* * *
On the beach, bonfires were blazing. Women scurried about, stoking flames, coiling lengths of rope, and inspecting gourds for breaks and nets for tears. Some of the divers were singing a song that keened like the wind. Others were rubbing their hands together as they chanted prayers to the sea god. Seabirds hovered as the sky began to brighten. Junja added her family’s kindling to the community pile.
“Gather your dolchu,” an elder barked. Junja hurried to the water’s edge, where speckled black-and-white stones had been washed clean by the night tides. She found a smooth one, the size of a summer squash, and showed it to her grandmother, who hefted it with an approving grunt. The first group of divers were standing before the fire in their water clothes, eyes shut, faces glowing with heat.
“Water time! Water time! Go into the sea!”
The divers secured their seaweed scythes and shellfish picks. They spat into their masks and rubbed the bubbles over the glass. Junja’s mother, hands in thick wool mittens, stirred the embers with a stick and pulled out stones to cool on the sand.
With the warm anchor stones nestled in their hemp slings, the first group stood ready, led by an elder who would guide them to the first dive site.
The barefoot women waded into the water, arms wrapped around their gourd floats. The anchor stones warmed their bellies. Their linen swimsuits darkened before puckering to cling to their skin. As the women kicked their way through the surf, the sound of singing grew fainter, giving way to the slapping waves and the pounding of their pulse.
The ocean sucked each diver down greedily. But the women were prepared for battle. They swiped their knives at the fingers of sea grass that clutched at them. They used picks to pry away shells clinging to underwater rocks. They worked the waters, humming the chants of their forbearing mothers, who had explored the deep before them.
* * *
You must leave the ocean before your fingers and lips grow numb. Grab your fistful of treasure and fly back up toward the light. When your head breaks the surface, release the air you held captive in your chest, letting it fly away in a whistling scream.
Rest your cheek on the gourd, which bobs on the water, dreaming of the steady ground that once moored it. Place your shell inside the net bag and thank the sea king for his gift. Close your eyes and imagine the sun’s fire sinking deep into your belly.
Swallow another gulp of shining air.
Dive into the depths one more time.
Two
Mother packed a large clump of dripping seaweed into the bottom of the big wooden basket as Junja watched, envious. The abalone, snug in their shells, were packed in next and covered with more seaweed. Mother threw a ladle of sea water on top before tying the basket shut. Junja held the carrying rack steady while Mother secured the basket to its wooden frame.
For her annual trip to Hallasan, Mother was wearing braided straw shoes and socks that had never been mended. Her crisp shirt was closed by five wooden buttons instead of the usual ties, and its bright persimmon had not yet faded to mud. A silver hairpin, borrowed from Grandmother, glinted in the coil of hair at the nape of her neck. Under the soft light of the setting moon, she could have been her daughter’s reflection.
Junja took a breath before trying again. “Please, Ummung. You promised I could go this year.” Ever since Mother had announced her intention to fetch a piglet from Hallasan, Junja had been begging to make the trip in her stead. The girl’s voice was a murmur because everyone in the house was asleep, but the chickens opened their eyes to glare. “Let me go, please! I swear I’ll be fine.” Junja had never ventured more than a two-hour walk from the village by herself, and she had not yet visited the sacred mountain, seeing it only from a distance.
Mother hefted the pack, feeling the security of each knot with her fingertips. The weight of the basket reminded her that someday she would not be able to make this trek. When that time came, she would have to see her friend, the pig farmer’s wife, during market trips in town. Junja’s mother recognized in her daughter’s eyes the same restlessness she had felt at that age.
Junja watched Mother press her lips together. The girl had reached her eighteenth year without paying her respects to the mountain god. The lapse was understandable with so many strangers on the island. It was impossible to walk into town these days without passing at least half a dozen carts. Motorized vehicles rumbled by with such frequency that the old man living near the big road talked about starting a roadside stall. Yesterday alone he had counted two buses, four motorcycles, and a military truck, full of soldiers.
Despite its novelty, the traffic added to an overall sense of unease. Mother was probably fretting about the diver who had agreed to take her place while she was gone. The woman had witnessed an eel entangled with an octopus, illuminated by a beam of light. The purple tentacles had clung to the dark eel, whose jagged teeth were sunk into the octopus’s head. A glowing halo had outlined the creatures’ deadly embrace, so mesmerizing the woman that she almost failed to surface in time. The spooked diver had stayed out of the water all week but insisted she was up to the task. Mother’s worries were obvious: Was that woman fit to lead her dives during her absence?
Sensing her mother’s hesitation, Junja thrust her arms through the carrying straps. She stood, gasping when the full weight of the pack settled on her. She pretended to clear her throat. “See how easily I can lift everything? If I go, you’ll be able to get so much done. Please, let me help you, Mother!”
Mother shook her head. “Manipulative little wench!” She always scolded her children before relenting to any of their requests.
Junja muffled her excited yelp and threw her arms around her mother’s neck. “Thank you!”
Mother shook the girl off. Her voice was brisk. “I’m not letting you go because you want to, but because it’ll help me.” She was already thinking ahead to everything she could do with the extra hours. “And you’re long overdue for a visit to the mountain god.” She squinted at her daughter, who had copied her mother by putting on her best shirt, just in case. Junja’s hair was hanging in a braid down her back, and her face had been scrubbed. She looked presentable enough, but her feet were bare. “Put on your shoes.”
The girl made a face. “They’re too small. Besides, it’s more comfortable walking without them.”
“Shoes aren’t for your comfort. You need to look respectable when you reach the pig farmer’s house.” Mother sat on a black stone to remove her shoes and socks. “You can borrow mine.”
Mother’s socks felt warm against Junja’s skin. Though the girl managed to pull them on, the straw shoes were tight.
“How are they?” Mother peered down at Junja’s feet.
Junja tried to wiggle her toes. Mother’s shoes were too small, but she didn’t want to give her an excuse to change her mind. Anything would be better than another dull day harvesting seaweed, which was what Junja would be teaching the junior divers in her charge today. The shoes, as well as the truth, would have to stretch a bit.
“They feel fine.”
“Well, I guess that settles it. You’ll go to Hallasan in my place.” Mother closed her eyes to think. “You’ll pass two shrines along the trail, but you won’t have time to stop on the way up. Pay your respects after you deliver the abalone.”