Christina Farley - Gilded

He pats my shoulder. “Nervous? You’ve never been before. You’re a pro.”

The lump in my throat keeps me from arguing over the differences between a professional and high school competitor.

After I check in with the show coordinator, I peer around the curtain to catch a glimpse of the auditorium. The lights are dimming, and huge spotlights roam the audience, casting long slants of reds and yellows over the crowd. I set my case on the wood floor and unsnap it. In the erratic light, I take out my horn bow and slip off its silk goong dae , notch my lucky white-feathered arrow into place, and draw back the strings to test its tension. It pulls strong and steady in my grip.

Really, I could shoot an arrow in my sleep, and tonight my target will be larger than a Chuseok moon. I close my eyes and rub my hand up and down the bow as I try to block out all memory of my earlier mishap.

The thump of a drum, followed by a succession of quicker thumps, resounds through the auditorium. The audience hushes. I slide on my thumb ring, tie my goong dae to my waist, and tuck five arrows into its sack. Then, with my bow under my arm, I ease out to the wings to watch the show.

A pan flute cuts through the pounding.

And then silence.

A flash of crimson illuminates the stage, showing two drums and two gongs lined up as straight as arrows. At practice yesterday, one of the guys told me they were called samulnori instruments. They represent thunder, wind, rain, and clouds. Now, hearing them in full action, I understand why. The sound of the drums and gongs echoes through the room, alive, energetic, and creating a beat that sends my pulse racing.

It draws me in, as if I’ve been missing out on a piece of who I am all these years. I almost forget how nervous I am.

Two banners fall from behind the stage: one a tiger, one a dragon. They face each other, and I wonder if they’re in battle or are friends. The drummers’ beat calms to a steady rhythm as dancers run out, wearing vibrant hanboks that billow like peonies as they twirl.

The program continues as the shaman, dressed in her rags, struts onto the stage next. She dances in wild abandon to the cries of the drums as if caught in the wind and thunder. My muscles tighten and my vision sharpens. During practice yesterday, the dances and music hadn’t affected me like this. Maybe it’s only the added mix of lights and costumes. And the audience.

The drums’ rhythm strengthens, as if calling to me. The drummers’ arms swing in full motion. Their heads shake to the beat.

This is my cue.

I stride out onto the stage. The spotlight catches and follows me as I step onto the dais, my back to the audience. A massive sun lowers over the back wall of the stage. My job is to shoot my arrow into the heart of the sun. The technicians will work their magic to make it seem as if I’ve burst it open so streams of “sunlight” illuminate the auditorium for the grand finale.

Simple. A no-brainer.

I don’t even have to hit a particular mark. All I need to do is get the arrow to cut through the thin canvas.

I lift my bow and set it against my body. The drums boom beneath me. The shaman wails. I notch the arrow in, tight and snug, and take my aim. A gust of wind kicks up around me. I frown. They hadn’t created wind yesterday. What are the producers thinking? Someone needs to turn off those fans.

The drummers barrel away, oblivious of my concern. My hair whips around me. Now I wish I’d listened to the show coordinator and pulled it into a traditional topknot.

Focus!

I lift the bow slightly upward and bite the inside of my lip. The wind intensifies, and my skirts snap against my ankles. It’s so strong now, I can barely stand, but there’s no way I’m going to make a fool of myself and not do this.

I draw back, determined to give the special effects people a piece of my mind afterward.

And release.

The sun swirls in a rainbow before me as the arrow sinks into its center. Light scatters across the stage and spills toward the audience. But I don’t move. Because inside the heart of the sun is a man. He’s dressed in the traditional Korean style, with a black pointed beard and a topknot. His skin seems to blaze, or maybe that’s because he’s dressed in a silver hanbok .

He stands there, staring at me with russet-colored eyes. He’s got my arrow in his hand and a crooked smile on his lips. He bows slightly to me before disappearing into the golden blaze of the sun.

Who was that man? He looked so real . So alive .

Maybe he was. Maybe the special effects people assigned him to grab my arrow and didn’t tell me about it.

Behind me, I realize the audience is clapping. I squeeze my bow tight and swivel as the drummers and dancers bow below. The audience leaps to their feet, clapping vigorously in the glittery golden light. I take my bow.

Marc is to my right in the second row, clapping. I wish that smile of his didn’t make my heart soar. I spot Dad in the front row, a proud look in his eyes, and Grandfather next to him. But he isn’t standing. His arms are crossed, and his frown is even deeper than earlier. What a grouch.

The curtains close. My knees wobble as I take the steps back down. The drummers slap me high fives and shake my hand. One of the backstage guys I hung out with yesterday runs up to me.

“That was awesome,” he says.

“Thanks, but what was up with the fans? You could have told me about them beforehand. I was lucky the arrow hit at all.”

“Fans?” He stares at me like I’m crazy. “What fans?”

One of the drummers overhears us and says, “Great work on the winds, Chung So. Really cooled the stage off.”

The backstage guy rubs his forehead.

I lift my hands in the air to shrug it off. “Forget about it,” I say. “It worked out in the end.”

I leave the crew to search for the guy who took my lucky arrow. But as I scour the backstage area, I can’t find anyone even resembling him. I lightly tap my bow against my leg, trying to imagine what he’d look like without his costume.

“Where might he have gone?” I wonder out loud.

“Mine,” a voice whispers from behind me.

I spin around. No one is there. The hairs on my arms prick against my silk sleeves.

Forget the stupid arrow. I can always get another.

“Mine.” The whisper comes again from everywhere around me.

No question now. I’m overtired. I need sleep.

But as I zip my bow case closed, I see him—the man from inside the sun. He’s perched on one of the backstage stools, holding my arrow. I march over to ask for it back.

“I knew you would come back, my princess,” he says.

I stop midstride at his words. There’s something about his dark-pooled eyes that causes my breath to catch and my heart to ice over.

“Just give me back my arrow,” I say.

But I never get it back.

Because he vanishes in a trick of the light.

“Jae!” Michelle calls as I make my way to the school deli. She steps in stride, her long black hair pinned away from her face and her tight jeans tucked into her boots. “How did it go last night?”

“Nightmarish.” I pick up a tray and load it with kimbap .

Michelle Myong and I were fast friends when we both transferred to the international school here in January. She’s Korean American like me and would probably fit in with Grandfather’s expectation of what a perfect granddaughter should be. Not only is she a straight-A student who takes violin lessons religiously, but she has that smooth, olive complexion with a round face, small nose, and willowy figure. We’re complete opposites.

At my last school I was at the top of my class and hardly had to study.