A Tale of Korea

There was once a boy who loved stories. His name was Dong Chin, and every night at bedtime he listened to stories from a favorite family servant, a man named Pak. Now, Dong Chin was a fine boy, but there was one bad thing about him. He didn’t like to share the stories he heard. He wanted to keep them to himself. So every night after listening, he said, “Mr. Pak, make me a promise.” “What is it, young master?” said Pak, though he knew well enough. “Promise you won’t tell those stories again to anyone but me. Promise they will stay in this room.” “All right, young master,” said Pak with a sigh. “I promise.” Years went by and Dong Chin grew up. When he was 15, his father chose him a bride of the same age from a family in the next valley. Everyone in the household was excited at the coming marriage. On the night before the wedding, Dong Chin’s father undid his son’s long braid—the kind worn by all sons and daughters till they married. Then he fixed the hair in a tight topknot, just like his own. On his son’s head he placed a skullcap with a hole for the topknot to poke through. And over it all, he placed a feather-light, see-through hat of horsehair mesh. Dong Chin was so proud. For years he had waited for this moment. Now he was a man! At last the wedding day arrived. In the early morning, Dong Chin and his father made ready to go to the bride’s house for the ceremony. Everyone bustled about to help and to prepare for the celebration the next day, when the bride would be brought home. Pak was busy like everyone else. But as he rushed around, he happened to pass outside Dong Chin’s room. To his surprise, he heard a murmur of many voices. “That’s strange,” he said to himself. “The young master isn’t in there now, and no one else should be either.” He went up to the paper window, carefully poked a small hole, and peeked through. Then he gasped. The air was teeming with spirits—hundreds of them! Over, under, and around each other they swarmed. There were so many, they barely had room to fly, and they didn’t look one bit happy! “Silence!” called one of the spirits. “Stop talking all at once, or we’ll never get anywhere.” The murmur died away. “That’s right,” said another spirit. “The boy’s wedding is today, and we have to decide what to do.” “We must have revenge!” said another. “He has to be punished for keeping us stories all stuck here.” Pak gasped again. “It’s the stories!” he said in wonder. “The ones that had to stay in the room!” “Yes, he must be punished,” said another spirit. “But how?” “I have an idea,” said another. “I’m a story that has a poisoned well in it. Why don’t I put my well by the road? If he drinks the water, he’ll be deathly ill.” “Wonderful!” said another. “I’m a story with poisoned strawberries in it. I’ll set them farther down the road, in case he doesn’t drink.” “Good thinking!” said another. “I’m a story with a red-hot poker. I’ll put it in the cushion he steps onto at the bride’s house—in case he neither eats nor drinks on the way. It will burn him terribly!” “That should do it,” said still another. “But in case he escapes you all, I’ll be ready. I’m a story with a deadly snake. I’ll hide it under the sleeping mat of the bride. When they go to bed, it will bite and kill them both!” “No!” cried Pak. He leaped to the door and threw it open. But there was . . . nothing. “I can’t have imagined it,” he said. “They must still be here, and I just can’t see them. But—The young master! I must protect the young master!”