One More Knot
The man who had at last seen his revenge through was, two days on, a beggar once more. Not that he had squandered his fortune — it meant he had gone back to being the Chwipung-gae I knew. His stride had bent again into that perfect figure-eight, his whole bearing restored to the very picture of a beggar entire, and only then could I tell that Chwipung-gae had finally shaken off the last remnants of the Eumhyeol Sinma.
"Fancy a cup of rough rice wine?"
"Gladly."
A man so lost in thought that he had forgotten food and sleep for two days went looking for wine the moment he became a beggar again. And no wonder — nothing washes away a sorrow that lingers like dregs quite the way drink does. That much, I supposed, had to be the wisdom of the old.
Gluuug—
"Aaahh—"
One of the reasons drink is so good, perhaps, is the way it fills the gaps in a conversation. No real talk passed between us; the sound of swallowed wine was all that filled the room, and yet nothing about it felt awkward. We had wine, and that was enough. Even without me fumbling for clumsy words of comfort, that sour, thick rice wine would cradle Chwipung-gae's heart well enough on its own.
Glug—
"Ugh."
The intermittent groans of Chunbaek, my sworn brother, came free of charge.
I lived the life of Dancheon Myeong now, and yet Myeong-gae still remained within me. Perhaps that was why, for me, regression was no severance — only the continuation of a single life.
It also meant that an informant's instincts still lived inside me. Those of the informant breed, as a rule, cannot abide not knowing. We are never satisfied until we've dug the answer out — it is part of the calling, too.
And so I wanted to ask Chwipung-gae. How it felt to have carried his revenge through at last. What state he found himself in now. Whether he could finally sweep away the remnants of the past and live toward a happy future.
Truthfully, the informant's instinct was probably just an excuse. Perhaps I was simply worried for his well-being.
"..."
But I couldn't ask. Because I was no longer Myeong-gae, I supposed. Because I knew that while Chwipung-gae remained Chwipung-gae to me, I could no longer be Myeong-gae to him.
I wanted to build something good with Chwipung-gae in the days ahead, so crossing that line was out of the question. Only by piling up the years that Myeong-gae and Chwipung-gae had shared — perhaps even more than those — could Dancheon Myeong and Chwipung-gae come to be friends again.
Gluuug—
"Ahh, this is good."
Chwipung-gae said that after tipping back his cup again and again. I couldn't tell whether he meant the wine was good, or the moment was.
"You look well."
"Heh heh. So it seems."
I said it out of nothing more than a wish to see Chwipung-gae happy. It was neither empty words nor a lie. In truth, relief was written plainly across his face.
Myeong-gae had become a man of the Beggars' Gang at twenty and remained at Chwipung-gae's side until thirty — nearly ten years in all. And on his face now rested an expression I had never once seen in all the years I'd spent beside him under that name. If I had to put it into words, it was the look of a man set free — someone who had finally snapped the chain of obsession that had bound him hand and foot. Perhaps only now had Chwipung-gae truly become a beggar of the Beggars' Gang, that wandering symbol of freedom.
Glug—
"Ugh."
Over in the corner, Chunbaek took another mouthful of rice wine and let out a fresh groan of misery.
Chunbaek loved his Jiannanchun. He knew a fine wine when he tasted one and delighted in all its refinements — every inch a true drinker. It was only that sour, cloudy rice wine did not suit him. And yet this same man had gone more than seven days and nights without his Jiannanchun, drinking a sour wine his palate wanted nothing to do with.
Out of consideration for me, no doubt. But a man cannot spend all his time aching for the days of Myeong-gae — not when I know that it is as Dancheon Myeong that I get to keep a brother like Chunbaek at my side.
"Let's go," I said to Chunbaek.
"Go where?" He put on a puzzled look.
"To a first-rate wine house. We're drinking Jiannanchun."
Chwipung-gae's revenge was finished; now it was my turn to look after Chunbaek, who had spent all this time looking after me. If Chwipung-gae had been the benefactor of my past life as Myeong-gae, then Chunbaek was the friend with whom I had shared everything in this life as Dancheon Myeong.
"Are you certain?"
At my words, delight bloomed across Chunbaek's face. I gave him a proud toss of the shoulders and turned my gaze to Chwipung-gae.
"Go on, then."
"I'll come again."
And so I took my leave of Chwipung-gae.
"When it comes to wine, nothing beats Jiannanchun."
As though in agreement, Chunbaek nodded.
Now, at last, I could become Dancheon Myeong in full.
Chwipung-gae turned up out of the blue.
"Will you come with me?"
"Where to?"
"Jangchun Valley."
Jangchun Valley. A name that meant nothing to me — and yet it was not the first time I had heard it.
"Do you remember Jangchun Valley?"
That was what Chwipung-gae had once asked the Eumhyeol Sinma. From where I stood — already knowing his secret — it was not hard to guess what the place meant. It had to be where the man had built a home with his wife. In other words, where his wife and child now lay buried.
Only after blurting all this out did Chwipung-gae begin sneaking furtive glances at my face.
"Well. If you'd rather not come, you needn't."
A laugh slipped out of me at the timidity of an old beggar who had always stood so tall. Just as I watched my step around Chwipung-gae because I was no longer Myeong-gae, I had caught on that he, too, was watching his — because I was no longer Myeong-gae.
"I'll come with you."
"Much obliged."
No sooner had my answer left my mouth than Chwipung-gae bustled off.
"Try to keep up."
"Don't you worry."
Chwipung-gae raced ahead on his Eight Drunken Immortals Steps — a technique that figure-eight gait suited remarkably well — and I unfolded the Cloud-Treading Steps in his wake, crossing mountains and rivers one after another. It did not take long. Jangchun Valley, too, lay in Shaanxi, and when masters whose spirits had blossomed into divinity crossed the land on peerless lightness arts, mountains and rivers were no more than trifling obstacles.
"This is the place?"
We had arrived at a ruined village where nothing remained but the traces of people who had once lived there. Instinct told me this was Jangchun Valley.
"It is."
Only when we reached a small grave mound on the valley's outskirts did Chwipung-gae finally fold away his briskly working Eight Drunken Immortals Steps. Left untended for what must have been years, the mound lay buried beneath a wild thicket of brush.
"Give me a little time, will you?"
"Of course."
"Thank you."
I nodded at his request.
With a staggering, unsteady gait — unlike both the beggar's swagger and the upright stride of a martial artist — Chwipung-gae made his way toward the mound. What weighed in those steps, I suspected, was an emotion called remorse.
Handful by careful handful, Chwipung-gae tidied the ground around the grave. His hands were deft, and before long the mound had recovered a neat and peaceful face.
Then, as though offering a greeting, he laid his palm upon it.
"I've only just now come to find you."
Chwipung-gae, his eyes brimming with sorrow, went on.
"So much has happened in the meantime."
As though carrying word to an old friend, he began his story slowly.
For quite a long while, I listened to his monologue without a word. I simply wanted to.
"That man there is my benefactor."
When Chwipung-gae's gaze came to me, I bowed my head silently toward the mound. I found myself glad — deeply glad — that the final step of Chwipung-gae's long road of vengeance had not been the Eumhyeol Sinma's death, but this valley.
After a long while of quiet reunion with the mound, Chwipung-gae drew a flask of rice wine from his breast and gulped it down, swig after swig. Making no effort to burn the wine out of his system, he soon wore a mellow flush, and he opened his mouth as though he had resolved upon something enormous.
"I had a son, you see."
"Did you, now."
He had never breathed a word about the child even in my days as Myeong-gae, so my interest stirred of its own accord. But I answered with feigned indifference. It was a knack learned in my Beggars' Gang days — the art of listening to a beggar's past.
"He was five."
Presumably the age at which the child had died.
"Do you know how imperfect memory is? That rascal memory is a terribly volatile thing. The face I swore I could never forget — swore I would never forget — grows dimmer by the day. However many times I call it up, I can't see it clearly anymore."
Having said this, Chwipung-gae stared openly at my face, as though appraising my looks.
"Looking at you, the face of the son I thought I'd forgotten came back to me, vivid as life. Ah — don't misunderstand. Son or no, his face was never as fine as yours."
A snort of laughter escaped me at that. It was Chwipung-gae in his true element — the man who had always preached the objectivity and consistency of information above all.
"If you were just a little uglier, you might almost pass for my son."
Chwipung-gae was no great beauty by any measure, so the son could scarcely have been one either. A far cry from me — having taken the Vermilion Fruit, I could fairly claim to have been remade from the bone out, at least where my face was concerned.
But what of Myeong-gae's face? Truthfully, even I no longer remembered it well — and yet the thought came to me unbidden: perhaps Myeong-gae's face had looked exactly like the son Chwipung-gae remembered.
"I just... wanted to tell that story, I suppose."
To Dancheon Myeong, the tale Chwipung-gae told on the strength of wine might well be one best summed up by that little word just. But to Myeong-gae, it might have meant something else entirely.
"You brat — why do you keep refusing when I've told you I'll pass my arts down to you?"
The Chwipung-gae of my Myeong-gae days — the man who had tried to give me everything — rose before my eyes.
"You brat — is there a law that says a beggar can't be happy? Live happily. You hear me?"
Perhaps Myeong-gae had been a son to Chwipung-gae. Just as Chwipung-gae had been a father to Myeong-gae.
"What is it you want from me?"
Chwipung-gae asked it out of nowhere, his face set with grim resolve, as though he had steeled himself for whatever came next.
"I want for nothing."
That was the answer I ought to give — because Myeong-gae had already received far more from Chwipung-gae than he had any right to. Regression or no, how could I forget a kindness as deep as rivers and seas? Helping Chwipung-gae cut down the Eumhyeol Sinma and see his vengeance completed was no favor bestowed; it was a debt repaid. And no one demands payment for repaying a debt. That much went without saying.
I set my heart on the martial path early, so my thread of book-learning runs short — but I know that a gentleman's way begins with a sense of shame. In truth, there was no need to reach as far as gentleman. Even beggars have their own share of shame, and so Dancheon Myeong, no longer Myeong-gae, ought to have kept his. That would have been right.
But...
"I have a favor to ask."
In this life, I had decided to do away with shame. What I had to achieve was too vast, I could tell myself — too vast to accomplish while also minding my dignity. Or perhaps it was simply that I wanted to lean, one more time, on the great tree called Chwipung-gae.
"Out with it, then," Chwipung-gae said.
He was by nature a mean, cantankerous old beggar — but I knew him for a man whose word held fast. Chwipung-gae was the very soul of the Righteous Blood Beggars' Gang, and a man like that keeps his promises without fail. I had no reason to feel guilty. The grace I received this time, too, was something I, Dancheon Myeong, would repay before my life ran out.
"So what is it you wish from me?"
When I didn't readily open my mouth, Chwipung-gae pressed, curiosity plainly getting the better of him. At his waist hung six knots, tied in artless disarray. There lay my wish.
"You'll have to add one more knot."
"...?"
Chwipung-gae looked utterly lost, so I hurried on.
"Become an elder of the Beggars' Gang again, Chwipung-gae."
"...Why?"
As his face went slack with bewilderment, a smile spread across mine. Even as Dancheon Myeong and no longer Myeong-gae, putting one over on him still felt good. That I could entertain such a thought even now — humans really are the most baffling of creatures.
"Don't feign ignorance when you know perfectly well."
Hadn't they said that even a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step? This was the first step of the Yakseon Heart Decision's Six-Stage Art: the road that led to the secret treasure of the Beggars' Gang, the Chwigu-hwan. That journey had only now found its footing — and its beginning would run through Chwipung-gae, the Seventh-Knot Elder.
"Now, hold on — the Seventh Knot is a bit..."
I let the weary sigh drifting from him pass unheeded. The Chwipung-gae who had returned to being a seasoned old beggar was hardly so hapless as to need my worrying.