We Do Not Part, page 10
* * *
Thirty thousand people.
Inseon sits with her knees drawn up and her back against the sunlit wall. Instead of her face, the camera is trained on one shoulder and knee, so that most of the screen is taken up by the pale backdrop. A mysterious shadow ripples against the whitewash. Overgrown grass sways around her, brushing against the thin cotton-hemp blend of her shirt.
There were around thirty thousand murdered in Taiwan too, and one hundred and twenty thousand in Okinawa.
Inseon’s voice is as calm as ever.
Sometimes I think about those numbers. And how these places are all islands. Isolated.
The light dancing on the wall expands until the screen becomes a flat, beaming surface, capturing nothing.
* * *
Each time I am lured into sleep like I’m being pulled toward a warm light, I force my eyes open with my hands. I can’t tell if it’s drowsiness or the thin layer of ice over my lashes that is keeping them sealed.
Faces appear to me in my fading consciousness. Not the faces of dead strangers but of people who are living, albeit far away on the mainland. They are exhilaratingly clear. Vivid memories play out before me. In no particular order, and without context. Like a thousand dancers spilling onto the stage at once to each perform a different movement. Their bodies, suspended in their poses, shimmer like crystals.
I don’t know if this is what happens right before you die. Everything I have ever experienced is made crystalline. Nothing hurts anymore. Hundreds upon thousands of moments glitter in unison, like snowflakes whose elaborate shapes are in full view. How this is possible, I can’t say. My every pain and joy, all my deep-rooted sorrows and loves, shine, not as an amalgam but as a whole comprised of distinct singularities, glowing together as one giant nebula.
* * *
I want to sleep.
I want to rest inside this euphoria.
I truly believe I will finally be able to drift off.
* * *
But there’s the bird.
* * *
I feel something touch the pads of my fingers.
A delicate tapping, like a very faint pulse.
A trace wave of electricity trickling through my fingertips.
* * *
When had the wind started blowing again?
My body is no longer curled up like a ball. My fingers have unclasped. I raise a sluggish hand to my face to wipe away the ice from around my eyes. I hear the fierce winds tussling with the trees. Is that what woke me? I pry my eyes open. I’m stunned to find light. It’s a faint light, a midnight blue just barely discernible from the darkness falling over the snowdrift beside my head.
Has the day already dawned?
Or am I dreaming?
No, this is no dream. A terrifying chill swoops down on me as if it’s been waiting to strike. I lie back as neatly as I can as the shivering overtakes me, and look up at the sky. I can’t believe it. The surrounding blackness is no longer absolute. It’s stopped snowing too. The pale swirling in the air is the wind stirring up old snow. Revealed under the moonlight. For the winds have scattered the snow clouds and a pale half-moon now hangs over the woods. Massive storm clouds advance on heavy winds.
* * *
A faint bluish glimmer emanates from the dry stream winding its way up through the woods like a long white snake. I take one step at a time, leaning forward so I won’t fall back. The moon appears and is obscured repeatedly by the charging clouds. All the treetops are swaying in its wan light, emitting a deep blue hue as if they’ll never darken again. But beneath the canopy everything is murky and I can’t tell one thing apart from another. I don’t know what might be lurking inside that shadow, its gaping maw like that of a remote cave. Perhaps the dark stumps of thousands of trees. Perhaps birds and roe deer, not one making a sound.
At last, I spot the forked road. There is no trace now of where I fell, nor the trail I left as I plummeted downward. The snow has blanketed everything. Pawing through the banks like a four-legged animal, I clamber up to the path. I can’t locate the unusually deep hole where I’d lost my footing. If I were to comb the area, I might still be able to find my phone, but there’s no time. The weather might shift again at any moment.
This time, I don’t make a mistake. I head down the gentle slope for a bit, then follow the road as it levels out, relying on the light of the moon reflecting off the untrodden snow. The rustling and creaking of the woodland, the sound of my legs plunging into knee-high snow, the rasp of my breath, all commingling into one.
* * *
The faint pulsing in my fingertips slowly grows more pronounced.
The lingering feeling in my palm too, which I had forgotten about, returns and grows more vivid as if my blood is circulating anew.
When I absently caressed the white back of Ama’s neck as she perched on my shoulder, the bird would stoop lower, then hold still, as if she was waiting for something.
She wants you to pet her more.
Obediently, I stroked the bird’s warm nape again. She bowed even lower, as if in greeting, and Inseon laughed.
More. She’s asking you to keep going.
* * *
I come to another fork in the road. As I step between the trees onto a narrow trail hidden under snow, a tangle of underbrush scratches my face. My skin must be frozen as I hardly feel any pain, but I narrowly missed getting poked in the eyes.
Have I made another misstep? Is there woodland beyond this point rather than a road?
I wipe my eyes with gloved hands, sensing a strangely wavering light. When I take off my gloves and rub my eyes again, my bare hands come away smeared in wet blood. But the blood isn’t the problem. And I wasn’t mistaken about the wavering light. Amid the threshing branches and the brushwood scattering snow, there’s a faint bright spot. Pushing aside the underbrush with one hand and covering my face with the other, I press on.
There is something out there. Something luminous.
Once I come out on the other side of the brush, a long stretch of dark blue road appears. As it winds around the woods, the path brightens, until I see a radiant pool of silver at the end. I muster all my strength to pick up speed. Breathing hard, I forge ahead as best I can through the snow. When I reach the bend, I rub my eyes again and look directly at the light.
Inseon’s workshop.
The iron door gapes open, revealing an island of light inside. Did someone else get here before me? I shudder. Then it hits me.
No one’s been by since that day.
When I didn’t come to the door, though the light was on in my workshop, they stepped inside to check if everything was okay and found me lying there, unconscious.
While they rushed to load the bleeding victim onto the bed of their truck, no one had bothered to turn off the lights. There hadn’t even been time to shut the door.
It stands wide open, as if expecting someone now. Wind gusts into the workshop, sucked inside along with the lustrous snow.
6
Trees
Stepping inside, I’m struck by the sight of huge logs, about thirty-odd of them, leaning against all four walls of the room. These are taller than the average person. Most are well over two meters and the few that are roughly my height would correspond to children aged twelve or thirteen.
There are logs lying in stacks on the floor. I step between them. On the cement, beneath the dusting of snow carried in on the wind, I notice splotches of blood. By the workbench, under more snow, a pool of blood has hardened to ice. That must have been where Inseon lay unconscious after injuring her fingers. A partially cut log, an unplugged angle grinder, ear protectors, and various pieces of wood mottled by darkened blood lie on the workbench.
Neat rows of timber—Douglas fir, cryptomeria, walnut—usually fill this space. Along with fresh sawdust heaped around the bench like fine castella-cake crumbs, and an assortment of carpenter’s tools sitting or hanging on shelves and walls. Inseon liked to keep this space clean and tidy. At six o’clock, toward the end of her workday, she would use the blow-gun attachment on her air compressor to remove flecks of wood from her hair. Next, she opened the front door and turned on a large air circulator to blast dust out into the woods. Woodchips she swept up and threw into a burlap sack, and heavier bits of wood the wind hadn’t managed to stir were sucked up with a dust collector.
Whatever she might be working on, she made sure never to rush. On humid days, the room filled with the mingled scent of the various types of wood, and she said she took that as her cue to put the kettle on and make tea throughout the day. Because humidity makes wood heavier and increases its density, it was important to slow down to prevent any mishaps, she said. By adjusting her pace to the fluctuations in her work environment, Inseon managed nearly every aspect of her work on her own. Including oiling large pieces of furniture like chests of drawers, which required her to turn them over several times. She insisted that as long as she worked at her pace, used the tricks of the trade, and gave herself plenty of time, she didn’t need assistance.
This project, though—surely the scope of it would have been impossible to manage on her own. I had told her that the trees in my dream were as tall as people. Why then had she decided to scale them up?
* * *
I return to the entrance and close the door. I bolt the latch so the wind won’t blow it open.
Taking care not to step on any blood or logs, I walk across the space. Nearing the back door, which opens onto the inner yard, I notice there are logs lined up by the wall that have been painted black. Inseon must have daubed them to gauge the effect. Seeing the gradations of black on bark, I get the sense that these trees are speaking. I’d imagined that smearing pine-soot ink over them would be like cloaking them in deep slumber, so why then do they now resemble people enduring a nightmare? The other logs are immersed in stillness—not a single expression, not the slightest tremor—and it’s only these painted trunks that appear to be suppressing their inner turmoil.
I pause, unable to look away. But I can’t afford to dawdle. Turning the doorknob, I push on the back door, but it doesn’t budge. I pull. Nothing. I thrust the full weight of my body against it. A sliver of an opening appears at the top. Pressing my leg into the lower half of the door, I push again. I feel the door shove through the snowdrift on the other side to open a handspan. Releasing my weight, I stop and reach through the gap with one hand to clear the snow away. I repeat this until I am able to squeeze myself sideways through the opening.
I leave the door open to light my way to the house. I plow through the bank of snow that is as high as my thighs, but after only a few steps I freeze in astonishment. There’s a figure in the middle of the yard waving its long, black arms at me. I quickly realize that it’s only a tree, but the frisson of shock remains.
In fact, it’s the very same tree that crept up on me last autumn, some type of palm with fronds that droop like the branches of a weeping willow.
I thought someone was standing there! I’d grumbled from the central room of the house, from where I had a full view of the tree. Inseon chuckled.
It’s even worse in the middle of the night, she said. I still startle. Wondering who it could be at that hour.
It was nightfall, not dawn, when we had that conversation. In the gentle breeze that embraced the dim twilight, the tree, which was a bit taller and wider than the average adult, appeared to be walking toward us, loose sleeves swishing at its sides.
Those same sleeves are whipping about more briskly than before in the strong gale. The tree looks set to rear itself up from the snow and amble toward me. I turn away. Pushing through the snow, I head for the darkened house.
* * *
In this murky gloom, Ama is probably asleep. I know she’s unlikely to wake up and make her sharp chirp until I turn on a light, as I’ve seen her do in the mornings once Inseon has removed the cover from their cage.
That’s what budgies sound like? I asked once.
Inseon laughed and said, I’m not sure, but that’s how Ama and Ami cry.
They sound like white-eyes, I said.
Inseon laughed again. Who knows? Maybe they picked it up from a bird calling outside. I’m just glad it wasn’t a crow, she added humorously.
* * *
I enter the house through the unlocked front door. Standing in the entryway, I remove my woolen gloves and stash them in the pocket of my puffer coat before pulling my soggy sneakers and socks off my numbed feet. I slide the inner door open, step up onto the wooden floor, and feel along the wall. I find the light switch and flick it on.
A faint wailing of wind seeps through the rafters, the windows and the doors, accentuating the lifelessness inside. The wide window facing the dark yard reflects my whole body back to me. Lowering the hood of my coat, I see my bloodied face and wild hair.
By this window, Inseon has placed a table she made from cryptomeria. The birdcage sits on it. The blackout cover and a few cleaning tools hang neatly from the metal hooks she’s attached along one side of the table. The cage has one fixed perch and two matching swings, all made from bamboo that Inseon cut and sanded down and positioned at equal height to prevent a struggle for dominance between the birds.
In the thunderous stillness, which is as chilling as any sudden loud eruption, I walk toward the cage and its unoccupied perch and swings. The water dish is dry. The wooden dish Inseon fills with dried fruit and the square silicone container for pellets both stand empty. A handful or two of chaff is all that remains, strewn over a ceramic plate. And beside all this lies Ama.
* * *
Ama.
My voice echoes brokenly in the silence.
I’ve got you.
I lift the latch on the cage door with my cold-numbed fingers. I reach for Ama’s head.
Come on now.
I’m here to save you.
* * *
My fingers touch softness.
A softness without warmth.
A softness without life.
Nothing makes a sound.
Apart from my own breathing, and my trembling coat sleeve as it brushes against the wire mesh.
* * *
I stumble backward into the kitchen. I open the cabinets, starting with the ones below the sink and moving on to the wall cabinets. Standing on tiptoe, I reach for a biscuit tin on the highest shelf. The tin is packed with teabags. I remove the lot and stack them on a shelf, then carry the tin to Inseon’s room.
I open the door and switch the light on. A single mattress, a ninety-centimeter-wide wardrobe, a five-drawer chest, a desk, a monitor for video editing draped in a white cloth, and bookshelves made from Douglas fir fill the room. The top shelf of the iron bookcase by the door is lined with sourcebooks flagged with sticky tabs, and paper storage boxes of all sizes are neatly packed into the remaining four shelves. I walk past the boxes and the sticky notes that mark the dates and details of their contents. I open the wardrobe to find Inseon’s usual five or six items of winter clothing hanging to one side—otherwise the space is mostly taken up by cameras and other film equipment. Closing the wardrobe, I set to opening drawers. The top drawer contains underwear and socks; the second, summer as well as spring and autumn clothes. In the third drawer, I find a basket holding scarves and handkerchiefs. I pick out a white handkerchief that looks barely used. It is embroidered at one corner with small violets.
* * *
I return to the birdcage.
A charged hush surrounds the small body, as if it had been pulsing with blood mere moments ago. As I look down, I get the sense that this severed life is pecking at my chest, trying to tear its way in. I feel its desire to burrow inside my heart, to dwell there for as long as that organ goes on beating.
As I wrap the bird in the embroidered handkerchief, I can feel its cold delicate body through the thin material of the fabric. I gently tuck in the bird’s half-open wings, fold the handkerchief once more over its body, then lay it in the tin. I’ve gathered the fabric around the bird as best I can, but the upper seam falls open and exposes the bird’s face.
I return to Inseon’s room. I look in the remaining drawers but don’t find a sewing case. I walk over to the larger bedroom that was once her mother’s room and turn on the light. The room exudes chill: it has obviously not been heated in quite a while. As usual, there’s a cotton mattress spread out on the floor before the wardrobe, a cotton duvet neatly folded over it.
As I step on the thin floor mattress to reach the wardrobe, I remember the coping saw. I wonder if it’s still there. Can saw blades ward off nightmares? Do dreams keep well away from their serrated edges?
I pull the old wardrobe doors open. Some of the mother-of-pearl inlays have become lost to time. Inside, past the faint scent of worn cloth and mothballs, I spot what could be a sewing case: a round metal tin wrapped in red silk, its exterior frayed and darkened from decades of use. I bend down and reach past the shabby cardigans and blouses hugging the gloom. I get the round tin out and open its lid. Inside I find several needles threaded with fine strands of white and black, a crude-looking thimble, assorted buttons, a rusty pair of sewing scissors, and white sewing cotton wound around a makeshift spool, which is simply a thick piece of kraft paper folded lengthwise.
