Black Flower Read online

  After the men had eaten, they climbed up the hill behind the village, dug a shallow pit, and tossed in the woman’s body wrapped in the straw sack. They filled in the pit with dirt and wordlessly climbed back down the hill. They could see the ocean from the squash patch between the village and the hill. They spit violently toward that ocean, hazy with shimmering heat waves.

  6

  FATHER PAUL BAK GWANGSU knelt before Bishop Simon Blanche. He lifted his head and saw the white clerical collar. The bishop looked into the young priest’s eyes with a pained expression. “You must go back. That is your calling. Even if you are stoned or rolled up in a straw mat and beaten, you must reveal the truth and present the Church’s position. Our Lord, who rules over all, will ultimately reveal all things.”

  The bishop knew more than anyone else just how difficult mission work was in Korea. He had landed on Baengnyeong Island in 1880 and was arrested for his mission work in Baekcheon, Hwanghae province, then freed, thanks to the open foreign policy of the Min clan oligarchy. He was then ordained as the eighth archbishop of Korea. Compared to many of the Western priests before him who had been beheaded at the execution ground outside the Lesser Western Gate, he was truly fortunate. He was also the one who had sent the young Bak Gwangsu to seminary in Penang, Malaysia, and the one who had made him a priest. The conflict with the natives that Father Paul now faced was a rite of passage, something he must inevitably endure. Surely he hadn’t become a priest without knowing that, had he?

  The young man lowered his head again. The bishop assured him once more: “I know it is difficult. But please tell me you will do it. That place is sacred ground that our Church has defended with blood. The Lord forgave the Roman governor Pilate and the crowds who shouted for Him to be nailed to the cross. Please do the same.”

  The priest made the sign of the cross and stood up. The old bishop embraced him. Father Paul left the bishop’s office with a heavy tread. The sun was dazzling. He squinted. He saw the body of the woman hanging from the tree like a phantom. Father Paul covered his eyes with his hands. He murmured, “Lord, I have done no wrong. My Father, you know this.”

  He lowered the hands from his eyes. Then he shook his head fiercely. “I cannot go back there. No matter what you may do, Lord, I will not go back to that land of demons. They will kill me, and it will be a meaningless death.”

  Then what do you plan to do? He heard the question coming from deep inside him. Do you plan to disobey the bishop’s order? Are you not a priest who vowed to obey those above him? Father Paul buried his head in his hands. “Oh, I don’t know! Why am I so weak? Should I have never become a priest?”

  He walked away flustered. He wandered aimlessly for a while and then squatted down in front of a door to someone’s house. The world looked different from down low. All he could see were feet and legs. He stared at these bodies devoid of character and suddenly fell asleep. He dreamed. He was walking in a place full of trees, flowers, and birds that he had never seen before. The leaves grew so thick that the day was as dark as night. His sweat fell like rain. When he passed this place he climbed up a steep hill, and there the land spread out flat before him for dozens of leagues in all directions. That strange hill, without a trace of human presence, seemed like a place where humanity could communicate directly with God. The place was filled with curious letters and sculptures, and a white horse descended from heaven and opened its mouth wide as if to swallow him.

  7

  THE JOSEON DYNASTY lasted for five hundred years. When it was founded, in 1392, the neighboring peoples were forced to take note of this new country, one born of a mighty military power forged in the north and the political order of Neo-Confucianism. Yet after two hundred years, Toyotomi Hideyoshi and his army crossed the ocean from Japan, and the kingdom reeled for six long years. The samurai were driven off, but not long after, the Jurchen army attacked, and the Joseon king beat his head on the ground, begging for mercy. The blood that flowed from his forehead stained the pavement stones around him.

  In the years to follow, members of the royal family continued to be born, grow up, and leave behind more royal descendants. Suppressed by the power of the Andong Kim clan and the Min clan, they could not hope to be restored to their former glory, but they were still the Jeonju Yi clan, the royal family. After Gojong was made emperor in 1897, they were elevated from royal family to imperial family, but some of them still went hungry. Their social status kept them from planting rice seedlings in the fields or entering the market as merchants. The emperor’s concubines were forced to mend their own clothes. Their bloodline gave them nothing, but demanded much—a curse rather than an honor. They were thorns in the side of Japan, which would soon swallow up the Korean Empire. The Japanese minister did not rest in his watch of the emperor’s close relatives, especially those who might accede to the throne. Russia and China had lost their influence and retreated; no one knew what Japan might do to those of noble blood. After all, the empress had been brutally stabbed by Japanese thugs not many years before.

  Yi Jongdo, cousin of Emperor Gojong, called his family together: “Japan’s victory is imminent. The emperor is unable to sleep.” As soon as the title of the august ruler passed Jongdo’s lips, the whole family bowed. “We are leaving.” He wept. His son and daughter, who were not yet married, kept their heads bowed. Only his wife, Lady Yun of the Papyeong Yun clan, approached him. She sat down close to him. “Where do you intend to go?” His wife and children could think of only a few places in the southwest. They would flee to the countryside when a political crisis neared, raise the younger generation, and bide their time, as the officials of Joseon had done for the previous five hundred years. And then, when the political climate in the capital changed, the former rebels would return as loyal vassals—was that not the history of politics in Joseon? Yet from the lips of Yi Jongdo came instead a three-syllable word they had never heard. “Mexico? Where is that?” In reply to his wife’s question, Yi Jongdo said that it was a far land, below America. He added in a grieved tone, “The empire will not last long. We cannot be dragged off to Japan to see our lives end there, can we? We must learn from the civilization of the West. We must build up our strength there. Before the break of day we will go to the royal ancestral shrines, bow to the deities of the nation, take the spirit tablets of our ancestors, and leave for Jemulpo. I pray you will accept your father’s decision.” Yi Jongdo shouted in a loud whisper: “Long live His Majesty the Emperor!” His family shouted in reply: “Long may he live, long may he live, long, long may he live!” But their shouts did not pass beyond the threshold. Yi Jongdo’s young son, Jinu, could not help but cry. This was a difficult situation for such a young member of the imperial family, only fourteen years old, who was reading introductory Chinese classics like The Analects of Confucius and Lesser Learning. His elder sister, Yi Yeonsu, who was of marriageable age, showed no emotion. She knew that the tide was already changing. Even girls were cutting their hair and studying the new learning. A time was coming when they would learn English and geography, mathematics and law, and stand shoulder to shoulder with men. Of course, this was not true of respectable women. The missionaries first drew the socially ostracized women to their school. The daughters of butchers, gisaeng courtesans, and orphans with no one to turn to formed one class, and the school was their only choice. There they found clothes, books, and a place to sleep. Her mother reviled the female students who walked the streets in their short skirts, calling them “despicable girls,” but Yeonsu, wrapped in her cloak, envied them. She did not know the land called Mexico, but she was familiar with America. If Mexico was a neighbor to America, then it must be fairly civilized, a place where women could learn and work and speak their minds, just like men, and more than anything else where they would not shackle people with the seemingly attractive yoke of imperial blood, as they did here. They would be enlightened there, wouldn’t they? She shut her mouth tight and did not say a word. Her family took her silence as approval.

  W
ithin two days, they had abandoned their home, slung their ancestors’ spirit tablets over their backs, and left for Jemulpo.

  8

  FATHER PAUL FELT hands groping him and opened his eyes. Right in front of his nose was a man’s face. The moment he shouted, “What are you doing?” the man grabbed him by the throat and butted his face with his forehead. Then he used his fists to hit the priest repeatedly in the face. Father Paul fell over like a sheaf of straw. The man took the priest’s belongings, ripped his money from his chest, and calmly walked away. Was that priest crazy? Sleeping laid out on the street like that when it’s only barely spring?

  The thief opened the silk pouch he had stolen. It was heavy in his hand. He reached in with his other hand and took its contents out one by one. Various and sundry items emerged, but the most curious was a silver cross. It was engraved with letters he did not recognize, and the surface was covered with a delicate pattern. It was not a product of Korea. It must have been from China or one of the Western countries. Why would they have made this shape out of silver? He tilted his head. It wasn’t a ring, nor was it a woman’s trinket. A leather thong ran through a ring at the top of the cross, showing that it was used as a necklace. Still, it was silver, so he could melt it down and sell it. The thief put the cross necklace away. Also in the pouch were a few pennies, some documents written in foreign letters, and a small book. He took the money and threw the rest into the gutter. He gently shook his burning fists and continued walking. He could take care of food and lodging for a few days with this. He was humming as he turned into an alley, but ran right into someone. He sized up the other man out of habit. The other man bowed his head and apologized, though it wasn’t necessarily his fault. The two exchanged glances but the priest did not recognize the thief, and the thief set his mind at ease. He stared after the priest’s retreating figure. Dimwitted aristocrat. He trudged along with a scowl, following the priest at a distance. The priest went up the hill, asking people something and rubbing his bruised face as he went along. He passed the Chinese and Japanese neighborhoods, then stopped in front of a handsome two-story building. On the front of the building, in Chinese characters, was written “Continental Colonization Company.” Several hundred people seemed to be waiting in line there. The thief asked what the line was for. After he heard their answer he went to a nearby marketplace, where he ate hot soup and rice. Then he went back to the Continental Colonization Company. The man who had lost everything to him was sitting at the end of the line. The thief took a seat behind the man. Their eyes met a few times, but only when he saw that the priest still did not recognize him did the thief speak. The priest introduced himself as a student from Chungcheong province. When the thief pointed to the bruises on his face, the priest said that he had been robbed. “Oh!” The thief slapped his knee. Then he said that there were many light-fingered fellows in such open ports as Jemulpo, and advised him to be careful. Yet the priest did not seem too concerned about the things he had lost. He just buried his face between his knees and waited for the line to grow shorter. The employees of the Continental Colonization Company worked diligently. They had to pack everyone in tight and weigh anchor before the imperial government and the Japanese minister changed their minds again. They wrote down names, number of family members, and hometowns. “Don’t worry,” they said. “The Mexican farm owners will pay for your passage, food, and clothing.” At that time, they did not need to pay a single penny.

  The thief, who would later be called Choe Seongil, robbed two people of their possessions that night. People who had come to the city for the first time or whose hearts were restless with thoughts of leaving for a distant place often failed to guard their belongings. Choe Seongil was excited, and pondered leaving for Mexico with these people. Once the thought entered his mind he could not find a reason why he shouldn’t. Even if I only hit one mark, he told himself, it will be better than here. If it doesn’t work out, I can always come back.

  Choe Seongil boarded the Ilford with the priest, without having disposed of his stolen goods. The boat was more like the warships he had heard about rather than a passenger ship. Surely this was one of the Black Ships, the Kurofune, that had appeared in Japan and put the Tokugawa shogunate in its place. Choe Seongil’s mouth dropped open. He liked the power, dignity, and authority of the West that the great steamship exuded. He got the vague feeling that these things would protect him from all ill fortune and threats. Even the strange new smell of coal tar was pleasantly fragrant. Choe Seongil walked boldly onto the ship, feeling as if he had already become a member of the West. The German, Japanese, and British crewmen were moving around the boat with purpose. It was a world unto itself and, as the minister Sir John Gordon had declared, British territory afloat on the ocean.

  Choe raced ahead of the slow-moving family groups and quickly chose a good spot to lie down. Next to him lay a boy who still had pimple marks on his face, peering into every corner of the dark cabin with his deep-set eyes. The scaly rashes on his face betrayed his poverty. The thief immediately felt as snug as home in the cabin, which was like the innards of some mythical beast, and he took the blanket that had been given him by a German crewman, pulled it up to his eyebrows, and went to sleep.

  9

  YI JONGDO LED HIS family onto the Ilford and, as always, looked for someone in authority. But he met only crew members who spoke rough Western languages. Those who caught on quickly had gone below deck to find good spots early on, but Yi Jongdo stood firm on the cold deck swept by the sea winds, waiting for someone who could understand him. Before long, John Meyers and the interpreter Gwon Yongjun appeared. Gwon Yongjun asked him, “Why do you not go below?” Yi Jongdo knit his brows. He had intended to reveal that he was the descendant of such-and-such a prince, and thus blood kin to the emperor, but he saw Oba Kanichi, dispatched to Jemulpo by the Continental Colonization Company, standing next to the interpreter, and he swallowed his words. Instead, he merely asked for a cabin becoming of his status as a literati—a scholar-bureaucrat and member of the nobility. “I can’t very well stay in the same place as them, can I?” Yi Jongdo pointed at the place where people had gone below. While Gwon Yongjun passed along Yi Jongdo’s comment, several Koreans had gathered behind Yi Jongdo. They were not members of the imperial family, but judging by their clothing and the shape of their horsehair hats, they were clearly aristocrats. They were expecting similar treatment if Yi Jongdo’s request was accepted. In the meantime, Yi Jongdo’s wife and son felt an intense horror at the prospect of having to live with commoners, and even beggars. Lady Yun continuously wiped away tears with her sleeve. Yet Yeonsu, his only daughter, looked around with interest at the new people and scenery. From a little farther away, though, Yi Jongdo and his family were a sight to see. Two women wrapped in cloaks and a horsehair-hat-wearing aristocrat putting up a bold front stood in curious contrast to the Union Jack that fluttered from the mast.

  Meyers finally spoke. “This boat was not originally a passenger ship but a cargo ship. Even the crew are sleeping in narrow bunk beds, so we cannot assign cabins to Koreans.” Yi Jongdo was frustrated that Meyers did not understand him. “I’m not asking for rooms for everyone. I am asking for treatment becoming of our standing and status.” Meyers made his final decision known through Gwon Yongjun. “I am sorry, but we don’t have the space for that. If you do not like it, disembark. There are many people who want to go.” Yi Jongdo’s pride was wounded that such a natural request had been denied. “What an ignorant fellow,” Yi Jongdo cursed at Meyers as the man went up to the bridge. Then he spoke to his family. “There will be people in Mexico who will understand me. I have heard that there are landowners and a powerful aristocracy there. Anyone who has ever had a man work for him knows that not all human beings are the same. We are not going as workers, we are going as representatives of the Korean Empire. We must not forget this. The eyes of the wicked Japanese are on us now, so we must persevere for the time being, but when we weigh anchor I will meet the captain and ask aga
in.”

  Yi Yeonsu spoke. “It would be best if you did not. I think it would be more reasonable to go to Mexico and there meet with someone of high standing and explain our situation.” Even as she spoke, she did not think such a thing would come to pass. Yet the other members of the family agreed with her. They knew all too well the usual results of Yi Jongdo’s stubbornness. Resigned, Yi Jongdo went down to the cargo hold that was being used as a general cabin. It was already full of people. He stood among them and cleared his throat, but no one prepared a place for his family. Everyone covered themselves with their blankets and stretched out their legs. “If I had known it would be like this, I would have brought Myeongsik.” Yi Jongdo regretted having left his servant behind. His family’s dignity did not permit them to squeeze into any of the narrow spaces; they had to stand awkwardly for some time at the edge of the cabin. Lady Yun looked as if she were about to cry and gazed downward, and Yi Jongdo stared at the ceiling. After they had stood that way for an hour, a wailing was suddenly heard from a corner of the cabin. “Oh! Oh!” A man was holding a piece of white paper that had been brought to him by an employee of the Continental Colonization Company. He held it in front of him and his family bowed as one and wailed. It seemed that one of their relatives, an elderly one at that, had died. The dry, tearless mourning continued like a ritual, and then the family began to gather their belongings. They had received the message; they had no choice. They left the ship with sorrow-stricken faces. Yi Jinu ran to claim the empty spot. Yi Jongdo cleared his throat once, disapprovingly, and slowly walked to the place. It was only a few steps away, yet in the time it took him to cover the distance the area had already shrunk, but it had been occupied by five people and so was still not too small to seat four. It was not, of course, sufficient space to observe Confucian etiquette, but they were satisfied for the time being. As long as they could get to Mexico.