The Milky Way swung its arc through a navy sky above him. Every place that existed in the world lay under this same sky, so then why were the people in some places able to live peacefully in contentment, while in other places people tore each other to pieces like dogs in a cage?
Gela stood up. Spitting mud from his mouth, he cursed:
"Little bastard!"
Then he began to walk back towards the village, trying to imitate the swagger of the boys who had the highest standing in the village; the ones who formed the backbone of the People's Militia and the Communist Youth League. After walking unsteadily a short way down the path, he gave up. He decided he couldn't replicate the arrogant, domineering strut with which those other young people walked, so he cursed himself again.
"Little bastard!"
He resumed his normal walking style.
He pushed open the door of his house, the only door in the village that was never locked. It swung open with a squeak, followed by a shaft of moonlight that slipped inside like a cat. The house always seemed empty even when there were people, but now, with no one at home, the chill, desolate aura that hung around the place was dramatically heightened. Gela flopped down on the sheepskin rug in the corner, glancing towards another corner at the far side of the room where some blankets were scrunched up in a heap. By the look of it, the last person to use them had had them wrapped them around their shoulders while sitting on the floor. It was night time, so normally the blankets would be spread out flat on the floor for sleeping. His mother sitting swaddled in blankets was a frequent sight in any season for Gela—he knew she did this only when she was cold. These were the only times that Gela was really aware of how tragic a woman his mother truly was. The awareness was painful for him.
Now, on this night that was heavy with the moisture of tomorrow's dew, and instead of sleeping safe at home, she was wandering around outside somewhere, scared, no doubt. If Sangdan had disappeared at any time other than on that night, Gela would have got upset all over again. But all he felt was tiredness—his heart had already turned to wood after all it had endured that day. He rearranged the blankets, laid down underneath them, and immediately fell asleep. When he woke in the morning, the numbness over his heart had lost none of its weight. There was no one else there to make tea, so he stood up and prodded through the ashes in the fireplace himself. Beneath the grey-white remains there were still several glowing lumps of deep-red charcoal. He positioned some small strips of kindling on top of them. A few forceful breaths were enough to persuade a fistful of flames to make the leap into life. With the foundations laid, he tossed on a few thicker chunks of wood, welcome food for the flames that were breathing audibly now and hot enough to heat the morning meal. Soon, the room was filled with the fragrances of tea and barley bread.
When he finished eating, he sipped on the tea and waited for the small fire to burn itself out. When there were only a few glowing lumps of charcoal left, he buried the whole fireplace under ash. He stretched, and walked out of the door, closing it behind him. He threaded a crude padlock made of twisted iron wire through the door handles, which he secured, in a manner of speaking, by sticking a wooden plank through the middle of the lock. Then he began to walk towards the edge of the village. When he passed by the railings of Enbo's house, he saw light blue smoke streaming from the chimney, but the courtyard was bare, apart from a few glistening dew drops of moisture that just barely clung to the apple tree.
Gela kept walking. The path took him past some women who were milking cows in the distance. Gela didn't see them, though he could hear jets of fresh milk shooting hard to the bottom of metal milk pails with each forceful twist of their hands. He could also smell the lightly raw, faintly honeyed scent of milk. Gela walked right through the dense mist of milk fragrance, and continued to walk straight ahead.
He passed by a house that had a private vegetable patch in its garden. Though there were no flowers growing there, only turnips, a few early bees were buzzing back and forth. Gela thought of the hives where bees lived, how they were so orderly and clean. The image made him laugh, with a slightly unnatural levity.
A few minutes later, he was passing by the spring and its defensive ring, the old cypress trees. There was nobody around, only water that rippled gently in the deep shade of the trees. Gela could feel cold air emanating from the spring—he quickened his step, emerging from the shade on the other side. This was considered to be the boundary of Ji village. He was gone. A long path unfurled into the bright, sunlit distance, cutting a gradient through the valley.
And so Gela left home and embarked on a long journey, young and unprepared for what lay ahead. On that first day he didn't meet a single person, though he did come across a bird that was warbling away enthusiastically in a tree, around noon. He thought the bird was urging him to go back to Ji village:
"No, I won't go back. My Ah-ma isn't there anymore, and I'm going to go find her" , Gela responded defiantly.
It was only after talking to the bird that he really became aware he hadn't seen his Ah-ma since the night before. A stream of hot tears followed this realisation, rolling down his face.
At the next intersection of paths he met a stray dog, to whom he unburdened some of his thoughts:
"Ji village isn't my Ah-ma's home, so it isn't my home either. My Ah-ma has gone back to her hometown, and I'm going to find her. That means, when I find her, I will find my own hometown, too."
The stray dog rested its dim eyes on Gela for only a moment before trotting quickly down the path in the direction of Ji village. Gela sighed, and returned to the road, his back turned on Ji village.
Five