“Give me a second,” said Woo-Yung. And then there was a loud commotion of branches snapping, leaves shaking, and panicked, heavy breath, and Sung-Ki started, fearing the older boy had fallen, or worse yet, was falling down on top of him. But he had only jumped from one branch to another, and as he paused there up above, there was another violent rustling down below, and Sung-Ki finally realized that the sound was not Woo-Yung’s doing, nor the breeze — it was something else.
Someone else.
“What do you think you’re doing here, you filthy rat-shit thief?”
Sung-Ki whirled on his heels at the sound of the voice, a man’s gravelly snarl, furious and low. In his panic, his feet caught beneath an unseen root, and he tumbled, twisting, to the forest floor. “I’m sorry,” he said, reflexively.
The stranger loomed above him, hunched over inside a torn brown coat, with perhaps no other clothes beneath. His hair was dark, long, and tangled like a bird’s nest, his mouth a grimy scowl. He looked like a creature born from mud, as much earth as he was man, with all the caked-on grime — and in his blackened, filthy hand, the knife shone all the brighter. “What do you think you’re doing here,” the stranger growled again.
Sung-Ki was stammering malformed apologies, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” sinking more and more into the wet leaves when he should have been pushing himself up by now and sprinting far away. He knew it, yet still he could not manage to rise. He heard someone call his name, but did not at first understand why.
“You have my fruit in that bag there? Hm? Is that what you have there, in that bag, boy? My fruit?”
Before Sung-Ki could speak or plead or beg again, Woo-Yung hit the ground behind him, and grabbed him beneath the arms, dragging him back into his grasp. “Get up,” he urged. “Get up, get up.”
“Get away from my tree.”
“It’s not your tree, creep,” Woo-Yung barked. Sung-Ki, trembling, finally got back onto his feet, and Woo-Yung pressed him backwards, shielding him with his arms. “Get the bag,” he said, beneath his breath.
The stranger took two steps forward, growing lower and more feral as he approached. The knife twisted in his hand. Its blade was as jagged as its wielder’s yellow teeth, its point reddened with rust, or worse. “Empty it out,” he said.
“Get the bag, Sung-Ki.”
Sung-Ki turned, snatched up his backpack, and began to try and zip it shut. But some of its fruits had spilled, when the man surprised him, and when Sung-Ki moved to raise it, he saw five more fruits beneath, newly-revealed… He couldn’t leave them. All he could hope was that the stranger wouldn’t see him move, as he clumsily shoveled them in with the rest. It was a poor decision.
The stranger did not bother even speaking — instead, he roared, charging over the rocks and leaves toward the both of them, and Woo-Yung shoved Sung-Ki away. The boy kept his footing but he lost more fruits, and by now he had no choice but to go, as fast as he could, lest he be stabbed, killed, eaten by the wild, filthy mountain man. He dared not turn around to see how close his knife was. “Run, run!” Woo-Yung shouted, as though Sung-Ki needed to be told.
Blindly and mindlessly he tumbled down and away, his body afire with adrenaline that somehow made his small frame and stubby legs feel as graceful and powerful as a mountain lion’s. Minutes sailed by, unperceived, and every rock or branch that would have tripped him otherwise fell to his side, invulnerable in his escape. The only reason that he eventually stopped was because, after a while, he simply no longer felt afraid. The stranger’s pursuit had ended. The two boys had made it, safe.
“My books,” Sung-Ki gasped, his hands on his knees, with labored breath, once they had stopped running. “My schoolbooks are still there…”
Woo-Yung placed his hand upon the younger boy’s shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he said, consolingly. “It’s not like they’re making us use them anymore.”
Sung-Ki looked up, gasped, and recoiled. Woo-Yung’s face was covered in blood, a long gash from the stranger’s knife running vertically down his cheek.
“Woo-Yung, your face…”
Woo-Yung nodded. “I know, he got me. It doesn’t hurt yet. Don’t worry! I bet it’ll look cool, later. No, get back — I don’t want to get blood on you.” He dabbed a finger at his cheek, an annoyed expression on his face, and looked around for something to wipe his hand and face with. He settled on a leaf.
They took one more moment of repose, their heartbeats slowing, sweat drops cooling, before they felt able enough to turn and start the long trip downhill home. Soon, the shouts of wrath and fury that had pursued them down the mountain dissipated in their memories into outstretched echoes fading, and the boys resumed their retreat at a walk. They took their time over the following hours, slightly lost, going in careful silence down the gentle slopes, beneath the looming specter of the half-lit moon in the afternoon sky.
~~~
At sundown in the city, Yu-Ri gathered up her colorful cargo, draping each weight delicately in balance over the limbs of her slender frame. Chickens here, a tote bag there, a baby. Su-Dae was asleep again, lacking the energy to do much else, and the chickens were squatting inside their cages, emitting listless clucks. The bustle of the market was dying down around her with the fading light, and she walked away amidst the hum of low murmurs and the quiet sighs of disappointment. She was discovering, paradoxically, that those who stayed at the market longest were often likely the least successful overall.
No one bothered her as she left. All heads she passed were low, and sullen, and whenever they did chance to glance her over, whenever they saw her baby… While once they would have maybe smiled, now they seemed just achingly sad.
About Sarah Szabo
