After hurrying back to the temple, Mother Seoul called the captain of the dispatch station to a private room right away. She also included the captain with the flashy mustache from the police station, who had given her a ride in the jeep, and she asked the two of them about the details of the appearance of Mandogi’s ghost the night before.

Because he had greeted the captain with “Good evening,” she assumed that Mandogi was still a dimwit, even as a ghost, and under the circumstances, there was nothing to do but to cast him down into hell. This wasn’t something to be done halfheartedly. This was the law in these turbulent times, and it couldn’t be helped, unfortunate as it might have been. And in order to cast the ghost down into hell, she muttered, “Hail Amida Buddha.” This was her way of coping with these turbulent times. Mother Seoul informed the two captains that she had decided that the prayer ceremony wouldn’t be a Buddhist service but would take the form of witchcraft. Once she had made up her mind, she couldn’t remain idle, so she cooked the rice herself, washed the fruit, and prepared the offerings for the altar.

When twilight finally crept into the sanctuary, the prayers began. As the service continued, Mother Seoul’s long, narrow face with its narrow eyes bore a more and more demonic expression. Shadows from the candles danced on her face above her eyes, which shined with the same blue light that appeared when she beat Mandogi with the bamboo switch. Behind Mother Seoul, who sat in front of the altar, were five police officers, including the captain who had now shaved off his flashy mustache, and the captain of the dispatching station at the temple, all with their hats off, sitting cross-legged and participating in the ceremony. The prayers were filled with spells and charms against evil spirits. They had concluded that Mandogi’s ghost was a menace to humans, so they decided that they should banish him from the temple for eternity. Moreover, they had chosen a format that included spells for destroying the ghost of Old Man O’s daughter-in-law along with Mandogi. The captain who had shaved his mustache had requested a gentler format, more like a memorial service, but he didn’t get his wish.

The sanctuary was oppressed by the heavy, chanting voice of a woman. Rubbing the rosary beads violently with both fists, the police officers, surrounded by the urgent-sounding chants, quietly bowed their heads.

Let our eyes and ears now humbly receive

Your true and perfect wisdom, oh, Buddha,

Of the deep, profound mysteries

Of a hundred million ages.

She started with a sutra, then continued with spells, a very strange mixture for a prayer, to tell the truth.

Oh, majestic sun, majestic sun

Rising in the east,

We command you with this charm

To cleanse the earth of all evil,

To sweep it into the fiery abyss…

I command thee, quickly,

Surrender, foul spirit,

And be changed

Into a pleasant spirit.

Sitting still, her back straight, Mother Seoul’s face looked like the face of someone possessed. She repeated the spells three times, her upper and lower teeth gnashing against each other in her bright red mouth. Then she turned to face east and spat out the water she had been holding in her mouth. Next, with a thin brush and crimson ink made from crushed cinnabar, she wrote out a mysterious spell. The temple, even with all the participants in the prayer service, looked like a gathering spot for spirits.

From under the altar, Mandogi strained his ears to figure out what was going on in the sanctuary. In the dark, he glared at the curtain that blocked his view. Before long he was breathing heavily, frustrated with being cooped up in the cellarlike space under the altar. Eventually, he could feel his heart quivering with anger. Could this really be happening? He wouldn’t let himself believe it. How could they do something this stupid, he wondered. Putting a curse on the ghost of that innocent, beautiful girl, how could anyone do such a thing? What could these curses possibly have to do with her, who would sit next to him on the porch in the courtyard where you could see the persimmon tree, who had given him a moment’s warm happiness? This was like a thief holding a whip. Mandogi was much more angry on behalf of the girl’s ghost than on behalf of his own living self.

Just like a lion in a small cage, his restricted body shook with anger and he ground his teeth as he lifted his head. The moment his head thumped against the bottom of the altar, he felt his blood freeze, and his neck contracted awkwardly. He wanted to poke his head outside the curtain and jump out of the cellar. He wanted to jump out into the sanctuary, letting his anger explode all over the police, as well as Mother Seoul. Repressing this unbearable urge, Mandogi regretted letting the smell of the comb guide him to Mother Seoul’s room and saying, “Good evening.” If she had been in the room, what woulda happened to me, he wondered. And then, from afar, the rough field of the execution grounds, covered in a flock of crows, came into view. Ah, Mother Seoul is standing there. Mother Seoul is standing, holding a gun, surrounded by dispatching-station police and the captains. They’re looking at me sitting behind the curtain under the altar. They must be waiting for me.

Big tears rolled down Mandogi’s cheeks. How could it be, he thought. How could it be? As soon as he was forced to realize that Mother Seoul would have turned him over to the police, he got upset. This feeling of loneliness, which he had never felt with Mother Seoul, came out in the form of big tears that rolled down his face. Now he could clearly see Mother Seoul’s demonic face looking toward him as she cursed him on the other side of the dark curtain. If he had poked his neck outside the curtain even a little, the blades of countless guillotines would come crashing down on his head. No, they wouldn’t be guillotines. Mother Seoul’s countless eyes, giving off their blue light, would suddenly grow arms and grab him. Mandogi got scared of the light coming through the curtain from her eyes and unconsciously shuffled along the floor in the darkness under the altar, until his back was straight up against the back wall.

Surely, in that moment, there was bitterness toward Mother Seoul in Mandogi’s heart. But it didn’t matter. What would happen, if by some chance Mother Seoul called, “Mandogi! Mandogi—! Kongyangju!” What would he do if that voice reached his wounded ear? Wouldn’t Mandogi stand up, breaking through the altar? Wouldn’t he poke his neck out into the room right away and answer, “Yes”? More than anything, when he heard that voice, his body shivered with a yearning as if he had not seen her for many years, as if she had just come back from a faraway journey. He thought it was fine if she called him a maggot, and fine if she beat him with the switch. He just wanted that voice calling him like his mother, “Mandogi! Mandogi—!” The echoes of that voice had a power to draw him in that others could not imagine. And maybe they would make him come crawling out like a dog being called by its master. But luckily, Mother Seoul finished without ever calling, “Mandogi!” It was a good thing. It could be said that this was the only reason Mandogi escaped nŭngjich’ŏch’am, an old method of execution in this country, where they cut up your limbs, your torso, and your head.

“Shimomura is on fire!” Suddenly, a voice was screaming. It was coming up from the entrance to the sanctuary. “They set fire to Shimomura!” Again the voice screamed. Mandogi was shocked and tried to hear what was going on outside, but another screaming voice removed all his doubt, saying, “Hey, look! It’s really burning!” At the disturbance outside, everyone stood up, leaving only Mother Seoul in front of the curtain. Alone, she kept repeating the spiteful curses in her merciless voice. Even from behind the thick, unwavering curtain, Mandogi could see the flames licking violently at Shimomura, where that girl hanged herself from the persimmon tree. Then came the hell fire. The leaders had brought hell fire to the earth, where their fellow humans lived. He had expected the fire, but because he had expected it, anger and sorrow welled up from deep inside his body. From above the flames, dancing wildly high in the night sky, came the voice of Old Man Yi from the sentry post, screaming, “Look! It’s just as I said! They finally burned the village, burned our homes too!” Mandogi knelt, rubbing his forehead on the floor. He covered his head with both hands, stifling the ferocious power in his body the same way he did when Mother Seoul was hitting him. He thumped his head on the floor again and again, and the echoes might have even reached Mother Seoul through the floorboards.

Before long, Old Man Yi’s voice, which had flown down from above the flames, was quietly, quietly whispering in his ear. “The temple too. If they burn the village, you think they’ll need the sentry post and the police station at the temple? Huh, Mandogi? Before long, they’ll burn the temple too. Then this area will be completely uninhabited…”

That night, Mandogi breathed heavily, as if struggling to carry a heavy burden up a mountain. Even as a temple hand, he had no choice but to renounce the temple. Of course, even Mandogi understood that it was a police-dispatching station and not a temple, as the officers had said. If the priest wouldn’t even come near these temple ruins, then who could possibly consider it a temple? But as long as the image of the Buddha was still enshrined there, it must be said that it was a temple too. It was a temple, to be sure. But a ceremony cursing the ghost of Old Man O’s poor, innocent daughter-in-law, along with Mandogi, had been performed at the temple. It was a way of praying that had never even crossed Mandogi’s mind, and it was appalling to him.

In the space under the altar, Mandogi bore the shock with an angry heart. At the same time, as he crouched, hugging his knees, a strange thought came over him—that he was his own master. He stuck his neck out into the dark, deserted sanctuary, and as he stretched his hand up to the altar to receive some of the fruit from the offering, he thought about this declaration of independence, that is, independence from the temple, and independence from Mother Seoul.

Wiping the sweat from his forehead, Mandogi finally crawled out of the cellar. He wasn’t hot. The cool spring air in the deserted sanctuary felt light and feathery on his skin. He could no longer crouch in the cellar, as he was gripped by this thought. It was already stuck fast inside his head, not going away, and it forced a cold sweat out onto his scorching forehead. From the beginning, the thought had been so powerful that it felt like a big spike that had flown in from somewhere and penetrated the soft inside of his head.

Mandogi had decided to burn down the temple.

Having crawled out of the cellar into the pitch-black sanctuary, where even the candles had been put out, he went out the door into the pale, hazy moonlight, then turned toward the hill behind the sanctuary and started climbing.

There was no path on the hill, which was covered in pine thickets, but once you got to the top, the path to the sentry post began. Mandogi sat down on the side of the hill, on the roots of a pine tree soaked in evening dew, and he drew a deep breath, as if to suck up the sanctuary that was hidden in the cavity at the edge of the hill, then breathed a heavy sigh. The cool, noisy breeze blowing through the pine thicket sucked up his breath and carried it away. The darkness spread out like a sea, with not a single light to be found. The village of Shimomura must have already burned completely to the ground. Without any shadows from the flames, a pretty half moon shined in that area of the sky. In the frosty night air on top of the hill, Mandogi had to take in deep breaths—no, had to breathe heavy sighs—over and over.

Mandogi was thinking. If I don’t burn down the temple, then the police will burn down the temple! Yes, the same police who burned down Kannon Temple in the heart of that deep valley will burn down this temple too. The same police who burned down Shimomura will burn down the temple. He shivered as he leaned against the pine tree. Raising his quivering fists above his head, he turned around and pounded the pine tree with all his might. The stinging pain in his fists felt good. How come whenever the cops want to burn something, they manage to get it burned, and if they want to kill, they have their own way and kill? It’s like they kill humans as if they’re lice. To the cops, are the people in the village just like lice? I’ve always been like a maggot, so I’m the same as a louse. But what in the heck should I do now? Where should I go?

He had nowhere to go. He was like a human living in the spirit world, but if he burned down the temple, then he wouldn’t even have the dark cellar under the altar to hide himself, and he wouldn’t have the kitchen to satisfy his midnight hunger. But more than that, Mandogi felt anger swelling up deep in his heart. He had already been angry about the curses put on Old Man O’s beautiful daughter-in-law, and the fire in Shimomura had been the last straw. Mandogi felt that he couldn’t leave the temple in the filthy hands of the police anymore. Even if the guilt of burning the temple himself sent him straight down to hell, he couldn’t leave the temple in the hands of the police.

Now Mandogi thought, It’s just like people say, I really am a dimwit. How I could have missed what this world I live in has come to, isn’t it proof that I’m a dimwit? How’s it any different from not noticing a piece of shit stuck to my own face? He impulsively rubbed his own cheeks and smiled to himself. When he was a child, he had had shit smeared on his face by the children of the temple-goers, but those marks wouldn’t have been there anymore. Yeah, the washed-potato chief said that we should do whatever it takes to rid the world of the reds, who are more useless than shit, who do more harm than good. The gambling-loving captain of the dispatching station, who’s probably down there sleeping right now, he was always saying things like that too. The officers would sit on the lawn on the temple grounds, and when they killed people, they’d talk real loud with each other about the particulars of how they died. And when I walked by, they’d call me over and make me talk to them. They’d shoot women, but first they’d strip them naked and tie them to trees. The police stuck their guns between the women’s legs, deep up inside them. “Hey, kongyangju, you like girls yet, do you? Are you okay down there, even when you hear a juicy story like this? Hey, show us,” the police would guffaw. Oh, and then those hands would want to check what was between my legs. How come, that time, when I stood up to leave that place, I laughed so strangely, “Eehehehe”? What kind of awful laugh was that? “Eehehehe, eehehehe.” Mandogi recalled that laugh, which he had picked up somewhere in the atmosphere the police had created, that strange, terrible laugh. Now, to his eyes and ears, the things the police had done before killing the women and his own strange laugh seemed insufferable, and his anger turned toward himself. Oh, those hands, groping me between my own legs, and on the women, naked, tied to those trees… Mandogi impulsively covered his face with both hands. Even with his face covered, he could not block out this image that had floated up into the dark night air, but, still, Mandogi covered his face with both hands, fearful of the image of all those naked women. He shut his eyes tight, so tight. Oh, those hands, those filthy hands gathered, and an even bigger hand, the government’s hand, burned down Shimomura, and now it’s going to burn down this S Hill Temple…

Mandogi suddenly stood up.

“Oh, Great Priest!” Mandogi held onto the rough bark of the pine tree with both arms, looked up to the dark sky, and called out to the benevolent old priest with the long white beard. “Mandogi’s all alone. I’m so lonely now that you’re gone. I’m all by myself. Great Priest, tell me. What should I do? I’m going to burn the temple. The temple. I’m going to burn down the temple. A kongyangju’s going to burn down the temple. A kongyangju. But, the people of Shimomura, they’re not lice to be thrown in the fire. They’re good, innocent people. The police are the lice. They love to suck the blood out of people. Great Priest, I’m, I’m going to throw those lice in the fire. I’m going to burn up those lice in the fire. Great Priest, somehow, grant me the strength. Grant Mandogi the strength.”

The next moment, the voice of the priest came down from the sky above the pine thicket, falling right on Mandogi’s ear. “The Buddha lives in your heart,” it said. And then, “The priest, like the Buddha, lives in your heart.” This mysterious night voice entered Mandogi’s ears with a prophetic tone. The Buddha lives in your heart. The Buddha lives in your heart. The priest lives in your heart. The Buddha, the Buddha, the Buddha… the priest, the priest, the priest… your heart, heart, heart, heart. Taken aback, Mandogi opened his eyes. At some point, still holding onto the pine tree, he had fallen into a deep trance.

Having at last made up his mind, Mandogi stumbled through the hanging branches and sprawling tree roots to climb up to the top of the hill. Paying no attention to the blind flights of the birds who flew off the branches he ran into, he headed for the top. From there, he could no longer see the temple, which was obstructed by the trees, or the stone fortress around the sentry post on the other side. At the top of S Hill, looking up at the dark sky, Mandogi took a deep, deep breath then slowly started down the hill.

Having returned to the sanctuary, he first took all that was left of the offering. In the dark, the fruit, the mountain vegetables, and the white rice went down his throat and into his stomach, stretching its walls and giving renewed strength to the rest of his body. Then, once the offering tray was empty, Mandogi realized that he had forgotten something very important. Everything but the will to burn down the temple had disappeared from his mind, and he hadn’t thought at all about how to burn it, how to actually go about doing it. No, it had slipped his mind during his dialogue with the priest, when at long last he had reached the top of the hill.

Having already made up his mind, he felt that no matter what, he wouldn’t take a single step back. As much as he was a dimwit, at times like these when he was backed up into a corner, he got all the more stubborn, unmoving as a boulder. If he could, he had to do something tonight, before the sun came up.

Well, how could he make sure to burn it completely, without leaving a trace? Mother Seoul always said, “A wise man studies ahead of time, but a fool always thinks of things afterward.” If only I had asked the priest when I heard his voice from the sky above the pine thicket on top of the hill, Mandogi thought. He even considered climbing back up to the top of the hill. But then, he felt the darkness of the sanctuary suddenly wash over him, and again a voice said, “The priest, like the Buddha, lives in your heart.” Surprised by the strange voice, Mandogi gazed at the Buddha’s image in the dark, and that deep, echoing, faraway voice suddenly changed into a whisper in his ear.

Mandogi was grateful for the voice, and if he could have, he would have lit the candles, burned the incense, and chanted the sutras, but now, being a ghost, he had to suppress the urge. Right now, he had a huge task to complete. Mandogi felt a rare cold sweat slowly emerging from his forehead and wiped it away with his arm. The Buddha, the Buddha, the Buddha… the priest, the priest, the priest… your heart, heart, heart, heart. At some point, the sound of the voice above the silence of the middle of the night had moved inside his ear and had changed into his own mumbling voice.

“OK, so it’s in my heart.” Mandogi finally smiled. He thought, he had already finished the hard part by deciding to burn down the temple, and once that was done, if he thought about how to do it, that would come to him in the same way. OK, so the answer is already in my heart, he thought. Our Mandogi bobbed his neck up and down, pleased with what he had come up with. The bright red sea of flames burning Shimomura spread before his eyes. From the cellar underneath the altar, it had never been visible, but now he could clearly see the fearsome light of the flames licking at the village. It was the same with the spiraling black smoke from the flames of Kannon Temple that he had suddenly seen from the mountainside, that day when Mount Halla had shone beautifully, covered in snow. When the police burned villages—no, when they burned down anything and everything on the island—they always used gasoline. They had gotten gasoline from the Americans, and they poured the flashing, exploding liquid over everything, without restraint. That’s right. There should even be some gasoline here. No, there definitely is. Mandogi knew that there were a few cans of gasoline, along with some boxes of ammunition, in the storehouse that took up one corner of the shed next to the temple gate.

Now that the prayers to ward off evil spirits had ended, the temple was sound asleep, wrapped in a thick night. It was long past midnight, when the sentry changed guards, so it must have been about two or three o’clock. He still had time before dawn.

Having thought of the wonderful, explosive gasoline, Mandogi crossed the hazy, moonlit grounds to the warehouse next to the gate. He fumbled with the door and found that it was locked with a big padlock. Wondering why they should be worried about thieves at a police-dispatching station, Mandogi grabbed the lock with his powerful hands and twisted it hard. He wanted to take the latch off the door, but he didn’t realize right away just how strong it was. As he recklessly twisted it over and over, it made loud, metallic, creaking sounds, and he realized that he couldn’t safely continue this way.

So, if the door wouldn’t open, what should he do? If I break the lock to open the door, there will be trouble, Mandogi thought, his whole body bathed in moonlight in front of the storehouse, but then another thought came to him from the back of his mind. Mumbling absentmindedly to himself as if he had missed something obvious, Mandogi lumbered toward the kitchen. The kitchen was isolated on the opposite side of the grounds, but Mandogi remembered, Mmhmm, there’s oil in there. Gasoline isn’t the only kind of oil, there are lots of other kinds, he thought.

In the kitchen, there were three cans of oil for the oil lamp, of which Mandogi was in charge, and there were three one-sho bottles of sesame oil.¹ Mandogi quietly opened the wooden kitchen doors, and, beckoned by the faint light outside, he brought out the cans of oil. The police had been taking them out for themselves, so each one had a bit of oil missing, and they made a strange sloshing sound as he carried them. As he chanted, “Hail Mother Kannon. Hail Mother Kannon,” he gently placed them on the ground outside the door. As for the one-sho bottles of sesame oil, he took one in his fist and licked it, and thought for the moment that they were too good to waste, and left them all lying inside the kitchen. At some point, in the darkness, a thick, sweet aroma had suddenly wafted in, giving him a strange, calm feeling. Mandogi wiped the sweat from his brow but still felt a bit nervous.

Mandogi, having all the cruelty of a child, planned it so that the police would not be able to escape. First, he piled up pine needles and twigs and straw in the gate, then sprinkled oil on top. From there the storehouse was close, so he poured a whole can of oil around the door, so the gasoline inside could easily catch fire. He had intended to plan everything out, but after that there was only one can left. “Hmm, now I’ve done it. I used a little too much,” Mandogi muttered, cherishing the last can as he headed for the sanctuary.

He had decided at the beginning to burn the sanctuary first. Even Mandogi knew that you couldn’t call the place a temple without a sanctuary. No, perhaps it could be said that a person like Mandogi would know more than anyone. In fact, he thought that he had to be especially respectful about burning the sanctuary. Thinking that he couldn’t leave a bit of the center, Mandogi went from the altar sprinkling oil, even feeling regret as he thought, “I shouldn’t have dropped any oil before I came here, to the most important spot.” Before long, he had finished oiling the sanctuary, and he poured what little oil remained in front of the sliding door to the bedroom, where he could hear the police snoring, and when he had finally poured the very last drop, Mandogi smiled to himself.

Now, with one match, the temple would go up in flames. And before long, it would be a sea of fire. What about the escape route once the flames approached? It was possible that he could make it over the hill behind the temple, but if he set fire to the sanctuary first, then even that would be difficult in the dark. Aside from the temple gate, there was no other way.

Mandogi returned to the sanctuary and stood before the altar. Now he entrusted everything to the old priest’s words that had come down from above the pine thicket on the hill out back: “The Buddha lives in your heart.” He faced the altar, unable to see anything in the dark, and with the same hands he pressed together in prayer, he struck a match. He sniffled, and tears welled up in his eyes. The fire caught the oil and ran across the pitch-dark floor as if it were alive and caught the altar on fire, the red flames flickering under the Buddha statue’s smile. Mandogi, fearing nothing, stood in the middle of the flames, staring at that smile. “The Buddha lives in your heart,” Mandogi mumbled slowly. The fire spread its wings and the flames spread to all four corners of the floor. The outstretched wings of the flames would soon reach the ceiling. Finally, Mandogi was wrapped in a choking smoke, and, after taking one last look at the altar, he left the sanctuary.

When he had come to the middle of the grounds, Mandogi whirled around. “Mandogi! Mandogi—!” Surely it was Mother Seoul’s voice calling him. He turned around, but there was no one in front of the sanctuary, which was shining bright red from the flames inside and spewing smoke from the doorway. He turned back around, and took a single step before the voice came again, “Mandogi—! Mandogi—!” This time it sounded like it was coming from above the hill behind the temple. There were two voices mixed together, both Mother Seoul’s wailing voice coming from the ground and the old priest’s voice coming down from the heavens. He could no longer hear the voice in the distance calling, “Mandogi—!” but instead, a pained voice calling, “Keiton! Keiton!” was echoing inside his head. It was the voice of Mandogi’s mother, who had carried him on her back up the mountain path to Kannon Temple on Mount Halla. Mandogi pressed down on his inner pocket from the outside and felt the half-moon-shaped comb inside his fist, then turned toward Mother Seoul’s room. He took big, bowlegged strides. How could I have forgotten Mother Seoul? Mandogi himself thought it strange. He hadn’t completely equated her with the police, and yet he had abandoned her in the sanctuary and had gone out onto the grounds.

He appeared before Mother Seoul’s bedroom, where the flames were already casting bright reflections on the sliding door. As he opened the door, she opened her eyes wide and went to get up from her bed. Mandogi stood looking at her from the threshold. Strange, that no words would come out. For some reason, he suddenly felt feverish, sorrow suddenly drying up and choking off his throat. If it had been the old Mandogi, perhaps he would have buried his head and sobbed into her chest, just as he had done on the way down Mount Halla from Kannon Temple. But now he slowly drew closer to her and silently turned around, offering to carry her on his back. But this was Mother Seoul. She raised her voice, and in no time she was gnashing her teeth as she screamed out curses. By the end, she was clamoring incoherently. While she had great power to curse spirits, it must have been difficult to make them effective on living humans. Turning green and staggering aimlessly, she finally fell over, and Mandogi picked her up in both arms. Mandogi’s heart skipped a beat. For the first time in his life, he was holding a woman’s body. The moment he picked her up, her body went limp. Mandogi lifted Mother Seoul’s body even higher.

Mandogi brought his face close to hers for a moment, and the scent of her light, disheveled hair rose up and lingered deep inside of his nostrils. Mixed with the smell of camellia oil, it was the smell of his mother, and it was the smell of a woman. Mandogi held Mother Seoul tight. His whole body became tense, his heart swelling, and his tears—his tears overflowed. With tears streaming down his face, Mandogi smiled. Before long, with the noise of the rising flames coming closer, Mandogi felt the part between his legs get hard. With the violent sound of the flames burning redder and redder, a pure, pleasant feeling bubbled up inside him, and suddenly it stood up. He lifted her body up toward the ceiling, feeling as if she could fly. What could he have been thinking? Though he had felt bitter hatred for her from the cellar under the altar, ever since she had fallen, his body had become strangely aroused, and he had wanted to unite with her. He closed his eyes for a moment, and felt her hand, no, Mother Kannon’s hand stretching down toward his crotch. The harder it got, the tighter she held on. The power that came from down there granted Mandogi’s body a new, inexhaustible strength, and he felt so light that he could fly away, and he wanted to fly away with her. It was a mysterious strength that rose up from within his own body. He felt not a single speck of the guilt that he had felt that time in the shed on that summer afternoon. Mandogi left the burning temple, and he could see the light shining down on the path he was to continue on. After he opened his eyes, he continued across the grounds, conscious of her hand, conscious of Mother Kannon’s warm hand, which had disappeared from his crotch. At the temple gate, he touched the pile of straw and leaves covered in oil, and the burnable twigs. Once the fire had consumed them, it would make its way down to the ground, and before long it would spread toward the shed. He waited for the moment when the gasoline and ammunition in the shed would burst into flames.

Mandogi lay Mother Seoul down to sleep on the roadside where the fire wouldn’t reach her. She lay there silently, her body glued to the ground. When he had finally taken his hands from her body and stretched out her bent back, Mandogi let out a deep sigh. Strangely, he hadn’t been conscious of rescuing her from the danger of the fire. He had just brought her out of the temple and placed her there. But at the same time, he had let the police officers burn, like burning up bugs—no, like throwing lice in a kettle fire. He no longer thought of it as murder. As if he suddenly remembered, Mandogi put his hand in his inside pocket and pulled out the comb. After drawing its smell deep inside his nostrils, he placed the comb on her chest, returning it to its original owner.

Having changed his mind, Mandogi banged on one of the empty oil cans and started to wake the temple from outside the gate. It looked like the police weren’t completely awake yet. “The Buddha’s in your heart. The Buddha’s in your heart,” a heavenly voice came down from above the rising flames, which were burning ever more brightly. The temple was engulfed in flame. Leaving the burning temple, along with Mother Seoul and her comb on the roadside, Mandogi lumbered in the direction opposite the sentry post. Before long, he was in the forest.

1 A sho is an antiquated Japanese unit of measure equal to about 1.8 liters.