七部小说 · Seven Novels

第 22 章

仁王山，柳林之上的东肩。仁祖王元年五月，路旁神龛在风雪止息之时、放走了那男人与那女儿之后的次晨。五月初七，就坡上而论，还有八日。

达恩，在定雪（定雪）止息的那个清晨，在仁王山的东肩上，立于一场风雪在气象上决定它所携带了三天三夜的雪在第四个清晨已然完整之后的次晨——韩国晚春铺在一座山上的那种平直冷峻的阳光之下。

她，在第四个清晨，走过来了。

她从仁王山东路上的路旁神龛，沿东肩，由下方那株松走到上方那株松，再走到那片光秃秃的花岗岩顶——那地方，宣祖王祖父辈的朝鲜巫女，以那古名从容不迫的朝鲜母语语法，唤作 *禅岩（Seonbawi）——那立着的群石*——也就是达恩自己的母亲，在达恩十一岁那年的秋天，于忠清道家中的厨房地板上，曾说过的那处：在山上、一个朝鲜女儿在她已下定一桩心事的那一日，要去站立、以确保那决意守得住的地方。

她在第二刻到了那群石跟前。

她孤身一人。

她身上穿着路口那妇人在第三个清晨给她送上来的灰麻襦裙与灰麻长裙，左手腕上系着白麻丧带，手里拿着那妇人也一并带上来的、包好的젓갈（jeotgal），身上还披着那男人在第三日傍晚第五刻、不曾推开拉门、就放在第二株松边缘的厚羊毛大衣。

那男人，没有，在第四个清晨，沿路上来。

那男人，在第四个清晨，正在第二株松边路旁神龛的脚下——就是风雪止息之际，她以从母亲在忠清道厨房地板上学来的那种朝鲜母语语法，对他说出那一句、止息所允许说出的唯一一句的所在。

那句话是这样的：

先生。我，趁这止息，独自上山去。

那男人鞠了一躬。

十五度。

那男人说：是的，姑娘。我会，在第二株松那里，等。

那男人是以她在第二日清晨听他在神龛地板上说话时用的那种清亮嗓音说出来的——那时他讲的，是九八三年南路上、一张抹楼上、他自己母亲的那盏灯。那清亮嗓音，是一个生灵的嗓音——这生灵越过路旁神龛上的七夜七日（按定雪之数算，已成了三夜三日），已在神龛的地板上、成了那定雪所裁定他正是的那个男人。

她也鞠了一躬。

十五。

她沿路走上去了。

她，在第四个清晨，沿路走上去了。

她，在第四个清晨第二刻，到了禅岩的那群石跟前。

她站着。

她站在那片平坦的花岗岩顶上——母亲十一岁那年秋天、在忠清道厨房地板上对她描述过的那一片——立于仁祖王元年第四月第四个清晨、一座朝鲜山上、那种平直冷峻的阳光里。

那平直冷峻的阳光，在花岗岩顶上，并不暖。

那花岗岩顶在第四个清晨之上、空荡荡地立着。

她吐纳。

她吐纳一次。她吐纳两次。她吐纳第三次。

她，在花岗岩顶上，没有哭。

她，自母亲于巳时由南门被押入勤政殿庭院至今的这十一日里，已经哭过三回。

她，在禅岩群石之花岗岩顶上、在第四月的第四个清晨，已下定决心：那第三回的哭，按她自己的算法，便是末一回的哭。

那末一回的哭，按她的算法，是她母亲挣得的那一回哭。

第四回的哭——如果它当真要来——是要献给一个未来的朝鲜女儿的哭：达恩此刻——就在禅岩群石的第四个清晨、以她母亲在忠清道厨房地板上教给她的、那种私密召唤的朝鲜母语语法——正要把这哭向前送出去、送给的那个女儿。

她吐纳。

她站着。

她开口说话——以朝鲜巫女之女、在仁祖王元年第四月第四个清晨、立于禅岩群石之花岗岩顶上的那种平直、无元音的气息——对着那冷峻的太阳：

我知道他是什么。

那冷峻的太阳没有回答。

她原也不指望它答。冷峻的太阳，不做那回答之事。

她又开口：

我已经，在路旁神龛的这四日里，知道了。

那冷峻的太阳没有回答。

我从第二日清晨第二刻起就知道了——那时第一夜灯下的那个男人，并未从路口那妇人放在第二株松边的那一捆里拿引火柴，只取了路口那厨房里的妇人包好的젓갈：那妇人，已二十年不曾为别的任何男人做过此物。

她吐纳。

我之所以知道，是因为那包好的젓갈，正是我母亲——在十一岁那年秋天她给我那四个月的预备里——所描述的、那一位妇人的젓갈：仁王山东路口的那一位，她的厨房四十六年来一直是那东路上供奉之物的厨房。那젓갈，本身就是那供奉。第一夜灯下的那男人，是东路上唯一一个、四十六年来由那供奉所喂养其身的生灵。

她吐纳。

那男人，在第二个清晨，受了那供奉。

她吐纳。

那男人，在第三个清晨，受了那供奉。

她吐纳。

那男人，在第四个清晨，受了那供奉。

她吐纳。

那男人——以三个清晨的供奉、以他在桑皮纸捆收据背面问出那四个字时所用的、那种有节制的朝鲜士子的语法——已经，依我自己的解读，成了东路上唯一一个、自身那四尾之躯，被路口那妇人厨房的供奉、四十六年里一直供养着的生灵。

她吐纳。

那男人，在第四个清晨，是那只狐。

她吐纳。

我已经知道了。

那冷峻的太阳没有回答。

我已经知道了两日。

那冷峻的太阳没有回答。

我已经知道了两日，且这两日里，我都坐在神龛所允许的距离上、对着东墙灯下的那男人，我没有起身。我接了那男人在第二夜搁在低松木匣上、神龛所允许之距离处的那一杯朝鲜宫廷药酒——大麦水杯——我饮了。我没有死。我没有沉入那一种沉睡：依我母亲那四个月的预备，一只更年长的朝鲜宫廷狐的药酒，本会把一个小些的生灵推入的那种沉睡。我在神龛所允许的距离上，把我这双朝鲜宫廷巫女之女的眼睛睁着；并在那睁着里，对第二夜与第三夜灯下的那男人，做出了那种沉稳的解读——一种忠清道파제（paje）脉的、更年长的朝鲜宫廷巫女之女，经十七代关于「白昼前一夜、坡上四尾之物」的、细致的朝鲜母语解读训练之后，被教导着要做的那种解读。

她吐纳。

她吐纳。

那解读是：第二夜与第三夜灯下的那男人，就是那只狐。

她吐纳。

那解读是：灯下的那男人——以桑皮纸捆收据背面的那四个字、以及在第三日里他那种从容、不紧不慢的朝鲜士子方式：他不曾、以任何我能在某一封我此生不会去写的家书里向母亲描述的法子、碰过我——同时也是坡上唯一一个生灵：他那种细致的朝鲜士子的自律，已经在仁祖王元年第四月里，决定了路口东路那四十六年厨房的供奉，在第四个清晨里、要被回绝。

她吐纳。

那男人，在第四个清晨，是仁王山东路上唯一一只狐：他细致的朝鲜士子的自律，依桑皮纸捆收据背面的那四个字，决定了不吃我。

她吐纳。

那男人，在第四个清晨，也是仁王山东路上唯一一只狐：他自身的四尾之躯，依路口那妇人四十六年的厨房——在定雪止息的第四个清晨之前——已经，四十六年来，要求着那白昼前一夜、坡上一位朝鲜女儿的供奉。

她吐纳。

那男人，在第四个清晨，两者皆是。

她吐纳。

那男人，正因两者皆是，便是第四个清晨坡上唯一一个生灵：他自身的自律，我，在禅岩群石的花岗岩顶上、在第四个清晨的冷峻阳光里，不能信任。

她吐纳。

而我爱他。

那冷峻的太阳，不回答那爱。

她吐纳。

她立在禅岩群石的花岗岩顶上，身着灰麻襦裙与灰麻长裙、左手腕上系着白麻丧带——那是她母亲的，自仁祖王元年第三月清晨——十一日前——立于一座朝鲜山上、第四月第四个清晨的、那种平直冷峻的阳光里；她，在花岗岩顶上，没有哭。

她吐纳。

她，在花岗岩顶上，解开左手腕上的那条白麻丧带。

她把那带子捧在两只指甲染了凤仙花的手之间。

她以母亲八岁那年秋天、在忠清道厨房地板上给她的那种预备——那种耐心的朝鲜母语语法——把它平放在两手掌心之间。

她把两手掌心合拢、压住那带子。

她稳着。

她稳了三次吐纳之久。

她吐纳。

到第三次吐纳——以一个忠清道파제脉的朝鲜巫女之女、立于仁王山东肩禅岩群石之花岗岩顶上、仁祖王元年第四月第四个清晨第二刻的、那种平直、无元音的气息——她开始了——以母亲在她十七岁那年秋天、在忠清道家中厨房地板上、在那张矮桌前、在烛火由母亲那一侧偏过来朝向她的那一夜，教给她的、那种私密召唤的、安静的朝鲜母语语法——那编结。

她编。

她编那诅咒。

她，在禅岩群石的花岗岩顶上，没有哭。

她以忠清道파제脉那种有节制的朝鲜母语语法编那诅咒——那种编结，正是她母亲在她十七岁那年秋天教过她的、唯一的一种编结：一个파제脉的朝鲜巫女之女，在她被赐下冷峻的太阳、花岗岩顶、两只染了凤仙花的手、与那条白麻丧带的那一日，要做的那种编结。

她编入第一缕。

第一缕，是她母亲——以一位四十一岁宫廷巫女那种沉稳、细致的朝鲜母性之手——在她十七岁那年秋天、在忠清道厨房地板上、从达恩自己锁骨之下抽出的那道无元音气息的缕——这位地板上的女儿，依那无元音的气息、那白麻丧带、那两只染了凤仙花的手，将要——在仁祖王元年第四月的第四个清晨，在一场——在她十七岁那年秋天尚未是一场政变的——朝鲜政变的第一年——成为母亲那一脉的、最末一个。

她编入第二缕。

第二缕，是她母亲自身的、那道无元音气息的缕——在仁祖王元年五月初七清晨、仁王山东肩柳林之上的坡上、那道气息——就是西人党的朝鲜士子李焕，依下院在五月初七清晨六时四十三分签发的那份令（那份令，达恩，在第四月第四个清晨，依母亲那四个月的预备，已经知道在来路上），将要夺走的、她母亲的那道气息。

她编入第三缕。

第三缕，是那位忠清道파제脉、未来的朝鲜女儿的、那道无元音气息的缕——达恩此刻——在仁祖王元年第四月第四个清晨、在仁王山东肩禅岩群石之花岗岩顶上——正要、借三神奶奶（Samshin halmoni）的织机、把那私密召唤向前送给的那位女儿。

她编入第四缕。

第四缕，是第四月第四个清晨坡上那只四尾之物的、那道无元音气息的缕——那只生灵，他自身的自律，她，在花岗岩顶上，不能信任。

她编着。

她以파제脉编结那种有节制的朝鲜母语语法，把这四缕编在一处。

她，在花岗岩顶上，没有哭。

她稳着。

她把那条编好了的四股白麻丧带稳在两只染了凤仙花的手掌之间。

她稳了三次吐纳之久。

她吐纳。

她，在仁王山东肩禅岩群石之花岗岩顶上、仁祖王元年第四月第四个清晨第二刻——并没有使用那条编好的带子。

那使用——依这编结——不是第四个清晨。

那使用——依这编结——是五月初七的清晨。

那使用——依파제脉编结——是仁祖王元年五月初七清晨十一时零三分、仁王山东肩柳林之上坡上的那一道平直、无元音的气息——彼时，村中屠夫那把刀、自刀尖起算八毫米处那一道错置的缺口——已经依西人党下属之身的错手、依朝鲜士子李焕在下院于六时四十三分签发的令——在她自己脖颈左侧切出了那道深四十一毫米、宽二十二厘米的口子。

那使用，于禅岩群石的花岗岩顶上、于第四个清晨第二刻——便是达恩在花岗岩顶上、决定要守住的、那一桩决意。

她守。

她，于仁王山东肩禅岩群石之花岗岩顶上、仁祖王元年第四月第四个清晨第二刻——把那条编好的四股白麻丧带、又系回到自己左手腕上。

她系上母亲在嫔妃殿下的牢中、在那末一场巫祭之前的灰蒙时辰，于十一日前替她系在左手腕上的那个结。

那结，在花岗岩顶上，已就绪。

她吐纳。

她，于仁王山东肩禅岩群石之花岗岩顶上、第四个清晨第二刻过后一刻钟，走下了那花岗岩顶。

她走下到上方那株松。

她走下到下方那株松。

她走下到第二株松。

那男人在第二株松那里。

那男人，在仁祖王元年第四月第四个清晨，仍披着那件厚羊毛大衣——这件大衣，依她将要在花岗岩顶上、向前送出四百年的那私密召唤——已经成了她自己那一脉、那位斯坦福训练出的侨胞所穿的炭灰色羊毛衫；这位侨胞，将在二〇二六年三月某个礼拜天清晨、黎明之前那个灰蒙时辰、于北村合院中那座中间韩屋안방（anbang）那条加热温突地暖之上、那叠好的褥子上——以那道平直、无元音的气息、与那条编好的四股白麻丧带——成为：那道被向前送出的私密召唤，经十七代、经三神奶奶的织机所寻得的、那唯一一具韩国身躯。

第二株松前的那男人鞠了一躬。

十五度。

她鞠了一躬。

十五。

那男人，在第二株松前，没有问那一个问题——母亲十一岁那年秋天给她的那四个月预备，曾教过她：第四月第四个清晨、第二株松前的那只四尾之物，依他自己细致的朝鲜士子的自律，在第四个清晨、是不会去问那一个问题的。

第二株松前的那男人没有问她、她是否知道。

第二株松前的那男人——依那四个月的预备——知道：那位忠清道파제脉的朝鲜巫女之女，在第四月第四个清晨身着灰麻襦裙、灰麻长裙、厚羊毛大衣、左手腕上系着编好的四股白麻丧带——已在禅岩群石的花岗岩顶上、知道了。

第二株松前的那男人——依这种不问——知道：那位朝鲜巫女之女已经——依桑皮纸捆收据背面的那四个字、依他在第三日里那种从容不迫的朝鲜士子方式：他没有触碰——决定了：在第四月的第四个清晨，她不要做那一位女儿——依第二株松前那只四尾之物的语法、跑掉的、坡上的那一位女儿。

他跪下了。

他跪在仁祖王元年第四月第四个清晨、第二株松那里的地上、第四个清晨的雪上——以四尾之物那种持平的朝鲜士子下跪的语法——他自身的自律，依那四个月的预备，已经决定：在第二株松那里、地上的这一跪，按他自己的算法，是那位花岗岩顶上的朝鲜巫女之女、所挣得的、那唯一的一跪。

他说话了——以她在第二日清晨听他在神龛地板上用过的那种细致的朝鲜士子嗓音：

姑娘。我不会以你为食。

她回话——以母亲在忠清道厨房地板上教给她的那种清亮的朝鲜母语嗓音：

先生。

他说：是的，姑娘。

她说：先生。我，于禅岩群石之花岗岩顶上、第二刻，受下这「不食」。然而，这「不食」，并非五月初七那一日里、您——于第四月第四个清晨、依我母亲那四个月的预备、在「不食」之中、所拥有的可以推却的、唯一的那一片。

他，在第二株松前，没有回答。

他跪着。

他跪在那种缓慢而细致的朝鲜士子的姿势里——母亲在她十七岁那年秋天、在忠清道厨房地板上、曾向她描述过：那便是一只四尾之物、依其自身的自律、在第四月第四个清晨那一日——白昼前一日——坡上将要下跪的、唯一的一种姿势。

他在七次吐纳之后说道：

姑娘。我，在这四日里，一直知道，那一日，正在赶来。

她说：是的，先生。

他说：我，在这四日里，未能止住那一日的赶来。

她说：我知道，先生。

他说：我，在第四月第四个清晨、第二株松那里的地上，是那只四尾之物：他自身一百七十三年的、雪松木匣囤积的自律，正是这样一只生灵的自律——依北汉山山神七十年来在东路口村中屠夫摊前的指点，被指示着：要在五月初七清晨、柳林之上的坡上、待在别处。

她，在第二株松前，没有眨眼。

她说：先生。

他说：是的，姑娘。

她说：北汉山山神。

他说：是的，姑娘。

她说：朝鲜宫廷一脉的那只四尾之物：他自身七十年的自律，正是那唯一一个生灵的自律——他的指点，把西人党下属之身的那只错手、送到了东路口村中屠夫的摊前、在五月初七的清晨。

他说：是的，姑娘。

她说：那村中屠夫的摊。

他说：是的，姑娘。

她说：那村中屠夫的刀。

他说：是的，姑娘。

她说：自刀尖起算八毫米处、那一道错置的缺口。

他说：是的，姑娘。

她说：那错置的缺口，依我自己那四个月的预备，正是朝鲜宫廷一脉、那只路口坡上的四尾之物——在他那七十年雪松木匣的自律里、一直存留着的那一道缺口。那是一把器物：在五月初七的清晨、那道深四十一毫米、宽二十二厘米的口子——将要凭它在我自己脖颈左侧、被切出的那把器物。

他说：是的，姑娘。

她说：先生。

他说：是的，姑娘。

她说：您，在五月初七的清晨——依您自己那一脉、立于东路口村中屠夫摊前的那只四尾之物的语法——不会身在柳林之上的坡上。

他说：姑娘。

她说：是的，先生。

他说：姑娘。我会，凭我自身的自律，试着身在那里。

她说：是的，先生。

他说：我不会成功——依我自己那一脉、立于东路口村中屠夫摊前的那只四尾之物的语法。

她说：是的，先生。

他说：姑娘。我，在自己坡上的七百年自律里，从未对任何一脉的朝鲜女儿说过下面这一句。

她说：先生。

他说：是的，姑娘。

她说：说出来。

他说——以她在这四日里、已经学会辨识出的、那种安静的朝鲜士子嗓音——那种、依他自身的自律、在那一个时刻它是坡上那唯一的嗓音时、他所用的嗓音：

我对不起你，姑娘。

她，在第二株松前，没有哭。

她说话了——以母亲八岁那年秋天、在忠清道家中厨房地板上教过她的、那种细致的朝鲜母语语法：

先生。我，在路旁神龛的四日、与禅岩群石之花岗岩顶、与第四月第四个清晨之第二株松上——先生，我不接受这道歉。

他鞠了一躬。

四十五度。

他把这鞠躬保持了三次吐纳之久。

他直起身。

他说：是的，姑娘。

她说：先生，这道歉，不是我可以接受的。

她吐纳。

她说：这道歉——依我在第四月第四个清晨、左手腕上那条编好的四股白麻丧带——是第四个清晨坡上唯一一个生灵的道歉：他自身的自律，我，于禅岩群石之花岗岩顶上、第二刻，无法信任。

她说：这道歉，依这编结——将是我自己一脉的、一位未来的朝鲜女儿、在某一场不会、依三神奶奶的织机、与这一场政变是同一场政变的他场政变的元年、的第四月之第四个清晨——在被向前送出的那私密召唤里、在某个他方未来的一座朝鲜山的坡上、要去裁决的、那一桩道歉。

他望着她。

他以那种庄重的朝鲜士子的方式望着她——一只更年长的生灵、望着仁祖王元年第四月第四个清晨、第二株松前地上、那位忠清道파제脉的朝鲜巫女之女的那种方式：彼时这位女儿已经——在禅岩群石之花岗岩顶上、第二刻、以파제脉那种耐心的朝鲜母语语法——决定了：第二株松前地上、更年长生灵的那道歉，便是她要、在第四月第四个清晨、向前送出的、那道歉。

他鞠了一躬。

十五度。

他说：是的，姑娘。

她鞠了一躬。

十五。

她说：先生。

她从他身旁走过。

她走下仁王山东路，走向路口那妇人的厨房——那位四十六年来一直为坡上唯一一个生灵包好젓갈的妇人——身着仁祖王元年第四月第四个清晨的灰麻襦裙、灰麻长裙、厚羊毛大衣，左手腕上系着编好的四股白麻丧带。

她，在东路上，没有回头。

她，在东路上，没有哭。

第四月第四个清晨、左手腕上那条编好的四股白麻丧带，在第二刻过后半个时辰的仁王山东路上，就是那条带子。

那带子已就绪。

那带子，在第四月第四个清晨，未被使用。

那带子，在第四月第四个清晨——依这编结——将要、在自第四个清晨算起的第八日、即五月初七清晨十一时零三分、仁王山东肩柳林之上的坡上，以一位忠清道파제脉的朝鲜巫女之女那道平直、无元音的气息——被使用。

她走着。

她走下仁王山东路。

她爱他。

她，在东路上，没有跑。

她是——凭她的母亲、凭那条白麻丧带、凭禅岩群石之花岗岩顶、凭那条编好的四股白麻丧带、凭那株第二松、凭桑皮纸捆收据背面的那四个字、凭那「不食」、凭朝鲜宫廷一脉、立于东路口村中屠夫摊前的那只四尾之物、凭自刀尖起算八毫米处那一道错置的缺口、凭那道深四十一毫米、宽二十二厘米的口子、凭那道无元音的气息、凭那道被向前送出的私密召唤、凭那位未来的朝鲜女儿——她将在自这清晨起算四百零三年后的一九九九年秋天、于一栋梨泰院一居室公寓所称作 studio 的안방的窗边、坐在一张矮松木椅上——파제脉里那唯一一位、依三神奶奶的织机、将要把那私密召唤向前承负下去的女儿。

她走着。

她没有跑。

她，在仁王山东路上、仁祖王元年第四月第四个清晨第二刻过后三分之一时辰——没有哭。

她左手腕上那条编好的四股白麻丧带，在东路上，便是那被向前送出之私密召唤的承载者。

它已就绪。

它，在第四月第四个清晨，提早了八日。

八。

仁王山东路——第四月第四个清晨第二刻过后三分之一时辰——在一场定雪已于东肩上止息之后、一座朝鲜山上、韩国晚春的那种平直冷峻的阳光里——便是那东路。

那位忠清道파제脉的朝鲜巫女之女走在它上头，第四个清晨第二刻过后三分之一时辰，是路上唯一的一个身影。

她走着。

Chapter Twenty-Two

Inwangsan, the east shoulder above the willow grove. The fifth month of King Injo's first year, the morning after the wayside shrine has, at the lifted blizzard, released the man and the daughter. The seventh of the fifth month is, on the slope, eight days away.

Da-eun is, on the morning the jeong-seol lifts, on the east shoulder of Inwangsan, in the flat cold sun a Korean late spring lays down on a mountain on the morning after a blizzard has decided, in the meteorology, that the snow it had been carrying for three days and three nights was, on the fourth morning, complete.

She has, on the fourth morning, walked.

She has walked from the wayside shrine on the eastern path of Inwangsan up the east shoulder by the lower pine to the upper pine to the bare granite cap that the Joseon mudang in the time of King Seonjo's grandfather called, in the unhurried Joseon-mother grammar of the old name, *Seonbawi — the Standing Rocks* — and which Da-eun's own mother, in the autumn of Da-eun's eleventh year, on the kitchen floor of the house in Chungcheong-do, had said was the place on the mountain at which a Joseon daughter, on the day she had decided a thing, was to go and stand to make sure the deciding held.

She is at the rocks at the second hour.

She is alone.

She is in the grey hemp jeogori and the grey hemp chima the woman at the foot of the path had brought up to her on the third morning, and the white linen mourning ribbon at her left wrist, and the wrapped jeotgal the woman had also brought, and the thick wool overcoat the man had laid by the lip of the second pine on the third evening at the fifth hour without sliding the door.

The man has not, on the fourth morning, come up the path.

The man is, on the fourth morning, at the foot of the wayside shrine at the second pine, where, on the lifting of the blizzard, she had said to him, in the Joseon-mother grammar she had learned from her mother at the kitchen floor in Chungcheong-do, the one sentence the lifting permitted.

The sentence had been:

Sir. I am, in the lifting, going up the path alone.

The man had bowed.

Fifteen degrees.

The man had said: Yes, daughter. I will, at the second pine, wait.

The man had said it in the clear voice she had heard him use on the floor of the shrine on the morning of the second day, when he had spoken of the lamp of his own mother on a maru in 983 on the south path. The clear voice was the voice of a creature who had — across the seven nights and seven days of the wayside shrine that had become, by the count of the jeong-seol, three nights and three days — become, on the floor of the shrine, the man the jeong-seol had decided he was.

She had bowed.

Fifteen.

She had walked up.

She has, on the fourth morning, walked up.

She is, at the second hour of the fourth morning, at the Seonbawi rocks.

She stands.

She stands at the flat granite cap her mother had described to her on the kitchen floor in Chungcheong-do in the autumn of her eleventh year, in the flat cold sun of a Joseon mountain on a fourth morning of the fourth month of the first year of King Injo's reign.

The flat cold sun does not, on the granite cap, warm.

The granite cap stands bare on the fourth morning.

She breathes.

She breathes once. She breathes twice. She breathes a third time.

She does not, on the granite cap, weep.

She has, in the eleven days since her mother was brought into the Geunjeongjeon courtyard at the hour of the snake from the south gate, wept three times.

She has, on the granite cap of the Seonbawi rocks on the fourth morning of the fourth month, decided that the third weep was, in her own counting, the last weep.

The last weep was, in her counting, the weep her mother had earned.

The fourth weep, if it were to come, was to be the weep of a future Korean daughter to whom Da-eun was — on the fourth morning of the Seonbawi rocks, in the careful Joseon-mother grammar of the private call her mother had taught her at the kitchen floor in Chungcheong-do — going to send the weep forward.

She breathes.

She stands.

She speaks, in the flat un-vowelled breath of a Joseon mudang's daughter on the granite cap of the Seonbawi rocks on a fourth morning of the fourth month of the first year of King Injo's reign, to the cold sun:

I know what he is.

The cold sun does not answer.

She had not expected it to. A cold sun does not do the answering.

She speaks again:

I have, in the four days of the wayside shrine, known.

The cold sun does not answer.

I have known since the second morning at the second hour, when the man at the lamp on the first night did not take the kindling from the bundle the woman at the foot of the path had laid by the second pine, but took only the wrapped jeotgal of the woman of the kitchen at the foot of the path who had not, in twenty years, made it for any other man.

She breathes.

I have known because the wrapped jeotgal was the jeotgal of the one woman my mother described to me, in the four-month preparation she gave me in the autumn of my eleventh year, as the one woman at the foot of the east path of Inwangsan whose kitchen had been, for forty-six years, the kitchen of the offering of the east path. The jeotgal was the offering itself. The man at the lamp on the first night was the one creature on the east path whose body the offering had been, for forty-six years, fed.

She breathes.

The man, on the second morning, took the offering.

She breathes.

The man, on the third morning, took the offering.

She breathes.

The man, on the fourth morning, took the offering.

She breathes.

The man — by the three mornings of the offering, and by the measured Joseon-scholar grammar with which he had asked the four words on the back of the mulberry-paper bundle-receipt to be the four words — has become, by my own reading, the one creature on the east path whose own four-tailed body the offering of the kitchen of the woman at the foot of the path has, for forty-six years, kept.

She breathes.

The man is, on the fourth morning, the fox.

She breathes.

I have known.

The cold sun does not answer.

I have known for two days.

The cold sun does not answer.

I have known for two days, and in the two days I have sat at the distance the shrine permitted from the man at the lamp at the eastern wall, and I have not stood up. I have taken the barley-water cup of Joseon-court yakju the man had, on the second night, set at the low pine box at the distance the shrine permitted, and I have drunk. I have not died. I have not slept the sleep the yakju of an older Joseon-court fox would, by my mother's four-month preparation, have put a smaller creature into. I have kept my own Joseon-court mudang's-daughter eyes open at the distance the shrine permitted, and in the keeping I have made the steady reading of the man at the lamp on the second night and the third night that an older Joseon-court mudang's daughter of the paje line of Chungcheong-do has, by seventeen generations of the careful Joseon-mother reading of the four-tailed creature on the slope on the night before the day, been taught to make.

She breathes.

She breathes.

The reading was that the man at the lamp on the second night and the third night was the fox.

She breathes.

The reading was that the man at the lamp — by the four words on the back of the mulberry-paper bundle-receipt and the slow unhurried Joseon-scholar way he had, on the third day, not, by any means I could describe to my mother in any letter I will not, in this life, write, touched me — was also the one creature on the slope whose careful Joseon-scholar discipline had, in the fourth month of the first year of King Injo's reign, decided that the offering of the forty-six-year kitchen at the foot of the east path was, on the fourth morning, to be refused.

She breathes.

The man, on the fourth morning, is the one fox on the east path of Inwangsan whose careful Joseon-scholar discipline has, on the four words on the back of the mulberry-paper bundle-receipt, decided not to eat me.

She breathes.

The man, on the fourth morning, is also the one fox on the east path of Inwangsan whose own four-tailed body, by the forty-six-year kitchen of the woman at the foot of the path, has — at the fourth morning of the lifting of the jeong-seol — required, for forty-six years, the offering of a Joseon daughter on the slope on the night before the day.

She breathes.

The man is, on the fourth morning, both.

She breathes.

The man is, by being both, the one creature on the slope at the fourth morning whose own discipline I cannot, on the granite cap of the Seonbawi rocks, in the cold sun of the fourth morning, trust.

She breathes.

And I love him.

The cold sun does not answer the love.

She breathes.

She stands on the granite cap of the Seonbawi rocks in the grey hemp jeogori and the grey hemp chima and the white linen mourning ribbon — her own mother's, from the morning of the third month of the first year of King Injo's reign, eleven days ago — in the flat cold sun of a Korean mountain on a fourth morning of the fourth month, and she does not, on the granite cap, weep.

She breathes.

She unties, on the granite cap, the white linen mourning ribbon at her left wrist.

She takes the ribbon between her two henna-stained hands.

She lays it, in the patient Joseon-mother grammar of the preparation her mother had given her at the kitchen floor in Chungcheong-do in the autumn of her eighth year, between her two palms.

She closes her two palms over the ribbon.

She holds.

She holds for the count of three breaths.

She breathes.

On the third breath, in the flat un-vowelled breath of a Joseon mudang's daughter of the paje line of Chungcheong-do on the granite cap of the Seonbawi rocks of the east shoulder of Inwangsan at the second hour of the fourth morning of the fourth month of the first year of King Injo's reign, she begins — in the quiet Joseon-mother grammar of the private call her mother had taught her in the autumn of her seventeenth year on the kitchen floor of the house in Chungcheong-do, at the low table on the night the candle had leaned away from her mother and toward her — the braiding.

She braids.

She braids the curse.

She does not, on the granite cap of the Seonbawi rocks, weep.

She braids the curse in the measured Joseon-mother grammar of the paje line of Chungcheong-do — the braiding her mother had taught her in the autumn of her seventeenth year as the one braiding a Joseon mudang's daughter of the paje line was, on the day she was given the cold sun and the granite cap and the two henna-stained hands and the white linen mourning ribbon, to make.

She braids the first strand.

The first strand is the strand of the un-vowelled breath her mother had, on the kitchen floor in Chungcheong-do in the autumn of her seventeenth year, drawn from under Da-eun's own collarbone with the steady careful Joseon-mother hand of a forty-one-year-old court mudang whose own line the daughter on the kitchen floor was — by the un-vowelled breath and the white linen mourning ribbon and the two henna-stained hands — going to be, on a fourth morning of a fourth month of a first year of a Korean coup that was, in the autumn of her seventeenth year, not yet a coup, the last.

She braids the second strand.

The second strand is the strand of the un-vowelled breath of her own mother on the slope above the willow grove of the east shoulder of Inwangsan on the morning of the seventh of the fifth month of the first year of King Injo's reign — the breath the Joseon scholar Yi Hwan of the Westerners' faction has, on the order signed at the lower court at six-forty-three on the morning of the seventh of the fifth month (the order Da-eun has, on the fourth morning of the fourth month, by her mother's four-month preparation, already known is coming), going to take.

She braids the third strand.

The third strand is the strand of the un-vowelled breath of the future Korean daughter of the paje line of Chungcheong-do to whom Da-eun is — on the fourth morning of the fourth month of the first year of King Injo's reign, on the granite cap of the Seonbawi rocks of the east shoulder of Inwangsan — going, by the loom of Samshin halmoni, to send the private call forward.

She braids the fourth strand.

The fourth strand is the strand of the un-vowelled breath of the four-tailed creature on the slope at the fourth morning of the fourth month whose own discipline she cannot, on the granite cap, trust.

She braids.

She braids the four strands in the measured Joseon-mother grammar of the paje-line braiding.

She does not, on the granite cap, weep.

She holds.

She holds the braided four-strand linen mourning ribbon between her two henna-stained hands.

She holds for the count of three breaths.

She breathes.

She does not, on the granite cap of the Seonbawi rocks of the east shoulder of Inwangsan at the second hour of the fourth morning of the fourth month of the first year of King Injo's reign, use the braided ribbon.

The using is, by the braiding, not the fourth morning.

The using is, by the braiding, the morning of the seventh of the fifth month.

The using is, by the paje-line braiding, the flat un-vowelled breath on the slope above the willow grove of the east shoulder of Inwangsan at eleven-oh-three on the morning of the seventh of the fifth month of the first year of King Injo's reign, when the village butcher's knife of the wrong notch at the eight-millimeter point from the tip has — by the wrong hand of the junior body of the Westerners' faction, on the order signed at the lower court at six-forty-three by the Joseon scholar Yi Hwan — cut the slit at the depth of forty-one millimeters at the width of twenty-two centimeters on the left side of her own neck.

The using is, on the granite cap of the Seonbawi rocks at the second hour of the fourth morning, the one decision Da-eun is, on the granite cap, deciding to keep.

She keeps.

She ties, on the granite cap of the Seonbawi rocks of the east shoulder of Inwangsan at the second hour of the fourth morning of the fourth month of the first year of King Injo's reign, the braided four-strand linen mourning ribbon back at her own left wrist.

She ties the knot her mother had, in the cell beneath the consort's pavilion in the grey hour before the last gut, tied for her at her own left wrist eleven days ago.

The knot is, on the granite cap, ready.

She breathes.

She walks, on the granite cap of the Seonbawi rocks of the east shoulder of Inwangsan a quarter-hour after the second hour of the fourth morning, off the granite cap.

She walks down to the upper pine.

She walks down to the lower pine.

She walks down to the second pine.

The man is at the second pine.

The man is, on the fourth morning of the fourth month of the first year of King Injo's reign, in the thick wool overcoat that has — by the four hundred years she is, on the granite cap, going to send the private call forward through — become the charcoal-grey wool sweater of the Stanford-trained gyopo of her own line who will, on the grey hour before dawn of a Sunday morning in March of 2026 on the folded futon of the heated ondol of the anbang of the middle hanok of the Bukchon compound, be — by the flat un-vowelled breath and the braided four-strand white linen mourning ribbon — the one Korean body the private call sent forward has, by seventeen generations and the loom of Samshin halmoni, found.

The man at the second pine bows.

Fifteen degrees.

She bows.

Fifteen.

The man does not, at the second pine, ask the one question her mother's four-month preparation, given in the autumn of her eleventh year, had taught her the four-tailed creature at the second pine on the fourth morning of the fourth month was, by his own careful Joseon-scholar discipline, not, on the fourth morning, going to ask.

The man at the second pine does not ask her if she knows.

The man at the second pine, by the four-month preparation, knows that the Joseon mudang's daughter of the paje line of Chungcheong-do — in the grey hemp jeogori and the grey hemp chima and the thick wool overcoat and the braided four-strand white linen mourning ribbon at her left wrist on the fourth morning of the fourth month — has, on the granite cap of the Seonbawi rocks, known.

The man at the second pine, by the not-asking, knows that the Joseon mudang's daughter has — by the four words on the back of the mulberry-paper bundle-receipt and the unhurried Joseon-scholar way he had, on the third day, not touched — decided not, on the fourth morning of the fourth month, to be the one daughter on the slope who, by the grammar of the four-tailed creature at the second pine, runs.

He kneels.

He kneels on the ground at the second pine on the snow of the fourth morning of the fourth month of the first year of King Injo's reign, in the even Joseon-scholar grammar of the kneeling of a four-tailed creature whose own discipline had, by the four-month preparation, decided that the kneeling on the ground at the second pine was, in his own counting, the one kneeling the Joseon mudang's daughter on the granite cap had earned.

He says, in the careful Joseon-scholar voice she has heard him use on the floor of the shrine on the morning of the second day:

Daughter. I will not feed on you.

She says, in the clear Joseon-mother voice her mother had taught her on the kitchen floor in Chungcheong-do:

Sir.

He says: Yes, daughter.

She says: Sir. I, on the granite cap of the Seonbawi rocks at the second hour, accept the not-feeding. The not-feeding is not, however, the one piece of the day of the seventh of the fifth month that you, on the fourth morning of the fourth month, have, by my mother's four-month preparation, in your power, in the not-feeding, to decline.

He does not, at the second pine, reply.

He kneels.

He kneels in the slow and careful Joseon-scholar way her mother had described to her on the kitchen floor in Chungcheong-do in the autumn of her seventeenth year as the one way a four-tailed creature on the slope at the fourth morning of the fourth month, the day before the day, by his own discipline, was, on the slope, going to kneel.

He says, after the count of seven breaths:

Daughter. I have known, in the four days, that the day was coming.

She says: Yes, sir.

He says: I have not, in the four days, been able to stop the day from coming.

She says: I know, sir.

He says: I am, on the ground at the second pine on the fourth morning of the fourth month, the four-tailed creature whose own one-hundred-and-seventy-third-year discipline of cedar-box hoarding has been the discipline of a creature who was — by seventy years of Bukhansan-sanshin's instruction at the village butcher's stall at the foot of the east path — instructed to be, on the slope above the willow grove on the morning of the seventh of the fifth month, somewhere else.

She does not, at the second pine, blink.

She says: Sir.

He says: Yes, daughter.

She says: Bukhansan-sanshin.

He says: Yes, daughter.

She says: The four-tailed creature of the Joseon-court line whose own seventy-year discipline has been the discipline of the one creature whose instruction sent the wrong junior body of the Westerners' faction to the village butcher's stall at the foot of the east path on the morning of the seventh of the fifth month.

He says: Yes, daughter.

She says: The village butcher's stall.

He says: Yes, daughter.

She says: The village butcher's knife.

He says: Yes, daughter.

She says: The wrong notch at the eight-millimeter point from the tip.

He says: Yes, daughter.

She says: The wrong notch is, by my own four-month preparation, the notch the four-tailed creature of the Joseon-court line on the slope at the foot of the path has been, in his seventy years of cedar-box discipline, keeping. It is the instrument by which, on the morning of the seventh of the fifth month, the slit at the depth of forty-one millimeters and the width of twenty-two centimeters is — on the left side of my own neck — going to be made.

He says: Yes, daughter.

She says: Sir.

He says: Yes, daughter.

She says: You will not, on the morning of the seventh of the fifth month, by the grammar of the four-tailed creature of your own line at the village butcher's stall at the foot of the east path, be on the slope above the willow grove.

He says: Daughter.

She says: Yes, sir.

He says: Daughter. I will, by my own discipline, try to be.

She says: Yes, sir.

He says: I will not, by the grammar of the four-tailed creature of my own line at the village butcher's stall at the foot of the east path, succeed.

She says: Yes, sir.

He says: Daughter. I have, in the seven hundred years of my own discipline on the slope, never said the next sentence to a Joseon daughter of any line.

She says: Sir.

He says: Yes, daughter.

She says: Say it.

He says, in the quiet Joseon-scholar voice she has, across the four days, learned is the one voice he uses at the moment at which it is, by his own discipline, the one voice on the slope:

I am sorry, daughter.

She does not, at the second pine, weep.

She says, in the careful Joseon-mother grammar her mother had taught her in the autumn of her eighth year on the kitchen floor of the house in Chungcheong-do:

Sir. I, on the four days of the wayside shrine and the granite cap of the Seonbawi rocks and the second pine on the fourth morning of the fourth month, do not, sir, accept the apology.

He bows.

Forty-five degrees.

He holds the bow for three breaths.

He straightens.

He says: Yes, daughter.

She says: The apology, sir, is not mine to accept.

She breathes.

She says: The apology is — by the braided four-strand white linen mourning ribbon at my left wrist on the fourth morning of the fourth month — the apology of the one creature on the slope at the fourth morning whose own discipline I, on the granite cap of the Seonbawi rocks at the second hour, cannot trust.

She says: The apology is, by the braiding, the apology a future Korean daughter of my own line — on a fourth morning of a fourth month of a first year of some-other-coup that will not, by the loom of Samshin halmoni, be the same coup — will, in the private call sent forward, on the slope of a Korean mountain in some-other-future, decide.

He looks at her.

He looks at her in the grave Joseon-scholar way an older creature looks at the Joseon mudang's daughter of the paje line of Chungcheong-do on the ground at the second pine on the fourth morning of the fourth month of the first year of King Injo's reign, when the daughter has — on the granite cap of the Seonbawi rocks at the second hour, in the patient Joseon-mother grammar of the paje line — decided that the apology of an older creature on the ground at the second pine is, on the fourth morning of the fourth month, the apology she is going to send forward.

He bows.

Fifteen degrees.

He says: Yes, daughter.

She bows.

Fifteen.

She says: Sir.

She walks past him.

She walks down the east path of Inwangsan to the kitchen of the woman at the foot of the path who has, for forty-six years, made the wrapped jeotgal for the one creature on the slope — in the grey hemp jeogori and the grey hemp chima and the thick wool overcoat and the braided four-strand white linen mourning ribbon at her left wrist of the fourth morning of the fourth month of the first year of King Injo's reign.

She does not, on the east path, look back.

She does not, on the east path, weep.

The braided four-strand white linen mourning ribbon at her left wrist is, on the east path of Inwangsan a half-hour after the second hour of the fourth morning of the fourth month, the ribbon.

The ribbon is ready.

The ribbon is not, on the fourth morning of the fourth month, used.

The ribbon is, on the fourth morning of the fourth month, going to be — by the braiding — used eight days from the fourth morning, on the morning of the seventh of the fifth month, at eleven-oh-three, on the slope above the willow grove of the east shoulder of Inwangsan, in the flat un-vowelled breath of a Joseon mudang's daughter of the paje line of Chungcheong-do.

She walks.

She walks down the east path of Inwangsan.

She loves him.

She does not, on the east path, run.

She is — by her mother, and the white linen mourning ribbon, and the granite cap of the Seonbawi rocks, and the braided four-strand white linen mourning ribbon, and the second pine, and the four words on the back of the mulberry-paper bundle-receipt, and the not-feeding, and the four-tailed creature of the Joseon-court line at the village butcher's stall at the foot of the east path, and the wrong notch at the eight-millimeter point from the tip, and the slit at the depth of forty-one millimeters and the width of twenty-two centimeters, and the un-vowelled breath, and the private call sent forward, and the future Korean daughter who will, in the autumn of 1999 four hundred and three years from this morning, sit on a low pine chair by the window of the anbang an Itaewon one-room building will call a studio — the one daughter of the paje line who, by the loom of Samshin halmoni, is going to carry the private call forward.

She walks.

She does not run.

She does not, on the east path of Inwangsan a third of an hour after the second hour of the fourth morning of the fourth month of the first year of King Injo's reign, weep.

The braided four-strand white linen mourning ribbon at her left wrist is, on the east path, the carrier of the private call sent forward.

It is ready.

It is, on the fourth morning of the fourth month, eight days early.

Eight.

The east path of Inwangsan, a third of an hour after the second hour of the fourth morning of the fourth month of the first year of King Injo's reign — in the flat cold sun of a Korean late spring on a mountain on the morning after a jeong-seol has, on the east shoulder, lifted — is the east path.

The Joseon mudang's daughter of the paje line of Chungcheong-do walks it, a third of an hour after the second hour of the fourth morning, the only figure on the path.

She walks.