THE STORY OF CHOI-SO
Such a pathetic story as it was for the most part! One that caused the
young people to listen to it with the deepest interest.
Choi-So's mother had died when he was very young, too young to remember
her. The woman who raised him had cruelly treated him. She had not only
half-starved him, but she had often severely beaten him. Choi-So had not
said it in so many words, but he gave his young hearers the impression
that this treatment had so dazed him that his head was not altogether
right. Sometimes he was like one in a mist, as he expressed it.
His father was a very religious man. He was a dreamer too, a bad
combination, since when one is constantly wandering away in thought,
many of the plainest duties that are allied to a religious profession
are apt to be neglected. He was a worker in straw. He made shoes and
ropes and mats, the latter beautifully woven. He received a fair price
for his work, and there was no reason why his child should have been
starved except that the money that ought to have gone to his nourishment
was appropriated to her own use by an unscrupulous woman while the
father wove his mats and dreamed.
Mr. Ang-su, Choi-So's father, had spent many years of his life in Japan.
There he had married Choi-So's mother. There too, he had acquired his
deep religious convictions. He was a devout Buddhist. As he sat and
dreamed his young son entered into many of these dreams, was, in truth,
the chief figure therein. Far better would it have been could he have
occupied even for half the length of time his father's practical
thought. Thus it came about that at eighteen Choi-So was sent to one of
the Buddhist monasteries in the mountains, there to be prepared for the
priesthood. Five years were spent in the dreary, monotonous routine that
made up his life there. So many times during each period of twenty-four
hours, from midnight till midnight again, he must hasten to the temple
at sound of drum or bell, there to prostrate himself on the stone floor
before the bow-kneed, brass-faced god, repeating, "_Namu Amit abul!_
_Namu Amit abul!_" (I put my trust in Buddha! I put my trust in Buddha!)
One hundred and eight times he did this without stopping, to an
accompaniment of bells, sometimes sounding soft and silvery, or again
ringing out with harsh, loud clangor.
He was also taught to take no life, not even that of a mosquito. If one
troubled him more than he could endure, the venerable abbot instructed
him that he was simply to get up and "shoo" it gently out of the room.
His fare was hard and unsatisfying, consisting all the year round of
rice and pressed seaweed, for no one who lived to the glory of Buddha
must touch meat. Sad to say, this life was just the one that appealed to
the melancholy boy. He had inherited much of his father's religious
concentration and dreaminess of manner. Instead of having the desire to
run away from this hard life, he daily applied himself the more
earnestly to the task of learning to please Buddha, of so living that he
might attain _Nirvana_! That was his highest desire.
One day, just at the close of his five years, he came upon Mr. Kit-ze
stranded upon the river bank, bruised and broken. He had had a desperate
struggle for life in the rapids. Three ribs were broken and an arm badly
injured. He had lost his cargo, and had very nearly lost his sampan;
but, injured though he was, he had managed to cling to the latter and to
get it safely to shore. However, it would need much in the way of
repairs ere it could be used again. Choi-So, in deep pity for the
wounded boatman, went for help, and had him assisted to the monastery.
Mr. Kit-ze was conducted through the great arched gateway and into the
reception hall. There the venerable abbot had come to him, and uttered
the words of welcome, "Peace be unto you," and had then bidden that he
be led away and his wounds treated.
For two weeks Mr. Kit-ze had remained at the monastery. He had
ingratiated himself into the favor of the priests. Especially had he won
the trust and goodwill of Choi-So. The young man was his devoted
attendant. The boatman was given many privileges. He was even permitted
to look through a small sliding panel upon the priests at their
devotions. This room, to which the monks were called so many times each
day to their prayers, began to hold a deep fascination for Mr. Kit-ze.
Its rich carvings, its many images, above all, the great bronze statue
of the Buddha with the various smaller ones grouped about it, so chained
his attention that for moments at a time he would continue to gaze as
though spellbound.
Choi-So had explained to him the mission of these smaller images. They
were to teach man the various stages through which he was to pass ere
Nirvana could be attained. Thus they were helps in the progress of life.
Any one of them could bring to mind what man hoped, what he inherited
through the strength and the faithfulness of Buddha. Much of this was
unintelligible to Mr. Kit-ze. He knew nothing of Buddha, nor cared to
know. But the images represented something that did appeal to him. This
much he understood, or at least thought he understood. Any one of them
brought good fortune to its possessor. That is the way he had read
Choi-So's explanation.
Mr. Kit-ze's mind was ripe for a suggestion of this kind. Among the
losses he had sustained through the catastrophe in the rapids was one he
felt more keenly than the others. Deeply superstitious, as is the
greater part of his race, Mr. Kit-ze believed devoutly in the efficacy
of certain charms. A grotesque figure he had carried on his person for
years had again and again helped him to elude the demons that waited for
him in the rapids. But for this his sampan would never have had the many
safe journeys through the dangerous parts of the river, and but for the
loss of this image during the earlier part of his late struggle in the
rapids, calamity would never have befallen. He must replace this charm,
this wonderful image of protection and helpfulness. What better could be
found than what was here represented in this chamber, sacred to the
great god before whom the priests prostrated themselves, and of whose
power they made such astonishing recitals? Had he not been informed of
the marvelous things that could be accomplished through the possession
of even one of the images, of the part each bore in the fortune of man?
He could not enter the chamber himself. He must work through Choi-So.
[Illustration: "HE WAS PERMITTED TO LOOK ... UPON THE PRIESTS AT THEIR
DEVOTIONS."]
Poor Choi-So was in a sore state of mind at that time. Again and again
he had felt, as he had described himself, like one walking in a mist.
His father had recently died. For weeks now he had remained unburied, a
custom very prevalent in Korea until such a funeral as the mourners
desire can be given. His savings had been squandered by the wife who had
so ill-treated Choi-So. There was nothing with which to lay the corpse
away as the dutiful son felt would be fitting. So he waited and waited,
praying and hoping and longing for the means to do honor to his father,
or else become a wretched, miserable son, despised of all who knew him.
It was then that Mr. Kit-ze tempted him, repeating the temptation until
poor Choi-So had finally yielded. The image was stolen, but, to Mr.
Kit-ze's shame, only a part of the price agreed upon had been paid. When
Choi-So had followed him, beseeching the remainder, it was but to be
cast off roughly. Another time he was threatened with the magistrate,
and with exposure. This last threat drove Choi-So back to the monastery.
But the theft had been discovered and traced to him. A companion priest
informed him in time for Choi-So to make his escape ere the terrible
punishment in store overtook him.
Since then he had been a wanderer. He knew that his brother priests had
sent one of their number in pursuit of him. His one object now was to
recover the image, return it, and suffer the consequences. He could
never be happy again until he had done it. He could never attain
_Nirvana_ until reparation had been made and the image placed once more
in the mystic circle about the Buddha. For three years now he had
wandered in search of Mr. Kit-ze, but as the boatman had moved away from
his old quarters at Seoul, poor Choi-So, for all his search, had never
laid eyes upon him until that day on the river bank at Han-Kang.
This story had been told in a broken way, and as Choi-So had but a small
knowledge of English and his youthful listeners far from a full one of
Korean, it was only by putting it together piece by piece, one supplying
a link here and another one there, that they finally understood him.
"Oh, friends," he entreated, holding out his hands pathetically to his
hearers, at the conclusion of his story, "pity the sorrows of poor
Choi-So. Help him to recover that which is the only thing that can bring
peace to him again!"
"The red _miriok_!" exclaimed Clarence, and looked at Helen
significantly.
"Yes," said Helen, "the red _miriok_. I had already felt that it had
something to do with this poor man's following us."
Then she told them of her impressions on the river bank as she had first
noted Choi-So and the manner in which his gaze had been riveted upon Mr.
Kit-ze and the red _miriok_. "Poor thing," she continued, her eyes fixed
pityingly upon Choi-So, "it is all very serious to him, and we can see
how he has suffered through it."
"But how can we help him?" asked Dorothy. Her sympathies too were deeply
aroused. "Mr. Kit-ze will never give up the image, I fear," she
continued.
"We might make him do it," said Clarence quickly, "or pay him to do it."
"No," said Helen emphatically; "we cannot. Neither will do."
"What then?" asked Clarence.
"We might win him to the better way," said Helen softly. "We might coax
him to give up this wretched little image for the sweeter things we
could help him to attain."
"What! Mr. Kit-ze?" cried Clarence incredulously. "Never! He is too
hardened."
"Clarence, how wrong to say that! Has not God's love shown its power to
reach even those more hardened than Mr. Kit-ze?"
"But what can we do for this poor fellow here?" repeated Dorothy.
Helen turned her eyes upon Choi-So. As she noted the lean and pallid
face, the deep-set eyes in which the light of fanaticism burned
steadily, courage, hope, both left her. "Oh, I am sure I don't know!"
she cried in despair.
Just at that moment Mallard was seen hastening down the path toward
them. From the manner in which he came they felt sure he was the bearer
of a message of some kind. "I have bad news," he said as he approached.
"Oh, what is it?" cried Helen, thinking instantly of her father.
"Do not be alarmed, cousin," he hastened to assure her. "It is nothing
so dreadful. There has been an accident. Mr. Chefoo slipped at a steep
place on the river bank, fell, and has broken his arm."