Kŭm River - Scene 8
SCENE 8
Ha-nui
limped
a little with one foot.
When he was three
he was thrown down
in Kim the Clerk's yard.
The sound of the gate opening and shutting,
the rough rasping sound of a rolling gourd,
dry grass flying here and there,
when the cockerel
in the big house crows far away,
on and on, no regard for the time,
at such moments, without doubt,
starving hordes in search of tree roots,
the bark of pines, early sprouting shepherd's-purse,
mugwort roots,
will spread white
like dried radish leaves
over hills and fields,
a farmhand
spreading the ashes from some house
over the barley fields in the broad plains
smothered in white ash
will be shaking his head and sneezing.
Surely,
and more.
On the hill along the river
with flowering reeds flying,
a woman bearing a bundle of clothes,
skirts flying,
must still be waiting for the ferryboat.
Two rocks stand face to face.
Ha-nui
was reared by Tol-soi, the farmhand
of Kim the Clerk's house, who had taken him in.
The three-year-old
went hungry
every day.
There were no soy-bean cakes
laid to keep warm on the heated floor.
That was the day
the great Master Chong who lived in Seoul
was due at the house of Kim the Clerk.
All the villagers, young and old, had been mobilized
to level the road during the past month,
and were busily preparing to receive him.
For all the villagers
were the serfs of the ones with money.
Hungry Ha-nui
lay weeping.
His nose against the floor,
he was sorrowfully weeping,
sorrowful to exhaustion.
" The rascals never do as they're told, "
in raging fury, shouting orders to the old head-servant Yu,
Kim the Clerk stormed into the servant's room in his shoes
and tossed the weeping child out into the yard
where he fell into the pigsty.
Perhaps the old Sam-shin woman, guardian of childbirth, caught him?
his ankle bone simply stuck out more
while his crying stopped,
he sat up
scratching his head with one hand.
Ha-nui
was wrapped in the apron of old woman Cho,
and from that day
brought up by her;
she lived in the valley at the back of Puso Mountain.
Old woman Cho's husband had been exiled for some vague sedition
in the days of King Kwanhae and died there,
a supreme gentleman-scholar, whose eyes
were so pure he could commit no crime:
does such a man have to be forced out like a pearl in pig's swill?
In the year Ha-nui turned twelve
he lost old woman Cho.
For nine years she filled the mind of the little scholar,
reading him dozens of volumes of Chinese classics and Buddhist scriptures.
No one knew anything about
Ha-nui's father.
One rainy day, a woman had appeared
in front of Tol-soi the farmhand, soaked to the skin,
had entrusted him with something wrapped in cotton
and vanished again.
" Ask nothing about this child's
ancestors. Take care of it
until I come again.
I will not forget your kindness,
even if I should never return.
His name is Ha-nui.
His family name is Shin. "
Turning her head aside,
the woman had laid the cotton bundle
and a few coins on the floor of the room,
then vanished into the rain.
The baby's hand
was clasping a tiny ornamental silver bell,
scarcely bigger than a bean.
As he grew up,
Ha-nui cared for Tol-soi
like a father.
And that mysterious ornamental silver bell
scarcely bigger than a bean
never left him either.
Ha-nui
limped
a little with one foot.
When he was three
he was thrown down
in Kim the Clerk's yard.
The sound of the gate opening and shutting,
the rough rasping sound of a rolling gourd,
dry grass flying here and there,
when the cockerel
in the big house crows far away,
on and on, no regard for the time,
at such moments, without doubt,
starving hordes in search of tree roots,
the bark of pines, early sprouting shepherd's-purse,
mugwort roots,
will spread white
like dried radish leaves
over hills and fields,
a farmhand
spreading the ashes from some house
over the barley fields in the broad plains
smothered in white ash
will be shaking his head and sneezing.
Surely,
and more.
On the hill along the river
with flowering reeds flying,
a woman bearing a bundle of clothes,
skirts flying,
must still be waiting for the ferryboat.
Two rocks stand face to face.
Ha-nui
was reared by Tol-soi, the farmhand
of Kim the Clerk's house, who had taken him in.
The three-year-old
went hungry
every day.
There were no soy-bean cakes
laid to keep warm on the heated floor.
That was the day
the great Master Chong who lived in Seoul
was due at the house of Kim the Clerk.
All the villagers, young and old, had been mobilized
to level the road during the past month,
and were busily preparing to receive him.
For all the villagers
were the serfs of the ones with money.
Hungry Ha-nui
lay weeping.
His nose against the floor,
he was sorrowfully weeping,
sorrowful to exhaustion.
" The rascals never do as they're told, "
in raging fury, shouting orders to the old head-servant Yu,
Kim the Clerk stormed into the servant's room in his shoes
and tossed the weeping child out into the yard
where he fell into the pigsty.
Perhaps the old Sam-shin woman, guardian of childbirth, caught him?
his ankle bone simply stuck out more
while his crying stopped,
he sat up
scratching his head with one hand.
Ha-nui
was wrapped in the apron of old woman Cho,
and from that day
brought up by her;
she lived in the valley at the back of Puso Mountain.
Old woman Cho's husband had been exiled for some vague sedition
in the days of King Kwanhae and died there,
a supreme gentleman-scholar, whose eyes
were so pure he could commit no crime:
does such a man have to be forced out like a pearl in pig's swill?
In the year Ha-nui turned twelve
he lost old woman Cho.
For nine years she filled the mind of the little scholar,
reading him dozens of volumes of Chinese classics and Buddhist scriptures.
No one knew anything about
Ha-nui's father.
One rainy day, a woman had appeared
in front of Tol-soi the farmhand, soaked to the skin,
had entrusted him with something wrapped in cotton
and vanished again.
" Ask nothing about this child's
ancestors. Take care of it
until I come again.
I will not forget your kindness,
even if I should never return.
His name is Ha-nui.
His family name is Shin. "
Turning her head aside,
the woman had laid the cotton bundle
and a few coins on the floor of the room,
then vanished into the rain.
The baby's hand
was clasping a tiny ornamental silver bell,
scarcely bigger than a bean.
As he grew up,
Ha-nui cared for Tol-soi
like a father.
And that mysterious ornamental silver bell
scarcely bigger than a bean
never left him either.
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