Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 39, No. 6, June, 1994

The Mists of the Southern Seas by Martin Limón

The Great King Sejong Daewang held up the chart and pointed to the clustered islands along the southern coast of Cholla Province.

“The Japanese pirates have been seeping through these bays and isthmuses like an evil poison in the blood. My best naval commander, Captain Yi, has been unable to stop them. Wherever he hunts, they are elsewhere. Whenever he pursues, they are gone. I fear they have information that assists them in their insidious tasks.”

He laid down the chart, and his heavy brows turned on my master, Kang Huang-ho, the Inspector of the Five White Horses.

“I fear treason,” the king said.

His words filled the Hall of Maps and Books with a dread thicker than the mists of the southern seas. With my ink brush I scribbled as fast as I could, concentrating on my transcription.

The Royal Librarian and the Minister of Sea-borne Commerce both sucked in their breath and took small steps backward. Not so my master. There was no disloyalty in the depths of his soul to make him quaver before the glare of the king. His reaction was a slow tightening of his face and anger that treason could exist in the Kingdom of Korea.

He grabbed the gold amulet that hung at his chest, the emblem of the Five White Horses that made him a royal inspector, subject only to the order of the king.

“Then I ride today,” he said, “with my trusty Scribe Jo, to find the scoundrel who is feeding information to the Japanese pirates and causing suffering to the humble seagoing subjects of our Great King.”

“May your steed be swift,” said the king. “But guard yourself carefully, my faithful Inspector Kang. To rape and pillage is an obsessive lust not easily shaken — and a vice that men will kill to protect.”

My master sank to his knees and tapped his forehead to the varnished oak floor. He rose and strode out of the hall. I scurried after him, hoping no one would notice the comings and goings of a nearsighted mouse with ink brush and scroll.

A journey of almost six hundred li should take a civilized man close to a month to traverse. This allows time for the observation of the birds and the beasts of the field and opportunity to converse with the craggy hills and the flowing waters. Without this time for reflection, how could we have created the great poetry and art of the Kingdom of Korea? Even in China, the Middle Kingdom, our men of brush and verse are held in great reverence, but it is only through considered reflection that such honors can be amassed.

Alas, my master knew none of these things. He rode ahead of me on his great white steed while I followed on my complaining little donkey, kicking him and cursing him with threats that would chill the blood of even the demon from the deep. My little donkey paid no attention, however, and if it hadn’t been for my master’s wise decision not to feed him until the end of the day, I wonder if we would have made any progress at all.

The only comforts on the journey were provided by the simple country inns at the end of the day. Most of them were stingy with their charcoal so the flues beneath the floors were not properly heated, and the sleeping mats were lumpy, and the rice was laced with pebbles and beans. But compared to the hardships of the road they seemed to me like the scented palaces of the Duke of Chou. I ate, bathed as best I could in the nearby streams, and called a big-footed country girl to my room to walk on my back. Within minutes I would be asleep. Still, I woke during the nights, my dreams troubled in the strange surroundings, and saw my master poring over reports by the light of a guttering oil lamp.

Only the sages would know why he filled his saddlebags with such rubbish. Certainly the traitor would cower and confess when it was revealed to him that a personal representative of the king, an inspector of the highest rank of the Five White Horses, had come to ferret him out.

I closed my eyes, thought of the fleshly pleasures of the capital city of Seoul, and tried not to think of the morrow’s ride.

We crested the small circle of hills and looked down on what was left of the fishing village of Hei-byon. What looked like puffed bags lay between the charred skeletons of simple huts.

As we wound our way down the narrow pathway, the stench of death assaulted our nostrils. My master slipped off his horse and disappeared into the woods to investigate. I followed, raising my riding scarf to cover my nose. The odor led us to the corpse. Using the dead branch of a tree, Inspector Kang turned it over. Flies buzzed skyward.

“An old woman,” he said. “Stabbed repeatedly.”

He shook his head and turned the corpse back over. My stomach tried to crawl up my throat. We returned to our mounts and continued down the road only to find that at Hei-byon the scene was much worse.

No dogs barked, and no sounds of human voices greeted us. Bodies lay strewn everywhere. It seemed that the swarms of insects were drunk with joy, like a second phalanx of marauders.

We rode to the center of the village. A great pile of burnt rubble sat in the middle of a clearing. Inspector Kang gazed around slowly, taking in everything.

“They started a bonfire here,” he said. “Notice the broken jars and the scattered bones of swine and fowl. They feasted. And notice the bodies that lie about us.” I was trying not to. “They are all men or old women or children too young to be worth anything as slaves.” He poked about the rubble. “I am wrong. There are some male children here also who would have been old enough to work.”

“And the others?” I asked.

Inspector Kang Huang-ho sighed. “What’s left, faithful Clerk Jo?”

“Only young women.”

“Yes. That’s all they took. And their children were killed to make the young mothers easier to handle.”

I wonder how he surmised such things. But my master was older than I, by ten years. He was over thirty and still physically robust. He had been a soldier and a foreign envoy of the king, and he had seen much of the world. I had seen little. Other than by means of the ancient texts, I had never left the City of Seoul until I had passed the examinations and been appointed to serve the great Inspector of the Five White Horses. But in many ways, I still knew little about him. Other than that everywhere he went people stood in awe of his rank and the ladies peered at him greedily from behind their scented sleeves. But he never spoke of his past. Only his work.

“Make a chart of the entire village,” he said. “Every house, every pathway, and the position of every body. Leave out no details.”

I dismounted, and my bony-backed donkey brayed his approval. After I had been working for a few minutes, I noticed my master’s body tense atop his white steed. As I turned, they emerged from the boulders surrounding the village like the mist of the sea itself.

They were unkempt men, as hard and bronzed and sinewy as the driftwood that lay scattered along the shore. The sharpened edges of their scythes glistened in the morning sun. One of them stepped forward. A ragged, half-starved boy came with him.

“You there,” my master said in his voice of command, “what brings you to the village of Hei-byon?”

“I used to live here, your honor. Me and my son here.”

“And these other men?”

“They are relatives of those who are slain, from nearby villages. Do you have news of the pirates?”

“That is what I am here to investigate.”

“If they return, we will be ready for them.”

All of his comrades grumbled in unison. Some of them brandished homemade cudgels and pikes.

“Were you here during the attack?”

“No. My son and I had traveled to Ji-san, a village up the coast. My father’s youngest brother lay dying, and it was required that we pay proper homage and assist his spirit in retreating to the underworld. When we came back, this is what we found.” He opened his arms, as if welcoming the carnage. “I buried my wife and two infant daughters. My mother I have not yet found.”

“It seems some of the villagers tried to escape into the surrounding hills. We found one body as we rode in. I suggest you check up the pathway.”

The man nodded his head slightly. “We will.”

“What makes you think the pirates will return?”

“We can only hope. Hope that they will return to allow me to die with the sweet taste of revenge on the edge of my blade.”

“You know that’s not likely.”

“Yes. That’s why we are repairing our fishing boats. They smashed most of them. Then we can go on a hunt.”

“And when you find them?”

The man put his arms around the skinny boy. “No death will be sweeter for me and my son.”

Inspector Kang bowed from the waist. “I wish you good hunting, brave fisherman. My scribe and I must leave to continue our investigation.”

“You’ve been sent by the good King Sejong?”

“Yes.”

The man pushed the boy forward roughly. “Here. Take my son. His name is Yong-sok. He will be your servant and assist you in your endeavors.”

“You’ve already lost so much, good fisherman. Certainly this last sacrifice is not necessary.”

“If you are trying to find the pirates, it is necessary.”

When we left, the barefoot boy followed in the dust. After a few li, my master looked back, patted the rump of his steed, and helped the boy hop up. The filthy urchin clung like a sack of rag and bones to the magnificence of the Inspector of the Five White Horses.

The headquarters of the Royal Commandant Protector of the Southern Coast sat on a windswept promontory overlooking the sea. The spiked tops of ironclad turtle ships bobbed in the gently rolling waters by the quay. Verdant islands overcast with mist stretched off like giant stepping-stones into the horizon.

We were greeted formally by guards at the entranceway. Captain Yi was a burly man with a long drooping mustache, resplendent in the gold embroidery of his red naval robes. He grasped the hilt of his sword as he bowed and escorted us into his chart room.

No one seemed to notice me or the raggedy boy Yong-sok, but accepted us as part of Inspector Kang’s strange entourage. Envoys of the Great King Sejong Daewang were, after all, known to have their eccentricities.

Captain Yi spread a large chart on a high table and immediately began his briefing. Servants brought barley tea and rice cakes. The boy and I pounced on them. He was a greedy little rascal, but I resisted the temptation to throw an elbow into his face. Inspector Kang and the captain paid no attention.

Captain Yi explained all the various passageways usually used by pirates.

“We’re guarding them with every available ship. Certainly there are many spots for them to slip through, but I’ve also got roving patrols and villagers on various islands and seacoasts who are commissioned to observe and report to me any strange ship movements. So far we’ve got nothing. It’s as if the marauders dropped out of the sky.”

“Maybe it’s not Japanese pirates,” said Inspector Kang. “Has there been any movement by the Chinese pirate King Koxinga?”

“None that we’ve seen. The Chinese sealords usually travel in great force. When they arrive, it’s more like an invading armada than a pirate raid. These could, of course, have been his scouts, but even then it seems I would have found some trace of their movements.”

Captain Yi stepped away from his charts and bowed.

“If the Great King commands it, I will resign my post, for no protector of the king’s subjects should have been so incompetent in this matter. And if my death will allow the navy to save face, he will have that, too.”

Inspector Kang’s face flushed, and he pointed to the charts. “Rise, Captain Yi, and return to your charts. The king commands you to keep working on this problem. He told me himself that you are the best man for the job, so no more talk about resignation or the spilling of your own blood.”

Mollified, Captain Yi rose and returned to his work. Inspector Kang spoke as if nothing had happened.

“Tell me about the pirates in these waters.”

“The Japanese pirates are good and able seamen, worthy opponents. But once they get on land, they are nothing but wastrels. All discipline breaks down, and their only thought is to pillage and rape. May the good Lord Buddha help anyone who stands in their way, for their avarice knows no bounds.”

“Don’t the villagers fight back?”

“Of course. But the pirates are not fools. They always choose villages with weak or nonexistent fortifications, and they are always sure that they outnumber their opponents and have superior weaponry. They’ve managed to accumulate large stocks of the best in pikes and swords and arrows. Simple fishermen can’t afford such things. The pirates even have a few of the exploding sticks brought by the dog-face invaders.”

“Could it be the dog-men causing these troubles?”

“No. They are unaccustomed to our waters and therefore clumsy and easy to spot. I can’t believe it could have been them.”

Inspector Kang strode around the table, gazing down at the chart and the spots marked where the pirates had struck.

“The attacks seem to erupt along the coast like a growth centered on the township of Mokpo.”

“I thought of that,” Captain Yi said. “But that could be the aimless clustering of random events. After a few more attacks the center might appear to be somewhere else.”

“So it might.” Inspector Kang stroked his clean chin, as if waiting for the whiskers that would one day sprout when he became old and wise.

“What do the pirates do, Captain Yi, with the villagers they capture alive?”

“Usually they are women — young women — or children old enough to work. Sometimes men, if they are docile enough. They are sold on the island of Tsushima or the large island of Honshu if they can manage to get them back there. Sometimes, of course, they starve or are exposed to the elements too long, or the women are handled too roughly by the crew and damaged and thrown overboard as a token of good will to the killer fish, the brothers of the pirates. It is from the slave trade that the pirates derive much of their profit.”

“Who brings in more money? A young woman or a child who can work?”

“It depends on the comeliness of the slave. Sometimes the child can work and serve the purposes of a woman.”

Inspector Kang shook his head sadly and continued to study the charts, asking a few more questions of Captain Yi. The rice cakes were gone and no servants appeared with more, so Yong-sok and I got restless. Finally the interview was over, and Captain Yi escorted us to the door. In a moment we were mounted and riding north away from the coast.

“Forgive me for saying so, master,” I said, “but this Captain Yi seems unsure of himself.”

“Not unsure of himself,” Inspector Kang said. “He is a competent man faced with an insoluble problem. Therefore, he cannot stop tormenting himself by thinking there’s something he has overlooked.”

“Is there something he’s overlooked?”

“There must be.”

The boy sat morosely throughout the long day’s ride, staring at nothing as if his mind were a clean slate. I didn’t speak to him and didn’t try any foolish attempt at lifting his spirits. As long as he seemed to be in a trance he was safe, safe from the memories of his mother and his dead sisters. I’ve never been one of those who launch into foolish prattle in the vain effort to lift the spirits of someone sunk in grief. The goal is usually to make the prattler feel better, make him feel that he has done a good deed. If the bereaved person starts to pour his heart out, the prattler retreats, thinking his job is done, becoming frightened by the emotion that he has unleashed. Better by far to leave them alone and respond if they need you.

The only thing that got the boy’s attention was our midday meal, rice and strips of yellow turnip wrapped in sheets of salted seaweed. He ate like a mountain tiger and looked around for more. My master noticed and handed him what was left of his own meal. I am sorry to say that I myself had nothing left. A long morning on the back of my stubborn donkey had left me famished, and I had wolfed down my food almost as fast as the boy.

When we crested a rise in the slowly undulating hills, the city of Mokpo spread out before us. The city sat on a bend in the coast, and several quays stuck out into the sea like rays of light from the sun.

The boy’s mouth fell open. He had never seen so many buildings or carts or people in one place. To me the place looked like one of the minor villages outside the capital city of Seoul. My master wasn’t awed by the place, but his eyes seemed to search everything — although what he could find interesting in such a backwater as this was beyond me.

As we approached the city, some local constables greeted us on foot. My master dismounted and let one of them take his horse. I was glad to turn over my donkey to anyone who would take it. The three of us, my master striding in front and the boy and I following, made our way through the muddy streets of Mokpo. Smiths stopped their hammering and vendors ceased their hawking long enough to stare at such an august personage as my master, Inspector Kang Huang-ho, Emissary of the Great King and Inspector of the Five White Horses. Women hid their giggles behind the backs of their hands.

A portly man in resplendent purple robes and a wide-brimmed horsehair hat bowed low at the gates of the Provincial Courthouse.

“Welcome, Inspector Kang. We have been looking forward to your arrival.”

“You are kind to greet us, Governor Pak.”

My master returned the bow, being careful to lower his head to exactly the same level as the governor’s. I knelt on the cobbled entranceway and lowered my head and pushed the boy down beside me, making sure his forehead actually touched the ground, although as a scribe of the royal court I didn’t have to go that low for a mere provincial governor.

The governor offered us rest and refreshment, but much to my disappointment, my master refused.

“Just for the boy. My scribe and I wish to discuss the issue of the piracy that has been ravaging your coast.”

A female servant appeared and took the boy away. We were ushered into the governor’s offices, and once again my master called for charts. He pointed out the places where the pirates had struck, but the governor clapped for tea, seemingly as bored by the entire affair as I. I sipped tea while the governor tried to brag to my master about all his connections in the royal court and about his family.

“My son has formed a literary society,” the governor said. “Many of the finest young poets in the country have flocked to Mokpo just to be near him. So many in fact that he had to take refuge in one of my summer houses. There he is known as the Balladeer of the Southern Seas.”

My master listened politely for a while and then abruptly cut him off.

“What are your plans to stop these pirates?”

“Plans?” The governor looked flustered, but he sat up straighter in his chair and took on such a solemn expression that one of his double chins folded in on itself. “The plans — military plans, that is — are to be devised and executed by Captain Yi, the Protector of the Southern Coast. I am an administrator of the province, not an admiral.”

“And the rice yield of Cholla Province has gone down steadily since you took over here five years ago.”

The governor sucked in his breath.

“That is due to typhoons and poor rain during the growing season.”

“There have been no more typhoons under your rule than under your predecessor. Lack of rain can be overcome with mobilization of the peasantry to keep the irrigation systems in good repair. It has been reported to the king that precious water has been scandalously diverted to the farmlands of the rich. People who keep close association with you.”

The governor stood up. “This is preposterous! Who makes such claims?”

“You shan’t know their names, good governor. I will not add to your list of victims for your Provincial Extractor of the Truth. Your torturer.”

The governor’s face turned as purple as his robes. My master swiveled his head.

“Fetch the boy.”

I scurried through the palace, asking questions of whomever I could find, and found the boy in the servants’ kitchen; washed, scrubbed, and wearing a clean new tunic and trousers that were only slightly too large for him. I jerked him away in mid-slurp from a bowl of steaming noodles. He protested but was so slight that he hardly slowed my progress. At the entranceway we found my master. We all bowed perfunctorily to the governor and walked out into the streets of the city of Mokpo.

Inspector Kang strode so quickly that the boy and I had to run to keep up with him.

“Can you imagine the man? Men and women and children placed under his care are being robbed and raped and slaughtered like spring goats, and he says simply that it is not his responsibility? And his clumsy spies. They have been following us since we entered the city. No finesse at all. They stare directly at their quarry instead of following by looking elsewhere and thereby not arousing suspicion. Is he too cheap to hire professionals? Even now they follow us, the base louts.”

I don’t think I had ever seen him so mad. Even when involved in mortal combat. To him, combat was just a series of problems: protective moves to be made, blows to be struck, arrows to be launched. Problems that perhaps came more rapid-fire than your day-to-day problems, but simply a succession of problems nevertheless. Anger or emotion of any kind just got in the way of solving those problems. That was why now, to see him so angry, was more frightening to me than the evil intentions of the governor of South Cholla province or the bloodthirsty assaults of the pirates from the Source of the Sun.

After walking around the city for a while in a very large circle, my master calmed down somewhat.

While he and the boy waited, I entered a tavern and asked some questions. Being a fledgling poet myself, I had been intrigued by the governor’s comments concerning his son’s literary society. The tavern owner was generous with his information and told me of the favored spot of the Poets of the Southern Seas.

I returned to my waiting master and the boy Yong-sok. After a few blocks we entered the place that the owner had recommended as a meetingplace for the literary set of Southern Cholla Province. The Inn of the Diving Crane.

It was a comfortable inn. The floors were made of unvarnished but well-scrubbed wood, and it housed a wineshop under the same roof. My master retired to his room to study his charts, and once the boy saw the sleeping mat and bead-filled pillow in our room, he flopped down and went immediately to sleep. That left me time to slip away to the bathhouse.

Since the shadows of the day were just beginning to get long, the ladies of the Wineshop of the Diving Crane had not yet begun work. I was fortunate enough to find them, upon entering the bathhouse, already immersed in the hot tubs and slapping one another’s backs with the twigs of elms.

Naked, I slipped into one of the tubs and began to chat with them — the aimless chatter of any wandering young man to the ladies of a wineshop. They giggled politely at my weak jokes but were finally impressed by my Seoul accent.

“Are you here with the great Inspector Kang Huang-ho?” one of the most comely of the ladies asked me. Word of his travels spreads quickly in provincial towns.

“Yes. I am his official scribe.”

Their eyes widened.

“An official scribe. You must be a very educated man, young master.”

“You flatter me too much. When I studied near the Dragon Throne, I came to understand only how ignorant I really am.”

“You’ve been to China?”

“I was fortunate enough to be selected to go in preparation for my current occupation.”

“Certainly you will be coming to our wineshop tonight, young master. We will be very honored.”

“If my studies permit, I will be honored to attend.”

With that the ladies left, in a flurry of jiggling flesh and gently spraying water. After I returned to my room I changed into the only tunic and pair of trousers I had that were still clean. How could I not go to the Wineshop of the Diving Crane after such a lovely invitation? Of course I would have gone anyway, with or without an invitation.

As I left the boy snored loudly. My master’s oil lamp sputtered steadily in his room.

Downing thirty cups while a comely young maid plucks on her stringed kayagum and sings songs of lost love that will never be regained is a tradition that goes back to the earliest recorded histories of the Duke of Chou. The great Chinese poet Li Po composed his best verse under such conditions. I must say that inspiration seemed to swarm around me that night, and Inspiration’s name was Yun-hi. She had a face like one of the heavenly consorts who escorted the Gautama Buddha to paradise. Her voice and laughter were like the calls of geese as they fade off into the golden southern skies. She sat so close to me that I could touch her embroidered silk robes, and I was more intoxicated by her presence than by the thirty cups of crystal pure rice wine.

“Your mission must be very important, young master, for an important man like yourself to travel all the way to the humble city of Mokpo.”

“Oh, it is very important. Very important indeed.”

She laid her soft fingers on my arm. “You will be careful, won’t you?”

“Of course. It is nothing after all. Just to stop a few Japanese pirates from raiding coastal villages.”

“I know you can handle it.” She reached out with my chopsticks, plucked another portion of squid tentacle out of the hot red sauce, and popped it into my mouth. “You must be very hungry after so much traveling.”

“You satisfy all my hunger, Yun-hi.”

She pouted. “But my sisters and I, we are all famished. After spending so much time with you in the bathhouse we didn’t have time to eat.”

“Then order fruit and crabmeat for yourself and all your sisters. Nothing is too good for Yun-hi and the ladies of the Wineshop of the Diving Crane.”

She bowed her forehead almost to the floor, and I admired her jet black hair knotted tightly into a jade hairpiece.

Sometime later in the night the travel and the exertion and the rich food must have gotten to me. I felt queasy. As I rose to leave, Yun-hi stayed close to me and at the door presented me with the bill. My mouth fell open.

“This is more expensive than the wineshops of the District of Brightness in Seoul!”

“What do you think we are?” Yun-hi said. “Illiterate barbarians down here? Of course the food and the wine and the company of cultured ladies does not come cheaply.”

“But five hundred won for the food alone?”

“Oh, how you complain! And you, a cultured gentleman from Seoul. Just last week the Prince of Poets, Young Pak, was in here with his entourage. They spent ten times this much and didn’t complain about the price as you do. And they are Cholla men!”

“This Young Pak, is he the son of the governor, the one who has organized a literary society?”

“Yes. That’s the one.”

“Then poetry must be rather profitable.”

“Oh, he has plenty. His father is the governor, after all.”

I paid the bill, leaving me only a few won for the entire trip back to Seoul. While Yun-hi scurried off to fetch my change, I had trouble standing and held onto the wooden entranceway. Something kept telling me there was information here that I needed to sort out. Something that would help my master. I struggled to unfog my brain. Still, I couldn’t figure out what it was, but I resolved to gather as much information as I could; tomorrow I could let my master sort it all out. Yun-hi returned and plopped the few copper coins into my palm.

“This Young Pak, his father said that he had gone off to some sort of retreat.”

“Oh, yes. He’s gone off with his entourage to live at his father’s fine summer home.”

“Where is it?”

“On the Island of the White Crane.”

“Is it far?”

“Oh no. We have thousands of islands just off the coast. I’ve never been there and I’m not sure which one it is, but it’s out there somewhere.” She waved her arm towards the sea.

“Why did these poets, from a retreat, come into Mokpo?”

She giggled. “They are very lively young men, and very bold. They were celebrating something, they said. Some sort of triumph of art over reality.”

“What did they mean by that?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea. But they were very generous.”

I thanked Yun-hi, and she escorted me out the door, smiling and bowing all the way. For these prices she could afford a dazzling display of gratitude upon my leavetaking.

I stumbled into the Inn of the Diving Crane and climbed the stairs to my room. The boy was still snoring but turned over restlessly when I entered. As I undressed and rolled out my sleeping mat, I wondered what would make a group of poets so free with their money, and I wondered why they didn’t do their celebrating in the governor’s mansion.

Certainly the food and the wine were better there. And free. And the ladies were even more cultured than Yun-hi. If not more beautiful.

Something shook me. A blinding glare entered my eyes, and the inside of my skull lit up with fire.

“Arise, young scribe. We have work to do.”

I sat up, rubbing my eyes. My master Inspector Kang and the boy Yong-sok were staring at me.

“Drunk again, eh?”

“Not drunk, master. Just mingling with the natives, gathering information, as per your instructions.”

“And I suppose you found much that will be useful to us.”

I rose slowly from the sleeping mat, feeling little bursts and pops along my rib cage and my stomach.

“Yes. I found out about a poet’s conquest over mundane reality.”

My master burst out laughing. “Well, the sun is up now, good scribe, and we have much work to do and no time for such foolishness.”

“But, sir...”

“I went over the charts again carefully last night, comparing the data Captain Yi gave me on the frequency and placement of his patrols with the time and place of the raids. It is very curious. I don’t see how any pirates could get through his ingenious moving blockades without being spotted. Possibly they have a hiding place within the numerous islands and coves of the seas of Southern Cholla Province. I’ve charted out some areas for search that might prove useful.”

I rolled up my sleeping mat, put on my trousers and tunic, and knotted my hair atop my head.

“If you will allow me, sir. The poet I was referring to is not just any poet. He is the Young Pak, son of the provincial governor.”

Inspector Kang grew quiet and looked at me.

“He and his entourage, their so-called literary society, were in the Inn of the Diving Crane a few nights ago. Celebrating. And spending their money quite freely, according to a young lady of my acquaintance.”

“One of the wineshop girls?”

“Yes. Her name is Yun-hi, and she is very...”

“Go on with your story, scribe.”

“There’s not much more, sir. They seemed to have plenty of money and were quite bold. They were celebrating something they called ‘the conquest of art over reality.’ ”

“What did they mean by that?”

“I don’t know. She didn’t know either.”

“The foolishness of poets is hardly relevant to our investigation, Scribe Jo.”

“But there’s one other thing, sir. She said their retreat was somewhere off the coast, on the Island of the White Crane.”

“The Island of the White Crane, did you say?”

“Yes.”

Inspector Kang swiveled and rushed out into the hallway and back to his room. The boy and I followed. I noticed that the boy’s eyes were much more observant this morning. The food and the rest had done him much good. My stomach tightened like the fist of a boxer. I wish I felt nearly as good as the boy.

When we entered his room, my master had unrolled one of his charts and hunched over it.

“Here it is. Right here, scribe. Look at it!”

I bent over and peered through the dim light. My master’s fingertip jabbed just below the outline of a small island.

“Yes, sir. There it is,” I said.

“Don’t you see? This is just the area I had calculated when you consider... oh, never mind.”

My master turned and looked at the boy. “Come here, Yong-sok.” The boy stepped forward. Inspector Kang grasped his shoulders. “Your name means Steadfast Bravery. I want you to use that bravery today and take a message to your father.”

The boy nodded.

“Tell him that I sail today. To the Island of the Crane Who Eats Her Young. Do you understand that?”

The boy nodded.

“Repeat it back to me.”

The boy repeated the message back several times, and Inspector Kang patted him on the shoulder.

“How long will it take you to walk home?”

The boy brightened. “Less than a full day, sir.”

My master frowned. “Can you ride a donkey?”

“Yes.”

They both looked at me. I shrugged. Walking is just as good as riding that cursed beast, as far as I’m concerned.

We sent a courier to fetch our steeds and watched the boy as he rode off through the gates of the city. He switched the donkey’s backside confidently and moved forward at a brisk pace. The obstinate old bag of fleas must have decided to put on a display of obedience just to embarrass me.

The fisherman we hired on the quay of Mokpo had been happy to earn the money. Once we were outside the bay, my master stepped to the stern of the ship and spoke to the burnt-faced old man.

“Do you see that craft following us?”

“Been watching it since we left shore, sir.”

“Do you think you can elude him?”

“Of course.”

“There’ll be a hundred won more in it for you if you do.”

The fisherman nodded his head and steered off towards two little islands shrouded in mist. After a series of expert maneuvers, the ship following faded away and then disappeared in the low-lying clouds.

By the time we approached the Island of the White Crane, my stomach had expelled all its contents and was now nothing more than a dry, aching sack. My master and I hopped out of the small boat when we hit the shore and dragged it across the flat pebbles to the sand. Inspector Kang handed the fisherman a small bag of coins.

“Shall I wait for you, sir?”

“No need.”

“How will you get back?”

“Either other transportation will be provided or we won’t be in need of transportation.”

The fisherman nodded, and we shoved him back into the waves. A shiver went down my spine as he disappeared into the heavy bank of mist. I was afraid to ask my master about how we would get back to the mainland. I knew he had a plan, but if I coaxed him into telling me the details, I would probably be even more frightened. We walked up to the bluff that ran along the coast, and off in the distance, on a rise surrounded by groves of rippling elms, we saw the summer palace of the governor of Cholla Province. Craggy mountains loomed behind it, their peaks shrouded in the salty dark clouds of the southern seas.

Inspector Kang found a comfortable grassy knoll and sat down.

“We will rest here, scribe, until nightfall.”

I sat down next to him. In a few minutes he had leaned back and was fast asleep.

I wondered what in the name of the Great Sage Confucius we were doing here. The swooping gulls gave me no answer. Black clouds peeked over the mountains and lumbered slowly in our direction.

The rain and the winds were picking up strength when a surprised servant greeted us at the gateway and scurried back into the house. Lanterns were being lit as we stood in the courtyard, and in a moment a frail young man dressed in the flowing silk finery of the Chinese court stepped out onto the long wooden porch.

“Inspector Kang,” he said, bowing low. “What a wonderful surprise.”

More young men poured out onto the porch, all dressed just as foppishly as their host.

“We were about to sit down to our evening meal. Won’t you join us?”

Inspector Kang nodded, slipped off his sandals, and stepped up onto the porch. I followed. We were led down long corridors and into a central dining hall with low tables outfitted with shining silver chopsticks and brightly painted porcelain cups.

“Here, good inspector. Sit with me, at the head of the table.”

I was shuffled off to the side, and a servant bade me follow. I shook my head and took a seat on the warm floor at the edge of the hall.

Young Pak was a goodlooking young man, face all round and smooth and skin unblemished. He was frail but seemed slightly flushed, as if the excitement of life and the toll of his rich living would one day cause his outward beauty to crumble into red-veined decay. His manners were impeccable, and I noticed that his speech held none of the coarse syllables of the dialect of South Cholla.

The young men in his entourage were all much like him, as if they were trying to imitate him in some way. They made ironic little comments, barely audible, like inside jokes, and cackled occasionally amongst one another. My master ignored them and moved regally to his seat at the head of the table.

Holding the metal winepots with two hands, the young men all immediately filled one another’s cups. One of them leaned forward and filled first Young Pak’s and then Inspector Kang’s. My master ignored the insult.

Young Pak rose from the floor and held his cup above his forehead with both hands.

“To the health of our Great King, Sejong Daewang.”

Everyone stood and drank with him. When the cups were refilled, my master lifted his and said, “To the health and prosperity of the people of South Cholla Province.”

There was much giggling and only desultory drinking. Most of the men, I noticed, didn’t bother to drain their cups.

“Such an admiration for the rabble is quite commendable,” said the Young Pak. His followers roared their approval, and everyone sat down abruptly. Only Kang Huang-ho, Inspector of the Five White Horses, remained standing. He reached into his tunic and pulled out the golden amulet of his rank.

“I am not here to drink and trade barbs with you, young poets. I am here on a mission from my king.”

The men glanced at one another, rolling their eyes, quite amused by my master’s officious tone. Young Pak seemed delighted. A beatific smile covered his face.

“I have a few facts to recite to you gentlemen,” my master said. “First, the recent raids conducted by pirates along these coasts were not the evil work of Japanese.”

A murmur went through the crowd.

“And not the Chinese, either. The great warlord Koxinga, on the Island That Rises from the Sea, would have come to these shores in force. No one would have been able to doubt his presence. The Japanese, had they been responsible for the raids, would not have taken the time to chase old women into the woods and slay them. Only a man concerned with there being no living witnesses would have gone to that much trouble. The Japanese would have been concerned with getting their share of the booty and their share of the women and leaving as soon as possible. No, young poets, these raids were not conducted by pirates from the Source of the Sun.”

My master’s gaze fell on each face around the room. Most of them looked back at him insolently. Sneeringly.

“Second, no raiding party would have been able to penetrate these waters and get away again undetected without having a safe haven inside the defensive network set up by the brave Protector of the Coast, Captain Yi.”

The mention of the name caused many guffaws around the long table. “He is but a blind military man. A base lout. A man of no subtlety.”

Inspector Kang moved his hand to the hilt of his sword.

“Third, whoever the clumsy fools were who were following me in Mokpo were not professional spies.” He turned to the Young Pak. “Instead of sending your poets to follow me, you should have opened your purse and paid a professional. Certainly your father would not have insulted me by dispatching amateurs.”

Young Pak laughed and clapped his hands in glee. “Oh, yes, good inspector. You are so right.” These poets considered all my master’s efforts and speaking here to be nothing but entertainment. Raw material for their empty verses.

“Fourth, you were foolish enough, after your last raid on the village of Hei-byon, to go into Mokpo to celebrate with the ladies of the Inn of the Diving Crane.”

A young poet lifted his cup high over his head. “Let’s hear a cheer for the good lady Yun-hi.” All the poets applauded and cheered at the same time. It was more than I could bear. I stood up, my fists clenched. Inspector Kang shot me a glance that froze me in my tracks.

He swiveled slowly and looked down at the Young Pak. His voice was low but filled the chamber.

“Have you nothing to say for your crimes? Have you no remorse over the infants and children and men and old people who were killed? Have you no mercy on the young women who were raped and torn cruelly from their families? Is this the legacy of your so-called art? To turn yourselves into beasts? To become no better than ravenous animals?”

Young Pak sprang to his feet.

“What do you know of it? You who have spent your life in service of a king? What do you know of art? And beauty? We who need to express ourselves in beautiful verse also need to constantly stoke the fires of our experience. What good would be a boring bureaucratic life to an artist like me? I need adventure. I need life. I need passion. That’s what we have found here. Real life, real passion, real tears from the people we rape and kill. What if a few peasants suffer? We are producing poetry here that will transform all poetry for all time. Even the great masters of the Middle Kingdom will stand in awe of us. We are a workshop of artists who will take the experience we need and dare the gods or your peasantry or even the laws of the king to do anything about it!”

The poets all stood up, cheering.

Inspector Kang waited until they quieted down and kept waiting until the room was very still again. “Listen to me closely, Young Master Pak, and listen to me closely, all you poets of the Island of the White Crane. You have committed grievous crimes against the subjects of Sejong Daewang, and their deaths will not go unavenged. In the name of the king, I place you all under arrest.”

A great laughter went up. When it died, the Young Pak spoke.

“And how will you accomplish this arrest, Inspector Kang? When you left Mokpo, no one knew where you were going. Yes, you evaded my spies on the open seas, but they have since reported to me.” The wind rapped shutters loudly against the outside walls. “And with this storm upon us, who will doubt that men in a small craft could be lost on such a terrible night?”

“So you will kill the fisherman?”

“That has already been taken care of. You called us amateurs. In the ways of spying, I suppose you’re right. But don’t try to outsmart a poet. He is always far ahead of you.”

A servant, drenched with rain, ran into the hall.

“Invaders, sir. Armed men. Coming up the bluff!”

The poets froze, and then all eyes were on Inspector Kang. Young Pak spoke. “But you brought no force with you from Seoul. We had you followed. You came only with this mangy scribe.”

“I didn’t need to bring a force with me. You created one for me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you a poet who knows nothing about hatred? Well, congratulations, Young Pak, you are about to become well acquainted with that most heated of all emotions. At the hands of the fishermen from the neighboring villages of Hei-byon!”

I grabbed one of the oil lamps and tossed it at the poet who had insulted the beautiful Yun-hi. He screamed, and his silk robes burst into flames. Inspector Kang Huang-ho kicked over the long table, and cups and hot wine flew everywhere. There was shouting at the gates. I ran outside to the courtyard, slipped through the darkness, and pulled back the heavy log that barred the entranceway. Skeletons armed only with sickles and hoes flew in.

“They are in the dining hall,” I shouted. “Stop them before they can get to their swords!”

The army of bone and sinew flew past me. I followed as the young poets erupted into the courtyard. Some of them brandished swords, and the heavy grunts and screams of fighting for life and death enveloped me. I grabbed earthen pots crammed with kimchi and hot pepper paste and threw them at whoever was wearing flowing silk robes.

Inspector Kang had been a greater judge of emotion than the erstwhile poet Pak. Hatred carried the day, and soon what was left of the young poets and their servants were kneeling in the center of the courtyard, facedown in blood, amidst the bodies of their fallen comrades. The fishermen stood around them, appropriated swords at the ready, taunting them and daring them to move.

Inspector Kang emerged from the dining hall, the tip of his sword at the back of the Young Pak’s neck. He forced him to fall on his belly and crawl through the muck and the blood to the front of the formation of his defeated comrades.

Yong-sok peeked through the gate and, seeing that all was quiet, ran to his father. Someone shouted that the women had been found and a dozen of them, looking dirty and haggard, were led up from the dungeon. There was much crying and silent embracing.

The boy darted back and forth, searching each face, and then seemed to remember that his mother had already been buried. He slouched slowly back to his father.

Inspector Kang sheathed his sword, approached father and son, and put his large hands on their shoulders. “I knew a man like you, good fisherman, would understand my message,” he said.

The fisherman nodded his head. “Yes, sir. We knew immediately. Only the cruelest of cranes would devour its own young.”

Kang Huang-ho, Inspector of the Five White Horses, looked about at the poets lying prostrate in the mud.

“And only the crudest of men would kill to fire their dead imaginations.”