The Barn Burns -2-
The horse gallops. In the darkness, the burning barn comes into view. The thatched roof has already gone up in flames. The beams, turning a skeletal gray, collapse from the top. Flames burst out beyond the building's walls. The Jurchens stand encircling it like performers in a circle dance. The horse races perilously between narrow ridges. Like a snake flicking its tongue, the fire licks at the outer walls. The blazing barn draws steadily closer to me. The acrid stench thickens, mingled with the smell of roasting flesh.
The Jurchens spot the approaching horse and stretch out their hands, shouting for me to stay back. The yellow tips of flames vanish into the air, replaced by rising gray smoke. The horse gallops on. Mid-stride along the ridge, its hoof slips into a furrow, and it pitches forward. My body flies ahead, face slamming into the mud. My hat tumbles away. People rush over and haul me to my feet. The horse whinnies in agony, and the building crackles, engulfed in fire.
"Young master, you shouldn't be here. Madam will worry."
In the pitch-black night, the barn blazes. Flames erupt from the charred roof, and I simply sit there on the dirt, dazed. Amid the crackling of burning timber, screams like those from hell pierce the air. The doors and windows are barricaded with hastily nailed planks. The fire, unable to escape, surges upward. Only the bare wooden skeletons remain, turning to charred lumps. The wails of children and the desperate groans of adults continue without end. From between the planks protrude small hands like ferns, and rough, large ones too—all struggling for life. A foot juts from the crumbling earthen wall. Flames and smoke billow high.
This was commonplace in the Middle Ages. In Germany, they burned two-year-old girls alive during witch hunts; in Salem, America, even in the 17th century, they crushed people under stones. To survive the Middle Ages, one had to grow accustomed to such horrors.
Something welled up inside me. Crack. A sound like snapping bone. The Jurchens rush hurriedly to the rear. A soot-blackened figure bursts out. He bolts toward the hills, then veers sharply the other way. It was the man who had begged me yesterday to reduce his rent. In the dark, his glowing eyes reflect me. Recognizing me, he charges like a madman. A single hemp rope is tied around his neck. Jurchens pursue him from behind. As he nears, a Gabyulcho soldier beside me draws his sword. Before the soldier can swing, the man collapses at my feet, prostrating himself and pleading for mercy. His lips move, but no words come. He lifts his head, and our eyes meet. The pursuing Jurchen beheads him with a single stroke. The light fades from his eyes in an instant, and blood sprays from the stump, splattering my face. I vomited right there.
"You damned bitches! What the hell are you doing in front of the young master? He shouldn't see this shit!"
She wipes the blood from my face and the vomit from my mouth with her sleeve, continuing, "Are you alright, young master? We'll escort you back to the manor."
Now only the crackling of the fire and the mournful wind remain. The Jurchens scratch their heads sheepishly, oblivious to what they've done. Meeting the eyes of the severed head makes bile rise again. To survive in this late Goryeo era, one must adopt a medieval mindset. I'm a social weakling in a world without human rights. I can't live by modern sensibilities. I am a medieval man.
Staggering, I mount the horse. All the way home, thoughts of the burning barn and the beheaded man haunted me. Guilt or empathy for a stranger's death gains nothing in this world. I should focus on my own path ahead, not unrelated deaths. But if I just play the medieval role adequately, what's the point of living? Drifting aimlessly like a jellyfish, without meaning—can that be called life? But were jellyfish happy? Why did I strive to rise and survive in this brutally cruel late Goryeo? If escaping the clan and mere survival were my goals, I could have married into some decent noble family with a pretty face and lived comfortably. I wouldn't have gotten beaten to death by Yi Bangwon if I'd kept my head down. Why did I aim for success?
The sour taste of stomach acid lingered in my mouth. Depression and stress circled my head like a halo, trying to tear me apart. Before I knew it, we were home. Drained of all energy, I barely made it to the well with the Gabyulcho. The water's surface reflected nothing. As I rinse my mouth and spit, Yi Seong-hye emerges from her room, drunk and supported by Gang Hyeon-bi. She stumbles to the well.
"Water."
Without giving Gang Hyeon-bi a chance to stop her, she naturally lowers the pulley and draws water, handing me a gourd ladle with a willow leaf floating in it. After gulping it down, Yi Seong-hye stares at me intently.
"Your complexion is poor. What happened?"
"The young master saw that..."
She glances left. Yi Seong-hye looks that way and nods. The site of the burned barn.
"How did you end up there? Forget today's events, go inside, and sleep. Don't dwell on it."
Gang Hyeon-bi wears a mournful expression beside her. Even a life of sycophantic flattery and clinging to power for survival has purpose. Constant compromise, diluting one's soul like water in water, has none. Yi Seong-hye's life, horrific as it is, has goals. My sister Bang-ik's goal is marrying a shotacon and living easy; is mine just medieval survival? Then why strive for success? Was there something only success could achieve?
"Do you have something to say? Stop staring at the ground and spit it out."
"Mother, why do you seek success?"
"Hm?"
Yi Seong-hye's reaction is a beat slow. She blinks, utterly caught off guard. Then she speaks.
"Because if I go all the way, I can build my own world. When the chance to claim more than Dongbuk-myeon is right there for anyone to see, how could I settle for just this one region? I'll climb to the top to create my world."
Resentment prickles like thorns in my heart. Does success justify killing the innocent at will? Treating family and people like that, as long as the end justifies the means?
"Then were those deaths today absolutely necessary for your success? In the world you're building, is burning people alive on mere suspicion just routine?"
Yi Seong-hye's eyes widen at her son's unprecedented defiance—not with anger at the fury directed at her, but pure surprise.
"Did you know any of them? Of course I'm not happy about killing. Some might have buried bodies in their fields for fertilizer, others hidden armor and swords to sell later. But a few were colluding with the Jurchens—that alone is reason enough. If I spare them one by one out of pity and another Na Ha-chu invades, the blame falls on me, not them. As lord of Dongbuk-myeon, I have a duty to protect this land."
"A lord's goal is to protect people, not just land. Not to tie ropes around necks on suspicion and burn them alive in a barn!"
I shout, startling Gang Hyeon-bi—his tail curls. Yi Seong-hye's sharp gaze returns, glaring.
"Sitting around studying classics has made you quite the scholar, Bang-yeon. What you read in books stays in books. Law and Confucianism only work in a properly ordered state. In these chaotic times, the sword precedes the brush."
"Then the world you build will be lawless chaos. How could it not, with you burning people alive?"
A vein throbs on Yi Seong-hye's forehead. Gang Hyeon-bi grabs her arm, urging restraint. Rationally, I shouldn't defy her. Surviving alone as a man in this era is impossible. But this existence has no meaning. Living like a plant isn't life.
"That's why I know my limits and meet with the literati. But do you have the right to lecture me while living off my wealth under my roof? Or do you even have any goals?"
"Yes. I'll build a just and fair world—unlike yours. One where everyone can live equally, no matter who they are!"
"Then do it well."
Yi Seong-hye turns on her heel and leaves. The gray clouds have parted, revealing a star-filled night sky twinkling high above. At least now I knew what I had to do, feeling a slight sense of liberation.