Christina Farley - Gilded

Chills ricochet down my body.

Clenching my fists, I spin to challenge the creature. His face tells me I’m his captive. I take the fighting stance. It’s not over yet.

It pounces. I tumble backward, crushed against the cold rough sidewalk. Its weight and the fall knock the air out of me. Then it’s off me, as if I’m some cat toy to be tossed around for fun before finally being eaten. I gasp and push my body up. I’m on my hands and knees when the creature appears again, looming over me, smelling of wild animal and ginseng. I tense, prepping for its next attack.

“Beware,” it says in a voice that rumbles like thunder.

I scramble to stand and gaze up. It must be three times the size of a lion.

“He wants you.”

The creature talks. This is not happening. I close and open my eyes. Still there.

“Who—who are you?” I finally ask.

“I am the Guardian of Seoul. Some call me Haechi. I have been sent by Palk to warn you and offer my protection.”

“But—but you attacked me,” I sputter. “And how do you know English?”

A rumble emits from its mouth. “An impetuous one, you are.”

“I don’t need protecting. I was doing just fine before you pounced on me.”

“You have been sought out by a dangerous immortal. He nearly took you moments ago.”

I shake my head. “Who?”

“Time is fading. You must flee,” he says, and, in a breath, he disappears.

It’s as if a switch has been flicked. Honking cars, the pound of construction, the roar of the buses replace the creature’s breathing. I swivel in a circle. Everything is back in place as if nothing happened. I press my cold hands to my cheeks.

Blood trickles from a cut on my palm. Probably from when I fell. That was all. I fell, hit my head, and had some crazy dream. How long was I out?

The sweet potato lady eyes me from under the green scarf wrapped around her head. She wobbles over in her bulky trousers and stuffs a dirty towel on my bleeding hand. I’ll probably get an infection from it, I think dully.

She rattles off something in Korean, but I’m too dazed to listen. I do notice she’s holding a piece of my coat. I peer over my shoulder and realize the back of my coat is shredded as if some wild animal with giant claws has ripped through it.

Impossible.

“Flee!” the wind whispers into my ear.

I run the rest of the way home.

We leave Seoul hours before sunrise the next morning. Dad hopes to avoid the Han River traffic. Still, five a.m. seems a little extreme, especially since I hardly slept last night thanks to that horrible Haechi creature attacking me. Or as it seemed to believe, “protecting” me. Some protection.

I’m still not sure what to think about last night. Was it real? It felt real.

But none of it could possibly have happened. That stuff belongs in movies and fairy tales. I rub the egg-sized bump on the back of my head. I’m guessing I hit my head and then dreamed up an insane story.

I stare out my window as the first rays of sunlight sparkle across the skyscrapers on the other side of the Han River while, on my right, concrete buildings line the edge of the road like a massive wall.

Haechi. Glittery Guy. Palk. Why had I imagined those creatures?

Last night, mind racing, I’d dug through my unpacked boxes until I found the book of Korean folktales Mom read to me every night as a kid.

“These are your stories, Jae,” she’d say. “They are a part of who you are.”

Never once had I imagined those stories would come to life and attack me.

I cross my legs in the backseat of the car and rest Mom’s thick hardcover in my lap. The pages are soft and worn under my fingers. I flip through them until I find the illustration of Haechi.

Underneath it is the definition:

Haechi—A legendary creature resembling a lion; a fire-eating beast; guardian against disaster and prejudice.

It looks exactly like the creature I hallucinated last night. I flip to the index and search for Palk. He’s listed as one of the two great immortals and the counterpart of Kud, the immortal of darkness.

Palk—The sun god and founder of the realm of light. He is the personification of all that is light, good, and beneficial.

I press my palms against my eyelids as if to push away last night’s memory. For a year after Mom died, I saw a psychologist to help me cope with my nightmares. Maybe moving to Seoul reawakened those nightmares, but at a whole new level this time. Because last night in the street facing those creatures felt real.

Too real.

I tuck the book to my chest. I can almost hear Mom’s voice reading to me like she would when I was little. When she was sick, really sick, I’d lie next to her, watching the shadows creep across the walls like the hands of a clock.

“Read to me,” she’d say.

So during her last days, I was the one who would read until my throat would ache and my voice would rasp.

It hadn’t always been that way. Before Mom got sick, we were busy. She with her paintings and I with my archery tournaments. If she was here now, would I have talked to her about last night? If she hadn’t gotten sick, would we have ever gotten that close?

My heart balloons up until I can’t take the pain of it anymore. I throw the book across the car.

“Jae!” Dad says, jerking me back to reality. “What is wrong?”

What is there to tell him? That I’m losing my mind?

“School,” I finally say. “Too much studying.”

We merge into the three-lane Gangbyeon Expressway as Dad nods solemnly. “Well then, it will be good for you to take a break for this holiday.”

Cars clog the highway, reminding me of L.A. at rush hour. Dad maneuvers through the traffic, hands gripping the steering wheel. Even when he drives he’s got that intensity and determination. People used to say I looked just like Mom, but I have got my dad’s personality. Maybe that’s why we don’t sit down and just chat. Sitting and introspection aren’t exactly our strengths.

Soon we ease out of the city, and rolling hills and greenhouses replace skyscrapers and concrete. The hills, packed with evergreens, feel alive compared to the desert-like landscape of California. We pass a dormant rice field, brown stalks chopped off like a bad haircut. An airplane soars above us—we’re quite close now to Incheon Airport—and a pang runs through my chest. I wish I was on one of those planes, whisking over the Pacific to L.A. If only I could convince Dad to move back home.

I’m in the middle of a daydream in which I’ve secretly stowed myself on a plane when I realize we’re already driving off the ferry onto a tiny, two-lane road on Muui Island, where Grandfather lives. Metal-framed shacks line the curb with vendors selling crab and tangerines, an odd combination. We curve inland and climb a hill, passing an old man spreading his peppers out on blankets to redden them in the sun.

It turns out that Grandfather’s house isn’t on the beach but above the coast, built on the edge of a cliff. It’s a traditional Korean home, with the fluted roof line and cross-beamed walls. I wonder how old this place is. It’s absolutely stunning. As I scoot out of the car, the scent of pine and that icy smell of winter wash over me.

A servant answers the door with a bow and whisks away our bags. I slip off my boots, as is customary in all Korean homes, and follow Dad through the entryway into the main room. The house has an airy feel even in its old age due to its sparseness and the geometric screened windows overlooking the ocean. A near life-size stone statue of a winged horse rests on a wooden platform by the far wall. A gold plaque labels it Chollima. On the other side of the room is a uniform fitted on a manikin. I move closer to study it.