Flower Girl: A Burton Family Mystery (14 page)

Reddy's home away from home looked like a red roofed version of one of those whitewashed houses you see in tourist brochures for the Greek islands overlooking the Mediterranean. I could barely resist going in search of my mother's and my grave site. Still, we needed to unpack and to eat. Reddy made a couple of cans of red beans and rice into a very tasty meal all the while continuing his history lesson.

"The island is a popular vacation and honeymoon site for Koreans and Japanese tourists enjoy the temperate climate, hiking on Halla-san, fabulous ocean sunrises and sunsets, and warm sandy beaches," Reddy said. A dim line of blue light was far off on the horizon. Reddy said, “We have an hour before sunrise, care to ride over to Sunrise Peak?"

Rhyly said, "I think I'll pass. I'm feeling stiff from all that flying and I feel a need for a run up the mountain." As soon as Rhyly laced up, Reddy pointed her to the best trail up Halla-san mountain. "See you two for breakfast," Rhyly said. "I'll pick up some papayas and mangoes in town after my run."

Reddy grabbed two gun cases and his laptop and handed me a change of clothing. He motioned for me to change into camouflage gear like what we used at Skeleton Lake for our six direction training. "This is first and foremost a business trip, so let's get in some practice in shooting in poor lighting conditions as the sun comes up and breaks through the fog," Reddy said as I laced up my hiking boots.

It was still dark when Reddy fired up his motorbike and we rode from his house on the southeast slope of Halla-san to nearby Sunrise Peak. We were not alone as a few motorbikes passed us as we rode through several patches of fog into a cool breeze that cut through my canvas jacket. Reddy had suggested I wear a heavy sweater under my jacket. I was glad I had listened.

"We're lucky," Reddy said. "Only spotty fog this morning."

To practice, we selected a location a couple of hundred meters from a wedding party that was readying to say their bonds at sunrise. We were hidden from view by a large outcropping of rock, sitting on a grassy knoll in the dim predawn light waiting to bathe in a sunrise on the southwest corner of a volcanic crater overlooking the small town of Seongsan on the eastern coast of Cheju-do Island. Reddy's home was sixty kilometers from this site. It had been his secret home away from home, where he lived inside himself with dark and happy memories of Anne, his deceased bride, my mother.

"What is that strange sound?" I asked. "It seems to be echoing off the cliffs below and behind us."

Reddy says, "Locals say these are the calls of the sirens. The mermaids of the sea, a label the haenyeo have retained since the Dutch arrived in these waters in the seventeenth century."

"Where does Odysseus figure in all this sirens of the seas legend? We're a long way from the Tyrrhenian Sea," I noted.

Reddy grinned as he and I went about setting up a camouflage blind. Then he assembled his modified SR-25 Marine sniper rifle, loading a single round from a box of 762 mm NATO rounds which he had loaded with a special explosive charge. He connected the rifle to his titanium lidded laptop and began typing in a series of calculations as to wind, distance, humidity, and light. He hit the send button, and a tiny red light appeared in the rifle's telescope indicating "ready to fire." Then, he took a deep breath, exhaled, repeated the deep breath and exhaled a second time as he lay prone, legs outstretched behind him in a V. Ever so gently he squeezed the trigger.

But for the image on the laptop screen, he would not be able to see if he even hit the target. The green glass buoy shattered out of visual range at a distance of 2,000 meters. He glanced at the laptop and received an instantaneous report: "Mid-center hit, .25 of one click left of center- head shot- target eliminated 100%."

"Michaela still needs some tweaking," Reddy said, "but the computer aided software links nicely to this SR-25, and it replaces the need for a spotter, so I want you to check it out."

As it turned out, a green glass buoy was an excellent approximation of a human head. The local fishermen grumbled to local authorities about lost buoys but they replaced them regularly when they mended their nets. Still, Reddy reminded me, "Be careful not to practice shooting in the same area where we practiced before. Practice somewhere that resembles the real target area, but always remember Rule #7- don't piss off the neighbors too much. As compensation, I make an anonymous donation to the Jeju fishermen's association from time to time to pay for the buoys I demolished. Lately they have been using white and orange Styrofoam buoys for their nets. I guess the green glass is too expensive. The Styrofoam buoys do not shatter and sink when hit by a bullet, so I still try to pick out green glass targets. I told you that someday I would tell you about how and why I use these green buoys."

I thought to myself about the green glass buoy that was the first gift he had given me after my rescue. That was fifteen years ago. Now it is hanging on the back porch of my home in Berkeley where it serves to remind me daily of my roots and my anger at having been robbed of my mother.

We fired a few practice rounds mostly to see how the computer software operated. Then we trekked down the trail to the motorbike to return to his house on the southern edge of Halla-san. The fog had totally lifted when we met Rhyly on the mountain road as she was returning from her run and trek to Seongwipo Beach.

 "These papayas and mangoes are ripe and smell delicious," I told Rhyly as I got the hot water started for espressos. Rhyly peeled and sliced the fruit. Reddy made a batch of corn bread muffins. All during breakfast I was thinking about Reddy saying, 'You're ready, Shannon!'

My dreams were an amalgamation of scenes of my role as an avenging angel. I was excited, but I was also feeling insecure and totally befuddled over Reddy's suggestion that my first assignment was close at hand. The morning's practice session convinced me that I was to be part of Princess Zubaida's case. However, revenge dominated my thoughts, mainly because both Reddy and I were constantly reliving the memories of Anne's death and my years of grooming to be sold as a child bride.

That evening I called Matte's office in River View and we did a virtual therapy appointment on Skype. Rule number 2 is all that is on my mind—revenge.

"Hi, Matte. I have a conundrum."

"A conundrum. Tell me about it."

"Actually, this conundrum has been with me in my dreams for many years, only now surfacing as I am soon going to be face-to-face with my past and my own sense of justice and retaliation during our time in Cheju-do." I stretched my legs out on the raised foot rest as I pretended that the black leather lounger in Reddy's den was Matte's psychiatrist couch in her office.

"Make yourself comfortable," Matte replied, as if she knew exactly what I was doing. "Our Toronto conference went well. There were three women of particular interest at the session. They are all members of our Women's group and they have all recently lost their daughters or granddaughters to kidnappings. We suspect that more than one global child slavery ring is behind these children's disappearances."

Matte repeated the details of one mother's death in South America and the possibility of the fetus surviving. By the time we finished talking she had me thoroughly convinced that everything about Zubaida's case was righteous.

"It's a great bonding opportunity. Talk your conundrum over with your father. He's been there and done that," Matte said in closing. "Also, I have a new video segment, Part two of Sara-Clare O' Callahan's child brides documentary. It focuses on South Asia and scoundrels like the Parks are definitely expanding their child slavery business. I'll email you the link."

I blew Matte a virtual kiss on the Skype screen before signing off, "You're still the best damn shrink I know."

Righteous was the word that stuck with me from my virtual session with Matte. I wonder if she knows about Reddy's Rule Number One.

 

Chapter 8: The Tour  

I continued my research on the history of women in the Silla dynasty as Reddy made arrangements with Hamish for our historical tour. On Rhyly's behalf, I asked Reddy if we could visit some of the archaeological and historical sites that reflect women's contributions before we returned to rescue Princess Zubaida's granddaughter. We had already scoped out the Parks' Home for Girls compound on Cheju-do during our practice sessions. Reddy had decided that a tour would provide an excellent cover story for our activities, so he built the tour into our plans for a resolution for Zubaida's case and for my first assignment.

"If we blend in with the other tourists, we won't attract any undue attention," Reddy said, "especially not from the police."

Reddy suggested that we spend a day observing and mingling with the haenyeo (women divers) of Cheju-do Island before heading for the mainland and visiting the Silla Bell and Queen Seondeok's star gazing tower, two of Korea's oldest and most legendary artifacts. I wanted to visit the Namdaemun Gate and the Parks' Seoul Clinic where my mother died.

"Can we add the Namdaemun Gate to our tour?" I asked.

"Namdaemun, the great south gate, officially called Sungnyemun or gate of exalted ceremonies, is one of eight original gates in the fortress wall encircling and guarding Seoul," Reddy said. "Not from the Silla dynasty; however, it is a worthy addition to our tour."

"From the gate one can see Park's OB/GYN Clinic where my mother died and where I was born," I said, mostly for Rhyly's edification.

Reddy kept a poker face, adding, "The clinic is next to the market area by the gate on the southeast side of Seoul; it can be our last stop before we fly back to Cheju-do on Friday to take care of business."

"When will we be visiting mother's grave?" I asked.

"We will be back in Cheju a few days before the second of June," Reddy said.

 "Taking care of business" should have been my clue; however, I found myself thinking, finally after these many years, I'd be visiting my mother's grave and coincidentally my own grave. How bizarre is that!

"Who could possibly suspect two men and two women tourists in a rental car of anything as shocking as what we have planned for after we return to Cheju-do from our historical Tour?" I whispered to Reddy, adding aloud, "We'll need the usual colorful Hawaiian shirts and scarves, cameras, and a general air of obnoxiousness to complete the package."

Rhyly got Reddy's and my sizes and volunteered to ride into town. An hour later, I heard the motorbike in the driveway. Rhyly was returning with her bag of tourist attire. Strapped precariously to the back of the bike was a two foot stone statue of a bearded man.

"That's dol hareubang, stone grandfather," Reddy said.  

"He looks a bit like you," Rhyly joked.

Reddy replied with a smile, "Are you suggesting that I shave off my beard at the first opportunity?"

"I just saw the real thing in town near the beach," Rhyly said, "and I had to have one for my office back in River View."

"You shave your beard off; then I'll dye my hair," Rhyly said, "How about blonde?"

"I like the raven color better," I said, "Not too many blonde Chippewa's in these parts."

"Many of the sights on our tour have a history of association with women's contributions to Korea's development," Reddy said. "Hamish is most expert and knowledgeable on the subject of the abuses and dominance of Korean women throughout centuries of foreign occupation, enslavement, Japanese occupation and comfort women, forced prostitution, and male dominance. This is not to imply that male contributions have not been significant, merely to point out that women's contributions seem to have been systematically destroyed as well as lost due to centuries of abuse and displacement. This is a favorite theme of Sister Cerice, the nun who raised and educated Hamish," Reddy said.

I could tell that Rhyly was becoming curious about what Reddy and I were really up to; however, to her credit, she stuck to her tourist and researcher role.

The Tour Begins

"The first stop on our tour is within walking distance of here," Reddy said after he plied Rhyly and me with espressos, bagels, and fresh papayas and mangoes for breakfast. Reddy's house was several kilometers from Seongwipo, a tourist town on the south coast of the island. We were soon dressed as colorful tourists and on our way to watch the haenyeo divers at Seongwipo Beach and Jungmun Beach where there is a museum and a monument to them. We would be joined by Hamish the following day in Mokpo.

"Anyung hashim nika, ladies," Reddy said. "We are about to visit and learn about the history of the matriarch's of Cheju-do Island, the haenyeo abalone divers." Reddy began to tell Rhyly and me the Korean legend of the mermaids and sea women.

Before visiting artifacts associated with women of the Silla dynasty, we met the haenyeo. As we prepared to trek the seven kilometers over to the beach area of Seongwipo to one of the diver's coves, Reddy said, "Because of the relative isolation of the island, the people of Cheju have developed a culture and language that are distinct from those of mainland Korea. Cheju is home to thousands of ancient local legends. Perhaps the most distinct cultural artifacts are the omnipresent dol hareubang carved from blocks of basalt."

"The stone grandfather reminds me of the huge stone gods on Easter Island," Rhyly said. "I just couldn't resist buying one yesterday."

"See, I told you this tour is not only about women," Reddy smirked.

"Korea is generally known as a patriarchal culture grounded in Confucian values of filial piety and chastity," Reddy said, adding, "Nevertheless, Cheju-do has a long and legendary history of being a matriarchal society, so it's a good place to start our tour. The haenyeo, the sea-women, are often the heads of families, because they are the family bread winners. Scuba gear is outlawed here for fear of over harvesting the abalone and conch. Shall we trek over to the cove and watch the sea women at work?" Reddy asked.

On our way to watch the divers, Reddy told us the Korean story of mermaids and sea women which was often told on Cheju-do. "Men used to dive; yet, in the nineteenth century, the job became unprofitable because they, unlike women, had to pay taxes, and besides, the women tolerated the deep cold water better. Women took over these low paying jobs and became the family breadwinners. Gender roles were reversed; men took care of the children, did the grocery shopping, and fed the livestock. Women ruled their households and their community. This role reversal contrasts with Korea's Confucian culture in which women had traditionally been treated as inferior, adhering to strict values of chastity and obedience to their husbands. There was only one captain in a house and that was clearly the father.

"The sea women's power was greatest in villages on islands such as Cheju-do that relied on sea products more than farming. If their husbands cheated on them, they could tell them to get out of the house. This prevailed until tourism became popular in recent years.

"On Cheju, market forces reigned over the Confucian preference for boys. If a family had a boy, they did not celebrate; if it was a girl, they celebrated, because they knew that the girl would dive and bring money to the family. At age eight or nine, girls first went to sea, picking up seaweed along the shore, just as we are doing today as we stroll these beaches. Women's status was high because they made more money than the men. The haenyeo paid for education and just about everything the family needed.

"I've heard that the haenyeo can dive to depths of nearly fifteen meters,” I said.

Reddy replied, "That's true, and they can stay submerged for as long as two minutes."

"There goes one off the cliff," I said. "Let's time her and see how long she holds her breath." With a flat wooden tool that looks like a spatula attached to one wrist, the sea woman, dressed in a black wetsuit, dove from the nearby cliff and disappeared, presumably to try to dislodge abalone from under rocks at the bottom of the sea.

"One minute and fifty seconds," I said, as the diver broke the surface for air and then put her catch in a net supported by white and orange buoys. Later, a scow took her basket and others to shore.

"How dangerous is abalone diving?" Rhyly asked.

Reddy answered, "Sometimes the abalone clamp down on the tool and trap one of the sea women underwater. Locals say that at least one sea woman dies every year. It's a dangerous occupation. Care to try?"

"I forgot my wetsuit," Rhyly said. "Is it permissible to dive au naturale?"

“Well," Reddy answered, "for centuries the sea women dove bare breasted into the cold waters. That was likely a contributing factor for the seventeenth century Dutch calling them mermaids. However, administrators from Seoul once tried to bar the women from diving because they exposed bare skin while diving. The women divers bribed them with some abalone and the administrators looked the other way. In modern times, the number of sea women is declining, and tourism is giving Cheju men more jobs. It's unclear what will happen to the divers' daughters' status in their communities and home. Many of these women sense that the end is near."

One diver told us she could no longer go as deep as when she was young, and that soon there will be no young divers.

"How old are you?" I asked her, adding, "You look so strong and fit."

"I am fifty-nine years old and most of the divers here at this bay are nearly that age," she replied with a big grin. I think she was surprised that we westerners all spoke Korean.

"Kamsamneda!" I said as she left for her days work in the sea.

Next, Reddy took us to visit a muyeo, a female shaman, who told us the tale of the "Chronicles of Cheonjiwang," a Cheju creation myth. I knew from my studies that two types of muyeos have lived in these parts for centuries. One came from the north and one from the south. A Cheju creation myth was traditionally retold by muyeos on a volcanic island off the south shores of the peninsula.

Reddy said, "Anyung hashim nika, we would be pleased to sit and watch and listen with you."

She was a small weathered woman of undeterminable years, sitting on the stoop of a thatched roof hut on the seashore, smoking a long stemmed pipe and overlooking the morning sunrise as it reflected off the blue-green sea and brought light to another day. She rose to greet us in her red and green garments and began her music and dance. She swayed and fanned herself as she told the tale.

"I am called Summer's Day," she greeted us. "Only the mudang from the south tell of this legend. I learned it from my teacher who was also from an island off the southernmost coast of the peninsula, she from her teacher, and so on back many generations.

"This legend of the great creation contains a story about the twin sons of the King of the Heavens and the Earth (Cheonjiwang). The myth starts with the creation of the world, when the sky and the earth were one. Cheonjiwang desired a strikingly beautiful young lady. He asked her and her parents if he could have sexual intercourse with her, and this was accepted. That night, the young lady became 'Wise Wife,' as she had experienced love and was no longer a virgin.

“Cheonjiwang stayed with his new wife for a few days and then flew away on his dragon-led chariot. As he departed, he gave his wife two gourd seeds and advised her to name their twin sons 'Large Star' and 'Small Star.' One day, when the twins matured, they asked their mother who their father was, and she told them that their father was Cheonjiwang, the supreme god."

I did not want to interrupt the muyeo, but I was thinking that I had wrestled with the question of who is my father for the past fifteen years. I glanced at Reddy who whispered, "A child abandoned by their parents is a common theme in Korean mythology."

Summer's Day continued. "The twins planted the two gourd seeds. Vines grew rapidly and soon clung to the left armrest of the King's throne. The twins climbed up the vines until they reached the Palace of the Heavens where Cheonjiwang lived."

'Sounds like Jack and the beanstalk,' I thought, again glancing at Reddy and Rhyly. I could tell by their smiles they were on the same wave length. Rhyly made a climbing gesture with her fingers.

"Cheonjiwang took a quick look at the twins and admitted that they were his sons. Then he devised a contest to see which of them would rule the nether world and which the mortal world."

As Summer's Day concluded telling the mythological tale, I was mindful that it had been retold to us this day in the same fashion as it had been retold for centuries, passed on by these wonderful and powerful female shamans. I started to offer payment for her marvelous story telling; however, Reddy caught my hand and whispered, "No, she will feel insulted. I will return later with a gift."

As we trekked back to Reddy's house, he added, "The myth continues as the stars and moon are formed in the heavens and as ghosts and humans learn to converse. Meanwhile, the twins' mother is given the title of Bajiwang, the earth goddess. Thus, the four realms of the heavens, the mortal world, the nether world, and the earth each came to have a ruler."

"Earth goddess, mother earth. I like this legend," Rhyly said. I nodded in agreement.

As we trekked down the beach to observe the haenyeo, I said, "I learned much at the Parks' Home for Girls where tutors came regularly to teach us language, social skills, music and etiquette, skills we would need to make our husbands happy. I also enjoyed the history lessons, nearly as much as the stick fighting. One Korean creation myth stuck with me, where the Wise Wife remains chaste until marriage. The Park's never risked losing the virginity of one of their girls. The guards were carefully selected and the girls suspected that some were eunuchs," I said.