A Somber Devotion (1)
What if it's... poisoned?
It might seem strange to entertain such a thought with a warm meal laid out right before my eyes, but for someone like me—whose throat still vividly remembered the sensation of being strangled to death mere moments ago—it was a perfectly reasonable suspicion.
The horrific memories of being treated like livestock by Red Riding Hood, of that violence-soaked hovel, hadn't even begun to fade yet, and the very first thing I laid eyes on upon waking was a neatly prepared table of food. No wonder this perfect display of consideration felt less like kindness and more like a trap.
But...
Grrrrooowl—
A pitiful sound erupted from the depths of my stomach. I swallowed hard. My body had been dragged into this bizarre world with no explanation, bound and collared, subjected to every manner of torture and abuse, without managing to keep down a single proper meal.
...Well, I had gorged myself on water until I thought I'd burst...
Ah, to hell with it. I give up thinking.
I strangled to death at the hands of that lunatic and still opened my eyes, fine as ever. If poison kills me, I'll probably claw my way back somehow.
Half in despair, half in surrender, I gingerly knelt and edged closer to the table.
A crude set of brass bowls and a spoon sat on the small wooden table: steaming, snow-white rice; a rich, savory pot of mallow soybean soup; and wild mountain greens dressed with meticulous care.
With trembling hands, I picked up the chopsticks, dipped them lightly into the broth, and touched it to the tip of my tongue. No strange odor, no telltale burn of poison. Nothing but a deep, earthy umami settling perfectly onto my palate.
"...It's delicious."
The instant those words left my mouth, tears came pouring out.
After being forced to crawl along the floor and lick feet, after finally being strangled to death—that nightmare procession of humiliations had ended here, at a meal fit for a human being.
As a single warm swallow of broth slid down my throat and melted the frozen tangle of my innards and my shattered heart, all the sorrow and wretchedness I'd been suppressing surged up past anything I could contain.
Wiping the falling tears against my sleeve, I began to eat as if bewitched. I scooped up a mouthful of steaming rice, crammed it into my cheeks, and gulped down the soybean soup again and again. The heavy warmth of food traveling down my throat finally made it sink in: I was alive.
Drunk on the primal relief of the simple act of chewing, I wolfed the bowls empty.
Clang, ting.
Only when the bottom of the brass bowl gleamed bare did I set down my spoon, gasping for breath. As my stomach filled, my scattered reason slowly began to return.
"...Whew."
The warm food had thawed my body, but this was no time to wallow in emotion.
If this really was another fairy tale, I needed to figure out what this kind meal was supposed to mean.
A shabby thatched house in the countryside. A single empty room. And a table of food laid out with care.
The Snail Bride...?
The folk tale every child hears at least once came floating back to me. If that was it, then the role I'd been assigned in this story had to be 'the farmer.'
"Ha..."
A self-mocking sigh escaped me.
First the wolf, now a farmer...?
But sitting here staring blankly at nothing wasn't an option either.
First things first—I have to find that Snail Bride.
Granted, the meal had been fine and delicious, but recalling Red Riding Hood's deranged personality from just before, it was hard to believe this story's Snail Bride would be normal either. In all likelihood she'd put on an innocent face on the surface while timing the perfect moment to snap my neck—or she'd be some monster that would eat me down to my guts.
Well, if I die, I'll just move on to the next fairy tale.
Maybe it was because I'd already strangled to death once and come back unscathed, but the primal terror of dying had somehow gone strangely faint. If the rule of this godforsaken fairy tale world was 'death transfers you to the next story,' then getting torn apart and killed one more time almost felt like a perfectly acceptable escape route.
Let's check the house first.
I rose from my seat and began searching the room from corner to corner.
Rough earthen walls, a cabinet stained with old handprints. And in one corner of the room, sitting all alone in a cool patch of shade where sunlight never reached, was a large earthenware water jar.
I approached cautiously and slid the heavy wooden lid aside.
Beneath the gently rippling clear water, a single snail the size of a fist—dark and mottled, with a smooth shell—rested quietly on the bottom.
It really is here.
The moment I looked down at the snail lying motionless in the water, an impulse welled up in my head.
...Wait a second.
If this thing really was that 'bride' from the folk tale, didn't that mean this shell, tucked away innocently in the water jar right now, was her actual body?
If I pulled it out right now and ground it into the stone floor, or smashed it to pieces... wouldn't I be the one who wins this round?
The memory of being dragged off by Red Riding Hood without a clue, water-tortured, and strangled to death in utter wretchedness began to smolder inside me. The helplessness and injustice of that moment heated a corner of my chest until it burned.
The thing in that jar wasn't some knife-wielding maniac—just a palm-sized mollusk floating in water.
The temptation coiled around my ears: all I had to do was reach out and crush it, and I could end everything before it ever began.
I picked up a hard pebble from the floor and raised my arm high.
Bring it down, and it's over. Smash it, and I win this round.
No more being jerked around by monstrous women. This time, I seize the initiative.
Bring it down. Crush it. Smash it to bits—!
My grip on the stone went white, blood rising in my knuckles, and at the very instant I was about to drive it down onto that hard snail shell—
"......."
It was as if cold water had been dumped over my head. My hand froze midair, trembling.
I turned my gaze toward the empty table sitting in the middle of the room.
Freshly cooked rice and that rich soybean soup—the meal that had melted my chilled body and heart only moments ago.
Whatever horrors this fairy tale might contain, it was still a merciful meal that had filled the belly of a starving stranger.
Yeah... no matter what, smashing someone's head in the second they feed me is a bit much.
With a hollow, self-deprecating laugh, I let my raised arm fall limply.
Just because I'd been murdered by a homicidal maniac like Red Riding Hood didn't mean I wanted to become a beast myself, lashing out blindly at the first sight of blood.
And besides, there were things that demanded cold calculation.
Being strangled to death by Red Riding Hood had been horrific, but one thing was certain: I had crossed over into the next fairy tale after dying.
What if, in this story too, 'death' was required to escape—or to move on?
If I smashed the very Snail Bride who was supposed to kill me with my own hands, there was no telling how this story might warp, how I might end up trapped here forever.
Better to die and move on to the next tale. Being stuck in a place like this would be a hundred times worse.
"...Whew."
I set the pebble down on the floor with a soft thud and replaced the lid of the water jar exactly as it had been.
Then I went back to the worn bedding where I'd been lying before and sat down heavily, sinking into deep contemplation as I tried to untangle the knot in my head.
Let's think through the basic plot of the Snail Bride story... most likely, she only crawls out of the water jar after I leave the house to work the fields during the day.
There was still plenty of time.
With nothing to do but wait, I couldn't afford to waste these hours staring at the ceiling. I needed to go back over everything from the very beginning, step by step, searching for even the tiniest clue about this godforsaken fairy tale world.
But no matter how hard I wracked my brain, no clear answers surfaced.
From the moment I'd opened that ancient book in a dusty corner of the abandoned library, to falling without warning into a forest and being strangled to death by that Red Riding Hood woman—it had been nothing but an unbroken chain of absurdity, without meaning or pattern.
Ah, screw it. I don't know. I'll just charge ahead.
This wasn't a problem that would solve itself by holing up in a corner and grinding my skull against it.
I don't know what time it is right now, but if I just stay out, she'll have to come set dinner before the day's over.
I stood up with a loud, deliberate cough.
"Ahem! Well, time to head out to the fields!"
I made sure my voice rang through the courtyard loud enough to be heard, then closed the door and stepped out. Naturally, I had zero intention of actually doing any farm work.
I stomped my footsteps loudly as if leaving through the gate, then dropped low and nimbly crawled into the shadowed gap beneath the raised wooden floor of the house.
Through the small hole in the aged paper of the door, the water jar inside the room was perfectly visible. An ideal ambush spot.
Alright then. Come on out. Let's see what you've got.
Covered in dust beneath the floorboards, I held my breath. But my ambitious prediction failed spectacularly.
Even as the midday sun scorched the courtyard past noon, the water jar never stirred.
My back began to ache as if it would snap, cramps shot through my entire body, but I clenched my teeth and endured.
Skipped lunch, did she? Then she'll come out for dinner, surely.
But even as the sun sank red beyond the western hills, even as long shadows settled over the yard and darkness gathered on every side, the room stayed dead silent. Not a sound of splashing water—not so much as a single stir.
"...Ha. Goddamn it. This thing's seriously messing with me."
Only after the black of night had fully fallen did I finally crawl out from under the floor, brushing the dirt from myself. Every joint in my body ached from a full day spent crouched in hiding, and the futility of the wasted effort wrung nothing but hollow laughter out of me.
I trudged back into the room and slumped down.
Breakfast was laid out, perfectly fine... but no lunch, no dinner?
I pressed a hand to my throbbing head and propped up my chin.
So this Snail Bride doesn't move during the day at all—she only crawls out in the dead of night while I sleep, sets breakfast and nothing else, then slips back in?
Haa... well then, I guess I'll have to fake sleeping at night?
No, wait. Maybe she's not the Snail Bride at all. Maybe I've got the wrong story?
Thoughts like these swirled round and round.
Perhaps precisely because nothing had happened, the exhaustion from a full day of tense ambush came crashing down all at once, and my body grew leaden.
Ugh, forget it. If she comes out at dawn to kill me, cut my throat, or gut me, so be it. Worst case, I die and move on to the next fairy tale anyway.
With no strength left to fight it, I threw myself onto the worn bedding—and plunged into sleep in an instant.
.
.
.
Deep in the night, when only moonlight seeped through the paper doors, a faint sound began to stir within the room that had lain as silent as the dead.
Sliiiiide......
The water jar that hadn't moved so much as a hair by day. Its heavy wooden lid was being pushed aside in the darkness.
From within the pitch-black jar, slender fingers gripped the rim and climbed upward.
Then, with long hair tied neatly into a high ponytail, a woman in a loose, sky-blue hanbok patterned with cloud motifs slid silently out of the water jar.
She crossed the room with noiseless, measured steps, and stopped at the head of the farmer sleeping peacefully in his bedding. Then she knelt down slowly and bowed her upper body deep. Beneath the thick bangs veiling her eyes, her flushed cheeks glowed faintly in the pale moonlight.
"Haaa......"