Candle to the Devil / Chapter 8

During the Walled Cities Period several “thought groups” spread amongst the youth of Asia. National pride swelled among the younger ranks against the assimilation of British culture. Many of these groups did not get past a few emblazoned parlor meetings, though one or two became full-fledged assemblies fighting against the yoke of the British Empire. Of these, none is more prominent than the Holang-i.

The Holang-i is Korean for tiger, a creature within Korean culture that represented a guardian that drove away evil. A tiger that has overcome trials and tribulations and understands the world is known to turn white, becoming a white tiger. Although it is a sacred creature that doesn’t harm people, it becomes angry when the ruler of the country conducts evil and inhumane deeds. It was for this reason that the Korean purist movement took on the name Holang-i.

They identified themselves by hanging the popular jakhodo on their doors, or carving it into them. The members also wore talchum masks when meeting, so that members could not be identified if someone were to be caught and tortured by opposing authorities.

Of the movements that developed within Joseon during the Walled Cities Period, Holang-i was the most active and often the most violent. The group spared no quarter to those that were not Korean, and were known to actively attack even those of half-Korean descent.

Like all militant rebel groups, Holang-i ended violently, torn apart by its own desire to purify Joseon and the conflicting opinions of its leaders. The remaining members faded into obscurity near the end of the Walled Cities Period.

-excerpt from Militant Groups of Asia by Connie Feng 

Chapter 8

Sungkwunwan, Hanseong

Sunday, 7:00am, April 3^rd, 1858

He awoke feeling a bit more human than he had the night before, but with a dry throat and an ache in his shoulders from sleeping in an awkward position against the wall. He threw on his housecoat and stumbled out of the bedroom with the sole intent to ring for some tea. He was infinitely grateful that it was Sunday and he had no classes to teach. 

“Oh! You’re awake sir!”
            Kyungsoo blinked sleepily, a bit of the grogginess sliding off as he realized there was a maid in his room. She was placing a tea set on the corner of his table, arranging the meal she’d brought along.

“What are you doing in here?” He asked softly. “I didn’t ring for breakfast.”

The maid blanched a bit, but gave a nervous smile. “Well sir, I thought maybe you’d like somethin' to eat. I was just gonna leave it here all quiet like for ya so ya wouldn’ wake up. The other teachers they don’ mind it so…” She trailed off.

“So you have a key to the rooms?”
            “Yes. For cleanin’ and things.” She nodded, now holding the tray against her chest, looking petrified.

Kyungsoo tried his best to give her a disarming smile and he saw her stiff shoulders settle. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m not much of a morning person. On Sundays, could you bring my tea and breakfast around nine?” That will give me plenty of time to wake up.

The maid nodded hastily.

“What time do you usually clean this room?”

“I’m not in charge of cleanin’, that’s for ol’ missus Hong, sir.”

Kyungsoo nodded patiently. “And what time does Mrs. Hong come?”

“At noon mostly, when you’re off teachin’.”

“Could you tell her that I would prefer she clean my room in the evenings when I am present? I have so many papers I wouldn’t want them to be thrown away by accident. I tend to leave them about.” He swept his arm in a gesture around the room.

The maid gave another grateful nod. “Is that all, sir?”

“Yes. Thank you for the tea.”

The maid fled.

As the door closed behind her he hurried toward his bookshelf. Had anything been taken? He should have realized this place was not to be trusted. Of course they would use the maids to look up on him…even if that current one had been naïve herself, he was certain this Mrs. Hong was most certainly not. In London he’d learned only too well not to trust the servants in a household.

“Never trust those you pay to keep about you, my boy.” Dr. Boulstridge patted his head and gave him another peppermint. “Because you never know if they’ve been paid more by someone else.”

He was reminded again of how urgently he needed to find his own home. The two Chinese boys would hardly be a problem, if they stayed to work for him. They spoke barely any Korean and read none of it, and they certainly didn’t know any English.

But what about Chanyeol…? No, Chanyeol could be trusted. Chanyeol was his best friend. And the man father claimed as his best friend shot him in the head and burned mother alive in her own home. Kyungsoo rubbed his forehead. It was time for tea.

As he sat himself down at the table and grabbed a biscuit he gave a low sigh. It was alright, soon he’d get that new home. It wouldn’t take nearly as long now, not with another person looking.

Kyungsoo nodded his thanks at the woman as she placed their tea down and shuffled off to her next customer, but his eyes didn’t leave the figure sitting across from him, calmly spooning sugar into his cup.

Jongin glanced up at him, almost lazily. “You said you wanted to treat me as a way of thanks but you aren’t being very lively company.”

Kyungsoo blinked. “Ah…yes.”

            “Have you acclimated to the Korean climate?” Jongin asked amicably, still spooning sugar into his tea.

            Kyungsoo almost grimaced. It looked sickeningly sweet. “You drink your tea the British way.”

            Jongin raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you?”

            “Well yes,” Kyungsoo assented, a bit taken aback. “I suppose I thought it would be different in Joseon.” I lived in London, of course I drank my tea the British way. But no one is forcing you to here. In fact, most everyone here was drinking proper Korean tea, with proper Korean food. Kyungsoo was tired of the tea sets of the university. It was good to see something not completely infused with British culture.

            “I never liked Korean tea.” Jongin shrugged, “Earl Grey though…with honey and sugar, I have it every morning.”

            “Honey and sugar? That’s not good for you.” Kyungsoo sputtered, glancing at the cup with trepidation. How much had he put in while Kyungsoo wasn’t looking?

            Jongin’s lips turned up with a hint of a smile. “You never answered my question.”

            His question? Ah, right, about acclimating to Joseon. Kyungsoo bit his lip, but gave a smile. “It’s nice to be home. There’s less rain too, which is a godsend.” They lulled into a silence that was not entirely comfortable, but amiable enough that Kyungsoo didn’t find himself making an excuse to depart.

            Truthfully he was surprised that Jongin had invited him to tea—he was paying, he supposed it wasn’t correct to say that Jongin had invited him—considering the fact that all Kyungsoo had wanted to do was thank him.

            “Did they make you convert before they allowed you to study at Oxford, or did you decide on your own?”

            “Excuse me?” Kyungsoo had just swallowed a mouthful of tea.

            “There.” Jongin motioned with his eyes to the lapel pin on Kyungsoo’s collar. It was a jeweled, budded cross pin that glinted gold, light flickering onn harsh rubies at its points and center. Kyungsoo followed his gaze and gave a small smile.

            “It was a gift from a friend.” And that was all the sentiment it held. There is no god. If there were, he is a cruel one and I want nothing to do with him.

            Jongin gave a slow nod. The air became a bit heavy, and Kyungsoo searched for some way to change the subject. “Jongin-ssi, do you know of any property for sale within the city?”

            “Don’t they give you quarters at the university?”

            “I’m planning to open a practice after my lecture period is over, and I have a few friends who will be moving here from one of the other walled cities.”

Jongin nodded. “That will be expensive.”

            “No worries about that.” Kyungsoo shook his head.

            “I’ll look into it.” Jongin wasn’t sure why he was offering to help in the first place. He had only met Kyungsoo once before. They were hardly more than acquaintances. Besides that, Kyungsoo seemed to have misinterpreted Jongin’s actions on that first night as one of friendship. And for some reason, Jongin wanted to keep it that way.

House of Lords, Hanseong

Sunday, 10:15am, April 3^rd, 1858

It had been a cold, just as he’d suspected. Unfortunately for Joonmyun he did not have the luxury of rest, not while Lord Bruce was still in Joseon. I should have asked Doctor Do for something for colds before I left Lord Oh’s manor, he thought with little humor.

He stood on the steps of the entrance to the House of Lords as he had done days before, waiting once more for Lord Oh’s borrowed automobile to drive Lord Bruce from his hotel. Joonmyun checked his clothing. Yes, everything was in place…but he couldn’t help the feeling of uneasiness that hovered just under his skin.

“You seem uncomfortable in dalryeongpo.”

Joonmyun turned at the voice, watching with a careful smile as the Cabinet Secretary Lord Kim walked toward him, dressed similarly. Joonmyun nodded his head in greeting, then turned back toward the road.

The only reason Joonmyun was dressed so traditionally was because they were giving Lord Bruce a tour of the imperial palace. It was a law that all Korean court officials dress in traditional court clothing while inside the palace. It was almost pathetic, how they clung to tradition so tightly, even forbidding gas lighting. It had taken countless years of bickering and pleading to get a modern sewage system in place.

Joonmyun held no love for the British, but their inventions were things he did not mind. They were efficient and useful. People that refused what could help them just for the sake of tradition were fools. Almost as foolish as those that accept these changes without question.

He heard the vehicle before it appeared on the street. Civilians hurried out of its way, jumping back at the rumble of the engine. A pair of horses pulling a stagecoach whinnied nervously.

Lord Kim was watching with a blank face.

“I haven’t worn it since taking office.” It was mandatory they come before the emperor and be sworn in, but after that he’d had no use for the robes. They’d hung in a mahogany box between layers of parchment paper and rose petals. At least it did not smell of mold. Still, his robe looked shabby when compared with Lord Kim’s. It was odd, for Lord Kim’s robe showed signs of wear and age, while Joonmyun’s looked as if it had been newly sewn.

Or perhaps that was the problem. Joonmyun felt like a fake, while Lord Kim looked perfectly at home in the clothing of his people.

The car door was opened by the driver and Lord Bruce exited, smiling broadly. He caught sight of Joonmyun and grabbed his hand in a fierce shake. “Good to see you again, boy!” Boy. The word made Joonmyun swallow, but he kept his smile in place.

Lord Bruce looked past him to where the Cabinet Secretary stood. “Ah, the other Lord Kim.” Lord Bruce hurried to shake his hand as well. “So shall we be off?”

“We cannot take the car.” Lord Kim looked at the contraption and then back to Lord Bruce. “It is forbidden for such things to be within the vicinity of the Imperial Palace.” He then waved his hand at the three palanquins arrayed behind them. When he had gotten his own, Joonmyun would never know.

Lord Bruce stared at the palanquin chairs. “Surely you jest. I’m not going to ride in a wooden box.”

Yes, you much prefer the metal ones, Joonmyun thought, irritated, mostly from his cold and partially from the scorn in Lord Bruce’s voice. He simply brushed some dust from his sleeves and motioned back toward the palanquin. “It is an honor to be carried to the Imperial Palace, sir. And the ride is more enjoyable than you would imagine.”

Lord Bruce looked ready to protest again but thought better of it, stepping into one of the open-air palanquin chairs and settling himself down with a scowl. They were underway in a few moments, their chairs easing into the everyday traffic on the street. Joonmyun found his palanquin pressed against Lord Bruce’s own; Lord Kim’s palanquin had fallen in behind a stagecoach behind them.

“After all this diplomatic business, a man must know how to enjoy himself, wouldn’t you agree?”

Joonmyun started at Lord Bruce’s question. He’d been intent on watching the cloth merchant in front of him carrying his rolled up wares on his back, shouting at the man to his left. Street life was a bit like the House of Lords—a multitude of men yelling at one another just to hear themselves speak and getting nowhere in return. “What manner of enjoyment would you be seeking, Lord Bruce? I will try my utmost to accommodate you.” It was his job, after all.

“Perhaps after our meeting with the emperor you could show me around this red-light district of yours.”

Joonmyun paused. “The red-light district?” He glanced around him and noticed that Lord Kim’s palanquin had fallen further back in the flow of traffic.

“Yes. I was told Hanseong’s red-light district is rather famous.” Lord Bruce continued amiably, shifting a bit on his palanquin. Joonmyun saw one of the seat bearers grit his teeth as the weight shifted.

“If you wanted to go to a tea house we could ask for several haengsu to attend us.”

“I don’t want to be served tea. I’ve had enough of that. My servants serve me tea at home in London.”

Joonmyun could see Lord Kim’s palanquin moving closer to their own. “They also play music—”

            “I would hate to return to London and have to report that I received poor hospitality.”

            Joonmyun swallowed. He has walked all over my country and now he wants to plant his seed in it. “I will make the accommodations.”

Haeju Weekly Press, Haeju

Tuesday, 1:34pm, April 5^th , 1858

It was the seventh time that morning he’d gone over the article. If there had ever been a typo—and there hadn’t been, he had been the one to write it after all—it would have certainly been caught and fixed by now. It was not a fear of mistakes that had kept him from publishing the article on the railroad and the Deadlands survivors. It was fear of another thing entirely.

The moment he published this article the entire city would know he was harboring three men that had come back from the Deadlands and who could have possibly been infected and put the entire city in jeopardy. He did not want to be on the receiving end of a city-wide manhunt.

And even if the wonderfully open-minded citizens of Haeju decided to be understanding, Baggerby and Green would not. They would have him, Baekhyun, Zitao, and Yixing killed. Chanyeol too, because he worked there and would be considered an accomplice. They’d probably try and hunt down Doctor Do.

It wasn’t safe.

He couldn’t publish yet. Not until he was certain Kyungsoo had a house waiting for them in Hanseong. It would be safer for Chanyeol and Baekhyun as well, to leave the city for a while. The article would need to wait for now…

The door to the office opened and Chanyeol poked his head in, grinning from ear to ear. “We finally got down the stairs!” He opened the door wide and led Baekhyun inside. The other man looked positively ill from the strain of staying upright. Luckily Chanyeol seemed to notice and found him an empty chair. He settled onto it gratefully, a little color returning to his face.

“Getting downstairs is what took you all morning? I had articles for you to print.” Jongdae muttered, straightening out a stack of papers.

“Baekhyun needs to start walking or the circuitry wont bind well with his nerves, Kyungsoo said so.” Chanyeol replied solemnly. “He said to get Baekhyun up and walking as soon as I could.”

Baekhyun didn’t seem to enjoy being talked about as if he weren’t there. He glanced around the first floor. “Where are Yexing and Zetao?”

“Yixing and Zitao, your pronunciation is horrid.” Jongdae didn’t look up from his manuscript. “They’re running errands.”

“You sent them alone?” Chanyeol asked worriedly.

“Even without understanding Korean they’re more capable than you ever were.”

“Hey!”

Sungkyunkwan Dormitories, Hanseong

Tuesday, 6:19pm, April 5^th , 1858

He was still seething. Lu Han, heir to the marquisate of Beijing eh? Filthy Chinese pig. How dare he? Humiliating him in front of all of those students…

Sehun’s grip on his tea tightened, and the cup rattled against the saucer. He let go with another scowl. The Chinese…the English…everyone thought they were better than the Koreans, didn’t they? They were wrong. The Chinese had thought they could rule Joseon, and now the British wanted to do so.

His father was a fool. He was allowing himself to be controlled by the West. Joseon could stand without the British. They could defend themselves against the Afflicted. They would become their own world power.

The Japanese had done it. They’d isolated themselves completely, keeping out the British and the Americans from their lands, forcing Europe to drop off and trade their goods through an island port. If the Japanese could do it, why couldn’t Joseon?

Dokdo…their island there was still open. It would be a perfect trading spot.

            He grabbed a book from his collection and began to flip through it, stopping on a page that read The Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen. It was a piece written during the French Revolution, when the people fought back against a corrupt sovereignty.

Men are born and remain free and equal in rights. Social distinctions may be founded only upon the general good.

The French Revolution had failed because the peasants began to kill all of the intellectuals. Peasants were so easy to stir into a frenzy, but it was always difficult to point them in the proper direction. They were like dogs—they would often bite the hand that fed them.

The aim of all political association is the preservation of the natural and imprescriptible rights of man. These rights are liberty, property, security, and resistance to oppression.

            The peasants of Joseon though…they knew their place in this world order. Everything and everyone had a place. The problem was that the British had forgotten this and assumed they held the top tier.

Society has the right to require of every public agent an account of his administration.

            The trick to the peasants of Joseon…was uniting them against a proper cause. And what better thing to blame their sorrows upon than the British? And who was it…Lord Kim, the Cabinet Secretary. His father had often complained about him. He said he was a nationalist, a Joseon traditionalist. If only his son were still at school...how would Sehun get in contact with him?

            No. This was ridiculous. His father wasn’t wrong. His father must know what he was doing. He wants to sell Seyoung off to a British merchant. He is going to give you all away to the British to secure his position. One who serves a dog is lower than a dog.

            The idea of a rebellion was small, a tiny flame that flared hotly in his chest. But it was only a flame, and as easily as it had sputtered to life, it flickered out and left only traces of smoke.

            Sehun’s throat clamped tight, and he gripped the edge of the table in anger.  What could he possibly do…against the might of the British?

Baggerby and Green, Haeju

Tuesday, 10:34pm, April 5^th , 1858

He found himself returning to Baggerby and Green later and later each night. It wasn’t a difficult thing to do, as they had little work now that the track to Hanseong had been fixed. And he certainly was not the first person any of the other foremen went to if they had a problem.

Ah, it was hard to think. He had gotten himself rather drunk. Auntie Han had given him an entire bottle of shaojiu for listening to her rant about her son whom he learned that night had run off with the haengsu he’d apparently fallen for. Auntie Han was in hysterics. Her son had disappeared and the authorities wanted to know if she knew where they’d gone. A haengsu was property, and so Geng was seen as a thief. They’d sent not only regular authorities, but slave catchers after the two.

It was only a matter of time before they were found, unless they’d somehow smuggled aboard a ship or train or, god forbid, they decided to brave the Deadlands. It wasn’t his business, but he did feel a bit bad for Auntie Han. He hoped they never found her son. He didn’t think she’d be able to handle his execution. Not knowing whether he was dead or alive would be better than the knowledge that he’d been beheaded, wouldn’t it?

He hadn’t thought Geng had it in him. Perhaps the haengsu had instigated it. Women were troublesome creatures, manipulative and conniving. He wouldn’t be surprised. He’d bought a rather large dinner at Auntie Han’s shop out of pity and had been gifted with the shaojiu which he had downed before returning to Baggerby and Green. The other foremen would certainly sniff it out and then he’d be forced to share it with them.

Better to drink it all and puke it all out then give it to the Koreans and the English.

He had stumbled past the Chinese barracks when he heard a soft mewl. At first he assumed it was all in his head. Every heartbeat sent his blood pulsing, and each pulse shot pain to the area right behind his eyes. He just wanted to sleep.

In fact, if he hadn’t stopped to vomit, he probably would have brushed it off as a figment of his imagination. But as he wiped the bile dribbling down his chin with the back of his hand he noticed a small figure peeking out from under the floorboards.

Bright green eyes seemed to glow in the darkness. The figure was much too small to be an adult cat. The kitten let out a pitiful meow, edging further against the back of the structure.

“…so your mother saved one of you after all.” Wu Fan whispered, before he snatched up the small animal. It was tiny and malnourished, his hand dwarfed it completely. It yowled, tiny claws digging into skin. It was afraid.

            It he hadn’t been drunk he would not have taken it with him. He would have snapped its neck to put it out of its misery. At the very least he would have thrown it over the compound walls in the hopes that Ramsay’s damn dog wouldn’t get a hold of it.

            It had to be the alcohol that made him carry the mewling animal back to his room. His mouth tasted stale and sour, and he washed it down with a swig of water before he looked back at the kitten now sitting on his cot.

            What was he going to do with a kitten? Wu Fan closed his eyes against a wave of dizziness and barely managed to pull off his boots before he fell back onto the bed, hearing the cat mewl as it curled up against his stomach.

            Tomorrow…he’d decide what to do with it tomorrow.

Gala Celebration, Hanseong

Wednesday, 8:56pm, April 6^th , 1858

         “So you do own a waistcoat. I’d nearly forgotten.” Lord Oh tipped his glass in greeting, the red liquid inside threatening to spill over but never quite making it past the rim.

         Lord Kim walked toward him, snatching his own glass off of the silver tray of a well-dressed server. He nodded his head at another guest in greeting before he sidled up alongside Lord Oh. “I have several waistcoats, all of which are tailored by local artisans. I suppose yours come from London?”

          “Of course.” Lord Oh stroked his beard. “Only the best.”

          “The British certainly think so.”

          “And they own half the surviving continent,” Lord Oh grabbed a second glass, this one filled with champagne. “They have quite the taste. Here, try this. It was shipped here directly from France. Not a very old vintage, but quite promising.”

          “I would rather not.” Lord Kim declined, sipping his own wine.

          “Lord Kim…” Lord Oh looked to be deciding between the old wine and the champagne. “I have always valued your loyalty. I only wish it weren’t so misplaced. If we could mend this rift between us, think of the good we could do for our country.”

          “The problem lies, Lord Oh, in what we believe is good for our country.” Lord Kim answered softly. “Our Emperor should be the focus.”

          “Hasn’t the rule of Joseon always been plagued with a power struggle between the Emperor and his officials?” Lord Oh’s gaze was fixated on the grand staircase and the doors at the top that had just swung open to its newest arrivals. “And hasn’t the end result always been the same?”

          “And what is that?”

          “The emperor dies…and the party lives on.” Lord Oh slowly poured the red wine into the potted plant to his left. “Even an old vintage can lose its flavor, I suppose.”

          “Lord Kim Joonmyun and the lady Oh Se-Jim!” The doorman announced.

Lord Oh watched the color draining from Lord Kim’s face as he took a sip of his champagne. “Truly…quite promising.”

Sungkyunkwan, Hanseong

Friday, 2:45pm, April 8^th , 1858

            “The lecture this time was fascinating, doctor.”

            Kyungsoo glanced up from his notes. He recognized the man immediately—Luhan, a Chinese third year law student with a quick smile and an avid note taker. Kyungsoo liked students that took learning seriously, even if it wasn’t their subject of interest. The problem with Luhan was that Kyungsoo wasn’t sure if his smile was genuine or mocking. It was always tinged with a bite, as if he were waiting to be attacked. Kyungsoo knew the feeling well from his days in London. “I’m glad you enjoyed it,” he settled on.

            “Here, let me.” Luhan began cleaning off the chalk board. “I was expecting some withered old grandfather when I heard we’d have a London-taught doctor giving lectures.”

            Kyungsoo bit the inside of his cheek. He knew full well that Luhan was older than he was. At least Luhan’s face belied his age. “Yes, well.” He shrugged.

            Luhan laughed. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I was just wondering how you got the position. I heard you had a sponsor.”

            Ah, so that was his plan of attack. It was a well-known fact that sponsors implied sexual favors given. Was it Luhan’s aim to privately embarrass him and use the information as blackmail? What was his goal? Kyungsoo had met plenty of people that assumed he’d slept with Boulstridge, several of whom had vocalized it. Boulstridge was more interested in science than sex, which was in Kyungsoo’s favor. He’d heard rumors it was different when he was younger—rumors that often involved Kyungsoo’s father—but it held no merit now.

            “A family friend was kind enough to watch out for me in my younger years.” Kyungsoo shuffled a stack of papers. “My parents left me money enough in inheritance.”

            “Ah, yes. The infamous Do Family.” Luhan continued cleaning the board. “They say your mother was the most beautiful woman in Dokdo. Even the English admired her. It must have been her large eyes—you inherited those from her didn’t you?”

            “I’m unsure what my mother has to do with medical biomechanics. If you didn’t come to ask a question about my lecture then I am afraid we’re done here.”

            “My father met her once. I was curious. He always talked about how pretty she was.” Luhan shrugged, looking apologetic. “I didn’t mean to bring up a sore topic.”

            “I look exactly like my mother.” Kyungsoo placed the papers in his bag. “I hope that satisfied your curiosity.” He didn’t wait to see if Luhan had any more to say about his questionable lineage. Talk like this always led to the inevitable.

            “Rumor has it your mother was disowned for having a child out of wedlock. Pitiful thing, wasn’t she? And to think she had been engaged to a count…I suppose beauty has its uses. She married a doctor in the end. Even fallen nobility can raise the stature of a nobleman’s bastard.”

[A/N: Well, I promise the next chapter will be more lively, but I hope this sets the stage for things to come. Also, thank you to all of my readers, especially those of you that comment. There is truly a direct correlation between the amount of comments I get and the speed with which I update. So please, give me some love! It doesn't have to be a long comment. In fact, you could just say "hey, nice chapter, would have been better with a picture of Suho pulling off his cravat" because you never know...the next chapter might come that much quicker and it just might come with a picture at the end.]

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