Laying the Grudge to Rest

Shaaaaah—!

Water poured off Kang Hyeong-seok in sheets as he hauled himself up the bank. The time he had spent beneath the surface hadn't been long — twenty minutes at the outside.

Thud. Thud. And yet every one of Kang Hyeong-seok's footsteps felt impossibly heavy.

"You went through hell down there. You went through hell!"

Hong Gyeong-soo steadied him by the arm, then reached for the jar. Kang Hyeong-seok's hand closed around it on pure reflex, denying him, and he shot the man a look thick with suspicion.

"So this was your purpose all along?"

Hong Gyeong-soo's head snapped up, his brow furrowing. There was nothing aggressive in his eyes. If anything, they looked bewildered — caught off guard.

Those eyes were what unsettled him.

"Sending me down there alone. Dragging me out to this place in the first place. Wasn't every last bit of it for the sake of this jar?"

"Do I really seem that untrustworthy to you?"

Kang Hyeong-seok answered with a slow, deliberate nod — and Hong Gyeong-soo's mouth clamped shut. Then, telling him to set the jar down for now, he peeled off his black ritual robes and shook them out.

"The jar has to be sealed first."

When Kang Hyeong-seok simply stood there in silence, the veins stood out on Hong Gyeong-soo's neck.

"You dragged yourself all the way here — don't go getting tight-lipped on me now! If you leave that thing be, what's supposed to happen to the elder?!"

His voice carried a sincerity so plain it was almost disconcerting. Wary to the last, Kang Hyeong-seok lowered the jar to the ground, and Hong Gyeong-soo draped the black robe over its mouth. Then he untied the strip of muslin bound at his waist and began lashing jar and robe together in a single wrap.

Grrrip! Tight!

Watching him bind it so that nothing steeped inside the jar could ever slip free, Kang Hyeong-seok undid his own strip of muslin as well.

What is he actually after?

He had just resolved that if the jar truly was the man's objective, he would take it back by force if he had to.

Grrrip!

With the binding finished, Hong Gyeong-soo finally spoke.

"Take this to the Teacher."

"...I'm sorry — what?"

"If anyone can settle it, the Teacher can. And then the elder can let go and pass on in peace."

Still crouched before the jar, Hong Gyeong-soo looked up at him. "This is the most important part. You can manage that much, can't you?"

Kang Hyeong-seok looked down at him, thoughts churning. Never in his life had he wanted so badly to see straight into another person's heart.

But the shaman's bells stayed silent.

Lee Geum-kyeong's words came back to him — that a black shaman always keeps his wards raised. Could it be because of that? But then how, in heaven's name, was he supposed to explain the expression he'd seen on Hong Gyeong-soo's face underwater?

Thump. Hong Gyeong-soo rose to his feet and pushed the jar into his arms, like a man glad to be rid of a burden he'd carried long enough.

"I know exactly what you're thinking. But I'm not the kind of man who'd do that."

There was something oddly light about his face as he said it. Then he tilted his chin toward the car. Kang Hyeong-seok accepted the jar, let out a long, heavy sigh, and walked with him toward it. One way or another, the jar hung there in his hands.

"So that's how it went."

At the sight of Kang Hyeong-seok, Lee Geum-kyeong's brow creased. They stood before the home where her friend lay, and the other shamans were standing by there as well.

"Hold on — where's Shaman Hong?!"

A male shaman barked, and Lee Geum-kyeong shook her head. Kang Hyeong-seok had come alone. They had ridden together as far as the main road, where their ways parted; of course he had asked the man to come along. But Hong Gyeong-soo had said only that he needed to get to a hospital, and left on his own.

"He couldn't very well have come. You know that better than anyone."

"That goddamn... Then what will you do, Teacher?"

Every eye turned to Lee Geum-kyeong, and she turned hers on Kang Hyeong-seok. "And you? What did he look like to you?"

"I honestly couldn't say."

Kang Hyeong-seok pressed his lips together and turned the question over. But however long he considered it, he could not pin down what manner of man Hong Gyeong-soo was. If the man had harbored some filthy scheme, then the way he had pulled the muslin tight — and the way he had handed over the jar without a flicker of reluctance — made no sense at all.

"The one who walked beside you flung a sal — a curse of death — at you."

Kang Hyeong-seok's head came up in surprise, and Lee Geum-kyeong went on, her face calm. "I stopped the curse myself. But even I cannot fathom why he threw it."

"Even you can't tell, Teacher."

"Press Shaman Hong about it and he'll only play dumb. That's the kind of man he is."

Hong Gyeong-soo would deny it. He would never admit to a thing. Confront him with evidence he couldn't wriggle out of, and he would only swear to sever his ties with the ones who fling such curses.

"You've done well. Without you, we'd never have found the jar at all."

"It was nothing, Teacher."

"Nothing, my foot! You suffered the most and pulled off the greatest feat of any of us — Heaven knows it, and every one of us knows it too!"

A shaman behind him flared up, then fell quiet under Lee Geum-kyeong's gaze. Then came her next words.

"I will reach out to Shaman Hong myself."

"Teacher — is there something you suspect?"

Lee Geum-kyeong's brow knitted with thought before she shook her head. Yet her eyes plainly held some suspicion she could not quite bring herself to voice, as though she were rationing her words on purpose.

"...Understood."

"In any case — you are never to be in contact with Shaman Hong again. You didn't give him your number, did you?"

"No, Teacher. He never even asked."

"Good. That's settled."

Lee Geum-kyeong exhaled in relief and took the jar from his hands. It held water drawn from the Anmokji Reservoir — no wonder it weighed so much. Yet she did not set it down. She simply stroked its surface, her face a tangle of grief and tenderness.

"That stubborn old fool... Tsk, tsk."

Kang Hyeong-seok thought he understood. The jar was a lingering attachment given form — the stubbornness of a shaman who had tried to carry even what lay beyond his power. It was the emblem of a friend who had lived his whole life that way. It was, one might say, sublimity itself.

Swoosh... swoosh. Her palm moved over the clay for a long while before Lee Geum-kyeong spoke, her voice gone low and heavy.

"We must hold a haewon. The grudge has to be released."

Her gaze found Kang Hyeong-seok. He could read what she was asking of him without a word, and he answered with a silent nod.

Vroooom. They traveled in one of the other shamans' cars. His clothes were still soaked through, but the shamans paid it no mind whatsoever. They all knew — knew exactly how great a feat he had pulled off for them. The only one who didn't quite grasp it was the son of Lee Geum-kyeong's friend. Seated in the passenger seat, he kept stealing glances at Kang Hyeong-seok, and though he didn't know the details, his eyes said he understood the man had been through hell.

Clack. The moment they stepped out of the car, the shamans set ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠about preparing the gut. The jar was placed at the center, the ground was swept clean with brooms of bush-clover twigs, and sweet rice flour was scattered with an open hand.

Clank... ring. Holding the half-shattered Sinjangkal and the shaman's bells, Kang Hyeong-seok watched the rite begin. Lee Geum-kyeong, changed into robes of white, took her place before the jar, and the male shaman gripping the drum began to intone the sacred verses.

Drawn out in a slow, dragging drone, the verse was the Invocation of the Mountain Gods — a plea for leave to begin a gut on a mountain in the dead of night.

Boom-boom-boom-boom!

When the invocation ended, Lee Geum-kyeong swept the air around the jar with the five-colored banner of the directions. And just as the traditional instruments were about to join in, Kang Hyeong-seok shook his shaman's bells.

Ring-ring-ring! Ring-ring-ring!

Startled stares from every shaman present. A sharp intake of breath. Heads turning outright to gape at him. It wasn't only the numinous power of the bells that had seized ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠their attention.

It was the sight of Kang Hyeong-seok himself, chanting the sacred verses. There was a deep power running through his recitation — hard to believe it came from a shaman so young.

BOOM! Du-oom! One of the shamans began beating his drumsticks in time with Kang Hyeong-seok's chant. Soon the gong rang out, and the pipe's shrill warble followed after.

Boom-boom-boom-boom! Preee—clang-clang-clang-clang!

Raaang-ring-ring!

Kang Hyeong-seok shook the bells he held raised high. Watching him with gratitude shining in her eyes, Lee Geum-kyeong took up the bush-clover broom and swept around the jar. In the same moment, her friend's son found his hands clasping themselves together without his meaning to. The jar was an unclean thing, yes — but it was also the record of a father's life. The good that father had done for the world, gathered in one place.

BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM! CLANG-CLANG-CLANG-CLANG!

The instruments built toward a crescendo, and Lee Geum-kyeong's eyes shut deep.

Shaaaah!

As if shaking off defilement itself, the broom swept down the jar's surface. With every stroke, one departed soul fell away and was loosed. Shaak. Shaak. Lee Geum-kyeong did not stop sweeping until everything steeped in that jar had fallen away. Between the strokes, verses rose and fell, and fist-sized pieces of pork were scattered across the ground.

Ring! Ring! Riiiing! Kang Hyeong-seok shook his bells in turn, purifying the space around them stroke by stroke.

And so the haewon of the jar came to its end — and still robed in white, Lee Geum-kyeong went on to perform the Ssitgimgut, the rite that washes a soul clean. A Ssitgimgut that, had all gone as it ought, would have finished at sunrise. With no interference of any kind. With nothing standing in its way. Praying with her whole heart that her friend might pass into the beyond at ease, Lee Geum-kyeong brought the rite to its close.

DUUOOM! The drum stopped, and its final note spread wide across the mountain as dawn crept in.

Pop!

"Hello, everyone! Back sooner than usual this time, huh?"

BJ Yoon-sang, horror specialist, kicked off his stream with more energy than usual.

Perhaps because of where he was, the chat was ablaze. Donations were bursting out one after another — ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠while Yoon-sang's insides, by contrast, felt like they were burning to a crisp. After all, this was that Anmokji, famous for the ghosts that walked there.

"Wow, this is seriously so scary, you guys. If you see anything even slightly off on the screen, you have to tell me right away, okay?"

This was the kind of moment that called for a laugh, but the place would not allow one — no matter what, a smile refused to form. So Yoon-sang, his face rigid, merely tugged the corners of his mouth upward.

"Guys, wow, seriously — I'm muting the voice alerts. I am so scared right now I could lose my mind."

Yoon-sang knew that as well as anyone. In any case, drawing nearer to the reservoir by the minute, he switched on his monster of a lantern.

"Come on, don't tease me. Without something like this, how am I supposed to come to a place like this at all?"

Trembling head to toe, Yoon-sang swept the lantern beam around him. The thing was genuinely top-of-the-line; wherever the light touched turned bright as noonday. And yet, picking his steps with care, he gradually found his brow creasing.

"What is this?"

"No, it's just — Anmokji is plenty famous, right? But the feel of this place doesn't seem to live up to the hype..."

Maybe it was from wandering through so many haunted houses over the years. Somewhere along the way, Yoon-sang had learned that genuinely dangerous places felt different from the very first step. He couldn't scent spirits the way a mudang could, and he had no Yeongan — no spiritual eye — to see ghosts with. But he could tell a truly dangerous place apart from a merely risky one.

"Weird. This place has been featured on broadcasts before."

"It doesn't feel like it's quite that bad, though..."

Yoon-sang glanced around — and then his eyes caught on tire tracks printed sharp and clear into the ground. Tracks that looked only hours old. He angled the camera at them, and his frown deepened further still.

People's minds run along the same tracks. Yoon-sang was thinking exactly the same thing.

"Nah. No way."

He denied it out loud. But keeping the smile on his face was getting harder by the second. The person Yoon-sang longed to see again more than anyone in the world was Kang Hyeong-seok. And the thought that these tire tracks might have something to do with him simply would not leave his head.

"Seriously, no way. No, no. There's no way. That's a stretch. For real."

Reading the last message, Yoon-sang spat out a curse and just started running. He had come all the way to Anmokji, and now the subject of his stream had shifted from hunting ghosts to hunting Kang Hyeong-seok. Not that a single soul watching seemed to mind.