me. I jump and nearly trip over myself.

Now free of the wind, the passageway is damp and cold. The torchlight flickers ghostly shadows over the walls, and the air is silent. I shudder and eye the door, debating whether to go back or explore. Ultimately the lure of the unknown draws me deeper.

At the end of the corridor I discover a space about fifteen feet in diameter. I stare. It’s like some ancient tomb we’d study in school. But it isn’t a tomb. It’s something else entirely.

Sconces hang from each of the walls and, wanting to see the room clearer, I light them. Two of the walls show a mural of a princess riding in a chariot drawn by five golden dragons. Though the colors have faded to pale yellows and light blues, I know she must be Princess Yuhwa. I move closer, studying her. She looks just like me.
Creepy
.

I back away to check out the rest of the room. Along the far wall is a wooden shelf packed with scrolls and leather-bound books. Hundreds maybe.

I rub my sweaty hands down my jeans. Okay, so I’m definitely not supposed to be here. I should go. Dad’s probably wondering about me, too.

But my attention is pulled, almost by force, to the fourth wall, which is covered with bows, quivers, and arrows hanging on pegs. I eye the smooth wood of one horn bow, so old it should be in a museum. The image of the Blue Dragon, one of the four immortal guardians of Korea, is painted on it. The horn bow is
unique to Korea, known for its ability to shoot arrows farther than any other bow. My fingers itch to take it off the wall, string it, and draw back on it to feel its pull.

Without thinking, I grasp it. An electric shock runs through me, and I nearly drop the bow. The bamboo is as smooth as pearl against my hands. My fingers set into the notches on the bow, and a buzz of nerves courses through me because the bow fits my hand perfectly. I drag my fingers along the string, wondering if that hum I’m hearing is my imagination.

I replace the bow and move to the low teak table in the center of the room. On top lies an aged scroll, unrolled and revealing ancient Chinese symbols. I clamp my sweaty hands in my lap and lean forward. Seeing an ancient scroll that isn’t behind glass is beyond cool. The rice paper appears faded, but the swirled texture is still intact.

I slide my finger gingerly over the scroll’s rough surface. I expect grime to gather along my fingertips, but instead my fingers are caked with gold. The particles rise from my hand in a glittery spiral above the scroll and stream toward the mural.

The gold dust fuses into the outline of Princess Yuhwa riding in the dragon-led chariot. Beams of light shoot from the walls. The princess turns to me and stretches out her hand, saying, “Help me!” in Korean.

My head pounds, almost as if the drums from the museum ceremony are beating again.

This can’t be happening. This can’t be real.

My hand shakes, and before I realize what I’m doing, I reach out and grab hold of her hand.

Gravity chains my feet to the floor, resisting the princess’s pull. My bones can’t take much more pressure. But then I fall head-first through the mural into blinding light. I clamp my eyes shut and fight against the instinct to curl into a ball. I hit a hard, cold surface, and my body smashes against a wall.

When I open my eyes, I expect to see a chariot or perhaps the princess. They’re nowhere in sight. Instead, a heavy mist drifts over toothed rocks at my feet. I manage to lean against the small pagoda behind me, my arm still aching from being pulled to wherever I am.

What is this place? What just happened to me?

I take a deep breath and slowly release it. That’s what Master Park from Tae Kwon Do class tells us to do in overwhelming situations. I can totally handle this. I must have fallen or something. That’s it. Just like I did next to the sweet potato lady. I need to find my way back to wherever I was.

The wind rails against my cheeks, whipping my long hair across my eyes. I cling to the vertical wooden beams running
alongside the pagoda to keep myself balanced against the gusts. I’m about to take my first step when the wind shifts, pulling away the mist.

My foot hovers over nothingness.

I scream. My heart plunges to the pit of my stomach. I claw for the pagoda, all the while eying the vertical drop of maybe a freaking thousand feet.

Oh God.

My heart struggles to regain a steady beat. I press my body against the pagoda, fighting the storm that’s desperate to toss me off this pinnacle. Fighting the need to throw up.

I will
not
panic,
I tell myself over and over. But my hands won’t stop shaking, and my legs buckle underneath me.

The wooden walls I’m clinging to, with their Chinese characters engraved on them, become my entire focus. I hardly know any Chinese, but I recognize some of these. I try to focus on them, hoping the sight of something familiar will help me pull myself together. Because I’m totally losing it.

Soo Jin

Young Mi

Hana

Min Sung

Wait. These are names. The entire pagoda’s surface is carved with them. But why? I shuffle along the edge of the pagoda, reading the names I can decipher and hoping to find the door leading inside. If there is one.

As I move, I realize the pagoda is more like a small shrine, with a diameter of about ten feet. It’s built on top of a rock
pinnacle, with a small, maybe-two-foot ledge circling it. I have yet to see a ladder, stairwell, door—anything to show how this place was even built.