Martin Limón - Nightmare Range

“Tomorrow,” Ernie said. “We wrap this damn case up.”

We ordered two more draft OBs and drank to that proposition.

It was Monday now so we had to wait until after work. During the day, I called Miss Choi and tried to convince her to give me an address. When she figured out what I had in mind, she refused but promised to show us the way. Reluctantly, I agreed.

That night, driving through the crowded Seoul streets, Ernie and I didn’t talk much. Miss Choi sat silently in the back of the jeep. At a park on the northeast side of downtown Seoul, she told us to pull over. A huge wooden gate painted bright red was slashed with Chinese Characters: Kuksadang . Altar for National Rites.

“We have to walk from here,” Miss Choi said.

On the other side of the gate, stone steps led up a steep hill.

Miss Choi wasn’t wearing her usual Western clothing. Instead, she wore a long white skirt and white blouse, very similar to what the Widow Po had worn during the kut . Also a large canvas bag was strapped over her shoulder.

“Why no blue jeans?” I asked.

She shook her head. “I must protect you.”

“Protect us?” Ernie asked. “From what?”

“From the Widow Po.”

When I asked her to explain she shook her head. We climbed the long flights of steps in silence. Slowly, we wound our way toward the top of a line of steep hills-small mountains actually-guarding the northwestern flank of the capital city of Seoul. Square stone parapets lined the summit, built during the Yi Dynasty as protection against Manchurian raiders and Japanese pirates. Below, the glowing lights of the city sparkled in the darkening sky. To the east, a red moon started to rise.

While tossing back wets at the Seven Club, it had occurred to Ernie that the one person who knew more about the Moretti case than anyone in the world was the Widow Po. If you believed in ghosts, that would be because the spirit of Moretti took possession of her during a kut . If you don’t believe in ghosts, that would mean that she had specific knowledge of the case.

Neither Ernie nor I believed in ghosts.

Behind the ancient battlements, a dirt pathway led through a small grove of quivering elms. Miss Choi marched in the lead, staring straight ahead. Ernie and I glanced at one another. She looked exactly as if she were going into battle.

Once past the grove of trees, we descended into a dry gully. On the other side a clearing held maybe a dozen hooches, all thatched with straw. Candles flickered in one of the windows. No street lamps or cars or electricity up here. Down below, the modern city of Seoul hummed vibrantly.

Miss Choi stopped and waited until we were close.

“Only I talk,” she said. “Not you.”

“We have to question her,” Ernie said. “About Moretti.”

“I do that. You listen.”

Without waiting for further comment, Miss Choi Yong-kuang turned and strode toward the one home with a light in the window. As she walked, she reached in her canvas bag and pulled out a small drum made of wood and leather. Using a short stick she banged the drum lightly, only once, and then in a steady rhythm. In front of the hooch, we waited.

Ernie grew impatient. “Why don’t I just knock on the damn door?”

Miss Choi shushed him.

In the other hooches there didn’t seem to be any life whatsoever. But someone must live here. Wash fluttered on lines behind the houses. A skinny rooster flapped its wings and scratched into soil. Were they all gone? Or were they sitting silently behind dark windows, watching us?

This afternoon on the phone, Miss Choi had told me that the entire village was reserved for mediums. Wealthy people from the city below climbed up here to have their fortunes told or to talk to dear departed loved ones. But there were no customers tonight.

The front door of the hooch creaked open. Miss Choi drummed a little faster. A figure in white stepped out onto the porch. Then she stepped off the porch, slipping into her plastic sandals, and followed a flagstone walkway until she stood just a few feet from us. Moonlight reflected off a pock-marked face: the Widow Po.

I expected her to smile at Ernie. After all, they’d practically been intimate during the kut . Instead, she ignored us and frowned at Miss Choi.

“You insult me,” the Widow Po said in Korean.

“These are good men,” Miss Choi retorted. “And you asked me to bring them to the kut. This is your doing.”

“You expect I will hurt them?”

Miss Choi stopped drumming, slipped the instrument back into her bag, and pulled out a long red scarf embroidered with gold thread. I couldn’t make out what it said but the embroidery was clearly stylized Chinese characters. She draped the scarf over her head.

The Widow Po took a step backward.

“You are insolent ,” she said. “Do you think I can’t ward off evil spirits on my own?”

“Not evil spirits,” Miss Choi said. “I want to ward off you. You must have some plan. It is not me who brought these men here tonight. It is you.”

The Widow Po turned to me and then slowly turned to Ernie. She smiled.

“I should offer you tea,” she said in English.

“Not necessary,” Ernie replied. “We just want to ask you some questions.”

“Will you be able to appease the troublesome spirit who has been haunting me?”

“That’s up to you,” I said. “How old are you?”

Her eyes widened. “A woman should never answer such a question.”

“American women shouldn’t,” I said. “Korean women are proud of their age.”

She smiled again. “I am older than you think.”

“Old enough to have known Moretti?”

Miss Choi pulled a small prayer wheel out of her bag, started spinning it, closed her eyes, and chanted softly beneath her breath.

We waited.

Far below in Seoul, neon sparkled and an occasional horn honked. The orange moon was completely above the horizon now. Miss Choi’s gentle chanting seemed to encourage its glow. Finally, the Widow Po spoke.

“I knew him,” she said. “I was young then. And beautiful. Yes, beautiful,” she repeated, as if I had challenged her. “Despite the marks on my face I was beautiful. We were never married in your Yankee way, what with all your military paperwork. It was only there to discourage American GIs from marrying Korean women. But we were married in the proper way, taking vows before the Goddess of the Underworld, swearing that our devotion would be eternal. That we would never part. Not like you Americans who change husbands and wives so often.”

She was speaking Korean now. Ernie couldn’t understand but he was following the intensity in her voice. I struggled to understand every word.

“But Moretti was like all you Americans, consorting with evil. With that woman called Whiskey Mary …”

Ernie understood that.

“… and with the girls who worked for her. And who knows who else? He wouldn’t come home. He wouldn’t perform the filial rights during the autumn harvest or visit the graves of my ancestors and introduce himself to them. He laughed at such things. Laughed!”

Now she was crying, her lips quivering in rage.

“When he was gone, I had to make a living. Not by finding another GI like so many women did but by honoring my ancestors. By doing this.”

She waved her arms to indicate the totality of the little village of shamans and mediums.

“When he was gone,” I said. “He was gone because you killed him.”

The Widow Po stared into my eyes a long time. Miss Choi’s chanting grew more rapid.

“Yes,” the Widow Po said. “I killed him. I had no choice. He was dishonoring me. He was dishonoring the Goddess of the Underworld.”

“And the Korean police left you alone.”