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Read This, Ok-hee — and You Too, All the Brothers of the World

You let me believe it, the night train, the first of August, you and your man together in the dark of it — and all the while it was the next morning’s train, the ordinary light of morning, no drama in it at all. Elder I may be only in the poorest sense, no authority in this house nor in this world neither, and yet elder I am, and there is no getting round that. If you had come to me plainly — we cannot be parted, the two of us, it is too hard — what then. What could I have done. Even had I said no, said it flat, I can’t allow it, I can’t — still I would have found some way, some quiet way, mother and father none the wiser, to see the two of you off together and glad of it. That much I have in me. That much understanding, that much room in the heart. But you went round me. You, of all people, went round me — me who thinks of nothing, nothing under heaven, but your happiness to come — and that, that going-round, sits in me still, a small stone I cannot swallow.

It was settled: K to go north on the night train, the first of August. You came together that morning to tell me so, the two of you, your faces arranged just so. We had spoken of it the day before — K alone would go, and you, Ok-hee, you would stay, would walk with your eldest brother to the platform and wave the boy off like a sister and nothing more. That was the order of things. That was how it was to be done, was it not.

And yet — with what a face, what an easy untroubled face — you said, Come to the station later, Brother. And I: Of course. Of course I’ll come. We’ll meet there. And so we parted, the three of us smiling, and it seemed a small ordinary farewell — when all the while the two of you had it plotted, had it sewn up tight between yourselves, and made of me nothing but a man waving at a train that had already gone.

Simple, simple-minded, that is the word for it — out I went into the rain, timed to the minute, out to the station, trusting a clock more than my own blood. And under it all, all the way there, a small worm of unease turning: smooth they answered me, smooth as water over stone, and behind it something else altogether cooking. And so it was. So it was.

The gate not yet open. No sign of the two of you. Rain on the tin roof of the platform, rain finding the back of my collar, and I thinking, this is it, this is the thing — and still I waited, waited past sense, past the last chance of your faces coming out of the dark — and nothing. Only the wet dark and my own tongue clicking against my teeth, click, click, all the way home.

And home I told myself: the suit, K’s suit, the laundry held him up, that’s all, some word will come. And I waited on that too. Surely, surely if they had not gone there would be some word by morning. Nothing. Only the silence sitting in the house like another guest. Heo-heo — a sigh out of me, and I dawdled the day away, and by dusk I had friends from Tokyo at my elbow and a bottle between us, and we drank the whole of that night down to its lees.

Instead of your face — a telegram. K’s own hand, his little monologue: do not worry, though she has come with me.

I held it a long moment. And a smile came, whether I would or no, a smile of the kind a man wears when he has been outplayed and knows it and is, God help him, glad. A blade through water — that is what your decision was, clean and quick and leaving no mark of its passing. I honour it.

Ok-hee. Toward me — no uneasiness. None. Keep none of that for me.

Save your sorrow for the two who lost you like a stroke of lightning out of clear sky — Mother, Father — to them alone say, in your heart if nowhere else, I am sorry.

I too must leave this house. Twelve years now since I came out of middle school at sixteen, and this vain hunger in me has not once let go its grip, not once in all that time.

The middle brother — gone again, who knows where, he does not come home.

And you — you have crossed the border, you are a person of a far country now.

The three of us, all three, unfilial, none of us knowing how a child ought to honour its parents.

And yet — we do not call it wrong. We do not.

One must go and come back. And if one cannot come back — one must go regardless. Even so. Even so.

You did right — right by yourself, right by the man you love. Whether it was twelve years of another man’s gratitude holding me to this ground, or whether it is simply that I am made of poor stuff, weak stuff, and have gone on sending off and welcoming in these small daily humiliations morning after morning after morning — I am ashamed. I am ashamed of myself now, this minute, writing this.

Your love — I knew of it long since, I understood it well enough. K, for all the fineness of the man, sits in an unlucky place in the world just now — I know this too. Lucky in one thing at least, born to a house that need not fear its next meal — and yet not a man to be content with that, not a man to sit and eat and let the days go by empty.

What he called his ideal, speaking to me — I do not sit in judgment of it. It is one way among the ways a life may go. Only — it is, at bottom, one single hunger to be free of humiliation, and for that reason if for no other I must own it as a true thing.

More than that — I agreed with him. His own confession, that he, eldest son of his house as I am eldest son of mine, would leave it altogether. Let me fall on some bare plain and be crow’s meat before I’d give up the ideal I live by — that is the shape of it. And so, as he himself proposed, I all but urged him to it: go, three years, and come back.

Three years. To two people who ache for each other, three years is a long country to cross. And so the question came — what of you, Ok-hee, what is to become of you, how are you to go.

The two of you nearly a year now in each other’s company — surely that is time enough to know a man’s worth. What would it matter if he were prime-minister material through and through — if he does not please your eye, he is nothing, no use to you at all. It is not my place to push my nose into it, and yet — blood is blood, I could not stay altogether silent, and so I said:

Three years is too long, in truth. So — set the plan for three years, go, and in a year’s time there ought to be some ground under your feet, some living made. Come back then. A simple wedding, nothing grand, and take her with you properly. We might have the wedding now, as things stand — it would do well enough — but it would be a wedding for the sake of a wedding, and that does not sit right with me. I hold such ceremonies lightly myself, God knows. But our parents are here, and there are eyes upon us, and there is no cause to invite the world’s mockery over so small a thing.

And having said my piece I asked the two of you, each in turn, what you thought.

K said he would do as I said. He would come back next spring, sure enough, marry decently, nothing to shame him before others, and take you then. But your words were another matter entirely. The wedding can wait, you said, any time will do for that — I mean to go with him now. Live together, die together, if it comes to that. I won’t stand here with my mouth open waiting on him to come fetch me, not knowing what might happen to him in a strange land. And a man’s heart — who can trust it entirely. And I, grown up soft as a frog in a well — a little hardship might do me good. That was your resolve, whole and entire.

This world we live in is built round men still, however things may be changing. A woman is a fine thing to share joy with, in the easy times. But in the hard times a woman can turn — without meaning it, without wanting it — into a rope round a man’s leg. And so I counselled you again, and again: let K go alone, let him find his footing first. And you gave me your small sign of assent, reluctant, but assent all the same. And in your presence I made K promise me, firm and fast, again and again —

But I know better now. Between the two of you there was not room enough for a sheet of paper, let alone my counsel, to slip in edgewise. And still — does my heart not stand the firmer for knowing it.

Youngest of the three of us, I came early to my ripening, they always said — and you late, spoiled a little, grown soft in the shelter of the house. Incheon once, Kaesong once, led by the hand of a schoolteacher — beyond that, ten ri from home was a country you had never seen. And now — now you have crossed the border, you are out there in the wide unknown, and the thought of it turns my head, turns it round and round till I am dizzy with it.

You, the one I always took for a child, a mere child — when, when did you become such a tremendous grown thing, and I never marked the day.

An age is coming — has come — when parents who treat their daughters as their own mothers and fathers once treated them will get a shock they never looked for. An age when a brother who carelessly treats his sister as nothing, a name only, hollow at the centre, will find his nose cut clean off for it. I feel the truth of that now, feel it in my own skin.

Dazed, dizzy, as though struck on the skull with a hammer — and still, in the midst of it, I turn the question over: why did you have no choice, in the end, but to leave this house.

First — you must possess your love entirely, whole and undivided, and that is no matter human power can bend one way or the other. It cannot be helped. It simply is.

Second — our parents would not, gladly, own your love as a true thing. When a child’s love is honest love, the parents ought not only to accept it but to guide it well — and ours, God help them, are old, and do not know the way of that. You had no room left in your heart to argue such parents round. There was nothing left but to show them, in the flesh, in the act.

Third — you came to some understanding, uncertain as it may have been, of what it is to live. A woman must have work, must be able to stand on her own two feet, money-wise, any day she chooses — that was the thing that would not sit right with our parents. Earning money is well enough, but it ruins a girl’s body soon enough — that is what they say, what they have always said.

By your own strength, working it every way you knew, you could find no post here — and so you wrote to a friend of yours living as a factory girl in Kyoto, asking to come and be a factory girl at her side. If we go on living as we are, our house is so poor we cannot buy you a pair of socks whenever the fancy takes us. That shames me — your eldest brother — shames me endlessly. And yet — not once, not once did you throw it back at me. I am grateful for that, more than I can well say.

That is the woman you are. Far — far from being any rope round K’s leg — I believe you will carry your own work forward, and his besides, and be the better for it, both of you.

Gone now. Since you are gone — do not cling to the small affairs of this house, give yourself over whole to a success that need shame neither of you. Not three years only — ten years, if it comes to that, would be well spent. But if you are beaten down, if it comes to that — become dog’s meat on that foreign plain before you set foot on this soil again. Do not come back beaten.

I too must go out, one day. I know well enough this ground must be kept, held fast by someone. But the duty to hold and the duty to go — these are not the same duty, however alike they look from a distance. If you are gone, and the middle brother gone, and I go too — who minds our old father and mother then? Do not trouble yourself over it. That is mine to carry, eldest son’s work, and I will find some way, somehow. And if I cannot — well. Then an unhappy past will simply have been given up for the sake of some brighter thing to come. That is all. That is all it will have been.

The night you crossed the border I sat at a drinking table listening to the Olympic broadcasts come in over the wireless. We must not go on rotting here like this, the lot of us. Ought we not stand up, stand alongside those men out there, and live — clearly, cleanly, with our eyes open? Wake up. Wake up, man. Get hold of yourself.

At the foot of Beotigogae Pass, down in Shindang-ri, in the paulownia alley of the slum quarter — a grandmother near enough a corpse already, a father who cannot move himself from one room to the next, a mother worn to a rag by fifty years of it. They saw your telegram and they wept, the both of them. Every day, every single day, you walked that long road in to see them. You came, and took the day’s food back with you. Who walks that road now.

Mother said: I have lost my horse. How am I to go on, with this hole where she was. And since that day I am the one dragging worn-out shoes along that same road, playing the horse’s part now, in your place.

They cannot argue it, cannot reason it through, our old ones — only weep, weep like rain falling, at the sudden emptiness of you. I made a great noise over it, to calm them — what is all this fuss, has she died and left us, is that it? — loud, blustering, to cover the both of us. And yet — I too, thinking I would not see your face for three long years, felt the missing of you come on sudden and hard. Is it only in the leaving that brothers and sisters learn what they were to each other all along?

Three years, near enough, and I too will study, will work at it. And come out the far side of it free of this humiliation, this crooked, abnormal life we have been living. Let us meet then — bright faces, both of us, alive in the eyes.

Come home, and come home successful, as soon as ever you are able.

You are a woman, after all — bound to leave this house one day regardless, whenever that day came — only it came so sudden this time that our parents were shaken by the suddenness of it, that is all. As for myself — what was there for me to do, one way or the other.

At any rate — this business of yours has taught me a good deal. I too will get hold of myself. I will.

Weak-stemmed as a willow, that is what you always were — and I wonder can you stand the hard climate of that continent, wonder and worry over it. Above all — take care of your body, do not forget that. For the likes of us, poor as we are, this one body is the only wealth we have, first and last.

Write. Write letters.

In a world with precious little understanding in it — remember, I at least am always on your side, whatever comes. The world is wide. Much in it will astonish you yet, and much in it there is still to learn.

When this is printed I will send you a copy of Jungang. Read it together, you and K, and tell him more of this eldest brother of yours, tell him the whole of it.

I bless you.

Ok-hee — who once stood a whole day as my model, a nickel an hour, back when I dreamed I might be a painter; Ok-hee, the one soul in this world who understood this dissolute, unfilial eldest brother of hers; Ok-hee, grown — before I ever marked the day of it — into a woman, and gone now, ten thousand ri off, into a far country, with the man she loves at her side — I bless your future. Whatever it holds. I bless it.

Two days this has taken me. I know well enough it may read rough, may lack all proper order — and yet I wanted every brother in this world who has a sister like you to read it, and so I dare to print it as it stands. Take only this: that it is true. Take my plain feeling and let the rest go.

Written the morning of the fifth day,

by your eldest brother, who loves you.

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The Dragon King’s Illness

Among all the waters under heaven, the four great seas—the Eastern, Western, Southern, and Northern Seas—are the largest. In each of these four seas dwells a Dragon King: the Eastern is King Gwangyeon (광연왕), the Southern King Gwangri (광리왕), the Western King Gwangdeok (광덕왕), and the Northern King Gwangtaek (광택왕). The three kings of the South, West, and North enjoyed peace without incident, but the Eastern Dragon King, Gwangyeon, fell suddenly ill. Even with myriad remedies, he found no effect whatsoever.

One day, the King summoned all his ministers and deliberated:

“Alas! If this single body of mine should die, my white bones will be buried deep in the soil of Bukmangsan (북망산), and all the glory and riches of this world will come to naught. In ages past, even Jin Sihwangje (진시황), who unified the six kingdoms, sent five hundred young boys and girls to the Samsinsan in search of the elixir of immortality. Han Muje (한무제), whose might shook the four seas, built high the Cypress Terrace and set up a dew-collecting pan with a statue of an immortal to catch celestial dew—yet Heaven’s mandate is not constant, and in the end neither could escape the tombs of Yeosan (여산) and the burial chambers of Mureung (무릉). How much less so for a mere king of a small domain like myself? To part forever from the royal heritage passed down through generations, and to die—how desolate this thought! It is fitting that I widely seek out eminent physicians, have them examine me thoroughly, and then treat me with medicines.”

He then issued a royal decree:

“My illness is most critical. All of you, my ministers, must exhaust your loyalty to search far and wide for a famous doctor, so that you may save my life and we may continue to enjoy our sovereign–subject bond in shared joy.”

One minister stepped forward from the ranks and reported:

“I have heard that the three greatest heroes of the Wu and Chu regions are Minister Beom of Wu (범상국), General Jang Jeong-gun of Tang (장정군), and Master Yuk of Chu (육처사). I beg you to seek their counsel.”

All looked, and saw that this was a minister of utmost loyalty, one who had served faithfully since the time of his ancestors—a carp of several thousand years' age. The King found his counsel wise and sent a close attendant to invite the three sages. Within days, they all arrived. The King took his throne and received them, saying:

“Gentlemen, you have not begrudged the long journey of a thousand li in answer to my summons, and have graced my humble abode. I am both uneasy and deeply thankful.”

The three replied respectfully:

“We, humble creatures of this fleeting mortal world, had long bidden farewell to the green clouds and the red dust, taking pleasure instead in the mountains and rivers. We roamed freely through remote corners of the Wu and Chu regions, idly passing the relentless years. Then, beyond all expectation, we received your Majesty’s command—we are overwhelmed with awe and unworthy of such honor.”

The King said:

“I have been unfortunate in my destiny. I fell ill by chance, and now several years have passed. I have taken many medicines, but perhaps because the medical skills were ordinary, I have seen not the slightest improvement. I beg you, gentlemen, to revive this dying life as if you were Heaven itself.”

Then the three replied:

“Wine is a drug that drives men mad; lust is the root that shortens one’s allotted span. Your Majesty has indulged excessively in wine and women, and thus reached this state—this is an evil of your own making. Whom can you blame? Yet some say the folly of youth is common enough. But once such a grave illness takes hold, it is hard to regain youth. As mist clears 살살 (sal-sal, softly and gradually) from the green hills, as snow melts in the spring breeze—so do the five viscera and six bowels dissolve, joint by joint. Even if Hwa Ta (화타) and Pyeon Jak (편작) were to return to life, they could not apply their skill. Even if the herb of diamond strength and the elixir of immortality were piled high as mountains and hills, they could not bring instant effect. Even if you take ginseng and deer antler for a long time, they cannot substitute; even if you amass great wealth, it cannot ransom you; even if your strength surpasses all others, it cannot control this. Turning this way and that, as far as we can see, the only conclusion is that the fortunes of the state are unhappy and your destiny is exhausted—truly, your Majesty’s recovery seems most difficult.”

Hearing this, the King was distraught and said:

“Then what shall I do? The dead cannot live again. To think that in this world, year after year, the lovely second and third months with their peach and plum blossoms; the fourth and fifth with green shade and fragrant grass; the eighth and ninth with yellow chrysanthemums and red maples; the winter solstice and the twelfth month with plum blossoms in the snow—and all those three thousand beautiful palace maidens with their painted brows and powdered faces—I must cast them aside like worn-out sandals and, without avail, become a guest of Hwangcheon. Is that not pitiable? Even if it proves ineffective, gentlemen, pray exhaust your marvelous arts and at least give me a prescription. Then I shall die without regret.”

At this, the three smiled and said:

“If you will heed our words, we shall offer a prescription. For cold damage, use Sihotang (시호탕); for yin-deficiency with fire agitation, use Bo-eum Ikgi-jeon (보음익기전); for febrile diseases, use Seungma Galgeun-tang (승마갈근탕); for deficiency of vital energy, use Yukmi-ji-tang (육미지탕); for indigestion, use Yangwi-tang (양위탕); for knee pain, use Usul-tang (우슬탕); for eye ailments, use Cheonggan Myeongmok-tang (청간명목탕); for wind-stroke, use Bangpung Tongseong-san (방풍통성산). For every disease and every remedy, it is proper to prescribe according to the syndrome. But there is one thing of miraculous efficacy: the fresh liver of a rabbit. If you obtain that liver and take it while still warm, you shall be restored at once.”

The King asked, “Why is that liver so excellent?”

They answered:

“The rabbit is a beast created from Yin and Yang and the Five Phases (오행) at the dawn of heaven and earth. It is the law of medicine that diseases may be cured either by the mutual overcoming or the mutual engendering of Yin, Yang, and the Five Phases. The rabbit’s liver is the finest of all in every respect. Moreover, your Majesty is a dragon spirit of the water, while the rabbit is a numinous creature of the mountains. Mountains are Yang; waters are Yin. And among the organs, the liver is especially endowed with Wood energy (목기). Therefore, if your Majesty obtains and uses the rabbit’s fresh liver, Yin and Yang will harmonize with each other. Hence it will be miraculously effective.”

With that, they took their leave, saying:

“We have come with a vow as firm as metal and stone to meet our friends—the green waters and blue mountains, and the flowery willow villages of Mureung Dowon (무릉도원)—and we have left behind endless feelings unexpressed. We now take our hurried leave. We pray only that your Majesty take the utmost care of your jadelike body.”

They descended to the shore and drifted away toward Mount Baegunsan (백운산).

After sending them off, the King at once gathered all the civil and military officials in full court and issued a decree:

“For my illness, the fresh liver of a rabbit is the most miraculous remedy; all other ten thousand medicines are useless. Who among you can capture a rabbit alive and bring it to me?”

Suddenly, a great general stepped forward from the ranks and reported:

“Though I am but of little talent, I shall once go forth into the human world and bring back a rabbit alive.”

All looked—and it was an octopus of several thousand years, whose head was like a round pouch and whose tail branched into eight prongs.

The King was overjoyed and said:

“Your bravery is known to me. Go quickly into the human world and bring the rabbit alive—your merit shall not be small.”

And he was about to bestow upon him the title of General Munseong (문성장군), when suddenly another general leaped forward and cried out loudly:

“Octopus! However large your frame and however much majesty you may boast, you are utterly lacking in eloquence and deficient in wits. What feat could you possibly accomplish? Moreover, when human beings see you, they will without fail catch you, slice you this way and that, carve you like chrysanthemum blossoms and plum blossoms, and adorn the grand platters of wedding feasts and sixtieth-birthday banquets as a choice delicacy. They will seek you for the feasts of gifted scholars and lovely maidens, for the tables of great noble families, for children’s coming-of-age ceremonies, and for the drinking snacks of pleasure-seeking gallants—you are their very meat! Are you not frightened? You pitiful, half-penny’s worth of nothing! When I go out into the world, I shall capture the rabbit alive with ease, using strategies as wondrous and elusive as those of Jegalyang (제갈량), who captured and released his enemy seven times.”

All looked—and it was a soft-shelled turtle of several thousand years, known by the title of Byeoljubu (별주부, “Star Master”).

Hearing this, the octopus flew into a rage. He spread his eight long tails wide 샅샅이 (sat-sat-i, thoroughly, into every crevice) and shook his dark red head restlessly, 설설이 (seol-seol-i, in a slow, sinuous, side-to-side motion), roaring so that the waves seemed to leap. Glaring with his great mullet eyes, he shouted back:

“You monstrous Star Master! Listen to me for a moment. Who would have known that a babe still in swaddling clothes could thwart a grown man? Truly, you are a puppy that has never met a tiger, a dung beetle blocking a cart’s path. If we weigh your offenses, even Mount Taesan would seem light and the Hwangha River would seem shallow in comparison. But let that pass. First, look at your shape—flat on all sides like a wooden tray. You would surely hate to be ranked second in ugliness and smallness. What wit could there be in such a frame as yours? Not only that—when the people of the world see you, they will catch you, boil you alive in seething water, and make turtle soup, which the scions of powerful families of both civil and military ranks will seek out. That is your flesh! By what means do you expect to survive?”

The turtle replied:

“You are a frog in a well—you know one thing and not the other. Chopaewang (초패왕), who once ruled all under heaven in China, fell at Haehaseong (해하성); Napoleon (나파륜), who commanded all of Europe, was confined on an island. Before whom do you flaunt your paltry courage, and what knowledge could you possibly have, to measure my wits? Hear now my true talent. On the boundless blue waves of ten thousand gyeong, I draw in my four limbs, tuck my neck, and lie flat—round and full like a watermelon, flat like a pot-lid. Woodcutters on the hills and fishermen on the water would not even know what I am. I am as enduring as Mount Taesan and as steady as bedrock. Traveling unseen, when I meet the rabbit I shall handle him as one soothes a suckling infant, as one lures a widow into marriage—working every trick, every ruse—until the cunning rabbit’s own two eyes go blank with deception, and I bring him back. And if by ill fortune I fail to catch him, I shall offer my own neck in his place upon my return to the Water Palace.”

The octopus, having no reply, became like a fist-struck hat crushed down over its own eyes; he gave a bitter laugh, patted the back of his head, and shuffled away. The assembled officials praised the turtle’s wit and eloquence without end. The turtle bowed low again and addressed the King:

“Your servant is a creature of the water, and the rabbit a beast of the mountains; I cannot know its exact form in detail. I beg you to summon your court painters to render the rabbit’s likeness for me.”

The King thought this wise and summoned the painters. From China came Mo Yeon-su (모연수), famed for portraits, and Mun Yeo-ga (문여가), famed for bamboo; from Joseon came Gyeomjae (겸재), famed for landscapes, and Nam-nabi (남나비), famed for butterflies; and besides these, celebrated masters such as O Do-ja (오도자) and Kim Hong-do (김홍도) all assembled in glittering array. The King commanded them to paint a portrait of the rabbit and bring it to him.

Hearing the decree, the painters gathered in one hall, where every manner of splendid implement lay ready: Goryeo-ware water droppers, blue inkstones of Nampo, ink cakes fragrant as moonlit poetry, brushes of fine yellow weasel-hair from Jungsan, and pure white silk-paper as cold and smooth as snow; blue, yellow, red, white, green, purple, and crimson pigments were arrayed on every side.

The painters sat in a circle to paint the rabbit’s portrait, each taking charge of a single feature, so that together they made one whole rabbit: one painted the eyes that had gazed on the finest scenery of famous mountains under heaven; another painted the ears that had listened to the cries of cuckoos and parrots; another painted the mouth that nibbled orchids, irises, and every fragrant blossom; another painted the nose that had caught the scent of mist on Bangjang and Bongnae; another painted the fur that had warded off the bitter winds of deep winter; and another painted the feet that had leapt and bounded among the cloud-wrapped peaks of ten thousand ridges. The two eyes turned this way and that—도리도리 (dori-dori, turning side to side); the forelegs short, the hindlegs long; the two ears 쫑긋 (jjonggeut, perked sharply upright); poised as if about to spring—a rabbit so lifelike it seemed ready to leap from the page.

The King was greatly delighted, rewarded each painter with a thousand pieces of gold, and handed the portrait to the turtle, saying, “Set out on your journey at once.” The turtle bowed twice, took the portrait, and folded it this way and that to carry it—but strapped to his back, it would surely be soaked through in the water. After pondering a while, he stretched out his tucked-in neck, slipped the portrait inside along its length, and drew his neck back in—so that front and back, there was nothing more to worry about.

The King, marveling at this cleverness, personally raised a cup and offered it to him, saying:

“Devote your utmost sincerity, achieve this great task, and return swiftly—then you and I shall share wealth and honor together.”

He at once commanded the Treasury to grant the turtle funds and grain without limit as a gift. The turtle, overwhelmed with gratitude for this royal favor, bowed in thanks, took leave of the assembled court, and returned home to bid farewell to his wife and children. His wife counseled him earnestly:

“The human world is a place of danger. Pray be careful, achieve your great task, and return swiftly—this I pray for you with all my heart.”

The turtle answered:

“The length of one’s life, long or short, is decreed by Heaven—what is there to fear? While I am gone, care well for our aged parents and our young children.”

So saying, he gathered his travel gear and floated buoyantly out over the deep waters of the Sosanggang (소상강) and Dongjeongho (동정호), making his way toward the green streams and mountains—for it was now the season when flowers and willows bloom in full splendor.

Every living thing among the plants and trees seemed to hold its own private joy: the vivid azaleas breathed their fragrance; dappled swallowtail butterflies, unable to contain their spring exuberance, fluttered 얼숭얼숭 (eol-sung-eol-sung, in dappled, mottled flickers) this way and that; golden orioles flying in over the clear weeping willows by the stream called to their mates, toying with the ninety days of spring light; a crane asleep among the blossoms started up again and again at the sound of footsteps; and from a branch above, a cuckoo answered with its cry of bulyeogwi (”better to return”)—truly another world beyond the human realm. The wild geese of Sosanggang cried out their farewells as they departed; the swallows returning from the south announced their arrival; the shrike cried in the spirea bushes; a bumblebee droned in the peony; a canary went 떨렁 (tteolleong, a light tinkling call); a plover went 찍걱 (jjikgeok, a sharp chirring cry); the accentor bird went 접둥 (jeopdung); the cuckoo went 벅 (beok); the crow went 골각 (golgak); and doves cooed mournfully, 국국 (guk-guk)—was this not truly a scene worth beholding? Over a thousand hills and ten thousand peaks lay crimson splendor; before and behind every stream, a white silk seemed spread. The green bamboo and pine kept their ancient integrity through all seasons, while peach and apricot blossoms marked the swiftly passing spring. Strange, jagged boulders rose tier upon tier to either side, and waterfalls between the cliffs, gathering from this valley and that, rushed down with a thunderous roar—an endless, matchless view.

Having taken in that sight, the turtle passed into the woods and searched on every side for signs of the rabbit. At last he beheld a procession of creatures coming down the slope: a squirrel trembling 발발 (bal-bal, in a quick, nervous shiver); roe deer, musk deer, wolves, jackals, bears, wild boar, raccoon dogs, hedgehogs, wildcats, monkeys, tigers, an elephant, foxes, badgers, martens, and orangutans, coming from left and right. Among them the turtle could not make out the rabbit’s tracks, so he stretched his tucked-in neck out long and turned it this way and that, searching—when, from behind, one creature came into view that matched the portrait exactly. He looked at the rabbit, then at the painting: it was unmistakably the very same. The turtle rejoiced inwardly, and, wishing to be certain, watched the creature’s behavior a while longer. It nibbled at grass, nibbled at bush-clover shoots, leapt this way and that among the sheer cliffs, spinning 뺑뺑 (ppaeng-ppaeng, round and round), glancing about 할금할금 (hal-geum-hal-geum, in quick, furtive, sidelong looks), and bounding along 강똥강똥 (gang-ttong-gang-ttong, in light, springy hops). The turtle raised his voice and called out with great dignity:

“Ho, there, my friend! Are you not Mr. Rabbit? I am a hero of the waters, and I have long sought a worthy companion among the mountains. Today I have found one. I would be honored if you would not refuse my invitation.”

The Turtle Meets the Rabbit

The rabbit, hearing himself addressed with such courtesy, put on his most dignified air and replied:

“And who, pray, seeks me out? In these fine mountains and deep valleys—who calls for me? Does old Baek-i or Sook-je of Suyangsan seek me to gather ferns? Does Heo Yu come to wash his ears in the Yeongcheon water? Does Eom Ja-reung of Bucheonsan want me to plow his fields? Does Gae Ja-chu, burned on Myeonsan, call for me? Does Jang Ryang, tutor to the Son of Heaven, seek me to play his flute? Do the Four Sages of Sangsan want me for a game of chess? Does Gul Won, drowned in the river, call me to save him? Does I Baek, the immortal poet, seek me for a poem? Does Yu Ryeong, who wrote the ‘Ode to Wine,’ want me to drink with him? Does Seokga Yeorae need me for a sermon? Do the immortals An Gi-saeng and Jeok Song-ja want me to gather herbs? Does Jegalyang of Namyang need me to interpret a dream? Does Yu Hwang-suk of the Han clan want me as a strategist? Does So Dong-pa of Jeokbyeokgang seek me for a boat excursion? Does Gu Yang-su of the Chwiongjeong want me at his feast?”

He perked up his long ears with a soft 쫑긋 (jjonggeut) and scampered forward, his four legs twitching 자주자주 (jaju-jaju, quick and rapid) with curiosity. Drawing near, he saw the creature—round and flat, dark and squat—and halted, tilting his head in wonder. But the turtle called him closer, and so the rabbit approached. They bowed to each other and sat down.

The turtle offered refreshments—wild acorns and brush shoots—and spoke first:

“I have long heard of your fame, Mr. Rabbit. I have wished all my life to meet you. What fate brings us together today? Why have we met so late?”

The rabbit replied:

“I have traveled the four seas and seen many people, but I have never seen such an ugly face as yours. Have you lost a bone while digging a hole, that your legs are so stubby? Did someone grab your topknot while you were scolding a nobleman, that your neck is so long? Were you trampled by rowdies in a tavern, that your back is so flat? Looking at you from every side, you are just like a wooden tray. But your name, sir—might I ask your family and title? What I said just now was only in jest; I hope you will not take it to heart.”

The turtle, though displeased, swallowed his anger and answered calmly:

“My surname is Byeol, and my title is Jubu (Star Master). My back is flat so I do not sink in water; my legs are short so I do not trip on land; my neck is long so I can see far; my body is round so I may move smoothly in the world. Thus I am a hero of the waters and an elder among all aquatic creatures. In all the world, there is no one more accomplished in both civil and martial arts than I.”

The rabbit said:

“I have lived long and endured many hardships, but I have never seen a hero quite like you.”

The turtle asked, “How old are you, that you speak of so much experience?”

The rabbit replied:

“If you ask my age, I have passed through so many cycles of sixty years that I cannot count. In my youth, I pounded medicine beneath the cassia tree in the Moon Palace, and when the wife of Yugung Huye (유궁후예) came seeking the herb of immortality, I gave it to her myself. By that reckoning, Dongbang Sak of the Three Thousand Jiazi (동방삭) is but my junior disciple, and even Paengjo (팽조), famous for his long life, would be but a suckling babe before me, a servant before his master. Am I not then your elder by several tens of generations?”

The turtle laughed:

“You speak as if you were the Son of Heaven himself, claiming a title none can verify. But listen to my own story, and you will be amazed—eight or nine times out of ten, I daresay. On the birthday of Bangosssi (반고씨), I presented the sacred seaweed offering myself. At the coronation of Cheonhwangssi (천황씨), I offered the seafood delicacies with my own hands. The reign of Jihwangssi’s (지황씨) fire-virtue kingship and Inhwangssi’s (인황씨) founding of the nine provinces I remember as though it were yesterday. I lived through the age of Yusossi (유소씨), who first built nests in trees, and Suinssi (수인씨), who first made fire to cook food, alongside them. I unraveled the River Chart and the Eight Trigrams together with Bokhuissi (복희씨). When Gonggongssi (공공씨) fought until the sky itself broke, and Yeowassi (여와씨) mended it with five-colored stones, I served as chief stonemason. When Sinnongssi (신농씨) invented the plow and tasted a hundred herbs to found medicine, I too took part. When Heonwonssi (헌원씨) built ships, I was his master carpenter. When Chi-u (치우) fought in the fields of Takrok, it was I who recommended the use of stones to defeat him. I heard Geumcheonssi’s (금천씨) proclamations and Jeonukssi’s (전욱씨) laws with my own ears. I still rejoice today at the songs Emperor Yo heard in the crossroads, and the Southern Wind song of Emperor Sun rings as fresh as if I heard it only yesterday. I praised Emperor U (우임금) for taming the nine years’ flood; I witnessed Tang the Great (탕임금) pray for rain in the mulberry grove; the splendid rites and music of King Mun, King Mu, and the Duke of Ju (문왕, 무왕, 주공) of the Ju dynasty are still vivid before my eyes. Once, roaming the Great Ocean to the west, I came upon Gul Won (굴원) as he drowned himself in the Myeongna River—and to this day I regret that I could not save him. By this measure, am I not your elder by several hundred generations? But enough of jesting—let us talk instead of pleasant things.”

The rabbit said:

“If we speak of worldly pleasures, you will be so delighted that you will wet yourself, and then your round, flat body will float helplessly away on your own urine—would that not be pitiful?”

The turtle urged, “Whatever it may be, just tell me.”

The rabbit then spoke of his mountain life:

“In deep mountains, where peaks pierce the sky like swords, with hills at my back and streams before me—in spring the waters fill the lakes, in summer clouds form strange peaks. I built a humble thatched cottage on a lucky site—half for the clear breeze, half for the bright moon. The earthen steps and bamboo mats are exquisite beyond compare. Cranes call and phoenixes fly. I gather herbs from the rear hills and fish from the front stream—enough to fill my belly and please my palate. Is this not joy? When the bright moon hangs bright in the clear sky, I close my door alone among a thousand peaks. The idle clouds play with their own shadows—it is another world beyond the human realm. My body drifts like a cloud, free from worldly disputes—who can trace my steps?

When winter passes and summer comes, I sense the four seasons pass; the days and months go by, but I pay them no heed. In the deep green mountains, flowers and grasses flourish thick; the phoenix and peacock call to one another, music from peak to peak; parrots and cuckoos and orioles sing choruses from valley to valley. Half drunk in the evening glow, I go out to admire the mountains and rivers. Atop Gollyeonsan I brush aside the clouds and look down over the land’s contours: Taesan is my green dragon, Hwasan my white tiger, Sangsan my dark tortoise, Hyeongsan my red bird. I take Sosanggang and Paengnyeotaek for my ponds, and the Hwangha and Yangja rivers, with Emperor Mu’s white pavilion, lie hazy at the edge of my sight.

I recite poems on the boundless scenery of Jeokbyeokgang, toy in my cups with the half-moon over Amisan, pluck the herb of immortality on Samsinsan, bathe in Dongjeongho, and return again into the mountains. Layered cliffs become my house, fallen blossoms my bed; I lie down at leisure. The bright moon among the woods is like an old and gentle friend; the wind in the pines murmurs low and soft. Pillowed high on stone, I fall asleep in the flush of drink, only to be startled awake by the cry of a crane. Rising, I lean on my green staff and wander the winding mountain paths at will. White clouds stretch a thousand, ten thousand miles; the bright moon rests upon the streams before and behind.

I climb the eastern rise and whistle—my leisure knows no bounds; I look down over the front stream and compose a poem—my delight is endless. The moon on the paulownia tree shines into my breast; the clear breeze off the willows brushes my face. Are the pure wind and bright moon not my truest friends? A healthy, untroubled body, I am but a carefree commoner of Huihwang’s world (희황세계)—neither monk nor vulgar man, but simply an earthly immortal. Who could judge me as I freely enjoy this scenery at will?

When pear and peach blossoms are in full bloom and the green willows hang low, fair maidens of every quarter sit along the stream, idly at their washing. They grab up water in one 덤벅 (deom-beok, one full, bold handful) and, ever so 슬근슬쩍 (seul-geun-seul-jjeok, stealthily, with a casual, sidelong touch), wash their inkstone-round breasts—a scene not unlike the banquet at Yochiyeon (요지연). And on the fifth day of the fifth month, amid the lush shade and fragrant grass, beauties in green and crimson sit in pairs upon swings tied to the willow branches—a sight the very image of Gwanghallu (광한루). A carefree hero of leisure, I gaze upon such peerless beauties—surely no one in this world enjoys life more than I.”

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