The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [31]
NIGHT FELL. AFTER the day’s violence the dark seemed thick and ominous, the moon and stars buried in baleful clouds. Brittle winds from the mountains gusted through the house, shaking the windows and leaving behind a hostile chill. I was snuggled deeply in winter quilts when thunder woke me. Not thunder—pounding, metal on wood. Japanese shouts. Distant doors and shutters slammed and I heard quick footfalls outside.
Father called in Japanese, “One moment! Just a moment!” Then softly, “Byungjo, the gate!” Men banged on the sturdy wooden door, and the iron latch and hinges shook. “Yes, yes!” Father crossed the front yard, his shoes flapping.
Mother slipped into my room, the baby in one hand, the other pressed against her lips for silence. I couldn’t see her eyes. The room felt cold with fear.
The gate slapped open and men shouted Father’s name. “You must—”
A scuffle, curses, then I heard my father gasp and moan. More curses, grunts, and the gate clanged shut. From the neighbor’s came muffled commands, a woman’s scream cut short and sounds of breaking wood. Faintly—shouts, screams and slams from other homes. Then silence.
I clutched my blanket and the baby whimpered. Mother opened her nightdress. The sound of his feeding and a far sighing wind in the bamboo left a strained quietude. Mother began to pray. I bowed my head to focus on her hushed sounds, the whispered words, the baby suckling, and nothing more.
“The Lord is my shepherd,” began Mother, and I joined her.
It confused me to say, “Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.” How could anyone feast with one’s enemies about? But I understood who the enemy was.
Mother said, “Go back to sleep. I think I must go out. If I’m gone too long, Cook will show you how to feed the baby rice water with honey.”
“But I should go with you! Cook can—” I wanted to wrap my arms around her waist and scream that it wasn’t safe.
“Not another word. I need you rested to watch your brother. Cook has her own worries.” Mother put her finger on my lips. “This is the best way you can help your father.” She dressed and took the baby to Cook.
Bundled in my blankets, I stayed sitting up and breathed in the last waft of milky scent as I listened to her pad down the hall and cross the yard to the servants’ quarters. I buried my eyes in the darkness of my bedding and prayed, chanted, “Keep her safe. Keep her safe.”
I WOKE TO a still house, remembered, and thought it too quiet. There’d be no church on this Sunday. After washing and dressing quickly, I went to the kitchen where Kira rocked the whimpering baby while Cook boiled down rice water to feed him.
“Where’s Mother?” I asked, scared when I saw Cook’s face unnaturally red, eyes swollen and wrinkles deeply drawn. For the first time she struck me as being an old woman, but when she faced me, she looked nearly herself again.
“Joong is out with her. She’ll be fine. Are your hands clean?”
I nodded.
Kira made room for me on a low bench beside the hearth. “Your mother said to show you how to feed the baby when there’s no wet nurse.”
I wanted to shout at them. How could they act like everything was normal? “Where did she go? Is— Was Abbuh-nim— Is he—dead?”
“Such crazy ideas!” Cook grasped my shoulders and turned me toward Kira and the baby. “Feed him first, then you can have breakfast.” She turned to the stove and stirred honey into her bubbling reduction. “Not dead,” she said. “They arrested him last night. Your mother went to find out why, and where. He’s done nothing bad, and she’s sure to get him released soon. Aigu! This morning the night-soil man said many were taken like that. He heard women crying in the houses. What a time we live in!” She wiped her face with her apron. “You’re to stay close to home today. No wandering off. Your mother will want you to take care of your dongsaeng.”
I untied him from Kira’s back. He began to wail and I held him close. My arms felt heavier than the infant’s weight. I watched the two women busy themselves