Black Flower Read Free

forward and nailed pieces of wood across the church door and windows. They did not have enough wood, so they tore the cross from the roof, broke it in two, and used it to board up a window.
    After the men had eaten, they climbed up the hill behind the village, dug a shallow pit, and tossed in the woman’s body wrapped in the straw sack. They filled in the pit with dirt and wordlessly climbed back down the hill. They could see the ocean from the squash patch between the village and the hill. They spit violently toward that ocean, hazy with shimmering heat waves.

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    F ATHER P AUL B AK G WANGSU knelt before Bishop Simon Blanche. He lifted his head and saw the white clerical collar. The bishop looked into the young priest’s eyes with a pained expression. “You must go back. That is your calling. Even if you are stoned or rolled up in a straw mat and beaten, you must reveal the truth and present the Church’s position. Our Lord, who rules over all, will ultimately reveal all things.”
    The bishop knew more than anyone else just how difficult mission work was in Korea. He had landed on Baengnyeong Island in 1880 and was arrested for his mission work in Baekcheon, Hwanghae province, then freed, thanks to the open foreign policy of the Min clan oligarchy. He was then ordained as the eighth archbishop of Korea. Compared to many of the Western priests before him who had been beheaded at the execution ground outside the Lesser Western Gate, he was truly fortunate. He was also the one who had sent the young Bak Gwangsu to seminary in Penang, Malaysia, and the one who had made him a priest. The conflict with the natives that Father Paul now faced was a rite of passage, something he must inevitably endure. Surely he hadn’t become a priest without knowing that, had he?
    The young man lowered his head again. The bishop assured him once more: “I know it is difficult. But please tell me you will do it. That place is sacred ground that our Church has defended with blood. The Lord forgave the Roman governor Pilate and the crowds who shouted for Him to be nailed to the cross. Please do the same.”
    The priest made the sign of the cross and stood up. The old bishop embraced him. Father Paul left the bishop’s office with a heavy tread. The sun was dazzling. He squinted. He saw the body of the woman hanging from the tree like a phantom. Father Paul covered his eyes with his hands. He murmured, “Lord, I have done no wrong. My Father, you know this.”
    He lowered the hands from his eyes. Then he shook his head fiercely. “I cannot go back there. No matter what you may do, Lord, I will not go back to that land of demons. They will kill me, and it will be a meaningless death.”
    Then what do you plan to do? He heard the question coming from deep inside him. Do you plan to disobey the bishop’s order? Are you not a priest who vowed to obey those above him? Father Paul buried his head in his hands. “Oh, I don’t know! Why am I so weak? Should I have never become a priest?”
    He walked away flustered. He wandered aimlessly for a while and then squatted down in front of a door to someone’s house. The world looked different from down low. All he could see were feet and legs. He stared at these bodies devoid of character and suddenly fell asleep. He dreamed. He was walking in a place full of trees, flowers, and birds that he had never seen before. The leaves grew so thick that the day was as dark as night. His sweat fell like rain. When he passed this place he climbed up a steep hill, and there the land spread out flat before him for dozens of leagues in all directions. That strange hill, without a trace of human presence, seemed like a place where humanity could communicate directly with God. The place was filled with curious letters and sculptures, and a white horse descended from heaven and opened its mouth wide as if to swallow him.

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    T HE J OSEON DYNASTY lasted for five hundred years. When it was founded, in 1392, the