anticipated that I would continue my march toward the Kwangju Mountains. Or did those headlamps have nothing to do with me? I couldn’t be sure, but I had to assume they did.
Before the sun burnt off the morning mist, I found a spot amongst a clump of rocks that provided some shelter from the wind. Storm clouds rolled in, dark and enshrouding. I prayed that they wouldn’t do what I knew they were going to do. But they did. The clouds opened up and as the first splats of rain hit me on the forehead, I searched for shelter. There was nowhere to hide. The best I could do was huddle with my back against a large boulder, arms crossed, legs pulled up. In minutes I was sopping wet and shivering more than ever. No need to stay hidden behind rocks now; the overcast sky would protect me from prying eyes. I rose to my feet and continued walking, rain pouring off my hatless head. I thought of Hero Kang and how my soft cap had stanched his stomach wound and how he’d died a true hero. And I thought of his daughter, Hye-kyong, and the way she’d gone down fighting like the heroine she truly was.
They were the smart ones. I was still alive, suffering through this. Like an idiot.
By the time night was about to fall, I’d reached such a state of exhaustion that it was like being in a coma and swimming through a sea of pain. I stumbled down muddy ravines and back up again until somehow I reached a rocky precipice enveloped in mist. The rain had stopped but the valley below was stuffed with clouds. I glanced up and that’s when I saw it, clinging on the ledge of a plateau-an old wooden pagoda. A few broken tiles lay at my feet. Stone steps led up to the holy place. At the side of the cliff, I began to climb. The stone was slippery and there were few handholds, but by not looking down I managed to reach the plateau before the last of the sunlight had faded. With clouds floating across the sky, the world was intermittently enveloped in pitch darkness. Still, I managed to grope my way to the old wooden building and step up on wooden flooring. I slid back a rotted door. From what I could see in the little starlight that seeped in, the place seemed to be deserted. I flopped down on the floor, my back pressed against a wall, and collapsed into sleep.
Later, in the middle of the night, the shriek of a banshee startled me awake.
When I was a kid growing up in East L.A., there was much talk of ghosts. The old Mexican neighborhoods seemed to be crawling with brujas, old Indian women steeped in the lore of the ancients, who scared away the gangs of young toughs by threatening to cast spells on them. Although the fledgling criminals laughed off such threats, they studiously avoided the brujas. They had no fear of the Los Angeles Police Department, with its square-jawed officers and wooden cudgels. But witches, that was something else.
Still, I never bought into any of these superstitions. Moving from foster home to foster home taught me that reality, not supernatural forces, was what I had to worry about. I studied hard in school, finding the logical worlds of science and mathematics to be a refuge from the chaos that surrounded me. My science textbooks taught me that the brujas were charlatans. That’s what I believed then. That’s what I believe now.
Still, when I sat up, cold and wet and hungry, in that abandoned Buddhist temple in the hills of North Korea, for that moment, and that moment only, I was a believer. If anyone could have seen me in that dark pagoda, I’m sure they would have noticed my filthy hair standing on end.
The screech was unearthly, like an old crone’s scream of terrible pain. And then I saw her eyes, huge and green and gleaming, fixed right on me. I’m not sure if I yelled, but I was aware of a massive amount of air suddenly being expelled from my lungs. The eyes lunged straight toward me.
I dodged, raising my arms, and then I felt the warmth of the creature and its feathery caress. I was scooting backward, sliding against the wall, willing myself away from whatever insane creature of the night had launched this attack. The wings swooped low and became black clouds before me. Finally, they settled high up on a rafter and, as if by magic, melted into a lantern shape. The green eyes were staring at me again.
I straightened up, breathing very fast now.
It was perched on the old wooden rafter above me. An owl. Not a ghost, not a witch, not a creature from hell. Just an owl.
A long, low “Whoooo” sounded from the valley below.
Sweating, keeping an eye on the owl, I rose to my knees and peered out the open window. The sound floated up again. “Whoooo.”
That wasn’t a bird.
Keeping low, I left the pagoda, slithered off the edge of the wooden porch, and moved to the edge of the cliff. Cautiously, I peered down into the valley and saw the silhouette of a man, out in the open. He raised his hands to his mouth and the sound floated upward again. “Whoooo.”
There were no trucks behind him. No other movement. He appeared to be alone.
He crouched, as if he’d heard something coming up the dirt road behind him, and melted into the night. There appeared to be some sort of pack tied to his back.
I continued to stare at the spot he’d been standing in, wondering if I was imagining things. And then I heard the sound I dreaded even more than the screech of a banshee: a heavy diesel engine coming up the hill.
The headlights appeared around a curve in the distance below. They disappeared suddenly and reappeared again. A large truck, probably military, was making its way uphill along a winding road. Soon, assuming the road was open, they would arrive here. I broke off a branch from a shrub and used it to sweep the gravel beneath my feet, hoping to eliminate any sign of footprints. Then I returned to the pagoda and did the same thing in there, raising dust as I did so. The owl kept a wary eye on me and flapped its wings. When I had done my best, I hopped out the back of the old building and climbed straight uphill for twenty minutes, until I stood on a rocky promontory. The clouds had pulled back and the moon had risen. Enough light shone down on the valley for me to see the roof of the old pagoda and the canvas-covered truck chugging its way toward the open gravel area in front. I crouched and watched.
Soon the truck stopped in front of the old building, right where the man had stood. Soldiers hopped out, cursing and switching on electric torches. I’d seen enough. Carefully, I started to climb down the far side of the mountain.
I was halfway down when someone grabbed me.
I stared into a bearded Korean face, slathered in sweat. His lips were pulled back, white teeth revealed, and the man said, “Whoooo!” He was laughing.
After a few seconds, when I realized he wasn’t going to cut my throat, I was laughing too.
Moon Chaser was a merchant. Changsa-gun was the term he used, a purveyor of business. People who dabbled in business had never been high on the social scale in Korea. Confucius classified people into four ranks: scholars, farmers, craftsmen, and, lowest of all, merchants. So in the Chosun Dynasty, people who sold things door-to-door didn’t get much respect, no matter how much money they made. Today, under the Communist dictatorship of the Great Leader, the stigma was worse. The changsa-gun were classified as criminals, exploiters of the people, and, more importantly, dangerous men who lived free and independent lives, disdainful of the largess of the Great Leader. Still, Moon Chaser was proud of his status.
“Nobody tells me what to do,” he told me, jabbing his thumb into his chest. “I make my own money and earn my own rice.”
“Why aren’t you arrested?” I asked.
“Corruption,” he replied. “The cops are on the take. It’s like paying taxes. I have to give them something, ‘a gift’ they call it, every time they catch me. Then they let me go, after popping me upside the head a few times with their batons. The bastards.”
But there was no bitterness in the Moon Chaser’s voice. He was simply describing the world as he saw it. He led me quickly downhill, away from the soldiers searching the pagoda. We crossed a narrow valley where we were soon hidden by an orchard of apple trees. Moon Chaser moved fast, as if he knew exactly where he was going, and I struggled to keep up, occasionally having to duck to avoid being conked by a low-hanging branch. A heavy wooden A-frame dangled from Moon Chaser’s back. He moved so surely through the woods, over and around shrubbery, that the long-legged carrying rack seemed to be part of his body. Finally, we waded through a narrow stream and then climbed atop a grave mound overlooking a bend in the waterway. He sat down and told me to rest.
“What about the soldiers?” I asked.
“They won’t come this far,” he replied. “They’re tired and hungry and cold. Just like us.”
It was still dark, but by the dim moonlight I could tell he was a youngish man, probably not yet thirty. He cultivated his beard in a fringe around the edges of his face, probably to make himself look older. He wore soiled white pantaloons and a white tunic, but they seemed to be made of a sturdy material. His canvas shoes were rubber-soled and I longed for something as comfortable.
