TBML 2

“Yeon-ah, I heard a wild boar came down all the way to Buni’s house.”

The man helping pull the cart broke Yeon’s train of thoughts. At his words, Yeon recalled the face of the woman the man always chased after, calling out, “Bun-ah, Bun-ah.” A soft, fluffy face like a steamed potato and a thatched house at the entrance of the mountain quickly came to mind.

“I’ll take a look.”

“It’d be great if you could. Thanks.”

Yeon immediately caught the man’s true intentions and spoke first. It was mutual aid—helping each other out. Doing this favor meant the man might check in on Yeon’s mother while he was away from home.

After handing over the tiger to the local office and receiving 100 nyang, Yeon hid in the alleyway to count the coins. He wasn’t educated enough to reas books, but he had learned enough to recognize the engraved characters on Sangpyeong Tongbo^[1] coins. No matter how he counted, it was ten gwan^[2] but just to be sure, he counted a few more times.

Only after confirming that the number remained ten did he feel relieved and head straight to the physician.

There was a lot to buy today and a lot to spend. His mother’s medicine had long run out, and the empty rice jar needed refilling. He also had to stop by Byun on the way to pay the overdue interest on his loan.

One hundred nyang—it was by no means a small sum, but in Yeon’s hands, it felt like a mirage. Moreover, there was no guarantee he could catch another tiger next time, so he had to be as frugal as possible.

…

Carrying a load of medicine, rice, and dried fish on his back, Yeon trudged home with heavy steps.

In front of a shabby, crumbling thatched house, Yeon adjusted his bloodstained clothes, now dried and stiff. After rinsing the rice and placing it in the iron pot, he thought, “Tomorrow, I’ll wake up early, chop firewood, and head up the mountain to track the wild boar.”

He prepared a simple meal—clear porridge and minced fish—and carefully carried the tray inside, opening the tightly shut door just enough to squeeze his small body through. He quickly closed and locked it again, wary of the cold wind worsening his mother’s health.

Even with Yeon’s return, his mother, hard of hearing, did not notice. She lay there, struggling to breathe. Without a word, he helped her sit up and pulled the tray closer. He gently placed soft fish meat atop the plain porridge and brought it to her lips. Still, he said nothing—not even a warm greeting. There was no point in saying “I’m home” when she couldn’t hear it anyway.

At first, he couldn’t bear the silence and used to chatter endlessly about his day. But as the years passed and life wore him down, even the strength to speak faded. At some point, all that remained was silence, like burned-out ashes.

The house was quiet as they ate. Once his mother finished her meal, Yeon barely picked at the scraps before swirling the remaining food in water and drinking it down. Then, he squatted in the freezing yard to brew medicine, his hunched back never straightening even for a moment.

Only after carefully feeding his mother the bitter black decoction did he allow himself to lie down for a brief rest. His back, bent from carrying heavy loads all day, finally stretched out, sending sharp pain rippling through his body. Along with the pain, the stench of blood and beasts rose faintly.

Lifting his arm, he sniffed himself. The stench of death clung to him—he had rolled in pools of blood and wrestled with a tiger’s corpse. He couldn’t even remember when he last drew water. Thinking back to the nearly empty water jar when he cooked, Yeon realized he should go to the stream before dark.

He grabbed a laundry bundle and a water pail, slinging them over his back as he set off. His briefly straightened back soon curved again.

At this late hour, the stream was deserted. No sane person would bathe in this freezing weather—it was a sure way to get frostbite.

Still, Yeon stripped down to his undergarments. He planned to wash his clothes and bathe at the same time.

Beating the already tattered fabric against a rock to remove the bloodstains, he saw the cloth fraying, on the verge of tearing apart. He would need to get new clothes for both himself and his mother if they were to survive the harsh winter. He mentally calculated the costs again.

Once the laundry was done, he braced himself and plunged into the icy stream. The water, not yet fully frozen but still covered with patches of ice from the recent snowfall, stung like blades against his skin. It was madness, but he couldn’t walk around reeking of tiger blood. Otherwise, people would treat him like a butcher, not a hunter.

Yet, he couldn’t afford the luxury of burning firewood just to heat bathwater.

Watching the dark red blood swirl into the clear stream, Yeon thought of the orphaned cub he had left in the mountains. The little cub had done nothing but wail—could it survive the winter alone?

A bastard son doing a lowborn’s work, Yeon had no guardian to arrange his coming-of-age ceremony. That was why he still wore his hair down. Though the villagers, understanding his circumstances, called him ja^[3] he was only ever recognized—a half-blood foreigner^[4] and a half-grown adult.

He sat on a rock, running a comb through his hair. He needed to tie his topknot soon if he wanted to be treated properly.

Perhaps because he had lingered in the freezing water for too long, shivers wracked his body. His teeth chattered, and he hurriedly put on his clothes, now stiff from the cold.

Who was he to worry about anyone else? It was pointless sympathy. In truth, the cub might have a better life than him—it didn’t have a sick mother to care for or debts to repay.

…

Before the rooster crowed, Yeon was already up, moving swiftly. He chopped firewood efficiently, warmed up the leftover porridge for his mother, and shouldered his bundle.

His bundle was always overloaded. Using a matchlock required many supplies—gunpowder, lead bullets, ignition powder, and priming materials. On top of that, he carried a spear, a bow, and nets as backups since a matchlock became useless after a single shot. No wonder his back always bent before he even started the day’s work.

Today, he changed his usual route. Instead of his normal mountain path, he circled around the village and entered the mountain through the back of Buni’s house. Before leaving, he didn’t forget to ask a neighbor to check in on his mother.

Just as the man had said yesterday, traces of a wild boar and its droppings were found near Buni’s house. In truth, wild boars were not worth much. Rather than wasting time hunting them—creatures sought only by winter traders—it was far better to set up nets and catch live pheasants instead. Still, since he had received help, he felt obliged to at least make a show of searching for it.

At the foot of the mountain, Yeon put on snowshoes. In the deeper parts of the forest, the snow had yet to melt, making them a necessity. As he prepared to venture into the mountains, a hunter passing by acknowledged him and offered words of encouragement, wishing him a good catch.

After setting up a net in an area dense with low shrubs, Yeon followed the boar’s tracks into the depths of the mountain. At first, there was only a single trail of footprints, but as he went further in, the tracks became entangled with those of various other animals. His small breaths came out in puffs of steam, rising like the vapor from a boiling cauldron.

Bothered by the visible mist of his breath, Yeon pulled a worn cloth over his mouth. With his lips concealed, the sheen of his straight black brows and the deep luster of his dark eyes became even more pronounced.

He moved silently, careful with every step. Swift and light-footed, he was likely the quietest man in the village—perhaps second only to a tiger. Wild boars were most active at night, meaning the beast that had raided Buni’s house last night was now likely sprawled out in its cozy den, fast asleep. He wanted to get rid of the troublesome creature quickly and focus on catching pheasants.

How long had he been moving through the woods? No more than three ken (approximately 5.5 meters) ahead, the twitching snout of a wild boar peeked out from the undergrowth.

Yeon positioned himself where he had a clear shot at the boar’s head and retrieved his matchlock from his back. Slowly, with utmost caution, he loaded the barrel with gunpowder and a lead bullet. He packed it down with the ramrod and skillfully sealed the muzzle with paper.

Once the priming powder was set, he lit the fuse without hesitation. After a brief pause, the gunpowder ignited with a deafening explosion that echoed through the mountains. The boar thrashed wildly, letting out a shrill screech before collapsing onto the ground. The sound of life ebbing away filled the forest.

Approaching the fallen beast, Yeon pulled out his dagger and swiftly ended the boar’s suffering. He had hoped to avoid getting blood on himself today, but as always, it was an impossible task.

When droplets of blood splattered onto the knee of his tattered hemp trousers, he grabbed a handful of snow and scrubbed at the stain. Instead of fading, the blood spread wider, soaking into the fabric and staining the dull cloth a pale crimson—like a brand pressed into his skin.

Like a musketeer who had just completed his assigned task, Yeon cleared out the remaining gunpowder from the barrel and began tidying up the area. But then, an eerie sensation crept up his spine. Instinctively, he spun around, his body moving on its own.

Between the tangled branches of the thicket, a pair of yellow eyes gleamed, fixed intently upon him.

Though fierce in its gaze, the creature’s eyes were set low. Yeon swiftly assessed the possibilities—what predator could be of such a height? Setting his matchlock aside, he adjusted his grip on his dagger.

He had only taken a single step, yet the tension in the air made his breathing ragged. As his warm breath met the icy air, moisture formed on the cloth covering his lips.

The predator, lying low within the thicket, slowly began to reveal itself.

If only he had a spear instead of a dagger—but there was no use lamenting. If the beast lunged, he would have to drive his blade into those fierce eyes, even if only to buy himself a fleeting chance at survival.

Even in the midst of this peril, a thought crossed his mind—had he known this would happen, he would have left a pot of rice porridge simmering at home for his mother.