Nine Lines of Reply
The book had been in her hands for two days. I knew she'd finish it in a single night, but since I had no idea when her letter would arrive, my ears turned toward the door every morning.
The letter arrived early on the morning of the second day.
"Great-uncle! I came faster than anyone in the world!"
Hermes knocked on the door, came in, and handed over the letter with both hands. These days, knocking and handing things over with both hands had become second nature to him. He was still out of breath from having arrived the moment it was ready. For it to have reached him at this hour meant he'd left the mortal realm before dawn.
"Kore-nim told me to go especially fast this time. So I really did go especially fast. She looked like something was weighing on her. I figured it was an urgent question."
If it looked that way even to him, it wasn't an ordinary letter.
"Thank you. Go rest."
"Call me when the reply is ready! I'll go especially fast then too!"
I waited until I heard him close the door before opening the letter.
It was a long letter. It began with thanks for receiving the book, followed by boasting about having finished it in a single night. She'd tucked flower petals into her favorite passages, and when I counted them, there were eleven. She also mentioned she'd serve the salt bread from the book at the next meal.
It seemed the day would come when the bread from the book would appear on the table. I smiled at that passage.
Then came three questions.
Dear Mister,
I received the book! I read it all in one night—well, almost one night. I tucked flower petals into my favorite parts, and when I counted, there were eleven of them. Next time, I'll serve the salt bread from the book at the table.
I have some questions:
Were you scared during the storm scene?
Is that star a real star?
Did the lighthouse keeper know the poet was coming?
Mister, do you think the poet made it?
— Kore
There was a blank line beneath each question. I thought perhaps she wanted me to write my answers and send it back as-is, and I smiled a little. I decided to write my answers on fresh paper instead. Those blank lines belonged to the person who left them, so I'd leave them as they were.
The handwriting was hurried. The earlier pages were neat, but the strokes grew wilder toward the end. You could tell from the writing itself that she'd been up all night.
I read the letter twice, folded it, then unfolded it again.
Four questions, but they all carried different weight. I had some direction for the first three, but for the last one, I couldn't even find a direction. The sentence written without a question mark was the heaviest.
I decided to sort through whatever came to mind first.
The storm wasn't scary. The ship in the book was sturdy, and the poet wasn't the kind of person to back down. What I'd worried about throughout wasn't the ship, but the number of sailors left behind.
To be precise, there was one place where my hand had paused. The scene where one of the sailors tried to secretly lower a lifeboat at night and got caught. I decided not to mention that scene in my reply. Listing the scenes that scared me wasn't really an answer to "were you scared?"
In that scene, I couldn't blame the sailor who tried to escape. When people are scared, they run. The strange one is the poet who didn't run. That's the story of that strange person that the girl read all night long.
The star needed verification.
That morning, I searched through the star charts in the library. Astronomical texts left by deceased scholars filled three sections of shelves.
The old librarian soul set up a ladder for me and asked what star I was looking for. When I pointed to the one at the western edge, he shook his head. If such a star existed, he said, he would have been the first to name it in his lifetime. Naming stars had been his profession.
I searched for another half-day, but the star appeared in no record. If it were a real star, this library would know. Every deceased scholar ended up here.
So that star was one the poet had invented. Still, I thought she'd be hurt if I just wrote that, so I decided to add one sentence. It wasn't in the records, but it was a star that existed for the poet. If it was a star that helped find the way, it was as good as a real star.
The problem was the third question.
Did the lighthouse keeper know the poet was coming?
The book only had a few lines about the lighthouse keeper. On the first page, he taught the young poet about the stars and returned to his own island. That was all. After that, what the lighthouse keeper thought while tending the light—neither the poet nor I knew.
I couldn't write that I knew something I didn't know, so I carried that question with me all day. While flipping through the registry, while signing petitions, the light on that island kept flickering on in my mind.
I thought of it while reviewing approvals. There was no reason for someone tending a lighthouse alone to wait for anyone. Waiting only exists when there's someone coming, and no ships came to that island.
I thought of it while walking the corridors. Not waiting doesn't mean not being glad. Those are two different things. For someone who'd lived alone for eons, the sound of a knock on the door would be welcome no matter who it was.
Lately, the only one knocking on the doors of this palace is Hermes. I've never even counted how many eons this door had been quiet before he started knocking.
In the evening, I watched the servant who lit the corridor lamps for a long while. A fire that hadn't been missed for a single day in eons. Not a fire lit for someone to see, but a fire lit because lighting it was the job. Thinking that the lighthouse keeper's light was probably the same gave me half the answer.
I thought that far, and then I stopped.
I'd been talking about the lighthouse keeper, and somewhere along the way, a different topic had crept in. The word "eons" doesn't appear in the book.
That evening, after the meal was cleared, I spread out paper. I started with the answer about the storm—that was quick. Two lines would do. For the star answer, I borrowed half of what the librarian soul had said. The brush paused longest on the lighthouse keeper's answer.
After pausing, I wrote this: The lighthouse keeper probably didn't know the poet was coming. There was no way for him to know. But he lit the lamp every day. Lighting it was the lighthouse keeper's job, and he'd never skipped a day, so when the ship arrived, the light was already on. He wasn't waiting—he was lighting it. But the years of lighting it had, in the end, become a kind of waiting.
Reading it back, it felt more like a defense than an answer, but I didn't erase it. It wasn't wrong.
By the time I'd written the three answers, half the night had passed. The remaining half belonged to one sentence.
Now only the last question remained.
Mister, do you think the poet made it?
I was also someone who had sat for a long time before that ending. When I first read it, I turned the last page twice. I thought there would be more pages, but there weren't.
Did he make it?
Once, I tried writing the truth. If that sea was truly a place the living couldn't reach. I wrote that far and crumpled it up. The paper wasn't precious, but the image of the girl's face upon receiving a reply that began with those words came first. Sending a letter to a girl who'd read all night and sent this question saying he probably didn't make it was no different from overturning a table.
But I couldn't write an answer that wasn't in my heart either.
I took the book from the shelf again and opened to the last page. Thick fog, one lamp, two oars. That was all that remained on the final page.
Through the fog, a single lamp is visible. The poet rows.
Reading it again and again, one thing caught my eye.
The lamp is lit.
When the poet reached the fog, that lamp wasn't out. It meant the lighthouse keeper had lit the fire that day too, and it meant the ship had gone far enough for the light to be seen.
I wrote the answer.
Kore, look.
The storm wasn't scary. The ship was sturdy, and the poet wasn't the kind of person to back down. What I worried about was the number of sailors left behind.
That star wasn't in any astronomical text in the library. It must have been a star the poet invented. Still, if it was a star that helped find the way, it's as good as a real star.
The lighthouse keeper probably didn't know the poet was coming. There was no way for him to know. But he lit the lamp every day. He never skipped a day, so when the ship arrived, the light was already on.
And about your last question.
He probably made it. The lamp was lit. A ship that had gone as far as the light could be seen wouldn't fail to row the remaining few strokes.
I'll wait for your next questions too.
— Mister
I counted—nine lines. Seven to nine. The habit of counting lines started on her side first, but somewhere along the way, I'd started counting too.
I read it one more time before sealing it. There was nothing to fix.
While the sealing wax melted, I trimmed the lamp wick once. I left the sealed letter on my desk until the next morning. It sat beside the black bottle and Kore's previous letters. The family on my desk had grown by one.
I returned the book to the shelf. The original and the copy would, it seemed, dream the same dream tonight in two different homes.
While the sealing wax dried, I changed the water in the black bottle. The Nightwater Flower still swayed slowly. It had been in the bottle for a long time, yet the flower showed no sign of wilting.
I called for a servant.
"Tell Hermes. The letter goes out tomorrow morning, so tell him not to go especially fast—just go as usual."
I said it because I knew the girl would wait all night for it, but after saying it, I thought it would be useless. He'd go the fastest in the world anyway.
When the letter reaches her, that girl will read it all night again, and write all night again. Then I'll keep my ears open toward the door every morning again.