October 17, 2017

PodCastle 492: The White Fox

* Author : L.P. Lee

* Narrator : Alexa Ahn

* Host : Graeme Dunlop

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Previously published by Eastlit March 2015.

Rated PG-13

The White Fox

by L. P. Lee

Five days have passed since I was a prisoner in those red brick walls, but every night I return there. In my night time terrors I am back in the squalor of that cell, surrounded by anguished people, so cramped that you can barely sit comfortably, let alone lie down to sleep. Cells without heat in the harsh Seoul winters, or cool relief in the sweltering summers; breeding grounds for exhaustion, frost bite and death.

In night time in these mountains, my spirit rises from my body hidden in the undergrowth, and floats back to Seodaemun prison to review its structure. Here is where the workshop is, where we produce clothes and paper; and here is the poplar, a mournful tree beside the execution hall, which prisoners cling to in their last haunted moments, weeping for a country lost. And here is a dark, long tunnel, leading out of the compound, along which the spent bodies are deported.

Here is the cell, no larger than a standing coffin, where we are kept in isolation. And here is the box with spikes nailed into its sides, where we are forced to crouch, gasping as they kick and shake it.

My cell mates say that hardship faced by the body is painful, but it’s preferable to the hardship of sharing names, facts and locations. That’ll only cause a deeper kind of damage; the kind that wears away bodies from the inside out.

Here in the undergrowth I’m changing back into a human from an animal. In the secret enclosures of the mountains, my battered pelt turns back into human flesh, and my stooped back straightens.

Awakening from dreams of Seodaemun, I push onwards on my way down south. Pine leaves crackle delicately beneath my feet, and the moon above is bright and fat.

I’m heading south to Jeju island, to look for my baby sister.

I haven’t seen her for two years. When a neighbour informed my family that our names were blacklisted, we made plans to escape to Jeju. We had distant relatives that would take us in and hide us. But the police arrived in the night, when we were sleeping, and rounded us all up. Everyone except for my sister. She knew how to hide when visitors arrived, how to curl up and not make a noise, until I would come to find her, to coax her out.

She’ll be four years old now.

Up ahead, through the trees, the moon casts its light over a running creature. A small, snow-white mammal, darting through the undergrowth. I glimpse it for only a moment, and it looks to me like a fox. Then it disappears.

A golden glow seeps through the foliage. I follow it to find a hanok, nestled in the mountains. There’s a stone wall surrounding it, and a large wooden gate. Beside the gate is a stone lantern, an orange flame ablaze, and small statues of mythical creatures: a venerable stone turtle, classical Chinese engraved on its shell, and a grinning haechi, large and lion-like, wreathed in scales with a horn on its head.

Leading up to the gate are several miniature stone stacks: mountain rocks artfully balanced, one on top of the other, that fill me with a fleeting sense of calm.

As I survey the sight, the door creaks open and a white face appears. A young woman. Her long hair snakes over her shoulder, and she is dressed in a colourful hanbok. A dark red skirt with a green top, rainbow stripes on the sleeves.

At first she narrows her eyes, but then her face relaxes.

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