RPPL C1

A funeral bier makes its way out of the village. A professional mourner wailed sorrowfully, and the pallbearers let out funeral dirges mixed with groans of “Heo-eo, heu-eu.” The family members of the deceased, following sometimes ahead and sometimes behind, would stuff paper money wrapped in hemp cloth into the pallbearers’ arms or place candied fruits, simmered for this day, into their mouths whenever they marked time in place.

“Looks like someone died.”

Haesol said, his voice booming like an echo from a mountain ridge. I had thought it would rain, but the day was clear. Bipa readjusted the bundle on his back, his straw raincoat rustling.

Today was the day they had set out to greet a fire Dokkaebi1, the first to be born in several hundred years. To think that on the day someone is born, someone else departs this world. Bipa blankly mulled over the day, which felt like a microcosm of life itself.

“Still, he must have been well-loved.”

Looking at the faces of the villagers following, one could easily guess what the deceased had been like in life. The colorful knots were reminiscent of a village shrine, and they also looked like a sacred tree at the village entrance, watching over those who came and went.

“Let’s go.”

Bipa watched for a long while before turning away. Just then, the professional mourner twisted her body and let out a heart-wrenching wail. The sound was so sorrowful that even those listening burst into tears. The two of them moved against the stream of women dabbing the corners of their eyes with the ties of their blouses, sniffling, and the snot-nosed children who followed them, holding their hands without knowing what was going on.

The procession was quite long. It seemed several generations were gathered, as if they had all built their households and lived together for a long time. Bipa felt inexplicably uneasy whenever he saw a family. So, he had Haesol walk on the side closer to the procession while he himself walked precariously along the top of the embankment.

The snot-nosed children kept darting glances to the side. It was because of Haesol.

Haesol was terribly tall. As long as a village guardian post and as massive as a boulder. Bipa was so small in comparison he was barely visible because of Haesol.

Sensing the stares, Haesol lowered his gaze. A child whose eyes met his flinched in surprise and buried his head in his mother’s skirt. Haesol rolled his eyes and then, pretending not to notice, stuck his tongue out long.

“Waaaah! Mommy!”

The child burst into tears. Fortunately, since everyone else was also crying, his sobs didn’t stand out and blended in well. In fact, some even remarked that the young one was admirable. Bipa, who knew why the child was crying, narrowed his eyes and glared at Haesol.

“I told you not to tease them.”

“What can I do? It’s my nature.”

Haesol feigned ignorance, acting nonchalant. Bipa swallowed a sigh. He knew that not a single word Haesol said was wrong. It was an incorrigible, innate trait of Dokkaebis to enjoy tricking people and to love pranks and gambling.

The village was empty, save for the elderly who had difficulty moving. The old men sat on the street playing janggi with a worn-out board whose engravings had all faded. Which piece was a pawn (卒) and which was the king (王). I have no idea how they could tell them apart. In any case, there were no children at all.

It was on the way up through the empty and tranquil village. That they encountered the shrine.

It was a thatched-roof house overgrown with vines, situated above the village guardian tree, looking for all the world like it had been cast out of the village. Bipa, shuddering with a dirty and unpleasant feeling, called out to Haesol.

“Look over there.”

As expected, it seemed Haesol felt it too. Like a Dokkaebi true to his emotions, he spat repeatedly and shook his head.

“How sinister.”

He probably thought he was whispering in a small voice, but it was useless, as his voice had enough resonance to make even the hard-of-hearing old men look around. Haesol’s voice was like thunder.

“It is sinister.”

“Are you going?”

“I don’t know.”

“That means you’re going.”

Even though he was probably just saying it, Bipa found that guileless and innocent tone of voice grating, as if it were deliberately trying to provoke him. The guy was built like a mountain, so it wasn’t even cute.

“What if I don’t go?”

“It makes no difference to me. But you will. You have a weakness for ominous things. Wanna bet?”

Haesol said nonchalantly. His love for betting reared its head whenever there was an opening. Always has to have one word too many. Grumbling, Bipa nevertheless started walking, and the fan barely hanging from the edge of his bundle swayed. The bell tied to its tassel swayed along with it.

The path up to the shrine was steeper than it looked. Sharp rocks stuck out from the dry earth, and it was clear that one wrong step would result in a broken knee. Bipa stepped carefully.

The bell on the fan made no sound, even as Bipa’s body shook wildly while climbing the hill. If so, it should have been a broken and useless object, yet the reason he carried it so preciously was that it had a specific ear that could hear it.

In any case, Haesol pricked up his ears, tilting his head this way and that. What were five steps for Bipa was the same as a single stride for Haesol, so he could afford to be leisurely. His hair, backlit by the setting sun, stuck out in every direction. It was coarse hair that shot out this way and that by dusk, no matter how much Bipa tried to tie it for him.

The higher they climbed, the more he felt eyes on them. Bipa quickened his pace. Haesol, well, he just scoffed, saying there was no need to go and check.

“It’s an abandoned shrine. You know what happens to a shaman when her god leaves.”

“And there’ll be things that are full of spite because they have nowhere to belong.”

Bipa, too, looked like he really didn’t want to go. But just as Haesol said, he has a weakness for ominous things. He can’t help but be drawn to them.

Without a chance to wipe the reluctant look off his face, he reached the top. He barely managed to move his heavy feet and stepped inside the shrine grounds.

A gloomy and desolate, narrow yard. And in its very center was a new crock that didn’t fit in at all. Its round curves were pretty, but it must have been made in a hurry, as there were spots where the glaze hadn’t been applied, and the lid was made overly thick, with a rock placed on top of it.

Bipa pinched his nose. Making a nasal sound, he tilted his head.

“Haesol. That’s that thing. A saetani.”

Bipa’s voice was gloomy as he uttered the word that was uncomfortable even to say.

“They still do things like this?”

As expected, Haesol jumped up and down on the spot, fuming with irritation.

“No matter how desperate they are, you can’t just shit and piss anywhere. What are they thinking, creating an evil spirit?”

“The ground will collapse. Behave yourself.”

Bipa stopped him, swallowing a bitter laugh. But he himself felt no different from Haesol.

“Is it complete? Is it complete?”

“If it were, the shaman would have left.”

Bipa peeked inside the house. A shabby blanket was visible. An open wardrobe, a lamp with oil still left in it. There was no sign of packed belongings. The corners were dusty, as if the cleaning had been done lazily.

He checked the kitchen too. There were traces of a fire having been lit. Haesol, having contorted his body to fit inside, touched the charcoal and licked it.

“She left two days ago.”

“Looks like she went to offer a prayer service. Seeing as she hasn’t left for good…”

Bipa turned his head and stared at the crock. A thing that was unsettling, unpleasant, and tainted by impurity. Was this why the back of his neck had been feeling so chilly?

“It must be almost done. She went to pray to her god while it was being made.”

“What rotten luck. Bipa, let’s leave right now.”

“……”

Bipa, who would normally have agreed, unexpectedly hesitated. Haesol tilted his head and called, “Bipa, Bipa.”

“I’m not deaf.”

Bipa, who had replied bluntly, circled around the crock. He hesitated to recklessly open the lid to check, as a completed saetani might be sitting inside. If so, his sleep would be troubled for several years. If he were to even make eye contact with a saetani, he’d have bad luck for four years.

But even knowing this, he couldn’t leave and kept hesitating. Haesol, seemingly unsurprised by Bipa’s hesitation, simply urged him on.

“Bipa. Aren’t you going to leave?”

At his utterly carefree attitude, as if it was none of his business, Bipa suddenly flared up in anger.

“You’re a Dokkaebi and you can’t even see what’s inside?”

“Should I just smash it to pieces with thunder?”

“You, you brat who’d burn down the whole house to catch a single flea.”

Bipa rebuked Haesol with a sharp tone. But he didn’t listen one bit. It seemed he had no choice but to step up himself.

Putting down his bundle, Bipa approached the crock with slow steps, as if to show he was really only going because he had no other choice. He crouched down and, keeping a hand’s breadth of distance, tilted his head towards the crock. As he got closer, a strong, wicked energy emanated from it. Bipa waved his hand in front of his face a few times, as if it were a fly he could shoo away, and asked.

“Are you dead, or are you alive.”

“……”

There was no answer from inside. That was to be expected. By a rough calculation, it must have been inside for three, maybe four days. It would be safe to assume it was dead.

But to leave just like this felt terribly unsettling. Why had he come up this path he shouldn’t have in the first place, so unlike himself? He should have just avoided it. Letting out a deep sigh, Bipa asked again.

“Do you want me to save you.”

After a moment of silence, there was a sign of movement from inside. It was the sound of something scratching the crock. A sound that wasn’t a knock, but rather like fingers slipping as they were left to their own devices.