"No, Clarence, no," entreated Helen. "That might be the worst thing. I am sure he means no harm. Let us wait and see if he attempts to follow us away from here. Then we might inquire into his conduct."
"I feel sorry for him," said Dorothy. "I can"t help it, though he may mean no good. He looked so pitiful when he was being dragged away to the magistrate. He was frightened too, but he didn"t have the appearance of one who contemplated wrong-doing."
"I feel in that way myself," said Helen. "I----"
But ere she finished the sentence, they were attracted by the noise of a step behind them. Turning, they saw the one whom they were discussing.
With a hasty movement he prostrated himself before them; then extending his hands, entreated: "O friends, hear the story of poor Choi-So!"
CHAPTER VIII
THE STORY OF CHOI-SO
Such a pathetic story as it was for the most part! One that caused the young people to listen to it with the deepest interest.
Choi-So"s mother had died when he was very young, too young to remember her. The woman who raised him had cruelly treated him. She had not only half-starved him, but she had often severely beaten him. Choi-So had not said it in so many words, but he gave his young hearers the impression that this treatment had so dazed him that his head was not altogether right. Sometimes he was like one in a mist, as he expressed it.
His father was a very religious man. He was a dreamer too, a bad combination, since when one is constantly wandering away in thought, many of the plainest duties that are allied to a religious profession are apt to be neglected. He was a worker in straw. He made shoes and ropes and mats, the latter beautifully woven. He received a fair price for his work, and there was no reason why his child should have been starved except that the money that ought to have gone to his nourishment was appropriated to her own use by an unscrupulous woman while the father wove his mats and dreamed.
Mr. Ang-su, Choi-So"s father, had spent many years of his life in j.a.pan.
There he had married Choi-So"s mother. There too, he had acquired his deep religious convictions. He was a devout Buddhist. As he sat and dreamed his young son entered into many of these dreams, was, in truth, the chief figure therein. Far better would it have been could he have occupied even for half the length of time his father"s practical thought. Thus it came about that at eighteen Choi-So was sent to one of the Buddhist monasteries in the mountains, there to be prepared for the priesthood. Five years were spent in the dreary, monotonous routine that made up his life there. So many times during each period of twenty-four hours, from midnight till midnight again, he must hasten to the temple at sound of drum or bell, there to prostrate himself on the stone floor before the bow-kneed, bra.s.s-faced G.o.d, repeating, "_Namu Amit abul!_ _Namu Amit abul!_" (I put my trust in Buddha! I put my trust in Buddha!) One hundred and eight times he did this without stopping, to an accompaniment of bells, sometimes sounding soft and silvery, or again ringing out with harsh, loud clangor.
He was also taught to take no life, not even that of a mosquito. If one troubled him more than he could endure, the venerable abbot instructed him that he was simply to get up and "shoo" it gently out of the room.
His fare was hard and unsatisfying, consisting all the year round of rice and pressed seaweed, for no one who lived to the glory of Buddha must touch meat. Sad to say, this life was just the one that appealed to the melancholy boy. He had inherited much of his father"s religious concentration and dreaminess of manner. Instead of having the desire to run away from this hard life, he daily applied himself the more earnestly to the task of learning to please Buddha, of so living that he might attain _Nirvana_! That was his highest desire.
One day, just at the close of his five years, he came upon Mr. Kit-ze stranded upon the river bank, bruised and broken. He had had a desperate struggle for life in the rapids. Three ribs were broken and an arm badly injured. He had lost his cargo, and had very nearly lost his sampan; but, injured though he was, he had managed to cling to the latter and to get it safely to sh.o.r.e. However, it would need much in the way of repairs ere it could be used again. Choi-So, in deep pity for the wounded boatman, went for help, and had him a.s.sisted to the monastery.
Mr. Kit-ze was conducted through the great arched gateway and into the reception hall. There the venerable abbot had come to him, and uttered the words of welcome, "Peace be unto you," and had then bidden that he be led away and his wounds treated.
For two weeks Mr. Kit-ze had remained at the monastery. He had ingratiated himself into the favor of the priests. Especially had he won the trust and goodwill of Choi-So. The young man was his devoted attendant. The boatman was given many privileges. He was even permitted to look through a small sliding panel upon the priests at their devotions. This room, to which the monks were called so many times each day to their prayers, began to hold a deep fascination for Mr. Kit-ze.
Its rich carvings, its many images, above all, the great bronze statue of the Buddha with the various smaller ones grouped about it, so chained his attention that for moments at a time he would continue to gaze as though spellbound.
Choi-So had explained to him the mission of these smaller images. They were to teach man the various stages through which he was to pa.s.s ere Nirvana could be attained. Thus they were helps in the progress of life.
Any one of them could bring to mind what man hoped, what he inherited through the strength and the faithfulness of Buddha. Much of this was unintelligible to Mr. Kit-ze. He knew nothing of Buddha, nor cared to know. But the images represented something that did appeal to him. This much he understood, or at least thought he understood. Any one of them brought good fortune to its possessor. That is the way he had read Choi-So"s explanation.
Mr. Kit-ze"s mind was ripe for a suggestion of this kind. Among the losses he had sustained through the catastrophe in the rapids was one he felt more keenly than the others. Deeply superst.i.tious, as is the greater part of his race, Mr. Kit-ze believed devoutly in the efficacy of certain charms. A grotesque figure he had carried on his person for years had again and again helped him to elude the demons that waited for him in the rapids. But for this his sampan would never have had the many safe journeys through the dangerous parts of the river, and but for the loss of this image during the earlier part of his late struggle in the rapids, calamity would never have befallen. He must replace this charm, this wonderful image of protection and helpfulness. What better could be found than what was here represented in this chamber, sacred to the great G.o.d before whom the priests prostrated themselves, and of whose power they made such astonishing recitals? Had he not been informed of the marvelous things that could be accomplished through the possession of even one of the images, of the part each bore in the fortune of man?
He could not enter the chamber himself. He must work through Choi-So.
[Ill.u.s.tration: "HE WAS PERMITTED TO LOOK ... UPON THE PRIESTS AT THEIR DEVOTIONS."]
Poor Choi-So was in a sore state of mind at that time. Again and again he had felt, as he had described himself, like one walking in a mist.
His father had recently died. For weeks now he had remained unburied, a custom very prevalent in Korea until such a funeral as the mourners desire can be given. His savings had been squandered by the wife who had so ill-treated Choi-So. There was nothing with which to lay the corpse away as the dutiful son felt would be fitting. So he waited and waited, praying and hoping and longing for the means to do honor to his father, or else become a wretched, miserable son, despised of all who knew him.
It was then that Mr. Kit-ze tempted him, repeating the temptation until poor Choi-So had finally yielded. The image was stolen, but, to Mr.
Kit-ze"s shame, only a part of the price agreed upon had been paid. When Choi-So had followed him, beseeching the remainder, it was but to be cast off roughly. Another time he was threatened with the magistrate, and with exposure. This last threat drove Choi-So back to the monastery.
But the theft had been discovered and traced to him. A companion priest informed him in time for Choi-So to make his escape ere the terrible punishment in store overtook him.
Since then he had been a wanderer. He knew that his brother priests had sent one of their number in pursuit of him. His one object now was to recover the image, return it, and suffer the consequences. He could never be happy again until he had done it. He could never attain _Nirvana_ until reparation had been made and the image placed once more in the mystic circle about the Buddha. For three years now he had wandered in search of Mr. Kit-ze, but as the boatman had moved away from his old quarters at Seoul, poor Choi-So, for all his search, had never laid eyes upon him until that day on the river bank at Han-Kang.
This story had been told in a broken way, and as Choi-So had but a small knowledge of English and his youthful listeners far from a full one of Korean, it was only by putting it together piece by piece, one supplying a link here and another one there, that they finally understood him.
"Oh, friends," he entreated, holding out his hands pathetically to his hearers, at the conclusion of his story, "pity the sorrows of poor Choi-So. Help him to recover that which is the only thing that can bring peace to him again!"
"The red _miriok_!" exclaimed Clarence, and looked at Helen significantly.
"Yes," said Helen, "the red _miriok_. I had already felt that it had something to do with this poor man"s following us."
Then she told them of her impressions on the river bank as she had first noted Choi-So and the manner in which his gaze had been riveted upon Mr.
Kit-ze and the red _miriok_. "Poor thing," she continued, her eyes fixed pityingly upon Choi-So, "it is all very serious to him, and we can see how he has suffered through it."
"But how can we help him?" asked Dorothy. Her sympathies too were deeply aroused. "Mr. Kit-ze will never give up the image, I fear," she continued.
"We might make him do it," said Clarence quickly, "or pay him to do it."
"No," said Helen emphatically; "we cannot. Neither will do."
"What then?" asked Clarence.
"We might win him to the better way," said Helen softly. "We might coax him to give up this wretched little image for the sweeter things we could help him to attain."
"What! Mr. Kit-ze?" cried Clarence incredulously. "Never! He is too hardened."
"Clarence, how wrong to say that! Has not G.o.d"s love shown its power to reach even those more hardened than Mr. Kit-ze?"
"But what can we do for this poor fellow here?" repeated Dorothy.
Helen turned her eyes upon Choi-So. As she noted the lean and pallid face, the deep-set eyes in which the light of fanaticism burned steadily, courage, hope, both left her. "Oh, I am sure I don"t know!"
she cried in despair.
Just at that moment Mallard was seen hastening down the path toward them. From the manner in which he came they felt sure he was the bearer of a message of some kind. "I have bad news," he said as he approached.
"Oh, what is it?" cried Helen, thinking instantly of her father.
"Do not be alarmed, cousin," he hastened to a.s.sure her. "It is nothing so dreadful. There has been an accident. Mr. Chefoo slipped at a steep place on the river bank, fell, and has broken his arm."
CHAPTER IX
A THEFT
Yes, Mr. Chefoo had broken his arm. It was too bad! for aside from the pain and discomfort that it gave him, how were they to get on with the sampan without him? It is true, it was not a very severe fracture, only one of the smaller bones having been broken; but it would be at least two weeks ere he could use it again. In the meantime, what was to be done? Mr. Kit-ze could not manage the sampan alone. Some one must help him pole as well as keep the boat within the proper channel. It would be a very one-sided and unsatisfactory progress if the sampan were propelled from only one end.
Mr. Ko thought of a half-dozen men who were at hand, but none were reliable. It would be better without them than with them, especially as there were rapids to be pa.s.sed. Mr. Ko was very much disturbed over the accident to Mr. Chefoo, because of its having occurred at his place. He was sure a demon had caused it. It was the demon in the well, he finally decided, since Mr. Chefoo had been at the well ere proceeding down the path where the accident occurred. The demon must be appeased, he declared, and forthwith proceeded to throw rice into the well. Now Mr.
Chefoo"s arm would rapidly mend, he a.s.serted.