The Way Back Home

#1

As the warmth of the sun began to chase away the morning chill of autumn, the neighborhood kids, as if by some silent agreement, gathered beneath the ginkgo tree. But when I say the “neighborhood kids,” there were really only four of us: little Jong-a, a first grader who had tagged along his older brother Jong-gu, as well as Jeong-hyeok, and me. Jong-gu and Jeong-hyeok were in sixth grade, and I was in fifth. Our usual playmate, Heung-seop, a fourth grader, was nowhere in sight. I glanced toward his house, but only a cold emptiness lingered—his family had moved to Seoul not long ago.

“Let’s go play in the mountains!”

One of us shouted just as we were getting a little bored, having run out of things to do.

“Yeah, let’s!”

We all echoed back, faces lighting up with excitement.

“But Jong-gu, what about Jong-a?” I asked.

All eyes turned to little Jong-a, standing there, sun-darkened from the summer heat, wearing only slippers on his bare feet.

“I want to go too!” Jong-a pleaded.

The little first grader clung to Jong-gu’s arm, his eyes wide and desperate, as if the world depended on it.



#2

We put Jong-a in the middle and set off in a line toward the hill behind our neighborhood. In the spring, we would split into teams to play imaginary battles there, and in the winter, we would sled down the slopes on fertilizer sacks. Before long, we reached the middle of the hill. But it was late autumn—no wild grapes, no ivy, no hazelnuts. Even on the mountain, there was nothing left to play with.

“Wanna try going all the way to the top?” I suggested.

The hill was actually a ridge of Mountain Myeongbong. I had once heard from the older kids in the neighborhood that if you followed the ridge all the way, you would reach the summit. Some said that from the top, the fighter jets flying nearby felt like they could burst your eardrums. Others said you could see Munmak stretched out below. Every winter, I had passed Munmak by bus on my way to my grandmother’s house, so the thought that it lay beyond the mountain made me even more curious.

“All right, let’s go!” The boys chorused.

We climbed the narrow path in a single line. The village soon vanished from view, and we entered a dense, unfamiliar forest trail. The silence was broken only by the occasional calls of mountain birds. Startled by our laughter, one suddenly took flight with a loud flurry of wings, making us jump in surprise. Further along, our curiosity was sparked by the traps and snares villagers had set to catch rabbits and raccoons.

The deeper we ventured, the more the silence pressed in. A shiver ran down my spine at the thought that a tiger might appear, yet we kept talking and laughing as we made our way toward the summit. Little Jong-a followed along effortlessly, his slippers barely slowing him down.



#3

After about two hours, we finally reached the summit of Mountain Myeongbong. Thrilled by our sense of accomplishment, we looked around and shouted “Yahoo!” into the wind—but the fighter jets we had been hoping to see were nowhere in sight. Far below, we could make out what seemed to be the village of Munmak, along with scattered fields and paddies.

“Hey! Look, there’s a pond over there!”

This time, it was Jeong-hyeok who shouted. Following the direction of his finger, I spotted a tiny pool of water between the rice fields—barely the size of a palm.

“I bet there are a lot of carp in there,” I said.

“Wanna go check it out?” He asked.

After exchanging a quick glance, we immediately started down the slope. Unlike the gentle ridge we had climbed from the village, this side was steep. We leapt and bounded over the thick carpet of fallen leaves, which reached up to our knees in places, darting down the mountainside like squirrels. Jong-gu followed closely behind little Jong-a, who moved with surprising agility despite his small frame.

In no time, we reached the bottom and found ourselves standing before the pond. It was larger than we had expected—a full reservoir with a high, steep embankment that kept us from getting too close. From a short distance, the water looked pitch black, and there were no carp in sight. Disappointed that wasn’t at all what we had imagined, we whiled away the time tossing pebbles into the dark water.



#4

“I’m hungry,” Jong-a complained.

After more than three hours of hiking, we were well past lunchtime, and hunger and fatigue were starting to sink in. Little Jong-a began to whine. The smiles faded from our faces as we exchanged worried glances, then turned back to look up at the mountain we had just descended. From the Munmak side, the mountain rose far steeper and taller than it had from our village. To my tired, hungry eyes, it seemed impossibly high. The older boys shook their heads as if to say there was no way we could climb back over it.

“Let’s head to Wonju!” I blurted out.

Everyone turned to look at me.

“It’s not too far from here. My aunt lives in Wonju—we can go to her place, borrow some bus fare, and take the bus home!”

Having given up on crossing the mountain, Jong-gu and Jeong-hyeok silently followed my lead. The truth was, my only memory of Munmak was simply passing through it by bus from Wonju on the way to my grandparents’ home in Yeoju. I had no idea how far Wonju really was on foot. All I knew was that if we followed the bus route, we would eventually reach the city—and that my aunt’s home was somewhere near Wonju High School.

We spotted a signpost that read “Wonju” and started walking along the unpaved road where buses rumbled past. The dust thrown up by their wheels and the blaring horns of speeding cars made it hard to keep going. So, remembering only the direction toward Wonju, we went back down into the village and walked along the farm road.



#5

As we moved away from the main road, we quickly lost our sense of direction.

“Excuse me, sir, which way is Wonju?”

From a distance, Jeong-hyeok called out loudly to a man working in the fields. The man pointed toward the correct path and gave us clear directions.

We picked up the pace, no longer in the mood to dawdle, and spread out along the path. I, having suggested the detour to Wonju, took the lead, while Jong-gu brought up the rear, keeping little Jong-a—who was starting to whine—close behind him.

We were all exhausted, having walked for hours without even a sip of water. We had no idea how much farther we had to go, and turning back was out of the question—we were simply too far from the place where our journey had begun.

After passing through the village and climbing a small hill, we came across a narrow ditch that cut across the path. I paused briefly to let the others catch up.

“Jong-gu, I’m thirsty,” little Jong-a whimpered.

He sank to the ground, nearly collapsing. I glanced at the ditch water—it looked crystal clear, and when I touched it, it was cold. I leaned forward and took the first sip, and the others quickly followed. The water revived us just enough to keep going.

“Come on, let’s go!” I urged.

I quickened my pace and took the lead, unable to hide my impatience.

“Wait! Jong-a fell asleep!” Jong-gu called out.

While we paused for a moment to drink some water, little Jong-a, exhausted beyond his limits, lay down on the dirt path and fell asleep. When we lifted his unsteady body and took his hand, he let out a few trembling sobs before finally managing to take a hesitant step.

#6

Crossing a low hill, we came upon a small village with a few farmhouses sat huddled together. As we walked past one of the houses, we ran into a man working out front.

“Sir, how do we get to Wonju from here?” Jeong-hyeok asked.

“How long would it take on foot?” I added.

“What? You kids wants to walk to Wonju?” The man exclaimed. “There’s no chance you’ll get there today!”

“But we really have to go today,” I insisted.

“You don’t know how far it is!” the man said, waving his hand. “You’d be better off spending the night here and going in the morning!”

We exchanged uneasy glances and slowly began to edge away.

“Let’s . . . let’s just go,” I whispered.

Hearing that we wouldn’t reach Wonju by today was one thing—but the idea of spending the night there sent a chill down my spine. We inched away from him, then turned, picked up our pace, and before long we were sprinting. Behind us, the man shouted again:

“Kids! Stay here for the night!”

Thankfully, he didn’t follow. Maybe he really was being kind, but at that moment something about it felt unsettling. Gasping for breath, we glanced back one last time, then kept walking. The sun was already tilting toward the mountain ridge.



#7

Twilight slowly crept over the land. My chest felt tight—as if the slightest nudge would make me burst into tears—and my body was almost ready to give out. We came across a woman on the path and asked where we were.

“This is Dongdolmi . . . Where are you boys headed?” she asked.

“Dongdolmi? I know this place!”

Jeong-hyeok suddenly burst out, his voice shaking with excitement. We all turned to him, wide-eyed.

“Our village isn’t far from here! If we keep going this way, we’ll be home!” he exclaimed.



#8

From then on, Jeong-hyeok took the lead, and we trailed behind him along the narrow creek-side embankment. Our hearts still fluttered with worry, but the hope of reaching our village soon lifted our spirits. The evening shadows thickened around us.

As we hurried to keep up with him, a scene that felt strangely familiar came into view. Instantly, we knew exactly where we were: the field where my father once guided the ox as he leveled the soil, where I used to let it graze afterward, where my mother would appear with our midday meal balanced on her head, and the very spot where the village elders had recently threshed the rice.

“Jeong-hyeok!” I shouted.

Jeong-hyeok turned back, grinning as though he knew exactly why I was calling. His white teeth gleamed against his sun-darkened skin. I spun around and yelled to Jong-gu and Jong-a trailing behind us, and Jong-gu hollered back in response. Soon, we were all shouting and cheering, our voices bursting with joy.

Then, suddenly, Jeong-hyeok dashed up to a field above the paddies. He rummaged around in the soil for a moment and popped something into his mouth.

“Jeong-hyeok, what is that?” I asked.

“Radish!” He said, chomping away. The field was full of radishes, their white bottoms peeking through the earth, still waiting to be harvested, glowing faintly in the twilight.

“Can we eat these?” I asked, hesitantly.

“Sure! They’re from our field—grab one!” Jeong-hyeok said.

We yanked the radishes from the ground, peeled them with our teeth, and gobbled them down. At last full, we laughed and joked as we made our way home through the dimming light.



#9

One by one, the houses of the lower village came into view, each sending up a curl of white smoke. Following the embankment around the mountain, the ginkgo tree appeared—we had finally reached our village. At the entrance, little Jong-a dashed ahead, his slippers clattering, without even saying goodbye. Jong-gu, Jeong-hyeok, and I exchanged relieved smiles before heading to our own homes.

Passing beneath the ginkgo tree, I stepped into our front yard. The pigs were grunting and slurping noisily at their mash; the smell of boiling fodder drifted from the cauldron in the inner yard; the lid clattered each time it was lifted and set down; and the calves bleated, pleading with Father to feed them. After spending the whole day wandering through unfamiliar and frightening places, we finally made it back home at sunset. How warm and savory the smell of the fodder was! Even the pigsty’s manure seemed almost fragrant.

I passed through the fence into the inner yard, where Father was crouched beneath the steaming cauldron, his back wavering in the glow of the fire beneath it. A smile slipped out before I even realized it. Sensing my presence, Father turned to look.

“Do you know what time it is? Have you finished your homework yet?” He asked.

“I’ll do it in a minute,” I replied.

I tiptoed across the yard and climbed onto the kitchen platform, peeking inside. Mother was tending the hearth fire, preparing dinner. She turned to me, smiled, and asked,

“You’ve been out since morning without even having lunch. Where on earth have you been? Aren’t you hungry?”

“I’m full—I ate some radish,” I replied.

“Radish? That’s what you’re filling your stomach with?” Mother exclaimed.

“Hehe . . . By the way, Mom, do you know where Dongdolmi is?” I asked.

“That’s in Seungan-dong, isn’t it? How do you even know about Dongdolmi?” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, it’s nothing . . . Jeong-heyok said he’d been there.” I murmured nervously.

I couldn’t bring myself to say I had gone to Dongdolmi—I was afraid I’d be scolded. I slipped into the main room and tucked my hands and feet beneath the blanket in the warm spot by the floor. The heated stone floor was pleasantly hot. As the tension drained away and the ache in my legs loosened, I lay back against the toasty floorboards. Again, little bursts of laughter slipped out of me. It felt as if I were dreaming.



#10

“What were you doing that you got so tired you fell asleep? Come on, it’s time for dinner,” Mother chided.

Half-dazed, I sat down at the table. White steam rose in gentle curls from my favorite black-bean rice and soybean paste soup. Before I knew it, another smile slipped across my face.

“You’ve been grinning to yourself for a while now—what’s making you so happy?” she asked, looking puzzled.

“Hehe . . . It’s nothing.” I murmured.

I couldn’t tell them why. All I could do was keep smiling.

“Did you finish your homework? After dinner, I’m going to see if you’ve memorized all your alphabets!” Father reminded me.

“Uh . . . Can I have just one more hour?” I pleaded.

Ah—so it wasn’t a dream after all! But sitting at the warm, cozy table with Father and Mother, I couldn’t stop the laughter bubbling up inside me. I was struck all over again by how comforting—and how truly wonderful—it felt to be home with my parents.