IGMS Issue 32 Read online

  What more was he to say? But just then -- already -- Ori felt his living chest inflate with hot air. He panicked and lunged for Jwi lest he leave her behind, but she fell backward out of his reach. With the moonlight shining through her cheeks, Ori couldn't miss the fear and disgust smeared across her features.

  Coming back to life was far more painful than leaving it. Ori's chest burned and his limbs were blanketed in thorns. Somehow, though, he resisted it. He stared into the moonlight and willed it not to fade; acknowledged his body only enough to force the breath back out of his lungs.

  Time was a tricky thing to gauge when straddling death. But eventually, at some point during the same night, Ori planted his feet under him in the spirit world once more.

  Jwi was gone, though.

  He looked and found the two ghosts huddled there still. "Did you see which way the young girl went?" he implored them. But they both shook their heads, looking simultaneously fascinated and confused.

  Ori fled outside through the open wall, into the bright night, calling Jwi's name.

  He should have anticipated her reaction, he realized. He had thought himself clever, devising a method of communication and providing Jwi a sense of security at the same time. She had practically handed him the opportunity when she asked for her oppa; it was as if the spirits had whispered the solution into his ear. But in the end, by bringing her brother back to life for her, he had only managed to kill him all over again.

  By the time Ori made it to the edge of the bamboo, he realized that he could feel the dew between his toes. This world was becoming more solid to him. How much longer until he lost his way back? The tension in his muscles was taut, but thin.

  "Jwi!" he called. "I too lost a sibling. I don't deserve your trust, but I need it now. I followed you all the way into death. I may never have another chance to bring you back."

  Ori stopped so that Jwi could follow his voice if she chose. Either she didn't understand the situation, or she was not near. It was unlike her to simply give up.

  "You must come to my voice, though, I cannot hear you." And Ori began to hum a melody that his sister used to sing when she thought herself alone.

  But Jwi didn't come. The more he hummed, the more certain he became that she was here, but ignoring him. He turned round and round, the bamboo's shadows cutting black slashes against the white moonlight, but never a glimpse of Jwi. Not dancing around stalks of bamboo or distracted by a spirit. She never did need Ori, did she? She knew how to navigate this world, whereas Ori floundered. She was full of life, whereas Ori was merely playing out his role until he found his family again in the kingdom of the dead. He needed someone like her. Not like her -- he needed Jwi.

  She was here. There wasn't much he knew about her with certainty, but she would have gone to the bamboo. It was where she'd wanted to die, when she almost succumbed to the spirit sickness; where she used to hum and tap out music for the spirits by her home.

  Did the spirits ever hear her? All of those hours spent humming to them in the bamboo. Perhaps they loved her too much, and in loving her pulled her through the veil. But Ori was just another spirit now, wasn't he? Could he hear her? No, of course not. Not even the gods heard them. No one listened to their prayers.

  Unless.

  Ori's ears perked up. A sound he had dismissed as the call of a spirit percolated through the bamboo. Tapping, he thought. It sounded like tapping. Tapping on the bamboo. But didn't the bamboo, like the herb that killed him, like the temple's ancient walls, exist on either side of the veil? Now Ori realized what he would find:

  Jwi cried as she tapped on the bamboo, her tears seeming to melt her colorless cheeks. She glanced at Ori, disinterested in what he might do. Jwi was so spirit-like, he'd forgotten she had the capacity to grieve.

  Ori stepped through her, overlaying her. Still she tapped on the bamboo, her hands seeming to emerge from out his chest.

  "I'm not sure," he whispered, "maybe it's already too late. Either way, I'm sorry."

  How long it took to find his way back through the veil was impossible to tell. How many times Jwi played through her simple tribute to the gods. It felt endless at the time, while all he could do was reach for his living body and encourage the breath to fill his lungs once more. But like the morning following a restless night, Ori awoke feeling as if it had all passed in an instant.

  But he didn't awake well.

  Sunlight stabbed Ori's eyes and burned his skin. His sleeping mat was damp with sweat. He blinked, and the light gradually resolved into a familiar face.

  "Jwi."

  "Drink," Jwi insisted with surprising authority. "Open your mouth. Wider." She squeezed a wet rag and a few drops of water singed Ori's parched tongue. He immediately turned his head and retched a thin trickle down his cheek.

  That was all the time he spent alive before the spirit world claimed him again.

  He didn't black out, although the room was dark as the moon was yet shy of the horizon. Once again he could see Jwi, but only faintly as before. She looked both frustrated and concerned, fretting over his body, which touched him more deeply than he expected.

  Ori wasn't alone in the spirit world. The same two ghosts watched over him just as Jwi did on her side of the veil. The young boy squatted next to him with curious eyes.

  Ori asked him, "Can you see the girl feeding me?"

  The boy's face lit up at being addressed, but he vigorously shook his head no.

  Ori woke fitfully, often forgetting where he was. Sometimes he panicked, convinced he was back with his family during the war. But his sister squeezing his hand would reassure him. Dimly he was aware that it was actually Jwi who was beside him.

  As time went on, darkness stopped coming at all. The sun and the moon shone equally brightly for Ori. People and spirits populated the same space. A gold-striped badger brushed past Jwi and she bent down to scratch her ankle. A sparrow with an eagle's wingspan perched on the mistress's shoulder, causing her to hunch ever so slightly. The spirits were all around them, but nobody saw! Many of them, Ori knew, were too intelligent by far. Their mischief was dangerous, and their curiosity doubly so.

  Jwi knelt beside Ori to replace the damp cloth on his forehead with a cooler one. His fever haze receded slightly. But then he noticed a butterfly on her shoulder -- just like the butterflies that stole her from him at the betrothal ceremony! He reached out to brush it away.

  "No, please," muttered Jwi, "don't move. The mistress said you mustn't move."

  "Let me talk to her." Ori needed the mistress to promise that she would take care of Jwi if he died. This was the worst possible outcome. He was only supposed to die if he failed, and then Jwi would still see spirits and be useful to the mudang.

  Ori rolled his head to find both mudang in the room, but his gaze took in the two ghosts, as well. The boy ghost lay on his stomach, watching Kyung-mi intently, while the elder ghost had his eye on the mistress across the room.

  Ori rolled onto his elbows, pushing against the fever haze, smothering in it. "Watch out!" he croaked. "Stay away from them!" These ghosts were no better than the rest of the spirits, lingering where they didn't belong instead of moving on to the kingdom of the dead. They eyed the mudang like predators, he thought. "They'll pull you through, too."

  He crawled toward them while Jwi pleaded with him to stop. The long sleeves of his ceremonial gown dragged on the floor -- the same gown that he was betrothed in, only days ago. He'd met Jwi for the very first time. "Stay away from them. Please, don't pull them through, too."

  "Hold him," instructed the mistress. Little did she know.

  Jwi held his shoulders, clearly reluctant to force her betrothed, but Ori was weak as a babe in her arms. The sun and the moon shining together were so bright he had to squint. Everyone's eyes were on him now, mudang and ghosts alike. For a moment Ori forgot what the urgency was, distracted by a spirit flying like a living ribbon through the temple. His head was hot, but his core was cold as the winter god's fist. Then he re
membered what he was about: "Stay away from them."

  "Pardon," Kyung-mi said as she forced a cup of tea into his mouth, rubbing his neck like a dog to make him swallow. "To help you sleep," was the last thing he heard.

  Sleep he did, long and deep. When next he woke, it was dark again. His head was clear. The sun glowed like burnished copper, and Ori stood firmly on his two feet.

  That was it, then. His body had relinquished him for good. No more struggling.

  He looked instinctively for Jwi and was relieved when he found her, once again appearing dim and insubstantial to his eyes. Only her, he could see nothing else from the other side. He walked over, put his hand through hers. Felt nothing. They were more separated now than ever before, but at least he could see her.

  Jwi bowed deeply and spoke words that Ori couldn't hear. Bowing to the mistress, he imagined. Was the mudang instructing Jwi to leave, now that she was no longer useful to them? What would happen to her? Once betrothed, a woman could not do so again, even though Ori was dead.

  A thought occurred to him. "Why am I still here?" he muttered aloud. Then he thought to look for the two ever-present ghosts. "Why am I still here?" he asked them. He had no more ties to this world, so why hadn't he awakened in the kingdom of the dead?

  It was the oldest ghost who finally answered him, in a voice both ancient and unused. "I am not surprised. Your company is welcome, of course."

  Ori was relieved to hear another's voice. "Forgive me," he said, "I wasn't in my right mind when I accused you of attacking the mudang." Now, though, his mind was unfogged. His thoughts were unrushed, which felt like a natural consequence of no longer needing to breathe. And he realized that the way the ghosts had looked at the mudang back then was anything but malicious.

  These ghosts could see the mudang just as Ori could see Jwi, couldn't they? They must have been very close in life to form such a connection. A mudang was a woman who lost a loved one, and somewhere on the other side of grief found herself inextricably linked to the spirit world. Might these be those very loved ones, watching over the mudang from this side of the veil? As soon as Ori thought of it, he knew it to be true.

  But why could Ori see Jwi? "She doesn't love me," he said, picking up the thread of his thoughts when his own guesses no longer sufficed.

  "The girl you were looking for?" The old ghost shrugged, as if to suggest that the evidence spoke for itself.

  "We barely know each other. And I betrayed her trust."

  "I think it fair to conclude that you love her. Perhaps that is enough."

  Thinking of Jwi, Ori checked again to discover that she was leaving the room. He started toward her, but then hesitated and looked back at the ghost. "This means that she is a mudang now, is that true? Her connection to me makes her so? And she'll know this?"

  The ghost nodded.

  "Then she is useful again. The mistress will no doubt want to teach her." Ori nodded, then nodded again. That was it, then. This was how it was meant to be.

  Seasons passed. Jwi stayed in the temple to learn the art of the mudang, and Ori watched over her. First she took over the bell from the Kyung-mi, kneeling straight-backed and attentive. Ori felt the wood floor vibrate under the soles of his feet whenever the mistress beat her drums, and although he could not actually hear Jwi's bell, the air felt crisper every time it tolled.

  The spirits truly gathered, summoned by the mudang's ceremony. Ori and the other ghosts turned away the mischievous ones, the too-intelligent ones. But the rest, he learned to accept. Even the ones that nestled against Jwi, sniffed her heels, clung to her hair. He learned that there were many aspects to the spirit world, not all of them malign.

  After Ori had seen all four seasons at the temple and winter thawed into a reluctant spring, the mistress died. Her expression as she emerged into the spirit world was thoughtful. She bowed solemnly to her loved one and took his hand, as if she had always known that they would be reunited and life without him was a brief distraction.

  Before they departed together for the kingdom of the dead, though, she told Ori, "She is a quick and adaptable learner, your betrothed. She asked me to thank you, when I saw you. So now I have."

  In this way Ori learned that Jwi knew he was near, and thought of him still.

  Jwi returned to her native village afterward. Although outcast once, it was not in her to hold it against them, and she was suddenly of inestimable value as a mudang.

  Ori would have been content merely to watch her prosper and wait patiently for the day when they would meet -- properly, for the first time. But every morning, when the sun and the moon shared the sky, Jwi would wander into the bamboo grove to tap out a simple melody. And Ori tapped it back to her. Sometimes she would mouth a single, distinct word. At first he thought she said "Oppa," but then he realized that her lips did not compress into a "p", but widened into an "r". "Ori," she said, that silly childhood name of his that he would never now outgrow. No doubt she still went by Jwi, when she wasn't simply referred to as mistress mudang. Duck and Mouse, humble names intended to avoid the notice of the spirits and gods.

  Jwi tapped on the bamboo, and so did Ori. And the spirits gathered around them, curious what this human and ghost were doing. Perhaps, inspired, one of them would try to pull a human through the veil, if only to play with until it got bored.

  But Ori kept Jwi as safe as he could. Jwi whose heart was so in tune with the spirits, he had no doubt she would live as long as the mudang who taught her. Ori was not impatient. The day of her death would come, and then they would wed each other at last in the kingdom of the dead.

  Notes on a Page

  by Barbara A. Barnett

  Artwork by Nick Greenwood

  * * *

  Yesterday Maestro Fuhrmann took the Beethoven so fast I was gasping for breath; today I'm wondering if I'll make it to the end of the phrase before turning blue in the face. Rehearsals like this leave me wishing I had learned violin instead of oboe -- string players aren't encumbered by the limits of their lungs. But as the maestro is so fond of reminding me, I have another limitation to worry about.

  "Feeling, Ms. Adams!" he says, his German accent as thick as his eyebrows. Every criticism begins with those same words, that same exasperated tone of voice that makes me want to crawl inside the music and hide behind the staff lines. "Beethoven wrote a piece full of passion. You're just playing notes on a page."

  As if there's no passion to be found in that. In precision. One note under pitch, one late entrance, one sustain held a second too long and an entire piece can collapse into cacophony. And so I play in service to the way every single musical element comes together with mathematical rigor to form a seamless whole -- at least in theory. In practice, I am alone among my fellow musicians, the eccentric who refuses to impose some abstract sense of emotion upon technical perfection.

  The maestro moves on to entreating the strings to give him a fuller, more bombastic sound. While he sings the phrase at them in that overly theatrical way of his, Josef, the principal flautist, tries to catch my eye from his seat two stands down. A subtle lean forward, an unsubtle smirk. He mouths "Mozart" and points to my music stand.

  Great. Another one of his love notes.

  I pull the Mozart concerto out from behind the Beethoven. Josef's handwriting, as artsy as that ridiculous beret he wears, fills the left margin: You + me = plenty of feeling. I'm amazed there isn't a slime trail to accompany the winking smiley face he's drawn. I grab a pencil from the lip of my stand and start erasing so vigorously that the music tears.

  "Again," Maestro Fuhrmann calls out. "Top of the page."

  Too quickly, I shove the Mozart back behind the Beethoven; the music crinkles. Too slowly, I raise my oboe to my lips; my entrance is late, my embouchure ill formed. I come in with an under-pitch squawk. The maestro glares in my direction. If there's one thing he despises more than my lack of feeling, it's amateurish mistakes.

  When he finally calls for break an hour later, I rush from the stage, my
eyes fixed on the floor. I manage to avoid Josef, but my escape route takes me past the conductor's podium, where I overhear the maestro muttering to the concertmaster about "reconsidering the sound of the orchestra." I've been here long enough to know what that means: at the end of the concert season, someone will be asked to leave. I don't need to guess which player he has in mind.

  It's one disparagement too many. I flee to the bathroom and splash cold water over my burning cheeks. Our last music director was more forgiving of my "charming idiosyncrasies," as he called them. But Fuhrmann -- I'll never be able to give the man what he wants. The only feelings he's ever roused from me are embarrassment and shame.

  By the time I've collected myself enough to head to the musicians' lounge, it's already 11:25 -- only five minutes of break left. I hurry across the room, cringing at the disarray that surrounds me. As ordered as we are onstage, neatly aligned by instrument and stand number, here the idealized, audience-perspective vision of an orchestra collapses. Chairs have been scattered every which way, dragged across the room so many times you can see their paths worn into the frayed carpeting. A half-played game of chess sits on one table; outdated magazines and days-old newspapers lie strewn across another. Kumiko is yakking on her cell, all the while monopolizing the copy machine with her pile of battered scores. Brendan from the trumpet section has taken up camp at the computer station. When he sets down his soda, he misses the coaster completely.

  Josef waves for me to join him on the couch. I pretend not to see him and make a beeline for the kitchenette, where the scent of stale coffee does its best to cover whatever's been abandoned in the fridge this week.

  In my rush for caffeine -- a necessity if I want to make it through more of the Beethoven -- I knock over a cupful of coffee stirrers. When I crouch to collect the ones that have fallen beneath the wobbly kitchenette table, I gasp in surprise at what I find. A large, flat circle covers the floor, as wide around as the head of a timpani drum, full of shimmering white and gold flecks. The flecks sparkle so much that I think they should be tinkling, yet they make no noise. A coffee stirrer teeters on the circle's edge, dipping up and down, the tip disappearing and reappearing, here and then not here. Curious, I tap the stirrer toward the circle. Without a sound or a ripple, it vanishes.