BW C18

Chapter 18

 

A bad person.

Hoeun thought it without meaning to, then squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. How irreverent to think that of his own Military God—more so of a hero who saves the nation.

“Haa…”

With a stifled sigh, Hoeun winced at the tingling around his mouth. When he touched his lips with his fingertips, the surface was not smooth but rough, and in some places a sharp sting flared.

“Ow…”

He made a sound unconsciously, then started at his own voice. His voice…

“Ah—ah…”

He tested it in the air; it wouldn’t come out right. Bristling little burrs seemed to stand all through his throat, with a tearing pain thrown in.

Swallowing again and again, trying to adjust to the hurt, he heard multiple presences beyond the tent. With the sun up, everyone seemed to be making ready to leave. Hoeun, too, ought to hurry out.

He planted his hands and rose—only for several strands of hair to tumble forward. Taemuk’s rough hands had undone his braid.

Hoeun sank to his knees again. It was not the conduct of a gentleman to go outside disheveled. He untied the ribbon and began to bind his hair anew.

But braiding his own hair for the first time was not easy. It had always been Mother, or Father, or Deokwoo. Strands slipping between his fingers annoyed him, and without a mirror he couldn’t even tell whether he was tying it properly.

“…”

After wrestling for some time, his forearms throbbed with a heavy ache and dropped at his sides. Tears pricked forth. He himself didn’t know why he felt so sad, so wronged, so aggrieved.

Sniff…

Chicken-egg tears plopped from his eyes. He wanted to flop down and cry all day, but he knew he couldn’t.

I am a man.

A grown man—a true man—does not cry over such things.

Dabbing his tears firmly with a silk sleeve, Hoeun began to braid again. Then he wound the ribbon round and round and tied it tight, so it would never come undone.

“Fuu…”

He stood and drew a deep breath, then straightened his clothes, snapped the dirt from his hems, rubbed his dry face as if to wash, and stepped out of the tent.

As he lifted the hanging canvas that served as a door, a hard sunlight poured down. He closed his eyes to savor the warmth a moment; then, sensing a soldier sweep past, he quickly bowed his head, lest anyone see the split corner of his mouth.

Hand covering his lips, he drifted of his own accord toward a tucked-away corner. He kept wanting to avoid, to hide.

“…I’m hungry.”

Picking his way carefully around roots and stones, Hoeun muttered without thinking—then stopped short at his own words. To feel hunger at this moment was unbelievable.

But he truly was hungry. He had all but fasted for two days; of course it was so.

Biting his lip, he rubbed his now hollower stomach—

“Uh…”

A toasty, savory smell wafted from somewhere.

Steam rose from a pot big enough to boil even Hoeun in it. It didn’t seem they were cooking; the pot sat on grass, not a fire. The presumed cooks were busily putting away dishes.

“…”

Hoeun hovered, hesitant. He couldn’t bring himself to ask for food. He had never uttered such words in his life. If someone mocked him for putting on aristocratic airs, he could hardly protest, but it was mortifying all the same.

He couldn’t simply starve either. And Taemuk had said it yesterday:

“You still think you’re some precious young master here? Don’t delude yourself. You’re merely my guide.”

He was right. He was no longer the young master who sat in his room and nibbled at whatever was set before him.

Drawing a deep breath, Hoeun screwed up his courage and approached the cook—choosing, a bit cravenly, the youngest-looking one, more boy than youth.

“Um… might I have a little food?”

As soon as he finished, he cleared his throat; the rasp in his voice bothered him. The cook jerked up a ladle and swung around.

“Hey—who’s this brother showing up now!”

Hoeun flinched, tucking his chin and squeezing his eyes shut, thinking the ladle would strike—but no pain came, so he cracked an eye open to find the cook staring at his face. Rolling his eyes, the cook slowly lowered the ladle.

“…You’re late.”

“Ah—sorry. I woke up a b-bit late…”

Hoeun scratched at his nape, abashed.

“All that’s left is scorched rice water—will that do?”

The cook tapped the pot with the ladle—tang! Inside, swollen grains of rice floated in cloudy water. Hoeun nodded quickly.

“That’s plenty.”

With a torn throat, rice would be hard to eat; scorched rice water was a relief. The cook filled a round wooden bowl with a big scoop, then scraped the bottom to add another scoop of rice grains. He plopped a spoon into the bowl and handed it over.

“Here.”

“Thank you.”

Hoeun received it carefully. The bowl was heavy, and already his belly felt warm.

“Eat up—leaving soon.”

“Mm.”

He glanced around and spotted a tree in a far corner; if he ate down there, he wouldn’t draw eyes. He had just stepped off when—

“Where d’you think you’re going? Sit here, eat here. Easier to clear right away.”

The cook offered a low stool.

“Ah… mm. All right.”

Awkwardly, Hoeun perched. The stool was so low it might as well have been the ground.

He didn’t reach for the spoon at once, but looked around—searching for somewhere to set the bowl. Holding the bowl while eating wasn’t proper. But there was no table or tray nearby; not that it had been cleared—there seemed to be none to begin with.

“…”

After a brief quandary, he decided to hold the bowl and eat. If that was how they did it here, so would he.

He blew on the steaming scorched rice water and sipped. It had little flavor, but it was warm and nutty. Heat spread through his belly and his shoulders dropped; it was like someone pasting his torn throat back together.

Slowly but steadily, he worked the spoon. As he pressed and broke up a clump of rice—suddenly, a half-handful of shredded jangjorim plopped into his bowl.

He looked up, startled; the cook stood there.

“Have some of that too.”

“Uh… I’m fine…”

“Don’t tell the others. I’m slipping it to you ‘cause you’re the Captain’s guide.”

Saying so, he sucked the soy sauce off his fingers—slurp—sniffed back a bit, and went back to clearing up.

“…”

Hoeun looked down at the meat. At home, this kind of jangjorim was common fare. But the heart of the cook who had given it was not common. However foolishly coddled a young master he might have been, he knew how precious such food was here.

“…”

Biting his lower lip, he nudged the meat with the tip of his spoon.

“Because you’re our Captain’s guide.”

What sort of being was this “our Captain” to them? He had a feeling the Taemuk they knew was quite different from the Taemuk he knew.

“…Thank you.”

He murmured his thanks and put meat and scorched rice water in his mouth together. His lips, tongue, and throat were in no state for meat, but he chewed and swallowed diligently.

As the marching continued and the forest deepened, its look changed. The road vanished. Where before there had been a broad way fit for vehicles, now it was only a narrow path.

The narrower the path, the nearer the trees crept—soundless, step by step. It sent a needless chill. Truly, the cold breathed out between trunk and trunk was tremendous; it felt as if winter had come early here alone. If he hadn’t dramatically found his coat among his baggage before they set out, he would surely have caught a chill.

Still, aside from the cold, nothing else happened. There were no signs of monsters. Hoeun thought monsters didn’t come where there were no people to eat.

“Tired, aren’t you?”

“…”

Gilsang, beside him, asked. Hoeun answered with a quiet smile. Gilsang looked at him, puzzled—no wonder; yesterday he had asked questions without end, today he kept his mouth shut. But his throat was a ruin; he couldn’t speak.

Even if the hoarseness could be excused, what if they asked why? How could he tell them what had happened with Taemuk last night.

“…”

Hoeun looked far ahead, beyond the Taegeuk flag and Jeokudae’s banner, to Taemuk at the head of the column. Even at a distance, smoke curled from his cigarette above a wide back and black hair. If one watched long, one could see him turn his head to say something to a soldier coming up behind.

“…”

Yesterday, Taemuk had not been there; today he was, and the mood was different. The men still cracked coarse jokes, laughed, and grumbled about the distance, but something had changed. They felt—should one say—more compact, more solid; as if only now complete.

Only Hoeun found Taemuk’s presence uncomfortable.

“Haa…”

He stroked his split lip and let out a sigh.