TBML 22

The whole village had been in an uproar when Du-soe came pounding on the village doctor’s door, carrying Yeon like he’d just clawed his way out of a grave—but that was already some time ago. Enough time had passed that the bruises on his body had faded into faint marks.

The leg that had looked like it must’ve snapped in two, miraculously, had no broken bone. But even so, Yeon struggled to walk for a long while. His condition was worse than his ailing mother’s—his body hollowed out by malnutrition and the crushing weight of anxiety.

While he placed rich, creamy gruel into his mother’s mouth like she was royalty, he barely forced down thin, watery rice porridge himself—sometimes not even that. The constant fear—When will she die? When will those bastards barge in again?—kept him from sleeping properly, and worry ate him away from the inside.

As if making up for every illness he hadn’t had the chance to suffer before, Yeon collapsed and stayed there, unable to move, lying on the floor beside his mother under Du-soe’s care. His already small and fragile frame had become painfully gaunt. He looked so pitiful, even the villagers—who usually had plenty to say—held their tongues, even though Du-soe came and went from the house so frequently.

Even the stingiest among them—those who normally wouldn’t give him the time of day—slipped him a few boiled potatoes. Yeon, the thorn in their side, now looked like he had one foot in the grave, limping and sickly as he was.

He rarely spoke, sitting silently beneath the eaves, staring blankly at nothing. It was enough to make Du-soe pace with worry.

No one kicked a half-dead stray dog, it seemed—even Byun kept quiet.

Today again, Yeon sat on the wooden porch, blankly staring up at the jagged mountain ridge like a knife’s edge. And again, the thugs under Byun came to call.

He’d been sick too long. To them, he was now just a hen that no longer laid eggs.

What was the point in feeding grain to a hen that wouldn’t lay? Waste of good seed.

They tore through the house, looking for any hidden money, throwing things aside—until they came face to face with Du-soe, just returning from the fields.

There was a scuffle. He barely managed to drive them out. But worried it might happen again while he was away, Du-soe stopped going to work and moved into Yeon’s house entirely. Watching Du-soe’s broad back as he sat there, Yeon thought to himself:

Were you that afraid I’d get stripped clean the moment you stepped away?

Du-soe was caring not just for him but also for his sick mother—and for that, Yeon ought to bow in gratitude.

But instead, he resented the care.

It choked him.

Du-soe sitting in his house like a son-in-law was suffocating.

If he hated it so much, he should’ve pulled himself together and gotten back to work like before. But it wasn’t that simple.

In the end, he gave Du-soe a full jeon in silver, like it was payment for labor.

Du-soe’s face twisted.

Curse me all you want. Say I’m a bastard. I’d rather you do.

The chill in the air deepened with each passing day.

His ankle, once black with bruises, had healed completely.

But the weight he’d lost wouldn’t return so easily.

Yeon looked like he’d blow away in the wind.

Du-soe stuck around, locked in a quiet battle of will, as if to say let’s see how long you sit and rot.

But in the end, it wasn’t Du-soe who got Yeon moving again.

It was money.

Even the secret stash he’d hidden from Byun’s men was gone.

He’d been surviving off Du-soe’s work and tossing him a coin like a dog being fed. He hadn’t earned a thing himself.

It was inevitable.

He’d sworn never to return to the mountain. But when his mother’s cough worsened, Yeon began cleaning his matchlock. He’d found a new bow and carrier somewhere, too.

Du-soe looked on with a mixture of relief and sadness.

He can hear his mother gasping like she’ll die at any moment, Du-soe thought. But he can’t—or won’t—hear what I feel for him.

And yet, Yeon moved again, just like the Yeon Du-soe had always known—hard and unrelenting, like he’d never lain around like a dead man.

The wind turned sharp, and the sick woman in the warmest spot of the room began coughing violently.

It wasn’t something you could wave off anymore.

Every time she coughed ten times, ten times she spat blood.

She hadn’t spoken in ages. But when she did, the sound woke Yeon from sleep.

It was a moan of pain.

Her white-haired head lay on a pillow stained with red—like a camellia blooming in midwinter.

Yeon, white as frost, dashed out to fetch the doctor.

“She’s never coughed this much blood before—she just keeps coughing! My mother, she keeps spitting blood, she—!”

The doctor, who had been about to ask if Yeon was finally up and around again, clicked his tongue when he saw that face.

He followed reluctantly, worn down by Yeon’s desperate pleas, and gave her some herbs and acupuncture—though he said even the royal physician could do nothing now.

It was a miracle she’d lasted this long. Any ordinary soul would’ve died a dozen times over.

It felt as if her life had hung on by the sheer strength of her son’s devotion, enough to make the reaper delay his turn.

Yeon gripped the doctor’s trousers and refused to let go. So he gave them one last effort, temporary measures only.

To their relief, the blood finally stopped.

But the doctor warned him:

“It’s only temporary. If it starts again—there’s nothing I can do.”

“What about the ginseng?” Yeon cried. “You said old wild ginseng might help last time. You said it was a miracle cure that could even grant long life—!”

The words spilled from Yeon’s mouth—words the doctor himself had once muttered, fishing for money, about a ginseng digger he knew who had found true, wild heaven-grade ginseng.

He’d regretted saying it even then.

But Yeon—of course—hadn’t forgotten a word.

Though it wasn’t impossible that a ginseng hunter had spoken such words, the idea of a commoner digging for wild ginseng was absurd. Even offering a few roots of deodeok^[1] was considered a generous gesture. The doctor, who now couldn’t bring himself to tell Yeon the truth, frowned as if chewing something unpleasant, and spoke with deep concern.

“…The roots of ginseng are barely useful at all. Wild ginseng? Do you have the money for that? Enough talk.”

“Then I’ll earn it. I’ll earn as much as needed.”

“Enough! You’ll end up dead trying. Do you really want to catch your death?”

“Until I try, how would I know, doctor?”

“You don’t even need to try; it’s a lost cause.”

The villagers had always called Yeon stubborn and tough, but today, the doctor himself was feeling it. He slapped Yeon’s hand away, shouting at him, but it had no effect. Instead, Yeon glared back, his face filled with determination, and spoke firmly:

“No! I’m not some fool! I need to try to know for sure. Please, ask the ginseng diggers for me. I’ll gather whatever is needed, whatever price they ask.”

“Hold on, listen to me—!”

“…Yeon-ah.”

Yeon stormed out of the house, shouldering his matchlock and bow, leaving the doctor to sigh deeply. Du-soe, his face filled with worry, stood silently, watching Yeon’s determined departure. No matter what anyone said, it was clear nothing would sway him. If it had been anything else, Du-soe would have sided with Yeon, but this time, the doctor’s words were right, and Du-soe had nothing to add.

In frustration, Du-soe looked down at the hardened earth beneath him, feeling as if the very air had thickened. Yeon’s stubbornness seemed unbreakable. It was as if the only thing that could break that will was death itself.

Why was Yeon so stubborn, Du-soe wondered. When it came to the thugs from Byun’s household or Seo Do-ryeon, he was always meek and trembling. Why did he act like this now?

Du-soe sighed deeply. Yeon was well aware of how hopeless it was. But he just couldn’t accept it. As the sun began to set, Du-soe called out, trying to stop Yeon, who was inspecting his gear for a possible mountain climb.

“Yeon-ah!”

What he was about to do seemed absurd—laughable even. He was acting out of pure defiance, an act of sheer bravado. His mother’s room already reeked of death, but Yeon seemed to be the only one who couldn’t smell it.

“There’s a leopard I missed last time. I’ve seen a black tiger a few times too. The leopard will go to the authorities, but the tiger—it’s a rare one. I’ll get a higher price for it.”

“Are you saying you’re going to die for it?”

Du-soe reached out and grabbed Yeon’s shoulders. His thin, round shoulders fit in Du-soe’s hands as if they were still growing. Even a dried-up winter branch seemed sturdier than his frail body. How could he possibly hunt a tiger in this condition? It hadn’t been long since he barely made it back alive from his last ordeal.

“I can catch it. I can catch it,” Yeon insisted.

“Yeon-ah, you barely escaped with your life last time!” Du-soe’s voice cracked in desperation, but Yeon remained unmoved. Du-soe couldn’t understand why Yeon was being so reckless. He’d tried to convince him hundreds of times to run, but his words never reached him.

Before Du-soe could say more, Yeon’s steady, black eyes locked onto his, and in that moment, Du-soe knew he wouldn’t change his mind.

“…Please take care of my mother.”

With those few words, Du-soe’s strength left him. His arms dropped uselessly at his sides, and Yeon walked out, looking every bit like a soldier marching to battle.

The doctor, still clinging to his last thread of conscience, looked at Du-soe. With a sigh, he placed a hefty packet of medicine on the porch and clicked his tongue. Du-soe stood there, staring after Yeon’s figure, now heading toward the mountain as if walking straight into the jaws of a tiger.

As soon as Yeon left the village, the sky, as if mocking him, began to fall with the first snow of the year.