[story] more than the moon
author: kagami shin (misao_kunoichi)
email: fragmentedblue [at] gmail.com
Traffic in Saigon is terrible. There are too many vehicles and too few stoplights, and I find myself forced to cross the street where the mishmash of motorcycles and taxis is thickest. "Don't throw yourself in front of one those motorcycles," I say to Ha-neul, who stands next to me, and he smiles.
"I'm not that close to killing myself," he says.
"No, but just starve yourself for a couple more years and you'll be right at the edge," I say, and step onto the street.
Nobody honks at me. People just slow down or drive around me, water rushing around a boulder. They are used to people crossing in the middle of the street. Or maybe Ha-neul stands out: he is nearly a foot taller than everyone here, pale, with sunglasses. I know I am unremarkable from far away - only when people approach me do they stop, take a moment to stare at my eyes, at how clear and colorless they are.
I make it safely to the other side, a few feet ahead of Ha-neul. On the sidewalk, I turn around to watch as he weaves his way through the traffic, his movements almost fluid. He's moving at a reasonable pace, but I yell at him anyway. "Ha-neul Moon! Hurry up or I'll leave you behind!"
Ha-neul steps onto the sidewalk. "You wouldn't do that," he says. "Cromwell would miss me."
"Cromwell likes me better than you. He'll forget you after a couple of steaks."
"Do you really think so?"
"I know so," I say. "He's a dog, after all." Then I smile at him. "But it's okay. I wouldn't really leave you behind - at least not until we finish this job."
"I'm flattered to know how much you care for me, Eva."
I give him a serious look. "Of course I do," I say. "And I'm not the only one."
Ha-neul smiles; even with the sunglasses, I can tell the expression doesn't quite reach his eyes.
If I was to go back to the beginning, the very beginning, then I would say that Ha-neul and I have known each other for at least a hundred years. But if I was asked when it was that we became friends, instead of enemies, then I would say that I am not sure. All relationships are a gradual process, with no clear boundaries. Somewhere along the way, Ha-neul was no longer my enemy, no longer my acquaintance, and now my friend.
When I think about Ha-neul as he was, I am surprised. Anyone would be surprised, I think, to see the distance between the person he was in the past, and the person he is now. Anyone would be surprised to see what I have seen. I have seen him as the protege of the underworld's most notorious demon, and I have seen him as a father and a husband. I have seen Ha-neul kill a family, and I have seen him play with his sons at the beach. I have seen him struggle to become the man he is today, to redefine his values and live by them.
But I have never seen Ha-neul broken, not until after Weaver died. That is the first time I have seen him leave, walk away from something because it is too painful to stay. I wonder what Weaver is - was - to him. People have always struggled to find a word to describe them: friends, partners, lovers, husbands. I think of them as husbands, because they were as good as married. They were together for so many years, raised a family together, loved each other. In the end, that is the most important thing, that they loved each other.
The most painful thing, I think, is that Ha-neul still loves Weaver.
I am trying to find the right words to tell Ha-neul that it will be all right. Even though his heart feels irreparably broken, even though the empty space next to him in bed is a sharp blade - it will be all right. He will live, and his wounds will heal.
I want to say this so he will understand that I speak from experience. I don't know his pain, but I know the pain of losing someone I love. Ha-neul is not a self-centered child: he will understand that while everyone's pain is different, loss is familiar to all who have experienced it. It is in loss that we find company.
But first I must find the words, and the words are difficult. I think I will have to resort to actions first, to pushing and pulling, so Ha-neul will wake up from the half-sleep he is in, and listen to my words.
Weaver was a good man. No, I think, Weaver was not a good man. He killed people for a living. He didn't seem to suffer any bouts of guilty conscience. He threw morals aside with ease. Weaver made Ha-neul happy, however. Ha-neul never said it, but I knew: it was in the quiet way they held hands, the way they stood close to each other.
I am not sure when I realized how close they were. Perhaps I did when I saw them at the temple, sleeping in the same bed. Weaver was clinging to Ha-neul, and Ha-neul had his face buried against Weaver's neck. Seeing the two of them - an assassin and a vampire - in such vulnerable positions was surprising. Although even then, I could not have predicted that they would raise a family together, or that Weaver would die the way he did. But that is the way it is: mortals die, and immortals mourn.
Cromwell is waiting for us when we get back to the temple. "Seung-ri sent a letter!" he says, tail wagging. "Okay, well, it's technically a report on the Prochamos team, but that's as close as he'll ever get to writing a letter."
Ha-neul kneels down next to Cromwell and scratches him behind the ears. "Where's the letter?" he asks.
"I left it in your room."
Ha-neul nods and stands up, walking off. I wait until he has disappeared into a hallway, then look down at Cromwell. He's big - most German shepherds are - but he's sweet. He licks my hand and I ask, "Did you read the letter?"
"How can I?" he replies. "I don't have thumbs. I can't open the envelope." He tries to wrap himself around my legs, and I laugh.
"Stop it, Cromwell."
"Sorry, I can't help it. I always like being close to beautiful women."
"You're a dog - literally and figuratively."
"That's what the witch said, before she really turned me into a dog," Cromwell says, finally hunkering down at my feet.
I pet him, ignoring the disapproving looks of the healers who walk past me. No matter how many times Ha-neul and I have reassured them, they still think that Cromwell is full of fleas.
"Did you find Trinh yet?" one of them asks me.
I shake my head. "No," I say. "We think she's put up some sort of spell to prevent people from finding her."
The healer shakes her head. "Who knows how long that will protect her," she says, then moves on to tend one of the patients.
"Let's go ask Ha-neul what's in the letter," I say, and Cromwell follows me as I walk to Ha-neul's room.
He is sitting on the bed, letter in his hand. He looks up when I come in. "Seung-ri says everything is fine with the team."
"That's all?" I ask.
"That's all," Ha-neul says, and folds the letter up, slowly.
Seung-ri has always been the quietest of Ha-neul's children. I used to joke that he inherited it from Weaver, the same way he inherited Weaver's awkwardness around people, Weaver's stoic face, Weaver's blunt and taciturn nature. The one thing he has that Weaver didn't is his strong sense of loyalty to his family. He doesn't understand when Ha-neul leaves the family after Weaver dies, doesn't keep in contact at all. Still, when I ask him to find Ha-neul for me, he does it.
"Why do you want to find him?" he asks me, before I leave.
"I have a mission to do, and I need him to track down someone."
"I can track people, too."
"You don't need a reason to live," I say, and leave him with a promise that he'll hear from Ha-neul soon.
I travel lightly. My kodachi, a change of clothes - that is all I usually need. Ha-neul's luggage is also light, but his bag includes several books, yellowed and well-worn. I pick up the one on his drawer when I walk into his room that night. "Chinese myths?" I say, looking at the cover. "I thought you were Korean."
Ha-neul smiles. "That doesn't mean that I can't read about other cultures."
"You said you were bad at Chinese." I flip through the pages: they are not translated.
"I said I was bad at speaking Chinese. It doesn't mean I can't read it. Besides," he says, picking up another book next to him, "I have a dictionary."
I laugh and sit on the bed. "Did you use to tell your kids bedtime stories when they were little?"
"I did."
"I don't remember my childhood tales," I say, crossing my legs and leaning against the headboard. "You should tell me one."
"Korean or Chinese?"
"Any."
He takes the book from me and flips through the pages. "You'll like this one," he says, stopping at a certain page. "It's about Chang'e, the goddess of the moon."
"Just because I'm a woman doesn't mean I always like hearing about other women."
"That's not what I meant." Ha-neul glances through the pages, then closes the book. When he speaks, the words have a steady rhythm - he only pauses once in a while, as if remembering what to say next.
"A long time ago, there was a beautiful young girl named Chang'e. She worked in the palace of the Jade Emperor, where immortals live. But one day, Chang'e broke a very valuable porcelain jar, and the Jade Emperor, angered, sent her to live on earth. She could only return to the palace once she had done something valuable for the earth.
"Chang'e was transformed into the daughter of a poor farming family. She grew to be as beautiful as she had been in Heaven, and when she was eighteen, she became friends with a young boy, a hunter, from another village. His name was Houyi.
"One day, something strange happened: instead of one sun, there rose ten. They scorched the earth, until Houyi took his arrows and shot nine of them down. He became a hero; eventually, he became emperor and married Chang'e.
"However, Houyi became a tyrant. He was obsessed with immortality, and ordered an elixir to be made that could prolong his life forever. It was made, but instead of Houyi, it was Chang'e who came upon it. Perhaps accidentally, or perhaps on purpose, she swallowed the pill and became immortal. Houyi was furious and went after her. Chang'e fled, and jumped out of the palace window - and instead of falling, she began to float, all the way until she had reached the moon.
"To this day, she lives there, with a rabbit that is constantly pounding the elixir of life, and a woodcutter."
I am silent when he finishes. Finally, I say, "You've told this story before."
Ha-neul nods.
I run a hand through my hair, sighing. "An elixir of immortality. The water of life. It's not worth what people think it is."
"The Nguyen family certainly thinks it is," Ha-neul says.
"Which one?" I joke. "There are plenty of them here."
"The one Trinh and her son are hiding from," Ha-neul says, and the smile fades from my face. Ha-neul runs his finger down the spine of the book before speaking again. His tone is half-joking, half-serious. "Maybe she can escape to the moon, like Chang'e."
"If living forever was worth the loneliness, she would have used the water of life for herself already, instead of hiding it from her family," I say.
Cromwell pads into the room and hops onto the bed, curling up next to Ha-neul. Ha-neul strokes his fur, and I get up. "Are you going to bed?" Cromwell asks me.
I nod. "Yes. Good night."
"Good night," Ha-neul murmurs.
I look back once as I leave the room and see Ha-neul reading the book, one hand on Cromwell's head.
Immortality is not worth what people think it is. I know that much, and Ha-neul knows that much. Immortality is a study in loneliness, the stretches between happiness and loss long and hard. Still, people persist in finding its secret.
I find Ha-neul where Seung-ri told me he would be: Korea. He listens to what I have to ask.
"You know the Nguyen family," I say, and Ha-neul nods. Nguyen is a common name in Vietnam, but to those who know, Nguyen means assassinations, unexplained deaths at night. "They've been looking for the water of life for a long time now, and someone in their family found a way to make it."
Ha-neul raises an eyebrow. "That's a dangerous thing in their hands, but I don't see what we can do about it, short of getting rid of all those who know its secrets."
"Only one person knows how to make it - but she's refusing to give it to the family."
"Why?"
"I don't know. Moral reasons, maybe. But she's gone into hiding with her son, and her family is looking for her."
"And the Asclepieion wants us to find her first."
"Yes," I say.
Ha-neul is silent, so I keep talking. "You're still part of the Asclepieion," I say. "You took an oath, Ha-neul, to protect the weak. It still matters."
Finally, Ha-neul says, "I'll help you."
I nod. "Thank you," I say, and Ha-neul merely nods at me.
We find Trinh in the heart of Saigon, in an abandoned building. Ha-neul stops in the middle of the sidewalk and says, "The barrier's been broken." We both know what that means: her family has found her before us.
Ha-neul and I are barely in time to see her cut down by two men - her cousins, perhaps, or her uncles. Perhaps even her brothers. I don't stop to wonder how they can kill her so easily, or to look at the child who clings to her body. I draw my kodachi and face the men. They do not take me seriously, but I am used to that - nobody ever takes a woman seriously, until she has proven herself.
I do not leave the men alive. They would have gone back to their family, to tell them about us. I put my kodachi away and look for Ha-neul and the child. The child is huddled in Ha-neul's arms, face pressed against his chest. Something like anger, like pity, wells in my heart.
"We need to find the water of life," I say to Ha-neul quietly, "and destroy it."
Ha-neul stands up, and together we search the small, cramped building where Trinh has been hiding. We find the water of life secreted in a small corner, and as Ha-neul watches I drop the bottle to the floor. The glass shatters, and the water spreads across the floor, seeping into it.
The entire time, the child does not say a word.
Ha-neul has only one picture of his family. I am not sure he carries it with him anymore, but when Weaver was alive, he showed it to me. It is when all of his children are still in high school: Ha-neul and Evan are smiling, Seung-ri and Weaver are expressionless, and Luther looks as if he would rather be somewhere else.
Despite their similar expressions in the photo, Evan and Ha-neul are not similar. Out of all the children, I always thought that Luther was most similar to Ha-neul. He was clever, quick on his feet. I liked him, and watching him die so soon after Weaver nearly broke my heart. Ha-neul has not yet asked me how he died, and I am glad for that: I have had to explain to children that their parents have left them, but I have never had to explain to a parent why his child has left so soon.
Of course, Ha-neul has always known that he will outlive his family. It is always immortals who understand death the best - they will never experience it, but they have watched it happen over and over again. But I do not think he expected his family to fall apart so quickly, in almost one stroke, Weaver gone, then Luther. And I am not sure that any immortal ever learns to dull the pain of loss. We are, after all, still human.
The child still does not talk, even after Ha-neul and I bring him to the temple.
"What is your name?" Ha-neul asks him.
The child remains silent.
"Ask him if he can write," Cromwell suggests, and one of the healers brings a pencil and paper for the child.
He writes his name down: Mai Nguyen.
"Mai," Ha-neul says. "The healers are going to give you a bath now, so you can get clean." He tries to hand Mai to one of the healers, but Mai cries out and clutches him. He won't let go of Ha-neul.
Ha-neul ends up having to bathe Mai. When I bring the clothes in to them, Mai is sitting in the bathtub, dabbling with the water. Ha-neul is speaking to him softly, and as I draw closer, I realize that he is telling him the story about Chang'e.
Mai stares at the water intently, and then he looks up at Ha-neul. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. Instead, he just mouths a word, and Ha-neul says, "Your mother?"
Mai nods. He mouths the word again, then points up to the ceiling. When Ha-neul doesn't understand, he makes a circle with his arms.
"Oh," Ha-neul says. "Is your mother on the moon now?"
Mai smiles and nods.
Ha-neul is quiet for a moment as he soaps Mai's hair. Finally, he says, "Yes. She's on the moon, like Chang'e."
Mai pouts.
Ha-neul chuckles. "It's all right," he says. "I'm sure she has a lot of company there. And you'll be able to see her every time the moon is out. Wouldn't you like that?"
Mai nods after a moment.
I set the clothes down on the counter and smile at both of them. "You understand him really well."
"Seung-ri didn't speak for a few months when he first came to live with Weaver and me," Ha-neul says.
"He still doesn't talk a lot."
"He got it from Weaver," Ha-neul says, and surprises me by smiling.
Mai frowns and splashes Ha-neul with some water. He points to his still-soapy hair.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Ha-neul says, chuckling. He rinses out Mai's hair, and I leave as he helps him out of the tub and dries him off.
When I look into Ha-neul's room that night, he is reading a book, Mai curled up on one side, Cromwell at the foot of his bed.
"I used to think you could never take care of a child, let alone three," I tell Ha-neul the next morning, as he supervises Mai's breakfast.
"I didn't think I could, either," Ha-neul says. "I'm still not sure I did a good enough job."
I think about how his children came to him: Seung-ri's parents were killed, and so were Luther's parents; Evan's parents tried to sell him. Somehow, they all found their way to Ha-neul and Weaver's doorstep, and somehow, they became a family. "You and Weaver did a good job," I say. "Even if they all turned out to be so different."
"It doesn't matter how they turned out," Ha-neul says. "They're all my children. I love them."
Mai looks up from his bowl and stares quizzically at Ha-neul. He points at me, then at Ha-neul, and mouths a word: "Married?"
Ha-neul chuckles. "No," Ha-neul says. "Eva and I aren't married. We're just friends."
"Ha-neul had a husband who never smiled."
Mai giggles, and Ha-neul shakes his head. On his lips, there is a small smile.
We move to a temple in the country, far enough away from Saigon to throw off Mai's family. They are still looking for him, because even if Trinh left them, she had no right to take Mai. He is still one of theirs, part of the most powerful family of assassins in Vietnam. I will not let them take Mai, and I know that Ha-neul will not, either. We will have to find a family for him soon, who will protect him and raise him; but for now, he is ours. Or rather, he is Ha-neul's, the son he has not had in years.
Mai likes the country. He plays with us, with Cromwell, and Ha-neul and me. He is a happy child, despite his wordlessness and his loss. He often brings me little flowers that he finds outside; once, he brought back bundles of them and decorated my room, the flowers strewn over the desk and left in crude bouquets everywhere. I left them where they were.
Mai invited me to come with him to find flowers for Ha-neul's room, too. We set out with Cromwell, leaving Ha-neul at the temple to read. Mai filled my arms with many flowers, and he even visited a nearby pond and picked one water lily, white and pink-edged, to bring back to the temple. It's a surprise, he mimed to me, so when we got back Cromwell called Ha-neul out of his room and distracted him while Mai and I decorated his room. The water lily became the centerpiece, resting in a large bowl of water. When Ha-neul was finally allowed back into his room, he stared at all the flowers, then bent down to hug Mai. That night, I saw him reading to Mai, Mai's head resting on his shoulder.
Tonight, there is a full moon. Mai drags us all outside and insists that we have a picnic. Ha-neul spreads a blanket on the ground, and Mai squeezes himself between us as Ha-neul tells him another story. This time, it is a Korean one, about how a brother and sister ascended to the skies and became the sun and the moon.
Mai listens, and when Ha-neul is done, he struggles to speak. Finally, a small voice issues from him, weak and hesitant. "What ... what happened to your husband?"
Cromwell perks his ears up. "He talked! What did he just ask?"
"He asked about Weaver," I say, and Cromwell stares at Ha-neul sadly before laying his head on Ha-neul's legs.
Ha-neul scratches Cromwell behind the ears. "My husband is on the moon," he says. "He's with your mother."
Mai accepts this with a nod of his head. He leans against Ha-neul. "What about your husband?" he asks me. "Do you have one?"
"I have none," I tell Mai. "I'm free, to travel where I please."
"You have no children?"
"No."
Mai smiles and slides his small hand into mine. He is already holding Ha-neul's hand as well. "I'll be your son," he says, in that small voice. "I'll be yours and Ha-neul's son."
I smile at him and squeeze his hand. "Thank you," I say.
We all lay on the blanket together and look at the moon, so full and bright in the sky.
There is a family in France who will take Mai in, and Ha-neul and I bring him there.
He refuses to leave Ha-neul and me at first. When Ha-neul tries to leave him with the family, he cries, "No, no. Ha-neul, don't leave me!"
Ha-neul cradles him in his arms. "You have to stay with these people," he says. "They'll take care of you, I promise."
"I want to go with you and Eva."
"We can't take you with us," Ha-neul says gently. "We're always traveling. We can't take care of you."
"I'll go with you, wherever you go. I can take care of myself."
"I'm sorry," Ha-neul says.
Mai begs me, and I have to say, "I'm sorry. Ha-neul is right. We can't take you with us."
"Please," Mai says. "Please. You said I could be your son!"
Ha-neul hugs him tightly, and his voice is quiet but firm as he says, "You will always be my son, no matter where I am."
"Then why are you leaving me?"
"I'm sorry," Ha-neul says. "I'm sorry."
So many years, I think, and Ha-neul still cannot find the words to explain why he must leave.
Ha-neul and I leave Mai, eventually, after he extracts promises from both of us to come visit him as often as we can. He cries when we leave, but he does not cling to Ha-neul's hand or mine.
Ha-neul and I part after we have left Mai. It is only when we are about to separate that I find the words I have been looking for and ask, "What are you going to do now?"
"I'm just going to travel around with Cromwell," Ha-neul says, hand on Cromwell's head. "I'm thinking about going to China."
Cromwell whines. "Can't we go to an English-speaking country for once?"
I smile. "Well, wherever you go, write to your sons."
"I already told Mai I would write to him."
"I mean Evan and Seung-ri," I say. "You should write to them, too. And write to me. I want to know how you're doing."
"I'll be fine," Ha-neul says.
I wrap my arms around Ha-neul, then, in a brief but tight hug. "You're right. You will be. Just take it one day at a time."
Ha-neul hesitates before hugging me back. "All right," he says quietly.
"Remember that you're not Chang'e," I murmur to him, before letting go. "You've got more than the moon."
I am in Spain when I receive a letter from Ha-neul. There is a pressed flower in it, with brilliant yellow petals.
This is the mai flower, he writes. It's used in Vietnam during the Lunar New Year. He goes on to talk about what he is doing now, about how large China is, how terrible his speaking Chinese is. At the end, he adds I wrote to Mai, and to Seung-ri and Evan as well. I am still waiting for their reply, and for yours. I hope you write back soon.
Ha-neul Moon.
the end
Author's note: The characters Luther, Weaver and Evan belong to N. Kaouthia and have been used here with her permission.
email: fragmentedblue [at] gmail.com
Traffic in Saigon is terrible. There are too many vehicles and too few stoplights, and I find myself forced to cross the street where the mishmash of motorcycles and taxis is thickest. "Don't throw yourself in front of one those motorcycles," I say to Ha-neul, who stands next to me, and he smiles.
"I'm not that close to killing myself," he says.
"No, but just starve yourself for a couple more years and you'll be right at the edge," I say, and step onto the street.
Nobody honks at me. People just slow down or drive around me, water rushing around a boulder. They are used to people crossing in the middle of the street. Or maybe Ha-neul stands out: he is nearly a foot taller than everyone here, pale, with sunglasses. I know I am unremarkable from far away - only when people approach me do they stop, take a moment to stare at my eyes, at how clear and colorless they are.
I make it safely to the other side, a few feet ahead of Ha-neul. On the sidewalk, I turn around to watch as he weaves his way through the traffic, his movements almost fluid. He's moving at a reasonable pace, but I yell at him anyway. "Ha-neul Moon! Hurry up or I'll leave you behind!"
Ha-neul steps onto the sidewalk. "You wouldn't do that," he says. "Cromwell would miss me."
"Cromwell likes me better than you. He'll forget you after a couple of steaks."
"Do you really think so?"
"I know so," I say. "He's a dog, after all." Then I smile at him. "But it's okay. I wouldn't really leave you behind - at least not until we finish this job."
"I'm flattered to know how much you care for me, Eva."
I give him a serious look. "Of course I do," I say. "And I'm not the only one."
Ha-neul smiles; even with the sunglasses, I can tell the expression doesn't quite reach his eyes.
If I was to go back to the beginning, the very beginning, then I would say that Ha-neul and I have known each other for at least a hundred years. But if I was asked when it was that we became friends, instead of enemies, then I would say that I am not sure. All relationships are a gradual process, with no clear boundaries. Somewhere along the way, Ha-neul was no longer my enemy, no longer my acquaintance, and now my friend.
When I think about Ha-neul as he was, I am surprised. Anyone would be surprised, I think, to see the distance between the person he was in the past, and the person he is now. Anyone would be surprised to see what I have seen. I have seen him as the protege of the underworld's most notorious demon, and I have seen him as a father and a husband. I have seen Ha-neul kill a family, and I have seen him play with his sons at the beach. I have seen him struggle to become the man he is today, to redefine his values and live by them.
But I have never seen Ha-neul broken, not until after Weaver died. That is the first time I have seen him leave, walk away from something because it is too painful to stay. I wonder what Weaver is - was - to him. People have always struggled to find a word to describe them: friends, partners, lovers, husbands. I think of them as husbands, because they were as good as married. They were together for so many years, raised a family together, loved each other. In the end, that is the most important thing, that they loved each other.
The most painful thing, I think, is that Ha-neul still loves Weaver.
I am trying to find the right words to tell Ha-neul that it will be all right. Even though his heart feels irreparably broken, even though the empty space next to him in bed is a sharp blade - it will be all right. He will live, and his wounds will heal.
I want to say this so he will understand that I speak from experience. I don't know his pain, but I know the pain of losing someone I love. Ha-neul is not a self-centered child: he will understand that while everyone's pain is different, loss is familiar to all who have experienced it. It is in loss that we find company.
But first I must find the words, and the words are difficult. I think I will have to resort to actions first, to pushing and pulling, so Ha-neul will wake up from the half-sleep he is in, and listen to my words.
Weaver was a good man. No, I think, Weaver was not a good man. He killed people for a living. He didn't seem to suffer any bouts of guilty conscience. He threw morals aside with ease. Weaver made Ha-neul happy, however. Ha-neul never said it, but I knew: it was in the quiet way they held hands, the way they stood close to each other.
I am not sure when I realized how close they were. Perhaps I did when I saw them at the temple, sleeping in the same bed. Weaver was clinging to Ha-neul, and Ha-neul had his face buried against Weaver's neck. Seeing the two of them - an assassin and a vampire - in such vulnerable positions was surprising. Although even then, I could not have predicted that they would raise a family together, or that Weaver would die the way he did. But that is the way it is: mortals die, and immortals mourn.
Cromwell is waiting for us when we get back to the temple. "Seung-ri sent a letter!" he says, tail wagging. "Okay, well, it's technically a report on the Prochamos team, but that's as close as he'll ever get to writing a letter."
Ha-neul kneels down next to Cromwell and scratches him behind the ears. "Where's the letter?" he asks.
"I left it in your room."
Ha-neul nods and stands up, walking off. I wait until he has disappeared into a hallway, then look down at Cromwell. He's big - most German shepherds are - but he's sweet. He licks my hand and I ask, "Did you read the letter?"
"How can I?" he replies. "I don't have thumbs. I can't open the envelope." He tries to wrap himself around my legs, and I laugh.
"Stop it, Cromwell."
"Sorry, I can't help it. I always like being close to beautiful women."
"You're a dog - literally and figuratively."
"That's what the witch said, before she really turned me into a dog," Cromwell says, finally hunkering down at my feet.
I pet him, ignoring the disapproving looks of the healers who walk past me. No matter how many times Ha-neul and I have reassured them, they still think that Cromwell is full of fleas.
"Did you find Trinh yet?" one of them asks me.
I shake my head. "No," I say. "We think she's put up some sort of spell to prevent people from finding her."
The healer shakes her head. "Who knows how long that will protect her," she says, then moves on to tend one of the patients.
"Let's go ask Ha-neul what's in the letter," I say, and Cromwell follows me as I walk to Ha-neul's room.
He is sitting on the bed, letter in his hand. He looks up when I come in. "Seung-ri says everything is fine with the team."
"That's all?" I ask.
"That's all," Ha-neul says, and folds the letter up, slowly.
Seung-ri has always been the quietest of Ha-neul's children. I used to joke that he inherited it from Weaver, the same way he inherited Weaver's awkwardness around people, Weaver's stoic face, Weaver's blunt and taciturn nature. The one thing he has that Weaver didn't is his strong sense of loyalty to his family. He doesn't understand when Ha-neul leaves the family after Weaver dies, doesn't keep in contact at all. Still, when I ask him to find Ha-neul for me, he does it.
"Why do you want to find him?" he asks me, before I leave.
"I have a mission to do, and I need him to track down someone."
"I can track people, too."
"You don't need a reason to live," I say, and leave him with a promise that he'll hear from Ha-neul soon.
I travel lightly. My kodachi, a change of clothes - that is all I usually need. Ha-neul's luggage is also light, but his bag includes several books, yellowed and well-worn. I pick up the one on his drawer when I walk into his room that night. "Chinese myths?" I say, looking at the cover. "I thought you were Korean."
Ha-neul smiles. "That doesn't mean that I can't read about other cultures."
"You said you were bad at Chinese." I flip through the pages: they are not translated.
"I said I was bad at speaking Chinese. It doesn't mean I can't read it. Besides," he says, picking up another book next to him, "I have a dictionary."
I laugh and sit on the bed. "Did you use to tell your kids bedtime stories when they were little?"
"I did."
"I don't remember my childhood tales," I say, crossing my legs and leaning against the headboard. "You should tell me one."
"Korean or Chinese?"
"Any."
He takes the book from me and flips through the pages. "You'll like this one," he says, stopping at a certain page. "It's about Chang'e, the goddess of the moon."
"Just because I'm a woman doesn't mean I always like hearing about other women."
"That's not what I meant." Ha-neul glances through the pages, then closes the book. When he speaks, the words have a steady rhythm - he only pauses once in a while, as if remembering what to say next.
"A long time ago, there was a beautiful young girl named Chang'e. She worked in the palace of the Jade Emperor, where immortals live. But one day, Chang'e broke a very valuable porcelain jar, and the Jade Emperor, angered, sent her to live on earth. She could only return to the palace once she had done something valuable for the earth.
"Chang'e was transformed into the daughter of a poor farming family. She grew to be as beautiful as she had been in Heaven, and when she was eighteen, she became friends with a young boy, a hunter, from another village. His name was Houyi.
"One day, something strange happened: instead of one sun, there rose ten. They scorched the earth, until Houyi took his arrows and shot nine of them down. He became a hero; eventually, he became emperor and married Chang'e.
"However, Houyi became a tyrant. He was obsessed with immortality, and ordered an elixir to be made that could prolong his life forever. It was made, but instead of Houyi, it was Chang'e who came upon it. Perhaps accidentally, or perhaps on purpose, she swallowed the pill and became immortal. Houyi was furious and went after her. Chang'e fled, and jumped out of the palace window - and instead of falling, she began to float, all the way until she had reached the moon.
"To this day, she lives there, with a rabbit that is constantly pounding the elixir of life, and a woodcutter."
I am silent when he finishes. Finally, I say, "You've told this story before."
Ha-neul nods.
I run a hand through my hair, sighing. "An elixir of immortality. The water of life. It's not worth what people think it is."
"The Nguyen family certainly thinks it is," Ha-neul says.
"Which one?" I joke. "There are plenty of them here."
"The one Trinh and her son are hiding from," Ha-neul says, and the smile fades from my face. Ha-neul runs his finger down the spine of the book before speaking again. His tone is half-joking, half-serious. "Maybe she can escape to the moon, like Chang'e."
"If living forever was worth the loneliness, she would have used the water of life for herself already, instead of hiding it from her family," I say.
Cromwell pads into the room and hops onto the bed, curling up next to Ha-neul. Ha-neul strokes his fur, and I get up. "Are you going to bed?" Cromwell asks me.
I nod. "Yes. Good night."
"Good night," Ha-neul murmurs.
I look back once as I leave the room and see Ha-neul reading the book, one hand on Cromwell's head.
Immortality is not worth what people think it is. I know that much, and Ha-neul knows that much. Immortality is a study in loneliness, the stretches between happiness and loss long and hard. Still, people persist in finding its secret.
I find Ha-neul where Seung-ri told me he would be: Korea. He listens to what I have to ask.
"You know the Nguyen family," I say, and Ha-neul nods. Nguyen is a common name in Vietnam, but to those who know, Nguyen means assassinations, unexplained deaths at night. "They've been looking for the water of life for a long time now, and someone in their family found a way to make it."
Ha-neul raises an eyebrow. "That's a dangerous thing in their hands, but I don't see what we can do about it, short of getting rid of all those who know its secrets."
"Only one person knows how to make it - but she's refusing to give it to the family."
"Why?"
"I don't know. Moral reasons, maybe. But she's gone into hiding with her son, and her family is looking for her."
"And the Asclepieion wants us to find her first."
"Yes," I say.
Ha-neul is silent, so I keep talking. "You're still part of the Asclepieion," I say. "You took an oath, Ha-neul, to protect the weak. It still matters."
Finally, Ha-neul says, "I'll help you."
I nod. "Thank you," I say, and Ha-neul merely nods at me.
We find Trinh in the heart of Saigon, in an abandoned building. Ha-neul stops in the middle of the sidewalk and says, "The barrier's been broken." We both know what that means: her family has found her before us.
Ha-neul and I are barely in time to see her cut down by two men - her cousins, perhaps, or her uncles. Perhaps even her brothers. I don't stop to wonder how they can kill her so easily, or to look at the child who clings to her body. I draw my kodachi and face the men. They do not take me seriously, but I am used to that - nobody ever takes a woman seriously, until she has proven herself.
I do not leave the men alive. They would have gone back to their family, to tell them about us. I put my kodachi away and look for Ha-neul and the child. The child is huddled in Ha-neul's arms, face pressed against his chest. Something like anger, like pity, wells in my heart.
"We need to find the water of life," I say to Ha-neul quietly, "and destroy it."
Ha-neul stands up, and together we search the small, cramped building where Trinh has been hiding. We find the water of life secreted in a small corner, and as Ha-neul watches I drop the bottle to the floor. The glass shatters, and the water spreads across the floor, seeping into it.
The entire time, the child does not say a word.
Ha-neul has only one picture of his family. I am not sure he carries it with him anymore, but when Weaver was alive, he showed it to me. It is when all of his children are still in high school: Ha-neul and Evan are smiling, Seung-ri and Weaver are expressionless, and Luther looks as if he would rather be somewhere else.
Despite their similar expressions in the photo, Evan and Ha-neul are not similar. Out of all the children, I always thought that Luther was most similar to Ha-neul. He was clever, quick on his feet. I liked him, and watching him die so soon after Weaver nearly broke my heart. Ha-neul has not yet asked me how he died, and I am glad for that: I have had to explain to children that their parents have left them, but I have never had to explain to a parent why his child has left so soon.
Of course, Ha-neul has always known that he will outlive his family. It is always immortals who understand death the best - they will never experience it, but they have watched it happen over and over again. But I do not think he expected his family to fall apart so quickly, in almost one stroke, Weaver gone, then Luther. And I am not sure that any immortal ever learns to dull the pain of loss. We are, after all, still human.
The child still does not talk, even after Ha-neul and I bring him to the temple.
"What is your name?" Ha-neul asks him.
The child remains silent.
"Ask him if he can write," Cromwell suggests, and one of the healers brings a pencil and paper for the child.
He writes his name down: Mai Nguyen.
"Mai," Ha-neul says. "The healers are going to give you a bath now, so you can get clean." He tries to hand Mai to one of the healers, but Mai cries out and clutches him. He won't let go of Ha-neul.
Ha-neul ends up having to bathe Mai. When I bring the clothes in to them, Mai is sitting in the bathtub, dabbling with the water. Ha-neul is speaking to him softly, and as I draw closer, I realize that he is telling him the story about Chang'e.
Mai stares at the water intently, and then he looks up at Ha-neul. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. Instead, he just mouths a word, and Ha-neul says, "Your mother?"
Mai nods. He mouths the word again, then points up to the ceiling. When Ha-neul doesn't understand, he makes a circle with his arms.
"Oh," Ha-neul says. "Is your mother on the moon now?"
Mai smiles and nods.
Ha-neul is quiet for a moment as he soaps Mai's hair. Finally, he says, "Yes. She's on the moon, like Chang'e."
Mai pouts.
Ha-neul chuckles. "It's all right," he says. "I'm sure she has a lot of company there. And you'll be able to see her every time the moon is out. Wouldn't you like that?"
Mai nods after a moment.
I set the clothes down on the counter and smile at both of them. "You understand him really well."
"Seung-ri didn't speak for a few months when he first came to live with Weaver and me," Ha-neul says.
"He still doesn't talk a lot."
"He got it from Weaver," Ha-neul says, and surprises me by smiling.
Mai frowns and splashes Ha-neul with some water. He points to his still-soapy hair.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Ha-neul says, chuckling. He rinses out Mai's hair, and I leave as he helps him out of the tub and dries him off.
When I look into Ha-neul's room that night, he is reading a book, Mai curled up on one side, Cromwell at the foot of his bed.
"I used to think you could never take care of a child, let alone three," I tell Ha-neul the next morning, as he supervises Mai's breakfast.
"I didn't think I could, either," Ha-neul says. "I'm still not sure I did a good enough job."
I think about how his children came to him: Seung-ri's parents were killed, and so were Luther's parents; Evan's parents tried to sell him. Somehow, they all found their way to Ha-neul and Weaver's doorstep, and somehow, they became a family. "You and Weaver did a good job," I say. "Even if they all turned out to be so different."
"It doesn't matter how they turned out," Ha-neul says. "They're all my children. I love them."
Mai looks up from his bowl and stares quizzically at Ha-neul. He points at me, then at Ha-neul, and mouths a word: "Married?"
Ha-neul chuckles. "No," Ha-neul says. "Eva and I aren't married. We're just friends."
"Ha-neul had a husband who never smiled."
Mai giggles, and Ha-neul shakes his head. On his lips, there is a small smile.
We move to a temple in the country, far enough away from Saigon to throw off Mai's family. They are still looking for him, because even if Trinh left them, she had no right to take Mai. He is still one of theirs, part of the most powerful family of assassins in Vietnam. I will not let them take Mai, and I know that Ha-neul will not, either. We will have to find a family for him soon, who will protect him and raise him; but for now, he is ours. Or rather, he is Ha-neul's, the son he has not had in years.
Mai likes the country. He plays with us, with Cromwell, and Ha-neul and me. He is a happy child, despite his wordlessness and his loss. He often brings me little flowers that he finds outside; once, he brought back bundles of them and decorated my room, the flowers strewn over the desk and left in crude bouquets everywhere. I left them where they were.
Mai invited me to come with him to find flowers for Ha-neul's room, too. We set out with Cromwell, leaving Ha-neul at the temple to read. Mai filled my arms with many flowers, and he even visited a nearby pond and picked one water lily, white and pink-edged, to bring back to the temple. It's a surprise, he mimed to me, so when we got back Cromwell called Ha-neul out of his room and distracted him while Mai and I decorated his room. The water lily became the centerpiece, resting in a large bowl of water. When Ha-neul was finally allowed back into his room, he stared at all the flowers, then bent down to hug Mai. That night, I saw him reading to Mai, Mai's head resting on his shoulder.
Tonight, there is a full moon. Mai drags us all outside and insists that we have a picnic. Ha-neul spreads a blanket on the ground, and Mai squeezes himself between us as Ha-neul tells him another story. This time, it is a Korean one, about how a brother and sister ascended to the skies and became the sun and the moon.
Mai listens, and when Ha-neul is done, he struggles to speak. Finally, a small voice issues from him, weak and hesitant. "What ... what happened to your husband?"
Cromwell perks his ears up. "He talked! What did he just ask?"
"He asked about Weaver," I say, and Cromwell stares at Ha-neul sadly before laying his head on Ha-neul's legs.
Ha-neul scratches Cromwell behind the ears. "My husband is on the moon," he says. "He's with your mother."
Mai accepts this with a nod of his head. He leans against Ha-neul. "What about your husband?" he asks me. "Do you have one?"
"I have none," I tell Mai. "I'm free, to travel where I please."
"You have no children?"
"No."
Mai smiles and slides his small hand into mine. He is already holding Ha-neul's hand as well. "I'll be your son," he says, in that small voice. "I'll be yours and Ha-neul's son."
I smile at him and squeeze his hand. "Thank you," I say.
We all lay on the blanket together and look at the moon, so full and bright in the sky.
There is a family in France who will take Mai in, and Ha-neul and I bring him there.
He refuses to leave Ha-neul and me at first. When Ha-neul tries to leave him with the family, he cries, "No, no. Ha-neul, don't leave me!"
Ha-neul cradles him in his arms. "You have to stay with these people," he says. "They'll take care of you, I promise."
"I want to go with you and Eva."
"We can't take you with us," Ha-neul says gently. "We're always traveling. We can't take care of you."
"I'll go with you, wherever you go. I can take care of myself."
"I'm sorry," Ha-neul says.
Mai begs me, and I have to say, "I'm sorry. Ha-neul is right. We can't take you with us."
"Please," Mai says. "Please. You said I could be your son!"
Ha-neul hugs him tightly, and his voice is quiet but firm as he says, "You will always be my son, no matter where I am."
"Then why are you leaving me?"
"I'm sorry," Ha-neul says. "I'm sorry."
So many years, I think, and Ha-neul still cannot find the words to explain why he must leave.
Ha-neul and I leave Mai, eventually, after he extracts promises from both of us to come visit him as often as we can. He cries when we leave, but he does not cling to Ha-neul's hand or mine.
Ha-neul and I part after we have left Mai. It is only when we are about to separate that I find the words I have been looking for and ask, "What are you going to do now?"
"I'm just going to travel around with Cromwell," Ha-neul says, hand on Cromwell's head. "I'm thinking about going to China."
Cromwell whines. "Can't we go to an English-speaking country for once?"
I smile. "Well, wherever you go, write to your sons."
"I already told Mai I would write to him."
"I mean Evan and Seung-ri," I say. "You should write to them, too. And write to me. I want to know how you're doing."
"I'll be fine," Ha-neul says.
I wrap my arms around Ha-neul, then, in a brief but tight hug. "You're right. You will be. Just take it one day at a time."
Ha-neul hesitates before hugging me back. "All right," he says quietly.
"Remember that you're not Chang'e," I murmur to him, before letting go. "You've got more than the moon."
I am in Spain when I receive a letter from Ha-neul. There is a pressed flower in it, with brilliant yellow petals.
This is the mai flower, he writes. It's used in Vietnam during the Lunar New Year. He goes on to talk about what he is doing now, about how large China is, how terrible his speaking Chinese is. At the end, he adds I wrote to Mai, and to Seung-ri and Evan as well. I am still waiting for their reply, and for yours. I hope you write back soon.
Ha-neul Moon.
the end
Author's note: The characters Luther, Weaver and Evan belong to N. Kaouthia and have been used here with her permission.