Chapter Two

The boys put the New Year kite away when spring arrived; kite flying was considered a winter sport. They spent the warm days playing other games. Now, with summer fading and the days growing shorter, both brothers were thinking of kites again. Kee-sup began to make a new one.

Young-sup thought it a good thing that his brother had found his way from flying a kite to making one. The seeing kite was well worn. Kee-sup's bumpy launching technique had often knocked the wooden frame askew. Loose sticks and rocks had torn the paper. Kee-sup had spent as much time patching and repairing as flying.

Clever with his hands, Kee-sup had made many toys in the past: bamboo dolls for their two little sisters, boats to sail on the Han River, a whole collection of carved animals. Hearing of his brother's plan to make a kite, Young-sup decided to make one as well.

It was high time he had a kite of his own. Besides, a kite was only a few sticks and some paper; how hard could it be to make one?

***

Young-sup watched as Kee-sup used a length of line to measure the bamboo sticks.

"Why do you need to do that? Look, mine are already cut. I'm ready to glue and tie them now."

Kee-sup was using the seeing kite as a model. He took his time, ensuring that the frame for the kite he was making matched the first one in every way. Meanwhile, Young-sup had moved on to the kite paper. He guessed at where the center of the rectangle lay and cut a rather lopsided circle out of the middle.

Kee-sup shook his head. "It's crooked."

"So what?" Young-sup shrugged. "You need a hole in the middle for the wind to blow through—it doesn't matter if it doesn't look nice." Young-sup felt the same way about decorations for his kite—plain white paper suited him fine. He didn't have time to waste on decorations. The important thing was to get the kite into the air.

As it turned out, he had to wait anyway. Kee-sup would not lend him the reel and line until his own kite was ready. And Kee-sup took the longest time over the decorations for his kite.

He drew little sketches of his ideas and made miniature kites out of folded paper. These tiny versions, dozens of them, were lined up on a shelf in the boys' room.

The graceful feathers of a crane. A leopard's countless spots. Bold Chinese picture words like "Luck," "Heaven," "Happiness"—the intricate Chinese symbols were considered more poetic than their Korean counterparts. "That one's good," Young-sup would say, trying to keep the impatience from his voice. "Why don't you choose that?" Kee-sup would only shake his head and fold the paper for yet another little kite.

Finally he chose a tiger design. Then he made half a dozen little tiger kites, experimenting with different patterns of stripes. Young-sup thought he would go mad with the itch of waiting.

It was several more days before the tiger was ready—the longest wait of Young-sup's life. At last the time came for the four-leg bridle of line to be attached to the frame. When Kee-sup tied the final knot, Young-sup couldn't stop himself from whooping with delight.

***

The next day the brothers headed out to the hillside for the first time that season. Though each now had his own kite, they still had only one reel between them. Young-sup begged so hard to be the first to use it that Kee-sup finally gave in, and together they tied the reel to the plain white kite.

Young-sup launched confidently. But the kite bucked and kicked and crashed unceremoniously after only a few moments in the air. Young-sup frowned and tried again. This time the kite stayed in the air, but it refused to obey the line's commands; indeed, it was only his superior skill that enabled the kite to fly at all.

A few moments later the kite plummeted to earth in a most undignified crash. Kee-sup trotted toward it. Over his shoulder he grinned and called, "It looks as if the tok-gabi is angry at you now."

Young-sup scowled. "That's not funny." He reached for the offending kite. But Kee-sup held it away from him, inspecting it carefully.

"Look—your crosspieces aren't the same length," he pointed out. He held the kite in both hands, pushing one side and pulling the other; with very little effort, the frame twisted crazily. "And the whole frame is unstable. That's why you're having so much trouble."

Young-sup sulked, but he knew his brother was right. "Let me have a turn with yours," he begged.

"Yes, all right. But I want to fly it first."

They untied the reel from Young-sup's kite and attached it to the tiger. Kee-sup stood at the top of the hill and fussed with the kite for a few moments, adjusting the line and reel. Finally he looked at Young-sup.

"I don't want this one to get bumped and torn like the seeing kite. Help me launch."

A launch was easier with two people. Young-sup held the kite and Kee-sup the reel. Young-sup released the tiger at the right moment, then watched as it soared into the air, sure and true, as if all tigers could fly.

***

Young-sup loved the feeling of a kite on a line. He liked the moment of launching when he stood perfectly still, feeling the wind at his back and the kite's desire to be in the air. He experimented constantly, teasing the line this way and that, holding the reel different ways, even turning his whole body at varied angles, to coax the kite into following his commands.

The wind was always his partner, one he must strive to understand with the kite's help. Sometimes it was like a kitten, pawing gently at the kite, nudging it across the sky. At other times it was a big dog, friendly and eager but too rough in its play. It would bat and swipe and seem to shake the kite in its jaws.

On many occasions the wind died completely. At those moments Young-sup could feel the line slacken just before the kite began to fall. A lightning reaction, where his hands reeled in almost before his mind had finished the thought, would find a freshet of wind in another patch of the sky. Other times he discovered that the only way to stop a kite's fall was to give it more line, not less.

The kite was like a part of him—the part that could fly.

***

With the failure of his own homemade kite, Young-sup was forced to borrow his brother's tiger when he wanted to fly. Kee-sup was willing enough to share, for he had given up altogether trying to learn to launch a kite on his own. Either his lack of skill or the naughty tok-gabi made his kite crash every time. Young-sup now helped with each launch, and Kee-sup repaid the favor by allowing him to have a turn with the tiger.

Despite plenty of opportunities to fly, Young-sup was not content. More than anything he wanted a good kite of his own. One afternoon as they walked home from the hillside, he silenced his pride and spoke. The words did not come easily.

"Brother, I was—I was truly a failure at making a kite. You made yours so well. Would you make one for me?" He hesitated, then went on. "It would be such fun to be able to fly together instead of taking turns. And the tiger is magnificent. It would be a great honor to fly one just like it."

Kee-sup walked on, looking down at the ground, and did not answer for a few moments.

"No," he said finally.

Young-sup opened his mouth to protest. Kee-sup held up his hand for silence, then halted there in the road to speak.

"I won't make one for you. But I'll help you make one of your own. You must make the frame, but I'll do the decorations for you, so it will look just the same."

In a rush of relief and eagerness, Young-sup agreed. But Kee-sup had one more thing to say.

"This time you must build the frame exactly as I tell you. A kite like your last one is just a waste of time. If you want a kite worthy of a tigers stripes, its bones must be strong."

***

The work was painstaking from the very start. Kee-sup insisted that Young-sup measure the bamboo sticks precisely. The first time, Young-sup was careless with the measuring string. He pulled it taut for one stick but less so for the second. After he had cut the sticks, he found that they were uneven. Kee-sup made him measure and cut them again.

If the knife slipped the merest hair, it was enough to make the sticks uneven. "Cut them again," Kee-sup ordered.

Time after time Young-sup had to clench his teeth so the words of frustration would not escape. But as the days went by, the kite's construction gained his interest. He began to see that the flying walked invisibly beside every step of the making.

"I know that you can see the wind and I can't," Kee-sup said jokingly, "but we both know what it's like—how strong it can be. The frame must be just as strong."

Young-sup nodded. He knew the thrill of seeing how light sticks of bamboo and mere paper could be the wind's equal.

The angles and corners where the sticks met received critical attention. Kee-sup showed him how these were the most vulnerable points. If time and care were not taken on the joints, the first stress of the wind against the paper could misalign them. The smashed grains of cooked rice they used for glue were messy and seemed to get everywhere. Often Young-sup found that his very fingertips were stuck together.

Even the simple bridle was a lesson. "The points where you attach the line must be placed so," Kee-sup explained. "If it is fixed to one side or the other—even a little—the balance will be wrong. The line will pull harder on one side."

"I felt that with my first kite," Young-sup admitted.

Bit by bit the frame was completed. Then Kee-sup turned his attention to the paper. Young-sup was delighted as the work progressed. Kee-sup was making the pattern of stripes subtly different from his own tiger kite, so that the kites looked similar but not the same.

Like brothers.