Read Online Comfort Woman by Nora Okja Keller - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nora Okja Keller
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scaring me, growling like an animal one minute, crying like a baby the next.
The woman shuffled closer, then knelt to peer into my face. You arenât a tiger spirit, are you? She held her hands out, palms down. If so, I am ready to go. Iâve tended the mounds, burned the incense for the spirits whose families have been lost or run away. Iâve seen and Iâve remembered which son was taken by the Japanese, which son was killed by bandits, and which went to Shanghai as a freedom fighter. Iâve ...
The old woman stopped talking, blinked, then touched my hair. Iâve seen the tiger spirit haunt the graves before, she said, but only at night. You are just a little girl.
When she called me a little girl, I remember I wanted to cry. I wanted to curl into a ball, cover my head, and call, Mother! Mother! as I did when I was very young and feeling alone, as I did from the rooftop of our home the night my mother died and I tried to catch her fleeing spirit. But I didnât, because I knew no one would ever again hold me in tenderness. Instead I stood up and looked around.
And I saw that we were not in a village but in a graveyard. When I realized that the homes that I knocked at the night before were houses of the dead, I started shaking, and perhaps then I did start to cry.
Here, Manshin Ahjima said, handing me my clothes. I donât suppose a tiger spirit would need these rags to keep warm. And I donât suppose a tiger spirit would have such messy hair. Tiger spirits are really rather prissy, you know.
Manshin Ahjima stretched her arms above her head, then began to braid her sparse hair. Hard to believe I was a beauty, huh? she said. But itâs true; my husband couldnât get enough of me, just like a dog. I had so many babies, I couldnât even count them anymore.
The old ladyâs lips flapped, then stopped. I knew she was waiting for me to say something, to respond with a smile or a nod, but I could only stare at her mouth, watching for when her lips parted in a certain way and I could see the black gap where she had lost some teeth.
Olppajin-saram, the mouth suddenly said. And again, louder, as if breaking a spell or casting one: Olppajin-saram. Youâve lost your soul. That is why you came to the graveyard. You were trying to steal someone elseâs spirit, a wandering spirit, maybe, one that was confused about where it belonged.
She lifted the rope from my head. This is useless, she said, throwing it to the ground. You need a pyong-kut, a healing ceremony.
I asked her if she could help me.
When she shook her head no, I became desperate. I begged her, telling her I would pay her for her services.
Manshin Ahjima wrapped her braid slowly around her head and seemed to consider the possibility. She looked down at me, then eyed the pitiful bundle of my clothes lying by the well. I was embarrassed, not by my nakedness or hers but because I knew and she knew I had nothing to pay her.
The old woman pulled her dress, white as death, around her freckled, flabby body and tied the sash tight across her chest. I cannot perform a kut for you, she said, because I no longer do the devilâs work. But I will help you because that is the Christian way.
Manshin Ahjima bent to pick up a thin gold-plated chain, which she slipped around her neck. The old lady held the chain out so that I could see the tiny cross, smaller than my thumbnail, before she slipped it under the neckline of her dress. You see, she said, Iâve been saved.
She would help me, she said, because I reminded her of herself when she first got the sinbyong, the possession sickness. And of her daughter whom she sent away to live with her grandmother when the spirits first began to visit her, many years ago. The spirits are very jealous, Manshin Ahjima explained. They cannot stand it if you love someone more than them.
Manshin Ahjima touched my hair. Come, I will braid your hair for you, and then I will take you to the
The woman shuffled closer, then knelt to peer into my face. You arenât a tiger spirit, are you? She held her hands out, palms down. If so, I am ready to go. Iâve tended the mounds, burned the incense for the spirits whose families have been lost or run away. Iâve seen and Iâve remembered which son was taken by the Japanese, which son was killed by bandits, and which went to Shanghai as a freedom fighter. Iâve ...
The old woman stopped talking, blinked, then touched my hair. Iâve seen the tiger spirit haunt the graves before, she said, but only at night. You are just a little girl.
When she called me a little girl, I remember I wanted to cry. I wanted to curl into a ball, cover my head, and call, Mother! Mother! as I did when I was very young and feeling alone, as I did from the rooftop of our home the night my mother died and I tried to catch her fleeing spirit. But I didnât, because I knew no one would ever again hold me in tenderness. Instead I stood up and looked around.
And I saw that we were not in a village but in a graveyard. When I realized that the homes that I knocked at the night before were houses of the dead, I started shaking, and perhaps then I did start to cry.
Here, Manshin Ahjima said, handing me my clothes. I donât suppose a tiger spirit would need these rags to keep warm. And I donât suppose a tiger spirit would have such messy hair. Tiger spirits are really rather prissy, you know.
Manshin Ahjima stretched her arms above her head, then began to braid her sparse hair. Hard to believe I was a beauty, huh? she said. But itâs true; my husband couldnât get enough of me, just like a dog. I had so many babies, I couldnât even count them anymore.
The old ladyâs lips flapped, then stopped. I knew she was waiting for me to say something, to respond with a smile or a nod, but I could only stare at her mouth, watching for when her lips parted in a certain way and I could see the black gap where she had lost some teeth.
Olppajin-saram, the mouth suddenly said. And again, louder, as if breaking a spell or casting one: Olppajin-saram. Youâve lost your soul. That is why you came to the graveyard. You were trying to steal someone elseâs spirit, a wandering spirit, maybe, one that was confused about where it belonged.
She lifted the rope from my head. This is useless, she said, throwing it to the ground. You need a pyong-kut, a healing ceremony.
I asked her if she could help me.
When she shook her head no, I became desperate. I begged her, telling her I would pay her for her services.
Manshin Ahjima wrapped her braid slowly around her head and seemed to consider the possibility. She looked down at me, then eyed the pitiful bundle of my clothes lying by the well. I was embarrassed, not by my nakedness or hers but because I knew and she knew I had nothing to pay her.
The old woman pulled her dress, white as death, around her freckled, flabby body and tied the sash tight across her chest. I cannot perform a kut for you, she said, because I no longer do the devilâs work. But I will help you because that is the Christian way.
Manshin Ahjima bent to pick up a thin gold-plated chain, which she slipped around her neck. The old lady held the chain out so that I could see the tiny cross, smaller than my thumbnail, before she slipped it under the neckline of her dress. You see, she said, Iâve been saved.
She would help me, she said, because I reminded her of herself when she first got the sinbyong, the possession sickness. And of her daughter whom she sent away to live with her grandmother when the spirits first began to visit her, many years ago. The spirits are very jealous, Manshin Ahjima explained. They cannot stand it if you love someone more than them.
Manshin Ahjima touched my hair. Come, I will braid your hair for you, and then I will take you to the