Chapter 6
Seojun found himself in a strange mood after the goblin-girl’s departure.
He tried not to think of her, but his thoughts kept straying. His writing had brought her joy, a remark that had induced the most unsettling sensation in him. Was it simply enough for one’s writing to bring delight? To lighten the burden of another for a moment’s time?
No. He forbade himself from indulging in such thoughts.
He would keep his vow, to never again pick up the brush to write fiction.
The written word was meant to increase morality—that was what his elders had taught him.
One’s writing was meant to preserve the worldview embedded in classical Confucian literature.
Yet no matter his painstaking efforts, Seojun found that nothing he wrote could ever emulate the classics, nor capture the exquisite stories that called to him.
His work was a mere glimpse, a shallow imitation, a constant reminder that his writing had fallen short. That he was inadequate.
The king had spoken the truth. The works of Black Lotus were indeed “rough, coarse, and inelegant.” His work was vulgar. Seojun was unaccustomed to such humiliation, and reluctant to stray any further from the Way.
“My lord!”
Seojun tensed, pausing on his way back inside the House of Bright Flowers. When he looked to see who had accosted him, his irritation sharpened.
Inspector Wuyeong was a man of a slight, spidery frame, with a perpetual smile pinned onto his hollow-cheeked face. A smile born from a groveling habit.
“My lord.” Wuyeong wove through the crowded courtyard and bowed, swift and all too low, with a reverence that seemed excessive. “It has been some time since we last crossed paths. I have heard much of you since then. There is no family in all of Hanyang who does not speak of your virtues.”
“And my father never tires,” Seojun said dryly, “of praising your unwavering devotion to righteousness.”
Wuyeong’s face lit up. “He is too kind. Truly I do not deserve such high praise! But I shall do my utmost to one day be worthy of such exaltation, and treasure his words as I continue to execute my present duties—which, I might add, is the very morally significant task of investigating into the distribution of illegal novels.”
“Indeed?”
“You will, I trust, agree with me when I say that diligence is of utmost importance in our effort to repress prohibited books. The underground literary market, my lord, is vast and complex, and every day the number of book peddlers and bookshop owners multiplies,” Wuyeong explained with great eagerness.
“Everyone wants to read such unorthodox books these days. Novels that hide dangerous ideas that, inevitably, lead young people to criticize elders and disregard moral law! Indeed, I am sure you would not deign to read such filth.”
Oblivious to Seojun’s growing coldness, Wuyeong chattered on, as though meaning to impress him. “And in my effort to put an end to novels, I’ve already discovered the true identities of two of the most popular authors.”
Seojun frowned. “Which ones?”
“Munmuja is Yi Ok—some lowly scholar you wouldn’t know. And the other author, Yeonam, is the pseudonym for Pak Chiw?n. Your father knows him and was greatly shocked by this news.”
A muscle worked in Seojun’s jaw. “And…” he said with a measured tone, “who is next on your list?”
“Dongim, for one.” Wuyeong’s lips twisted. “His lewd literature is popular among wives, so much so that I might argue these readers are committing adultery in their hearts. And, of course, others. Chojeong, Black Lotus, and the like.”
Seojun was not surprised. His father, who knew nothing of his son’s own writing, had said as much in passing. He’d simply wished he had misheard.
“Well,” Seojun said, keeping his voice mild and even, “I wish you all the luck in your endeavors.”
After a few more moments of painful pleasantry, both gentlemen exchanged bows, and Seojun finally managed to extricate himself.
But his relief was short-lived as he maneuvered himself through the large crowd, a gathering of the wealthiest and most powerful men in Hanyang.
Such men flaunted their superiority by their dress, their manner, and their glittering gisaeng companions.
The spectacle was overwhelming, and Seojun could not take more than a few steps through the mass before someone would stop him for a shallow conversation.
Though he did not intend to scare them off, his silence did so.
He felt drained and miserable by the time he retreated to the private room, only to witness the agitating sight of novels abandoned on the table by Byeongho’s friends. It was like leaving stolen goods in plain sight for a police raid to find.
After collecting them all, Seojun stacked the books behind the screen, into two low towers. He hesitated before a familiar title. Yeolhailgi.
With his vow to never write fiction again, he’d sworn off reading it as well, for he’d always been one to try to follow the rules.
He had managed to resist for months, but to love something one ought not to love so desperately …
it hurt. Like a wound festering within him, a love that had come to feel more like self-loathing.
But the brief encounter with the inspector made Seojun pick up the novel out of spite and open it.
The scent of old pages rose to greet him, stale and earthy. A few more pages whispered, and his world disappeared.
The worries, the irritations, the overbearing presence of others, they all disappeared.
He was still there, in a chamber filled with the echoes of distant laughter and music, but his mind could slip away.
It was his favorite book, written by one of the very authors whom Wuyeong had so proudly targeted.
Seojun slipped to the section titled “Dogangnok.”
He read as the author Yeonam traveled beyond the borders of Joseon, explored Qing, and arrived before an open field, the type of which could never be seen in his homeland.
Seojun became Yeonam, followed his gaze across the fields of Liaodong, seeing the endless boundary between heaven and earth, and was suddenly seized by the need to weep.
A passage he’d returned to, time and time again, when he felt trapped in studies, felt the pressure in life increasing.
It was like being locked in a small room, and this book had opened a window for him to gasp in air.
“After all this time,” Seojun whispered as he read, “I finally realized that it is our fate to have nothing to lean on or hold on to in our lives. We must simply carry on, feeling the weight of the heavens on our heads with each step forth.”
He read on, losing track of time, following the author’s journey, wondering what it must be like to leave Joseon, to wander. What it must feel like to wail out of anger, of happiness, of grief, to wail like a child just born into the world, without hindrance.
He set the book aside and tilted his head back against the wall, eyes shut against the unbearable weight pressing against his chest. How deeply he wanted to pick up his brush, for the moment he did, his mind was untethered, lost in the world of his own making. Reading was an escape, but writing …
With writing, he could craft a haven for himself.
A world where grief for his mother did not drown his father in endless mourning, where his sister’s love story did not end in ruin.
Where corruption and brutal interrogations did not crush the innocent and the powerless.
A world where children and strays were not swept away by floods, or starved by drought.
No, in his world, each brushstroke brought to life a naive, childish dream of his: a world in which all, in the end, would be made right.
Seojun folded his arms across his chest, eyes still closed. He willed his thoughts to quiet. But he couldn’t dislodge the ache in his chest.
No one could ever know.
He had taken precautions, had made Mistress Wol swear to destroy his original manuscripts, for handwriting was like a unique signature, evidence that could lead straight to him.
He couldn’t know what the ramifications would be—according to his father, the king had yet to punish anyone for writing fiction.
But he cared too much for his father’s honor, for his sister’s future, to risk destroying it all over foolish stories.
And that was all they were.
He had poured himself onto the page, and it had amounted to nothing more than writing that the king had compared to “obscene music.”
A flock of birds erupted in chorus, and his eyes startled open.
His manservant was seated cross-legged nearby, arms folded, awake and looking sickly pale, likely from the exhaustion of waiting on him.
Beyond the servant was a room full of inebriated scholars, who must have stumbled in while he was asleep.
Running a hand down his face, he cast a tired glance out the window.
The moon had retreated from the sky, and in its stead, the orange sunrise glowed bright against the paper-screened window.
Another day had arrived; he would have to return to his studies.
“D-doryeonnim, you have woken.”
He turned to his manservant, and the young man at once averted his stare.
“You ought to have woken me up, Namgil-ah,” Seojun said, rising, straightening his collar. “I would have left, and you wouldn’t have had to wait on me all this time.”
“According to the servants, you haven’t been sleeping well of late, and so I didn’t wish to wake you. Besides,” he said, his eyes lifting slightly before skittering away. “There was much on my mind.”
Seojun sighed. “There seems to be much on both our minds these days.”
“Doryeonnim, if there is any way that I can ease your concerns,” Namgil said, more eagerly than usual, “you must say it. Is it the marriage you are worried about?”