From Wonso Pond by Kang Kyong-ae Page B

were finished. Tokho realized that it was useless to insist.
    â€œHave you always eaten in the kitchen?”
    With this, he headed back inside, where he must have said something, for the shrill voice of Okchom’s mother then drifted outside.
    â€œI have to put up with that stubborn girl night and day. She won’t do anything unless you insist on it. I’m telling you, she’s tougher than cowhide.”
    Sonbi’s cheeks were burning. She felt the juices she’d just sucked off the chicken bones working themselves back up her throat.
    After finishing the dishes, Sonbi was about to cross over to her room, when she ran into Okchom’s mother standing in the breezeway.
    â€œNow that Okchom is back at home, you’ll have to sleep with Granny, or else in here with me.”
    Okchom popped out of her room.
    â€œCome and clean out this room. What is all this stuff in here anyway? You’ve got more bundles of junk than a Chinaman. Hah, ha . . .”
    Okchom turned to look at the man in the suit as she laughed. Sonbi was so embarrassed that she blushed to the very tips of her ears. She went into the room and gathered all her bundles together. As she took in what Okchom had just said to her, she tried to decide just where she would move her things.
    Moving into the inner room meant having to sleep with Okchom’s mother—she didn’t want to do that—but moving in with Granny meant sharing a tiny little space. She couldn’t decide what to do, and
sat there lost in thought. Then she remembered the house in the lower village, where she and her mother had once lived. Though it was only a straw-roofed hut, it was still their very own home! She felt the urge to go see it now.
    â€˜I wonder who’s living there?’ she thought.
    Sonbi looked down again at her bundles again. Slowly she rose to her feet, and with both hands lifted up her things.

18
    â€œMan, is it hot! Come on and sing something, will ya?”
    So short and squat that they all called him Little Buddha, the young man had turned to a tall man behind him. He dug his hoe into the ground, pulled out a foxtail, and tossed it to the side.
    As the young men exchanged small talk, they called each other by their nicknames.
    â€œA song, a song!”
    â€œCome on, Sourstem, just sing something! I can’t stand it any longer.”
    Little Buddha slapped his tall friend Sourstem on the back. Next to him, Ch’otchae was working up a good sweat pulling out weeds.
    â€œCome on, let’s hear a song!” he echoed, turning around.
    Little Buddha shot a glance in his direction.
    â€œWhat does an oaf like you want to hear singing for?”
    Without a few drinks inside him, Ch’otchae hardly ever spoke a word to anyone. But once he was drunk he would jabber on and on, all night long, in words no one could really make out.
    Ch’otchae looked over at Little Buddha and grinned at him. He had the habit of smiling like this instead of actually answering.
    From the mountain in front of them then came the sound, Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Sourstem looked over at the hillside.
    â€œHey, the cuckoos are the only ones singing!”
    With this, he began his song, the blood vessels along the side of his neck slightly bulging.
    All the dirt and all the stones
One by one I pick them out
To eat myself and to give to my love
I plant rice for the fall
    He drew out the last note long and slow. Then the farmer nicknamed Earthworm softly closed his eyes.
    That thorn in my side
The rich landowner
To fill his metal storehouse
Did I plant for the fall
    The rising, twisting melody at times dropped in tone and then faded away.
    â€œNow that’s more like it!” shouted Little Buddha, striking his hoe into the ground. But then an overwhelming feeling of sadness pressed on their hearts.
    â€œHey, what are you waiting for? It’s your turn again!” Yu Sobang looked at Sourstem with a smile.
    â€œYou old raccoon