BW C11

Chapter 11

“Haa…”

Taemuk devoured Hoeun without sense or measure. That was what struck Hoeun as strange. At first, he had thought it was mockery, or an attempt to frighten him, but it didn’t feel that way.

Mockery requires leisure—to watch the other’s shame or distress. Until now, Taemuk had behaved like that.

But not now. Now he seemed more frantic than the one being kissed.

Could this be not mockery at all, but that act a Military God and a guide are said to perform by right? So he dimly wondered.

At last, Taemuk tore his mouth away.

“Hht…”

Hoeun’s fingers flew to his lips, checking if they were still attached. His mouth burned and throbbed. He had suffered every ailment under the sun, but never pain of the lips.

“Ha, damn it…”

Head bowed, Taemuk bit off a curse. Then his hand clamped the wall. It was masonry—solid brick—yet his fingers sank into it like clay. With a gritty crack, the wall crumbled.

“Hu…”

He held himself there for a moment. His shoulders trembled—fine, small spasms—like a man trying to contain something. Or digest it. It was uncanny. Hoeun could not even demand an answer for what had just happened.

They caught their breath to different beats. Then, without warning, Taemuk thrust a hand into Hoeun’s robe.

“Ah!”

His cry echoed in the narrow space. Taemuk paid it no mind, rummaging for bare skin. Well-fitted garments wrinkled and stretched; under that rough strength, the cloth felt on the verge of tearing.

“G-general, don’t. Mind your—your station.”

“My station?”

Taemuk chuckled, as if amused.

“Do I look like I have such a thing?”

His eyes glinted, wild as a beast’s; the black irises churned, savage. Hoeun feared those eyes. It felt as if he might truly do something terrible.

“Let go!”

“Why. You don’t like it? Didn’t you say you’d do anything? What use is a guide who won’t do this?”

“General!”

“Keep yammering and I’ll break your wrist. You don’t need a wrist for fucking.”

At the cruelty of it, Hoeun’s lashes quivered. He shut his eyes tight, then opened them, trying for calm.

“I—I don’t mean I won’t.”

“Then do.”

“Only—today, I want to be with my parents.”

“Ha.”

A short, cut-off laugh.

“And why should I indulge that?”

Mouth full of mockery, he reached deeper into Hoeun’s clothes—

“Please,” Hoeun whispered, voice damp. “I might… not come back.”

“…”

Taemuk froze. Hoeun looked up, eyes swimming. Please. Please… his lips shaped the words without sound.

Truthfully, a guide should not refuse a Military God’s request. It wasn’t law, but it was expected: a Military God’s vigor served the nation.

So he should comply—but not tonight. Tonight could be his last with his parents.

“…”

For a long breath, Taemuk said nothing. Hoeun waited, quiet, for his decision. A single tear slid down his white cheek.

How long passed like that? With a rough sigh of irritation, Taemuk let him go. His heavy boots shifted—

“…”

He walked past Hoeun. Hoeun turned, following him with his eyes. Taemuk’s back receded toward the dining room, then vanished around a corner.

At the same time, Hoeun’s legs gave and he slid down the wall. He sat on the floor for a long while, catching his breath. Then he scrubbed away the tears beaded at his eyes and, swaying, pushed himself up by the wall.

His clothes were a mess, wrinkled and torn here and there by Taemuk’s rough hands. His once-neat hair was disordered; his neck where he’d been gripped, and his lip where he’d been struck, ached as if bruised.

Face wan, he straightened his attire—then abruptly sank down again. Pressing his lips with the back of his hand, he wept in silence.

He had thought a guide would be his salvation.

Perhaps it would be a curse.

Dressed in a cheollik, the hunting robe, Hoeun left his room and sat on the veranda. His mother and father were inside; they had spent the night in his room.

His mother had come first, then his father. The three lay packed on the narrow bed and talked the night away. Then Mother cried first; Hoeun followed. Father stared into the dark without a word.

Hoeun sniffed, unable to scrub away the traces of tears. He rubbed at his swollen, heavy lids. When he tried to slip on his shoes, his hands missed; they weren’t his usual pair but tall military boots.

“I’ll do it.”

Father crouched before the threshold and put them on for him. Hoeun didn’t stop him. This, too, might be the last time. He had worn the word “last” threadbare since yesterday.

The last shared meal, the last tea, the last time Mother pressed his clothes, the last time he held Father’s hand, the last time he slept, the last time he cried, the last time he woke—last and last and last…

“When your eldest brother first left home, I put his shoes on like this.”

“You did?”

“Yes. He was young then, too. Not as small as your feet, but small enough. When he said he would go to the front on those feet… Truly… I never thought I’d feel that again.”

Nostalgia dulled Father’s voice. Guilt weighed on Hoeun.

“I’m sorry, Father.”

At that, Father snapped his head up.

“What on earth are you sorry for!”

“…”

“A man belongs in the great waters. If you’re going to the front, it ought to be with Jeokudae.”

“…”

“I’ll tell the world. Our youngest—our Euni—has joined Jeokudae.”

He smiled at Hoeun, then stood.

“All done.”

“…”

Hoeun tapped the floor with his neatly shod feet. At that moment, tack—tack—something clopped into the front yard. A black horse. Hoeun stared as it snorted, proud.

“That’s…”

“My horse. Take him.”

“Your horse? But… I—I don’t know how to ride.”

Hoeun glanced away, abashed; Father laughed and stroked his cheek.

“Do you take your father for a fool? I know your second brother taught you.”

“…”

So he knew. There were automobiles enough on the streets now, but horses were still the main transport. Even children, if not on horses, could ride donkeys—but Hoeun rode neither. His health had not allowed it.

Pitying him, his second brother had taught him in secret. In truth, that meant little more than perching on the beast while his brother held the reins and walked slowly around the back garden.

Strictly speaking, he could not ride.

While he stared at the horse with a face mixed of fear and nerves, Father led him up to it.

“He’s never run beyond the city walls, but he’s a clever one. He’ll carry you well.”

“…”

Hoeun stroked the glossy coat. A splendid jurak and saddle; the stirrups shone.

He studied each piece, and a small smile flickered. Excitement. To guide such a horse and ride to the front to defend the nation—him. Wasn’t it dashing? Call it childish if one wished—what man had not dreamed it at least once?

Another horse appeared then, drawing a cart piled high with baggage—exaggerating only slightly, a houseful of it. Nureong circled and sniffed at the load.

“The luggage…”

Hoeun looked at Father, aghast. He averted his eyes, sheepish.

“Ahem… Seemed you’d need much, so we packed amply.”

Hoeun opened his mouth, then closed it. It was all worry, he knew—mostly Mother’s, more than Father’s, perhaps.

He glanced at Mother, who stood behind Father, her head lowered. She did not look at him.

Footnotes:

Jurak (珠絡): Ornamental red cords and horsehair trimmings used to dress the horses of kings or high officials, denoting status and ceremony.

Deungja (鐙子): Stirrup; the metal support for the rider’s feet attached to the saddle, crucial for mounting and control.