[CYM] 10 – Budding Friendship

Beodeul found herself moving as if entranced. The young master persistently followed her dance that cut through the sandstorm. His piercing gaze occasionally slid over her eyes, nose, lips, and cheeks, and occasionally, as if provoked, he would lose the melody.

The lyrics, abruptly cut off in mid-air, lazily caught up after a while. It just had to be a haunting song that crushed the listener’s heart with unresolved yearning.

The young master seemed to be a naturally gifted artist; his singing remarkably exceptional. His voice, untouched by worldly knowledge due to years of secluded living, was clear like a transparent stream, and pure, unblemished by time.

“Where did you learn that?” he asked.

Beodeul replied, “My mother told me to learn the sword for self-defence. I learned to dance from a courtesan while wandering through the lands.”

“That’s quite impressive.”

The young master, pleased, returned a smile that was picturesque, and to her, it was rather a delightful sight.

“Come closer.”

He beckoned to her with a face fixated on the sword. At his command to approach, she could only fiddle with the back of her head in vain.

The sword hilt was soaked with sweat. And how sweltering it was under the armpits. Though her appearance was masculine, she lacked the audacity to offer her sweat-drenched body so readily to someone of such noble standing.

Overwhelmed by embarrassment, she remained motionless. The young master waved his hand again, as if to ask why she hesitated. Eventually taking the sword from her, he examined it carefully before speaking.

“It has a wave crest.”

“How did you know?” she asked, surprised. She had engraved it so small on the end of the wooden sword’s hilt.

“I remember seeing it in the past.”

The young master’s knowledge must have been imparted by Teacher Lim Yeong. She thought to herself how he seemed to teach everything, even things unnecessary unless one was to become a shaman.

Seeming to take a liking to her skills, the young master paid her more attention than before.

“Tell me about yourself.”

“What would you like to know?” she inquired.

“How you live. You said you’d show me the world. I’m curious. What people eat, what they wear. How they manage to live begging for meals. So tell me your story, the story of those outside.”

Their conversation, which had started off as sparse and awkward, began to flow more naturally.

She wiped the sweat from her brow and frowned.

“People live all the same, really. What’s so special about it? Your life as a wealthy young master, sheltered behind high walls, seems far more interesting to me.”

“Hmm.”

“This year the harvest has been poor, but somehow, we get by. You at least don’t have to worry about your next meal, which is a blessing, isn’t it?”

“A poor harvest? That’s news to me.”

“I suppose it would be.”

How would he know, living so separated from the world? The young master listened intently, devouring the stories of the outside world she fed him like bait.

“So, the poor harvest is because of evil spirits? Have you seen them?”

“Of course,” she affirmed.

“And what did you do? Did you run?”

“I did run, but it was because of a goblin that suddenly leapt out...”

What truly captivated the young master wasn’t clumsy flattery, food, or even the sweet spring breeze, but the state of the world and the various details of her life.

When she ran out of stories, she would recycle tales of her acquaintances, and later he began to ask about her friends too. How did she come to know them, did they know her sword dance, what did they do for fun?

If he was so curious, he could just come out, but he never set a foot outside his narrow room. Before long, she found herself regretting his reclusion.

‘Maybe I should invite him to come out and play.’

But she doubted her place to invite a nobleman’s son to roll in the dirt. So she bit her lip in resignation, looking forward to another time.

── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✦ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──

Time passed as briefly as a spring rain. The season reached late May, with new green leaves fluttering in the sunlight.

“Hong Sahye.”

When her initiation as a shaman neared, her mother took her to the backyard. She was dragged out while trimming herbs and grass her mother had gathered.

“Do you remember your tree?”

There stood the maple tree, much taller than a year before. It was the sacred tree her mother had left for her when she departed from Punglim.

“It’s soon time.”

Come autumn, she would receive the spirit. No matter the disguise, she could not change her essence, and if she refused the initiation, her body would suffer.