Hwang Sok-yong: Princess Bari

Gather, souls! Gather ‘round, spirits!

Here, beneath the western sky,

out here, at the ends of the Earth,

those who sinned,

those who were sinned against,

souls bound together in Hell,

caught in the endless cycle

of life, death, rebirth, death, life.

Unfetter yourself, unfetter each other,

and rise up through the nine heavens.

Return to life! Return!

The air slowly fills with light, and the iron castle begins to crumble. Chunks of rock and metal melt away the moment the light touches them like ice in the sun. Soon there is nothing but flat land. The freed spirits crowd together: sinners who have lost their eyes, sinners without arms, sinners without legs, sinners without heads, sinners who have lost the entire lower halves of their bodies. They come pouring out, and even the guards cast down their weapons, rush forward and dance. The land is filled with dancing spirits.

I turn around. There is the third and final part of the castle. I walk toward the heavy gate, which creaks open slowly by itself. A cold wind comes whooshing out. The magpie flies off my shoulder.

Egh! Too scary! I can’t go. You go alone. You go.

I step inside. There’s another wide plaza. At the centre is a big, black, foul-smelling pond. A half-moon-shaped bridge arcs over its centre. I start to cross the bridge, but an enormous cast-iron dragon suddenly appears on the other side. It rushes at me, clinking and clanging, its jaws open wide, spewing fireballs. The flames touch the surface of the pond, and in a flash the whole thing is ablaze. Flowers of fire flicker and flare up all around.

I pull the final item from the bundle: the copper mirror. I hold it out in front of me, and as the light reflects off it, the flames freeze in place. The fire comes to a stop, like snowflakes on the branches of trees in winter or frost blooming across a windowpane. The iron dragon begins to crack; it breaks into pieces that fall to the floor and shatter, then turn to powder, then blow away. I cross the plaza and climb a staircase. At the top, I enter a high-ceilinged room. The King of Hell, in his shining golden armour and helmet with the visor down over his face, stands there waiting for me, his fiery curved sword held aloft.

He booms: I don’t have a physical form, but I took this one for you!

I’m here to free you too, I tell him, so behave yourself .

He swings his sword. The flame wraps around my body like a whip and flings me away, hard. I hit the wall and fall to the ground. I am barely able to pull myself up, but I take a step toward him and the flame wraps around me again and hurls me across the room. As I stand, I hold up the copper mirror and shine it on the King of Hell. The light bounces off it, and his golden armour turns to jelly and slides off him, revealing the tiny body of an old man, bent over and frail with age, clad in rags. He sinks to the floor.

Oh … I’m so tired! he mutters, in a voice no bigger than a mosquito’s. I press him for answers to my questions.

There must be some knowledge I can take back with me.

Now all mysteries will be solved.

Where is the life-giving water?

The old man tilts his head back as if lacking even the strength to lift his arms.

Is there such a thing? There is a small spring out there, but that’s just the regular water we use to cook rice.

I turn and exit through a back door. At the bottom of the stairs is a garden with a small well. I hurry down, crouch next to the well and scoop up water in my cupped hands. I drink from it twice. It tastes sweet and refreshing, just like the spring water from the mountains and rivers of my hometown. Nothing more. Disappointed, I stand up. Then I remember the flowers in my shirt, so I take one out and toss it into the air. It explodes, and as the petals drift down and turn to light, the final part of the castle is engulfed in an enormous cloud of dust and begins to collapse.

Everything vanishes, and just as before, there is only a tranquil field with a few rocks and the quietly settling air. The magpie has returned and is perched on a rock, flicking his tail around and preening his feathers with his beak.

There’s no such thing as “life-giving water” , I say bitterly.

The magpie shrieks with laughter. Karr-rr-rr! Stupidhead! It’s what you drank, what you drank.

I look around hurriedly at the empty field.

The magpie chatters again: No one can take it, not the life-giving water. The bird keeps laughing — karr-rr-rr karr-rr-rr — and flies away.

I plod toward the beach. When I reach the spot where the water rushes up onto the sand, I call out inside my head: Chilsung- ah ! Chilsung- ah!

The ship appears, and the gangplank descends. The moment my foot touches the first step, I am aboard, and Chilsung is welcoming me with his wagging tail.

We go up into the crow’s nest, and the ship starts to float away.

I didn’t get the life-giving water , I say weakly.

Chilsung swishes his tail but doesn’t reply. The ship glides over the sea of sand. The variously attired men are still flailing their arms and shouting and sinking into the sand and re-emerging. As I look down at them, I mutter: Either take turns and let each other talk, or work together and speak for each other. Or maybe just don’t say anything at all.

The sea of sand vanishes. Now it’s just normal blue sky and blue ocean with fat clouds overhead.

We cross the sea of blood again. I see the ships floating like black spots in the red sky. The grey ship approaches, carrying people of all shapes and colours, refugees in tattered rags, my mother and sisters, souls from all over the world who were starved, tortured, worked or beaten to death, bombed, burned, drowned, terminally ill or died of a broken heart. Just as before, Becky leans her body over the front of the ship and looks at me.

Tell us why we had to suffer like this. Why are we here?

Something seems to take over my tongue. My voice turns young and high-pitched as someone else speaks through me.

They say we’re here because of desire. In our desire to live better than others, we are cruel to each other. That’s why the god who rides that boat with you says he has also suffered. By forgiving them, you help him.

When the words stop, the scene ends. The grey ship disappears without a trace. The red ship lit with torches approaches, carrying the people wielding weapons, people with their hair loose and dishevelled, arms torn off, legs severed, heads missing, people in blood-soaked uniforms, wrapped in gauze, leaning on crutches, eyes bandaged, people struggling to escape. This ship, which carries Lady Emily’s father and grandfather and my husband’s younger brother Usman, draws close.

Usman calls out to me again: Did you find out why evil wins, and why we are stuck here with our enemies?

I babble in the tiny voice of a little girl: There are no winners in war. What the living call justice is always one-sided.

The scene ends. The red ship vanishes.

The third ship, which has been waiting at a distance, approaches, jet-black from sails to hull and carrying men with explosives strapped to their bodies, men whose flesh and bones have been blown apart and are barely maintaining the outline of a body, like a swarm of dayflies hovering in the air. Fathers, brothers and husbands who took it upon themselves to punish their daughters, sisters and wives all ride the ship together. The man with the grenades dangling from his chest shakes his fist at me.