Originally published in the Fall 2024 print anthology of The Word’s Faire.
By the time of her hundredth-day celebration, Ji-woo knew she was special. A precocious child, she had learned to crawl, point, sing, and walk with speed and facility. Though she triumphed over each task, her parents could not credit her specialness to these early milestones alone. Nor could they attribute it to her charming newborn laugh, complete with exquisitely spherical snot bubbles, which flew from her nostrils whenever a particularly passionate chuckle overtook her. The reason for her exceptional status was something different—something unusual.
Ji-woo understood fish. That is, she could speak with them. They communicated in bubbles and splashes, but the dialect might as well have been Korean or English; so crystalline were the exchanges that Ji-Woo often wondered why one felt the need to use words at all. She loved the way fish spoke. Their speech was softer and gentler than that of humans. Words flowed and sentences swam; their prose felt clear, fluid, and free. For five generations, Ji-woo’s matriline had possessed this power. It was both her birthright and an enormous responsibility, for the community’s drinking water depended on her ability to harness the wisdom of their aquatic acquaintances.
Ji-woo and her family lived in Manse, a quaint town in a land once known as Los Angeles. After the first of the Great Droughts, the vast majority of Southern California’s inhabitants migrated north in search of damper circumstances. Between 2150 and 2160, millions of climate refugees traversed an abandoned road called the Pacific Coast Highway, once the primary means of travel up and down the California coastline. Only a small Korean-American enclave remained in the area, sustained by a mythic secret that had guaranteed potable and plentiful water to the village for over a hundred years: the capacity to communicate with fish.
From the rainbow trout, Ji-woo’s grandmother learned to forage for drinkable droplets by filtering brackish water into its component parts with a mechanized gill. The technological wonder used hydraulic pumps and microbial biofilters to desalinate and purify water with higher precision and lower energy consumption than antiquated methods like reverse osmosis.
Under the guidance of a wise silver salmon, Ji-Woo’s mother honed the art of harvesting water with spiles from the five species of H20 trees encircling Manse’s central creek. Carved from elder wood, the spiles tapped into the sensitive systems of the H20 trees without compromising their overall health—a stark contrast to the harsh metal tubes used centuries prior for collecting maple syrup.
Ji-woo followed the wisdom that her mother and grandmother had acquired, implementing the mechanical gill and elder spiles to collect clean water for the town. When the creek periodically dried up and the H20 trees became dehydrated, Ji-woo called upon her aquatic friends to direct her to hidden streams and trees around town that her people could subsist on until the next rainfall. Years passed in this way. Manse flourished, as did its people—never lacking in what they needed, nor in what they wanted. Life was peaceful and joyful, full and fun.
At the age of eighteen, Ji-woo experienced the delicious delirium of falling in love for the first time. His name was Won. The eldest of three brothers, he had a quiet confidence and natural steadiness that Ji-woo found entrancing. They met in the fourth grade—that time in one’s life when a first crush can be so intoxicating to the point of debilitating its host. Their feelings, though reciprocal from the beginning, remained unstated for nearly ten years. But their love, once spoken, endured.
On a rainy day in May during her eighteenth year, Ji-woo sat perched on a flat, vaguely heart-shaped stone near the creek, trying in vain to gain the attention of an ultramarine Koi. When the fish finally neared her, the two debated which trees in the vicinity were most bloated with water and ready for harvest. Engaged in this dialogue, Ji-woo hardly noticed Won approaching. He grasped her shoulder.
“Hey,” he smiled sheepishly.
She glanced up at him, then averted her eyes to the ground.
“Hi,” she replied, face flushing like her mother’s pickled beets.
Suddenly brave, she rose with surprising grace and gingerly dusted the dirt from her knees. As she did so, his hands, leathered from years of weaving knots and freshwater fishing flies, reached down to join hers. He flipped her palms to face his own. Ji-woo wondered if Won could feel her heart beating through her thumb. (Years ago, when her father fainted on an unbearably hot afternoon, she remembered that her mother had measured his pulse in this way.)
For a few minutes, Ji-woo and Won stayed like this, saying nothing, going nowhere. Minds interlocking and breath quickening, anticipation united and flooded their cells. When their lips finally met, Ji-woo felt her chest flicker, and she knew that she would never be lonely again.
Two years later, Ji-woo gave birth to a son, Kwan. A year later, another son, Myeong. By the time her third son, Seok, was born, Ji-woo, along with all the other people of Manse, grew increasingly anxious. Everyone knew that Ji-woo would have to give birth to a daughter if the town was to continue flourishing. Forget flourishing—if the town was to survive, Ji-woo and Won needed to produce a female, fish-fluent heiress.
Desperate for wisdom, Ji-woo and Won traveled into the trees. Legends of a mystical Halmoni in the heart of the woods had swirled around Manse for nearly a century. Ji-woo, ever the skeptic, did not believe in miracles. Luckily, Won had enough faith in fantasy for the two of them. Hand in hand, they marched forward. Their love was quieter than at the height of youth. Ji-woo and Won’s bond now transcended marriage itself, their union inextricable from their duty to maintain and secure the livelihood of Manse.
The trail teemed with intoxicatingly unfamiliar colors, sounds, and smells. The salted mist and pesky sand that permeated every corner of Manse could not be identified here; instead, the scent of pine and honeysuckle wafted through the atmosphere, fallen branches and soft bark crunched beneath their feet. For hours, they marched joyously, listening only to the music of the forest. As night approached, Won’s mood shifted from levity to seriousness. Darkness would soon envelop the woods, and the prospect of a shelterless night paralyzed him. Experiencing the same thought, Ji-woo’s stomach lurched with anxiety. Neither gave voice to their worries, almost as if speaking fear aloud would legitimize it.
When she could wait no longer, Ji-woo turned to Won with terrified eyes. She opened her mouth, then closed it. He gazed at her sadly. Tears slid down Ji-woo’s porcelain cheeks—gently, at first, in delicate droplets, and then violently, into a briny and despondent stream.
Her tears flowed and flowed and flowed until she choked, nearly drowning. In between labored breaths, she released a heartbreaking noise that Won could only describe as a howl. He pulled her in close, and she buried her face in his chest. Within moments, his shirt was fully saturated with her sorrow.
Won, stoic by nature, seldom cried. But even he felt his eyes sting ever so slightly, felt his cheeks grow slick with moisture. There in the forest, which by the minute felt more sinister than enchanting, he stood as straight as his spine could muster, held his wife’s shuddering body, and murmured a prayer. There was nothing else to do.
The wind whistled mournfully. A fitting track, thought Ji-woo. But then, something curious happened: the wind took on the timbre of a human voice. Ji-woo appraised the sound. She wanted to be completely certain that she had not descended into madness before she made her theory known. After a minute of contemplation, she walloped Won on the shoulder and grinned. Confused, he forced a smile.
“Listen,” she instructed. Won closed his eyes and took a breath.
A beautiful song swam into his ears. He knew this tune; it felt familiar. How did he know it? Where had he heard it? The title was at the tip of his tongue, but the melody was already etched in his heart. Bewildered, he looked at Ji-woo.
“It’s Arirang,” she giggled.
Arirang! Of course. How could he have missed it before? The beloved Korean folk song had been sung to him since boyhood; the lyrics might as well have been tattooed. But where was the music traveling from? Or rather, from whom? A stout elderly woman suddenly emerged from an oversized tree. In between childish twirls, she continued crooning.
Ji-woo’s face gleamed. Won, incredulous, remained weary. The cynic had become the dreamer, the dreamer the cynic. But when the woman gestured for them to follow, both Ji-woo and Won obediently obliged without a moment’s deliberation. Entranced by the music emanating from the old woman’s heels, Ji-woo and Won refrained from speaking. Within their minds, however, they could sense that they shared the same thought: here danced the sorcerous Halmoni that the legends discussed. There was hope for them yet.
Like ducklings, Ji-woo and Won trotted behind the ancient yet vivacious Halmoni as she continued to sing cheerfully. At long last, the three of them reached a clearing, within which sat a cottage covered in overgrown ivy and flowers. Halmoni cackled and skipped into her home. Ji-woo and Won faced one another, shrugged, and then made their way inside.
The comforting perfume of kimchi-jjigae immediately overwhelmed Ji-woo’s senses. She realized that she hadn’t eaten all day. Halmoni ushered the two of them to sit down at the dining table. She had assembled a feast of stews, fish, rice, vegetables, various types of kimchi, and one tall glass containing a mysterious milky liquid. Ji-woo instantly sensed that the contents of the glass were meant for her.
Wordlessly, Halmoni prepared a plate for Ji-woo and ushered her to a seat at the head of the table. As expected, she handed Ji-woo the glass and nodded encouragingly. Ji-woo considered the mixture. Thick and cloudy, it had the quality of gelatinous yogurt. Thankfully, it was scentless. Ji-woo closed her eyes, leaned her head back, and swallowed. Within moments, her face whitened to the color of raw daikon. Eyes aching in Won’s direction, she collapsed into the wooden chair.
“What have you done?!” Won shouted, his voice violent but cracking. He paid Halmoni a chilling glare. Then, falling to his knees, he consoled his wife’s unconscious body with his words, for words were all he could offer her now. He recounted the story of when they first met. Nearly a decade had passed since that decisive morning when Ji-woo and her mother visited his family’s stand at the Saturday market. Ten-year-old Ji-woo had decorated her hair with a crown of silken pink butterflies. Gazing upon her, Won’s stomach had produced butterflies of its own.
He frowned to himself at the memory, which now felt so far away. He kissed Ji-woo’s forehead with ferocity. Please come back to me. He whispered his wedding vows to her, and then, feeling emboldened, admitted that he had memorized the vows years before they were married. I loved you from the moment we met. He begged Ji-woo to awaken and return to him. I’m nothing without you. He implored the spirits to turn back the clock. Is there anyone out there? He allowed himself to sob.
“What have you done?” he whispered to no one in particular.
Ji-woo stirred, moaning softly. Won stabilized her, placing his right hand on her lower back. She clawed at her stomach and groaned. Her body grew heavy in his arms. Her groans rang louder, crescendoing into a wail. Won debated which was worse: the macabre silence of anticipation or the heartbreaking noise of agony. He decided that having explicit confirmation of his wife’s excruciation was far more painful.
Ji-woo’s eyes suddenly shot open, and clutching her belly, she shrieked. Won looked down at Ji-woo’s hand, usually so dainty. It had swollen to the width of a grapefruit; her midsection had expanded to the size of a watermelon. His attention lingered on her stomach, which was continuing to expand at a steady rhythm. Won furrowed his brow. Something moved within. As reality took shape, Won gasped.
Ji-woo bore a perfect child that day: six and a half pounds; soft, apricot-hued skin; silken, raven-black tresses; a sparkling, boisterous laugh. Won took his wife’s hand in his and caressed her palm. She squeezed back softly.
“Let’s name her Yoona,” she beamed at her daughter.
Hearing this, tears of hope formed in the corners of Won’s eyes, for it was time to return home. Halmoni helped the parents swaddle their daughter in sky-blue, cotton-muslin blankets. She also prepared a fruit basket filled with strange tinctures and concoctions that Ji-woo was to consume in varying concentrations throughout the upcoming moon cycle. The medicines, Halmoni stressed, would boost postpartum vitality and fortify the nutritional value of Ji-woo’s breast milk. For Yoona, milk dense in nutrients was critical, as healthy brain development was essential for fish fluency to develop. The parents took judicious notes and thanked Halmoni for her assistance. They walked calmly into the night.
The following morning, the town of Manse blazed with celebration. Vendors lined the streets of the town square with multifarious delicacies: raw, cooked, and smoked fish; pickled vegetables atop sweet sticky rice; candied almonds wrapped in threads of fermented honey; spicy seafood pancakes; salty broth with chunks of ox-tail; hearty seaweed soup with silken tofu. The air thickened into a delectable, savory fog.
A choir of grade-school students assembled in orderly rows and performed a series of folk songs. The town’s designated priest and monk delivered congratulatory speeches to the relieved parents and citizens alike. Elders encircled Yoona, cooing as they praised her beauty, grace, and apparent brilliance. Yoona chortled, and marble-like bubbles flew from her nostrils, spurring a current of charmed laughter from the group. At sunset, a final gratitude ceremony cemented the day’s auspiciousness. The townspeople strolled down to the piers and prayed to the horizon. The haze of worry that enveloped Manse just hours before had officially dissipated.
One hundred days later, for her Baek-il celebration, Ji-woo and Won dressed Yoona in a girlish hanbok—pale pink with tiny white blossoms. On this day, her talent for speaking to fish was to be revealed. The townspeople gathered at Ji-Woo and Won’s home. The family sat together around an oval oak table. Yoona’s three brothers wrestled around the home until Ji-woo exasperatingly cried for them to join the rest of the group. Yoona’s parents placed four fish in front of her—each swimming calmly in its clear bowl of water. Ji-woo’s specialty had been Koi, and she secretly hoped that Yoona’s would be too. Silently, she admonished herself and promised that she would be proud of Yoona no matter which fish spoke to her first.
With wide eyes, Yoona appraised each of the fish placed before her. She threw out a hand towards the Koi, which made Ji-woo yelp with glee. Won placed Yoona on the table so she could crawl towards the Koi’s bowl. Yoona pressed her face up against the glass. The spectators nudged one another with excitement.
Yoona penetrated the Koi with her stare. Her face hardened, and the room grew cold. Absently, Yoona wriggled away from the bowls and towards the table’s edge. She would have wiggled right off and fallen onto the ground had Won not screamed for someone to catch her. She fell into the arms of Manse’s priest, unleashing a piercing scream. Kwan, Myeong, and Seok all covered their ears and yelled back at her, begging the sound to stop. The town elders turned to Ji-woo and Won with looks of incredulity. Miles away, in the depths of the forest, Halmoni shuddered.
As the clock struck midnight on the eve of Yoona’s eighteenth birthday, her mother died. When Yoona entered womanhood, a sickness took hold of Ji-Woo. With each passing year, Ji-woo grew weaker and weaker until she withered into nothing at all. Won, usually the family’s optimist, darkened significantly after his wife’s diagnosis: throat cancer, stage IV. After his wife fell ill, parenting Yoona and the boys became a leviathan effort. Most days, he didn’t feel like a father at all.
Yoona always sensed that, somehow, she was the cause of all this familial suffering. She learned as a young girl that she had been expected to speak to fish. Much to her chagrin, she possessed no such skill. She hated living in Manse. Every time she saw a fishing pole, hook, rod, net, or, god forbid, a bait worm, it was a reminder of her lack of talent, of her inability to provide crucial wisdom to her community.
Yoona avoided downtown Manse as much as possible. Whenever anyone clocked her traversing the street, they looked down at her with a sad sort of grimace. Yoona despised feeling pitied. But not as much as she despised herself. An overall anxious creature, she kept few friends, produced low grades at school, had the athletic prowess of a two-toed sloth, and worst of all, knew deep in her heart that her lack of talent would be the downfall of the town.
Won planned the funeral for a week after Ji-woo’s passing—that is, a week after Yoona's eighteenth birthday. (Yoona did not have a birthday party.) Ji-woo’s funeral had no programming. Won had been too exhausted to organize any speakers or musicians, and he felt incapable of delivering a eulogy. For three hours, the entire town sat in silence around Ji-woo’s casket.
Afterward, Yoona wandered about town. When she could no longer stand being examined by every person she passed, she decided to descend into the Delphic woods she knew so little about. She did not know if she would be safe within them, but at least she would be out of view, out of scrutiny. She took a deep breath and stepped into the trees. At that very moment, a gust of wind rushed through her, nearly knocking the breath out of her chest. From behind a spruce tree popped an elderly woman. Yoona did not have to ask her name. She already knew who stood before her: Forest Halmoni, from the village legends.
Halmoni looked into Yoona’s eyes with empathy and not an iota of pity. Instinctively, Yoona ran into her arms. Halmoni stroked her hair. Yoona finally permitted herself to cry. Halmoni then closed her eyes, furrowed her brow, and held up a hand to Yoona’s forehead. Halmoni waved her hand in a clockwise motion around Yoona’s face; as she did so, a shimmering scenic image emerged in the girl’s mind. Yoona squealed. The rumors were true—Halmoni had powers after all! Yoona concentrated on the picture, squinting internally so that the glittered border might dissolve and allow her a clearer view. She identified the upper part of Manse’s central creek, the section surrounded by baby spruce and honeysuckle flowers. The town square was visible in the distance. Yoona knew exactly where she needed to go. She kissed Halmoni on the forehead, turned around, and walked into her destiny.
Yoona sat near the creek on a smooth, cordate rock. She admired how the water swayed up to kiss the side of the stone before spilling back into the stream’s natural pull. These rocks probably spoke to the water more than any living creature within, she thought. At that moment, a soft, gravelly voice sang out to her. Yoona! Mystified, Yoona surveyed her surroundings. Spotting no one, she closed her eyes and tried to conjure her mother. At the funeral, she could have sworn that she saw her father accomplish this paranormal feat. He took three deep breaths, and her mother’s energy traveled into the room—Yoona was sure of it. But despite her best efforts, she could not mimic her father’s magic.
Nonetheless, she filled her lungs with slow, deep inhalations, and a calm wave settled her psyche. Once at peace, mind cleared, the voice intensified. Yoona! Yoona! Beneath continuous yawps, a Bossa Nova drum beat swirled into the sonic palette. The beat amplified until Yoona felt the rhythm vibrating from the rock beneath her. The rock! She nearly wheezed at the realization. At long last, she identified the voice’s origin: the very heart-shaped stone upon which she sat. In pristine Korean, the rock spoke. She hung onto every word.
Your mother loved you, Yoona. She loves you still. Yes, your gift differs from hers. But it’s just as powerful, and will be just as helpful to your community. Remain openhearted. I’m always here to talk. And I have many friends I must introduce you to. We will help you.
Yoona sobbed with elation. She had discovered her talent.