182.
182
On the Way Home — Names Long Forgotten
When he left the barracks, the night air had turned cold.
An old lantern swayed in the wind, and the voices of people faded into the distance.
That was when Song I-sul stood at the gate.
He looked as though he had been waiting.
Even in the dark, his face was unmistakable.
"Were you waiting?"
"I went and came back."
"Where to?"
"My younger sister came looking for you."
Seongjin blinked once.
"Your younger sister?"
"More like a cousin, she said.
The exact relation wasn't clear.
She came to deliver a message to you."
"What message?"
Song I-sul lifted his head for a moment, gazing at the starless sky.
"She said today was the memorial day.
She hoped you would come."
Seongjin's shoulders stiffened.
He hadn't remembered.
No—he had lived having forgotten.
Something heavy settled in one side of his chest.
The time he had let slip came rushing back.
He realized he had been living while looking only at his own sorrow.
"A memorial day… that means—"
"They said they fixed the date to the day news finally reached them, since they didn't know the exact day of death.
They're holding your father's and brother's rites together."
A short breath seeped into the darkness.
He had crossed battlefields and climbed mountains, fought countless battles and pursued countless studies—
yet the deaths of those closest to him had been pushed far away.
As Seongjin lowered his head, Song I-sul silently extended his hand.
"Go. There's a horse over there."
Where he pointed stood a scrawny horse.
Its mane was faded and its appearance shabby, but its eyes were clear.
"Thank you."
"Plain to look at, but it was once called a thousand-li horse.
Hurry."
Seongjin loosened the reins and mounted.
The moment his weight settled, the night wind brushed his face.
He rode north.
The road stretched long through the night, and the moonlight followed him all the way.
Forgotten names and forgotten voices were reviving like wind beneath the northern sky.
---*
Before the Private Gate — Names Returned
He leapt down in front of the wooden gate and rushed inside as soon as he tied the reins.
"Mother."
"Oh—Seongjin. Did you hear the news?"
"Yes."
"What about Ogi, the one we sent to tell you?"
"Ogi? I didn't see her.
I received the message at the Shinhowi barracks."
At the word barracks, a shadow crossed his mother's face.
"Why the barracks again?"
"My senior brother holds authority there.
More than that… I didn't even know the rite was being held."
"Yes. That year you went to the battlefield in their place, and the year after that you were still away."
"Why didn't you tell me last year?"
"We had no leeway then.
Only now has the household begun to recover."
Ah—right.
He had thought that as long as the grain tax arrived on time, there would be no lack.
One seok could sustain one person for a year.
Nine seok should have been enough.
He suddenly recalled how his senior brother had quietly taken care of things.
It wasn't only the grain tax—he knew that now.
"I'm sorry."
"No. It's thanks to you."
Seongjin looked around.
Having rushed so hard, his sense of time felt blurred.
"What time is it now?"
"There's still time.
It's too early for the spirits to come."
"Whew, that's a relief.
I almost planted a peach tree* around the house without knowing."
"Goodness."
* In folk belief, the peach tree is a strongly "yang" object, believed to repel ghosts, spirits, and beings of the yin realm. It has long been used as a ritual tool to ward off malign forces.
His mother's laughter shattered into brightness.
"How did you manage before?"
"Your uncle came."
"He'll come this time too, won't he?"
"I don't know.
They say from now on, today will be the memorial date."
The scent of fallen autumn flowers lingered faintly where petals had dropped.
The last trace of sunset settled low on the darkening embankments, and the sound of the stream grew distant.
In the yard, the ritual table had already been set.
On white paper lay three bowls of rice, two dishes of greens, and a bottle of makgeolli.
There were spirit tablets—
for his grandfather, his father, and his brother.
* A spirit tablet (位牌) is a wooden plaque inscribed with the deceased's name and life dates, believed to house the spirit during ancestral rites. Originating in Confucian tradition, it is often made of chestnut wood and distinguished from paper memorial slips.
His mother adjusted the incense on the table, then straightened it again.
His uncle entered, bowed first before the tablets, and took his place.
Seongjin knelt.
"You came."
"I'm sorry. I forgot."
"You couldn't help it. You've suffered enough."
"Thank you, Uncle, for taking care of things."
"Your mother worked hard."
Only then did memory connect fully.
Ogi—the one who had come as a messenger—was his uncle's daughter.
His cousin sister was named Ogi.
The veranda fell silent.
Seongjin offered the incense.
Smoke rose upward, scattering over the time he had forgotten.
As his knees touched the floor, battlefield, mountain, and worldly road surged into his chest all at once.
The lamplight flickered over the ritual table.
He bowed before his father's and brother's tablets.
His uncle poured the liquor beside him.
"Discard the first cup."
"Yes."
"Light the incense."
"Yes."
He moved like a scarecrow, doing exactly as instructed.
He lowered his head and lit the incense.
The smoke slowly rose and loosened into the air.
When the incense burned, his mother lifted the cup.
"You've suffered so much."
At those words, Seongjin bowed his head.
"I came late."
He lifted the cup and poured it over the table.
The makgeolli spread across the white paper, drawing a quiet circle.
The wind blew, and the incense smoke stretched long.
He held his bow until the smoke thinned and vanished.
After a while, his uncle offered his cup and bowed.
As the rite continued, his uncle began to speak of the past.
"Your father, you know."
Seongjin lifted his head.
"When he was young, he escorted an envoy to Liaodong.
On horseback, he spun his long sword—arrows rained down, yet he didn't even blink."
"I see."
"The interpreter said so—
that Officer Park's gaze was faster than the arrows."
His uncle smiled, then lowered his voice.
"On the way back, a soldier went missing.
Your father entered the river to search for him to the very end.
He was deeply loyal to his comrades."
"I was assigned to the same unit.
I've heard many stories."
Seongjin watched the incense smoke in silence.
Something trembled softly inside his chest.
His father had been a soldier with a sword,
a man who stepped into a river for his comrades.
That grain felt like it ran through him as well.
"That blood flows in you too."
Seongjin lowered his head.
"The study of the mountain and the study of the world were the same path."
He lifted the cup with both hands.
"Father. Brother.
I have returned."
The makgeolli spread again over the white paper.
The wind blew, and the smoke drifted.
"The son of Park Jin-sul, the younger brother of Park Seong-il, has come.
I offer this cup—please come and go in peace."
His mother wiped her tears.
"Mother, you should offer a cup as well."
"Oh dear…"
His uncle hesitated as if to speak, but Seongjin shook his head.
"When comforting the dead, is there any division between men and women?"
He poured the drink.
His mother bowed, set the cup down—and collapsed into tears.
"Husband… Seong-il…."
It was the sound of years long stored breaking open.
Seongjin supported her shoulders.
"Don't only cry—say something."
This was how they believed comfort worked.
Not only crying inwardly, but speaking as if the departed were present—
trusting that sorrow could grow thinner through words.
Sniffling, his mother said,
"I worried how I'd live, leaving behind a kind husband and an eldest son who knew nothing of the world.
But this second son resembles them both—now I have no more worries.
Every year on this day, I'll set the table, so don't worry.
From places unseen, help that boy who walks the battlefield."
His uncle turned away, wiping his eyes.
Seongjin gazed at the light in the incense burner and drew a deep breath.
The smoke was thin, but it lingered long.
---*
Jesa (祭祀) is a traditional Korean Confucian rite in which offerings of food are presented to honor deceased ancestors, commemorate their spirits, and repay their benevolence.In this context, it refers to the ancestral rites held for a father and elder brother who died in battle.