The Iron Sickle (32 page)

He told me that the man in the claims office had been killed to show how wronged Korea had been by Eighth Army. He hadn’t enjoyed it but it had to be done. The MP was murdered simply to show people
that American law enforcement was not invincible. Despite being part of the greatest military power in the world, they were just men. The GIs in the signal truck were similarly slaughtered as stand-ins for the Lost Echo who had engendered all this misery. And then he told me what he planned to do next. He didn’t name a specific target, but he said everyone would be shown soon. What he meant by that I wasn’t sure, but I knew better than to ask questions. Then he walked away, leaving me alive. I studied the dark corners of the cavern, my ankles aching. As far as I could tell, there were no more bottles of Little Demon hot sauce.

The flames in the fire pit had subsided, and the cave was even colder than before. Everything was perfectly quiet, not even a mouse scurried through the dust. The only light was a dim glow off in the distance. Somewhere out there it was daylight.

My hands were still tied behind my back, but at least I was no longer dangling by my ankles. There was no pain in my legs, and I knew that was a bad sign. All feeling was gone—maybe all life. The thought of losing my legs and living the rest of my life in a wheelchair was more than I could bear.

I listened again, hearing nothing, convinced now that Madame Hoh and the man with the iron sickle were gone. Why hadn’t they killed me? Maybe it was because death would be slower and more painful this way. And maybe they wanted to leave a message to whoever might happen upon my body in future years. What exactly the message would be, I was too hysterical right now to understand.

Or maybe the reason they left me alive had to do with the continuing drama that Madame Hoh and the man with the iron sickle were constructing. In recent years the ROK government had started inviting Korean War vets back to the country, both to thank them for protecting their nation from the northern Communists and to show
off the economic progress the Republic of Korea had made. Additionally, it was a smart public relations move designed to continue the flow of US military and economic aid. The government picked up the airfare, hotel bills, and other expenses of the foreign veterans who were thus honored. They were greeted by high-ranking ROK government officials and feted with tours of industrial parks and museums and the peace village at Panmunjom and even an evening of entertainment at the big nightclub at Walker Hill. In other words, the veterans and their wives were treated like royalty. Before each of these confabs the ROK government published a list of the names of the vets and which country they were from and which unit they had been assigned to during the war.

This time, there was a veteran from the 4038th Signal Battalion (Mobile). His name was “Covert,” as the man with the iron sickle had told me. He might not have been from Echo Company, but it didn’t matter. He was close enough. I’d asked what he planned to do to this man and he told me he and Madame Hoh would decide when the time came.

Exactly when all this would happen, I didn’t know. In fact I’d lost all sense of time. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been in this Godforsaken cave. It was all agony to me. All I knew for sure was that if I didn’t get myself out of here, I’d die.

My feet didn’t look good. They were swollen and black and blue, and suddenly they started to hurt. It was a frisson of electricity at first, like sticking my toe into a live socket, but then it became gradually worse, growing like a symphonic crescendo. I wanted to massage my lower legs, maybe work some blood toward the ankles, but my hands were still securely bound behind my back. I tried to stand. It wasn’t possible. Not only were my feet screaming with pain when I placed any weight on them, my toes and my instep and the entire foot had no feeling whatsoever; they were just part of the generalized agony. Even
if I could’ve withstood the pain, I probably wouldn’t have been able to balance myself upright on such lifeless stumps. Instead, I scooted through the dust on my butt.

At the end of the signal truck was a short metal fold-down stairwell. I studied the edge of the steps. On the interior the metal hadn’t been beveled to a machined smoothness. It was bumpy and appeared sharp on some edges. I twisted myself face down, lay beneath the stairs, and shoved my bound hands up to the interior edge of the steps. Pressing as hard as I could, I started to rub the hemp rope against the rough edge. I rubbed and rubbed, and the rope, I sensed, was growing warmer, but it wasn’t giving. I crawled out from beneath the stairwell and slid around the cavern, searching for something else, anything, that I could use to cut the ropes that bound my hands. Against the cavern wall, some of the rocks jutted out. It looked to me like this cavern, natural to begin with, had been widened with explosives. Probably the men of Echo Company realized they had to find a place to hide their signal truck and their other equipment from the prying eyes of scouts that ranged ahead of the main units of the Chinese “volunteer” army. They’d blown this opening, rolled everything in here, and hunkered down for the remainder of the winter. I tried not to think of their food supply.

I found a particularly jagged rock, but the sharp edge was a few feet off the cavern floor. Somehow, I had to stand to reach in. I sat with my back against the wall, pulled my feet up as close as I could, and tried to sidle myself upright into a standing position. I couldn’t control my lifeless feet, but that didn’t stop them from hurting whenever I placed any weight on them. Still, it had to be done. I kept pushing myself upright until I propped the rope binding my hands against the rock. Slowly, I slid my arms up and down, leaning into it, feeling the sharp granite begin to bite. Even though the temperature in the cavern was at or below freezing, I was in so much pain that
sweat poured off my body as I worked. I sawed and sawed and finally the knotted strands of hemp rope popped loose. I brought my hands in front of my chest and tossed the last of the offending fibers into the dust.

I rubbed my raw forearms. My triceps were cramping up on me. Quickly, I plopped down in the dirt, stretching my arms and fingers as I untied my feet. Now I could stand, barely, and I had the full use of my hands. What I needed was something to support my weight so I could begin to perform something that would resemble walking. I fell back to my knees and crawled toward the fire pit. Warm embers glowed. I stuck my nose toward the warmth and blew gently, and it flared red in response. Fuel. I had to find fuel. I scrabbled in the dim light until I found a few loose branches that had probably been dropped when the fire was built. I broke them into shreds and gingerly fed them to the fire, blowing air on the embers as I did so. Gradually, the strips of wood started to smoke and then one of them leapt into flame. Carefully, I added wood until I had a fairly good bonfire going.

I began to range around the cavern.

The Army survival manual tells you that when you’re in a tight spot, even when time is running short, it pays to plan. I knew I needed food, water, and warmth—not necessarily in that order. I found my clothes wadded up and left in the dirt near the signal truck in a soggy lump. I started with the underwear, holding the briefs and the T-shirt up as close as I could get them to the fire, letting them dry. When they were a little less damp, I slipped them on, hoping my body heat would continue the drying process. I stood up, tested my aching ankles, and managed to hobble my way toward the light. Beneath a rock shelf, I stared out into a grey, overcast morning. Everything sloped downhill, into snow-covered trees and then
into impenetrable fog. No sign of Madame Hoh or the man with the iron sickle, only frost-crusted footprints leading away from the cave and downhill. Moving quickly, I managed to gather twigs and dried branches near the rocks surrounding the cave entrance. By the time I returned to the little fire, I was shaking so badly, I could barely control my hands. Still, I fed the fire until it blazed brighter than ever. I warmed myself.

I spent the next hours tending the fire and drying my clothes. But I had another chore here in this rock-hewn mausoleum. One I’d been putting off.

I had to inspect the interior of the signal truck of the company known as the Lost Echo.

I wandered down Daeam Mountain for two days. I was completely lost and only followed the contours of the mountain as they led me downhill. On the second night, I collapsed. I had replaced my first walking stick with a better one that gave me more support. Even though my feet hurt like hell, they were functioning now, and I had high hopes the pain was a sign they were healing. Still, I was hungry and thirsty and desperately cold, and the inner linings of my sinuses bothered me, still raw from the Little Demon.

I needed shelter. Before I’d left the cave, I’d commandeered an old canvas tent flap and, using a rock, sawed a hole in the middle. I slipped it over my head and used it as a poncho. Even though it was heavy, it helped keep me warm and as dry as possible in this wintry world I was trudging through. I’d also found a box of flares. It figured the men of the Lost Echo wouldn’t have used them because they were busy hiding from the Chinese, not trying to draw attention to themselves. There were also some old dried up candles. Most of them crumbled beneath my touch but a few were still serviceable.

I found a fir tree with a branch broken from the weight of the
snow. Using my walking stick, I pelted it until most of the snow was gone. Then I gathered some more twigs and made a thick bedding beneath the overhanging branch. I crawled in. Shoveling together a pile of earth, I stuck one of the candles atop it. Then, striking one of the three flares I’d brought with me, I lit the wick. Now I had a shelter. One that wasn’t too cozy but at least it would keep me from freezing to death. I dropped a handful of snow into a canteen cup I’d salvaged from the signal truck and held it over the flare. When the snow melted, I drank it all down and then melted some more. Finally, I lay on my side, curled around the flickering candle.

I wondered what had become of Ernie and Captain Prevault and if they’d started a search for me, but before these thoughts could formulate coherently, I passed out.

I felt the footsteps before I heard them. They were soft paddings in the night. And then there was something warm above me, hovering. I lay completely still, afraid to move or even to breathe. Something snuffled and then I felt the warmth lowering, the warmth of a very large body. Something touched the lobe of my ear, something like an exquisitely thin wire. And then another. The breath was hot now. Meaty, with a vague wheezing underlying it. A cat. I was sure of it. An enormous cat. So close its whiskers were poking into the side of my head. I refused to move. I would not move. The feline breathed into my ear, deciding, I believed, whether I should live or die. It took a long time in its deliberations, an eternity. And then, like a living dream, it stepped away, ever so quietly, like a fleeting thought. For another long time, I continued to lie perfectly still and then, for some unfathomable reason, I was asleep again.

When I awoke, my candle was out. I peered through hanging branches. A few feet away from my little shelter, a man squatted on his haunches, studying me. He wore a tunic and loose pantaloons tied
at the ankles; both appeared to be made of buckskin. His headgear was a woven straw conical hat with a low brim that shadowed his eyes. Large calloused hands hung loosely over his knees.

“Don’t move,” he said.

I studied him. He wasn’t armed as far as I could see and his facial expression was benign, not threatening.

“Why not?” I asked.

“You’ll crush them.”

“Crush what?”

“The family.” He pointed with a thick-knuckled finger. “The grandfather is right next to you, the younger generation between your feet.”

Carefully, I lifted my head. Then I realized what he meant. Directly in front of me, poking up from between loose branches, was a sprightly looking plant, about six inches high, with sturdy green stems and bright green leaves. At its base was a thick gnarled root of a reddish hue. Between my feet were more green shoots, smaller, younger than the venerable fellow right in front of my eyes.

“
Insam
,” I said. Ginseng. Literally, the people plant.

The man nodded.

Carefully, being sure not to damage any of the plants, I sat up and shoved the hanging branch out of the way. I studied the man’s rough visage. He was slightly amused with me, obviously at home squatting in the middle of this vast forest.

“You’re Huk Sanyang-gun,” I said, playing a hunch. The black hunter.

He didn’t nod but stared right at me. “That’s what they call me.”

“Is that your real name?”

“Now it is.” With his open palm, he motioned at the plants surrounding me. There were more of them, of all sizes and apparent ages, like a clan of little green people. “They like you,” he said.

“Like me?”

“Yes. That’s why they’ve allowed you to find them.”

“But I didn’t find them. I was exhausted last night and there was this broken branch here so I used it for shelter.”

“Yes,” he said. “You must be worthy.”

“Worthy of what?”

“Of finding the royal ginseng.”

“
I’m
worthy?” I said, pointing to the center of my chest.

Amused, Hunter Huk nodded.

“How about you? You found them, too.”

“I found you,” he corrected me. “You’ve been tromping through these woods for almost two days. I figured you weren’t going to get out alive if I didn’t help you.”

“Couldn’t you have come earlier?”

He shrugged. “I was busy.”

“With what?”

His eyes widened. “You’re not the only one who has things to do.” I leaned forward and rubbed my swollen ankles.

“You need to get to a hospital,” he said.

“Won’t this
insam
cure all my ailments?”

“Don’t make fun,” he said, frowning.

I figured he was right about that. I was depending on him to save my life.

“There was a tiger here last night.”

He smiled. “There are no tigers in these mountains. Once they roamed freely and protected the ginseng but now they are gone.”