Today's Reading
He grabbed the ribbon at her waist. Just like they practiced, he pulled while she spun out in the opposite direction. The ribbon unraveled between them, red from the safflowers Big Uncle had used for dye. She fell backward onto the ground, then lay still, limbs splayed.
Like when a rock is removed from a stream, the villagers poured over her, thrusting gifts of foodstuffs and coins into her arms. She jumped to her feet to accept them, laughing with the children tugging at her pants only to look disappointed when wind didn't leap from the seams. It was another few minutes before she was able to disentangle herself and go in search of Little Uncle.
She found him sitting on a wooden platform at the edge of the village, tallying the earnings from their performance. A pine tree bowed over him, as if peeking over his shoulder.
He'd removed his mask, revealing his handsome, flushed face. Though she called him "Little Uncle," as he was Auntie's younger brother— to differentiate him from "Big Uncle," who was her husband—he was only eighteen to Ren's seventeen years. 'Almost' seventeen years. His hair stuck up in messy tufts, resembling a sprout. Ren resisted the urge to smooth them down, to fuss over him like Auntie would.
She sat beside him, slipping off her sandals and pulling her legs up onto the wooden platform. She added the items she carried to the pile—a covered basket of soybeans, a small pot of soy sauce, and a block of fermented bean paste. This village was known for its soybean production. She emptied her pockets of coins, tossing them onto the platform where they clinked and spun before settling.
Shoulder to shoulder, Ren and Little Uncle leaned over the assortment of goods and handfuls of coins. The offerings were meager, totaling less than a quarter of what they'd accrued in previous years. It had been the same in the other villages, though it was still a shock to see; Ren had hoped for more after the liveliness of the crowd.
"Well," Little Uncle said, following a lengthy pause, "I am quite fond of beans."
"There was a blight this past harvest," said a grave voice behind them, and Ren and Little Uncle both jumped.
Auntie had come soundlessly down the short path from the village—an impressive feat, as she had twisted her ankle two days before and was using a walking stick to move about. Strands of her dark brown hair fluttered about her severe face. Her gaze didn't linger but moved past them toward the empty fields. "Something is ill with the earth."
Ren shivered at Auntie's words. The people of the caravan had noticed the changes as they'd traveled first east, then north from the small villages that dotted the river valleys to the larger seaside towns scattered along the coast. It had gotten worse the farther they'd headed inland, west toward the mountains. Their hunters described too-quiet forests, where an arrow shot into a thicket wouldn't release a single bird, with lakes so still they appeared like glass, and withered glades where once wildflowers flourished.
The people who lived in the villages closer to the mountains were superstitious—a difficult harvest was blamed on disgruntled spirits, a child's sickness on the work of demons. Gorye Village, the last village on their trail, was the remotest of all, nestled at the foot of the largest mountain.
If it were up to Ren, they'd forgo their visit entirely. The people there were dour and ill-humored. But Auntie and the caravan leaders insisted they return every year. The Gorye villagers depended upon their trade, and there were rare plants that only grew deep within the mountains that the elders of the valley needed for their medicines.
'Guarding the mountain is a difficult and thankless task', Auntie would say when Ren complained, as she often did. 'We are honored to ease their burden.'
'Guarding from what? Boredom?' Ren would grumble.
It would take the caravan five days to reach the village, the Haebaek Mountains looming ever closer until they awoke one morning to find the daylight gone and the forest entirely engulfed in shadow.
"You disobeyed me," Auntie admonished, and Ren flinched.
Little Uncle looked up from where he'd been counting their coins for the third time.
"I asked you not to draw attention to yourself," Auntie continued. "I didn't think that such an unreasonable request."
"It was just a little bit of wind," Little Uncle argued, always quick to defend Ren.
"A wind at dusk is a storm at night. What if there are rumors?"
Ren dropped her head. "I'm sorry," she said. "It won't happen again, I promise."
Auntie's gaze fixed upon her. "No, it won't," she said quietly. "In Gorye Village, you won't act in the play. You'll accompany Big Uncle on the flute."
Ren gaped at her. "But that's our last performance this year!"
When they returned to the valley, they'd have to prepare for the harsh winter months. No more performances—at least not like the ones on the caravan trails, with big crowds full of new faces. It didn't matter that the people of Gorye were gloomy and humorless. She'd been looking forward to performing at least once more.
"It was one mistake," Ren said, and she didn't care that her voice had risen in pitch. "I don't see why I must be punished for something so small!"
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