Thanks to the young master’s mysterious skills, Yunhu was left out. Brotherhood or not, what mattered to her was earning even a penny more, not a half-eaten fish head.
Even without the prized fish, she and her mother could survive on a simple meal of rice mixed with water and a single side of greens. They needed money, not fish heads that couldn’t be sold at the market.
She was always with the young master, and Yunhu had become as good as dead to her. Betrayed, one might say. Now the situation had reversed, and the young master frequented her home, avoiding the eyes of the villagers and her mother.
He had become adept at sneaking in like a spirit, but a long tail must eventually get caught. With the landowner already wary of her and her mother, she wondered if they’d be scolded if caught. With these thoughts, she eyed the young master who had settled into her room in her mother’s absence.
“You’ve come again, neglecting your studies.”
Lately, he had been observing her more. Even now, he didn’t take his eyes off her as he rolled a book towards her, leaving her uncertain whether to be pleased.
“I brought it because it seemed like you wanted to see it last time.”
That ‘last time’ referred to the last time she visited the young master’s house.
“Here, take it.”
“I can’t accept something so precious.”
“Then borrow it.”
She glanced at the young master and carefully lifted the cloth-wrapped book.
She flipped through the pages one by one, smelling the scent of old paper for the first time. She had enjoyed the musty smell of old paper whenever she passed by a bookshop, even though she understood less than a tenth of the sentences.
“You’ll need it tomorrow, young master.”
“I’ll borrow it too.”
“You have friends to borrow from.”
“What’s there to worry about? I have money. It’s a rare book not easily found in the market, but if I say I need it, there will be plenty who’ll bring it to me eagerly.”
“That’s what?”
Her laughter escaped at the young master’s boast that wasn’t quite a boast, and she shook her head.
“Taking it won’t do you any good if you can’t read it.”
Beodeul’s pride was intact, though. Her high nose was that of someone too proud to admit that she couldn’t read a single line. She thought to herself, what’s wrong with just looking at the expensive book? After examining a few familiar characters and illustrations, the content seemed to be American folklore or even older poems.
She considered borrowing it just to enjoy the pictures for a day but then folded that thought. She figured what use would it be, poring over it when she wouldn’t understand it properly anyway.
“Beodeul.”
He propped his chin on his hand, taking pleasure in watching her internal struggle.
“Can’t read?”
He was quicker to speak than she was to deny.
“Shall I teach you?”
“You would teach me?”
“Of course.”
Wasn’t it just pride with nothing to back it? Who would refuse a free lesson? She was more entranced than she would have been by food. Where had the Beodeul who, just minutes before, had feigned ignorance out of embarrassment, gone?
Without much thought, she nodded eagerly, and the young master smiled contentedly and moved close to sit by her side. He took the book from her hands and began to quietly recite a verse from the poem she had been so curious about in a neat voice.
“It was a mother who had lost her lover.”
Only then did she realise the meaning of the sorrowful woman turned away from the setting sun. It made her think of her own mother, who had lost her husband early, and she brought the book closer while wiping her nose, causing the young master to chuckle, resting his hand on his chin as if amused by her.
Such a poignant poem, and yet the young master, who had only glimpsed it casually, sang it with a beautiful voice, but his face betrayed no understanding of the emotions he appealed to.
“So?”
“What?”
“What happened to the woman? Did she find her child and live happily ever after?”
“What do I know.”
The young master shrugged and closed the book.
The only stories Beodeul knew were the eerie demon tales her mother had told her to quell her tantrums when she was very young. Considering her deep interest in stories of men and women’s secret affairs, perhaps she was just like any other woman of her age.
The little book was overflowing with captivating stories. She laughed and felt pain there, and she glimpsed the courageous lives of those who dreamed of new beginnings. She glimpsed what she had dreamed of or had been unable to have.