[CYM] 18 – Picked A Fight

“Beodeul, over here!”

More than ten days had passed, and it was now the annual festival of the Soru River.

In a country village where there wasn’t much to celebrate, people from neighbouring villages had flocked to see the festival. Various attractions had been prepared for the visitors during the three days of the festival, but she wasn’t interested in trivial pinwheels or old paper plays.

“Hurry up. We’ll be late.”

Yunhu was waving an old wooden sword from a distance. He ran sceptically to the spacious clearing. There, like him, about a dozen snotty kids who wanted to learn swordsmanship, and a middle-aged man claiming to be a teacher, stood there chewing on a reed with an annoyed expression.

With the exception of her, disguised as a man, nine out of ten were boys. They received blunt wooden swords and stood in front of straw-stuffed dummies, thrusting and slashing as if they were great warriors, all pomp and no substance. Despite the clumsy motions, the man showed no intention to correct them.

“They’ll all just die swinging hoes anyway. Why learn the sword?”

She wondered if she came for nothing, standing awkwardly alone amidst the disarray.

“What on earth is going on?”

“Sorry, Beodeul. He was said to be a fine warrior.”

“I heard that too.”

Everyone was busy playing around, but only she and Yunhu were earnest.

“What do you all want to become?”

The middle-aged man with his arms crossed suddenly asked.

“We have to inherit the family business.”

“Is there anything besides pulling a plough?”

She and Yunhu stopped what they were doing, puzzled by the absurd question, and watched what would come out of that lazy mouth. A few of the boys shyly smiled, saying their dream was to marry the girl they liked.

“Isn’t there a village a day’s horse ride away where sea trade flourishes? Don’t you want to become a merchant with a corner in the capital, or a great warrior? Don’t you have any dreams like that? They all seem so trivial.”

“What can we country bumpkins hope for?”

“Staying in this village is our fate.”

“As long as I can marry Nanhee, I’m content to rot here for the rest of my life.”

She belatedly understood their lack of enthusiasm. Learning wasn’t useful for survival. It made no sense to take it seriously for those destined to farm or turn pottery.

“We must live according to our station.”

They were too busy chatting and laughing loudly, in the boorish and simple way of boys their age.

Station. The term was drifting away from her ears. When she came to her senses, she was the only one standing, beating the straw dummy fiercely, and the middle-aged man looked at her as if she were some peculiar creature.

“Why is he so serious about this?”

“He’s just going to end up like her mother, doing menial work in the fields for wages.”

Stung by their murmurs, she reluctantly put down her sword. Yunhu had gone to sit awkwardly with the other boys, and the stares and whispers stuck to her.

“Who is he?”

“Why, he’s the boy from the poor village. Moved to Muritmaegol a year ago, the shaman’s son.”

“I never saw them in the writing room, so I didn’t even know that kid existed.”

“What can you expect from a smelly beggar from a poor village?”

“And if he’s the son of a shaman, is he a shaman too? Isn’t his father the butcher who ran away with another woman?”

“Ara is crazy about that guy. Who would look after someone like him, a weakling who resembles a male courtesan? Girls are always like that...”

She didn’t want their gazes. Her mother didn’t wish for even the smallest bit of gossip about her to circulate among the villagers, and she didn’t want to cause her mother unnecessary worry. It had taken a lot of persuasion just to get here, and upon reflection, it seemed like it had been a bad idea.

The looks the boys gave her were unfriendly. They mocked her for being from the poor village, asking why the girls bothered with someone like her, and when she picked up a sword, they laughed loudly from all sides, saying the worm had started to show off tricks.

Yunhu was too timid to stand up for her in front of everyone in the village.

“Let’s see how good you are.”

The blacksmith’s son suddenly picked a fight with her. He was the ringleader of the gang and strutted around arrogantly; a boy who knew how to handle tools.

He stood in front of her, then, with a practice sword stolen from his father’s workshop, he struck down with ignorant force without giving her a chance to react. She twisted to dodge the direct overhead strike, and when he lost momentum and charged in frustration, she defended against his blows, countering and striking back.