[A/N: I'm back! And with an actual chapter this time! I've begun settling in and working on my postgrad work overseas and decided I'd get this chapter out now for all of you. You've all been so wonderful, and I really can't thank you enough for showing this story so much attention and love.
Please enjoy, and once again, thank you all for reading.]
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| Sketch of the St. Gallicanus Cathedral before it was destroyed. |
Religion in the Far East during the Walled Cities period was a diverse and often volatile subject. While the West was predominantly Christian and their beliefs followed their economic and political consumption of the Eastern lands, there was very little in the way of enforcement. The West itself was seeing a paradigm shift in their belief systems, and high-ranking religious figures within the British Empire and Italy were losing power and influence to the faculties of science and medicine.
This small explosion of religious freedom in the East would be short-lived, however. The confined spaces of the walled cities became a breeding ground for racial and cultural resentment. Many of the isolationist groups within these cities used religion as a turning point in their arguments. Convincing someone that their very spiritual core was being threatened could swell the ranks of a cause quickly. Fear-mongering was a much-used tactic.
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| Replica of the stained-glass ceiling of St. Gallicanus Cathedral. |
This resentment often led to violence. Churches and cathedrals were fairly obvious symbols for Western Christianity and were therefore the primary targets of opposing religious groups. The most well-known case of this was the St. Gallicanus Cathedral in the Korean city of Wonju.
Renowned for its stained-glass artwork, all was lost when the cathedral was vandalized by the Wonju branch of the Holang-i. The famous stained glass ceiling was shattered. A replica of the ceiling is currently on display in the Louvre, recreated from pictures and descriptions before the Cathedral was vandalized. The rest of the building was covered in kerosene and set ablaze.
The purging of religious centers during the Walled Cities period lead to the large-scaled destruction of artwork and architecture of the time. Very few Western pieces have survived, leaving only snapshots of what was being produced in terms of art in the Near East.
--excerpt from Shattered Glass: Religion and Art in the Walled Cities Period by James S. Merrigold
Chapter 14
Geum-eocho Street, Hanseong
Thursday, 5:00pm, May 19th, 1858
“I’ll be gone most
of the day. I have some errands to run and then papers to grade tonight. Don’t
wait up for me.” Kyungsoo threw on his coat and began to button it.
Chanyeol nodded,
hefting a box of supplies into a better position in his arms. They’d finally
finished cleaning Kyungsoo’s house and begun to work on the smaller townhouse
next door that Jongdae had bought for their newspaper business. Chanyeol didn’t
want to show it, but he was worried about his boss.
Jongdae was never
gone this long. Surely he hadn’t gotten into any trouble? No…he had probably
caught on to some grand story and had gone off to track it. It wouldn’t be the
first time he’d disappeared for a few weeks to come back with incriminating
evidence of some kind (usually something that led to them being threatened by
authorities). But he’d always given Chanyeol some kind of warning before
running off…
“I could send a
telegram to some acquaintances. Ask them to stop by the shop and see what he’s
up to.”
Chanyeol blinked,
looking over at his friend. Kyungsoo was watching him with a solemn, knowing
gaze as he tugged on his bowler hat. “That would be…thanks Kyungsoo.” Chanyeol
scratched the back of his neck and sighed. “It just isn’t like him.”
“How are Yixing
and Zitao? They have everything they need?” Kyungsoo began stuffing papers into
his briefcase. He huffed as he saw the handful of unopened letters in the
basket near the door. No doubt at least one of those was from Lord Oh.
“They’re fine. I’m
sending them out today to get some things to test what they’ve learned.”
Chanyeol was proud of their progress in learning Korean, which he had to admit
was going better than his sad attempts at learning Chinese. Yixing was a
patient teacher, even if Zitao laughed every time Chanyeol mispronounced
something—which was often.
The two had slowly
become used to living there, looking less like starved dogs waiting for their
owner to kick them for some wrong doing and more like two normal young men.
Leaving Haeju had been good for them.
He wished he could
say the same for Baekhyun. The younger man had become more closed off and
secretive as of late. He disappeared in the afternoon and didn’t return until
late, and he rarely spoke to Chanyeol when he was there. His dislike of Yixing and Zitao was becoming more
prominent every day.
Chanyeol didn’t
know what to do about it. He was half tempted to follow him one of these days
to find out where he was going.
“Alright, I’m
off.” Kyungsoo opened the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I'll see you later then.”
Chanyeol waved him off, and the last thing Kyungsoo saw as he stepped into the
waiting carriage was Chanyeol’s smile morphing into a worried frown as the door
closed. Kyungsoo figured that Chanyeol was worried about more than just
Jongdae.
Even though
Kyungsoo was rarely home he could feel the tension in the house. Any time he
came to eat, Baekhyun would take his plate and leave. He spent most of his time
out on the streets, and whatever he was doing had caused Chanyeol to voice his
concern earlier this week.
“He
comes home smelling like smoke and soju. I found a paper mask stuffed in a
waste bin near Jongdae’s desk. I don’t know what it means, but something’s off
‘Soo. He’s angry all the time. That isn’t a side-effect of the operation, is
it?”
No. It most
certainly wasn’t. At least, he didn’t think so. Such a thing hadn’t happened in
the cases he’d read about in London. He’d go over his journals…perhaps write to
Dr. Boulstridge and see if he’d heard about any of the lasting mental effects
of the surgery involving such things.
There were always cases
of amputees still feeling limbs that had been cut off. Phantom pain, they
called it. It could lead to some mental issues…but the only thing that Kyungsoo
had removed was a bit of shattered bone and torn muscle. It was a minor
surgery, all things considered.
“We’re here, sir.”
The gruff voice of the carriage driver cut through his thoughts, and Kyungsoo
only then noticed they’d stopped moving.
“Thank you. I’ll
be out in around ten minutes.” Kyungsoo shouldered his bag and stepped out,
sighing. This wasn’t a good idea, and he knew it. Nothing would end well by
returning to this place.
“Doctor!”
Kyungsoo blinked,
giving the brightly dressed girl a smile. “Hello. Miss Jinri, wasn’t it?”
She nodded, the
bells in her hair tinkling brightly. She reached up a hand to keep the massive headdress
in place. “Are you here to check on Kai?”
“Erm, yes. I have
another bottle of medicine, in case he needs it.” Kyungsoo held it out. “In
fact, if I could leave it with…” He trailed off, because Jinri had grabbed his
hand and was dragging him inside.
“He’s been moody
since you left, doctor. I don’t know what’s gotten into him. I think he was
sicker than he thought because his temper was never his bad before, and he
looks feverish still.”
Kyungsoo ignored
the looks of the gisaeng and their patrons as they passed. He didn’t see anyone
he recognized and he was trying hard not to look at anyone, just in case he saw
one of his fellow teachers, or worse, one of his students.
He knew he
shouldn’t be here. Jongin—Kai—didn’t
deserve anything from him. But he was a doctor. It was his job, right? He was a
doctor going to see his patient…a patient he claimed he wouldn’t see again. But
he knew Jongin, and Jongin would probably run out of the medicine and not go
and get anymore. That’s the type of person Jongin was. He’d refuse to take them
because he hadn’t paid for them. Kyungsoo was just being responsible. Yes, that
was it. Professional.
This was all a
matter of professionalism.
“He’s refused most
of his patrons, saying he didn’t want to give them anything. It isn’t anything
serious, is it?” Jinri asked anxiously. She was twisting a ribbon in her hands,
“Kai…he’s a nice person. There aren’t many nice people in this city.”
“Jinri! Get back
to work, girl! You have a customer coming in ten minutes!” A hulking, garishly
dressed woman appeared in one of the doorways leading to a pavilion. She pursed
rouged lips and narrowed her eyes. “Go on!”
Jinri winced,
bobbing her head in a yes. “You know how to get there, don’t you Doctor? Excuse
me…” She lifted her skirts and scurried out the door, ducking her head as the pavilion
mistress raised a hand to smack her.
Kyungsoo watched
until Jinri was out of sight before turning down another hallway. Yes, he
remembered where Jongin’s room was…he simply didn’t have the courage to walk
there. He reached into his bag and pulled out the medication he’d brought. He
could give it to one of the serving girls, or a younger gisaeng to take to him.
It would be simple and easy.
But what if he
really was getting worse? If there was some kind of new complication he would
need to prescribe him something else…
He found himself
turning corners unconsciously, running his thumb along the bottle’s cap in
thought. It was his duty as a doctor to help those who needed it, whatever he
felt personally about the person.
It
didn’t take long to reach Jongin’s rooms. He could smell Jongin’s cologne from
three halls down, mixed with heavy smoke. He was surprised he could smell it at
all over the pervading smell of opium that saturated the building.
Kyungsoo took a
deep breath and schooled his face into a look of professional apathy as he
pulled back the red curtains and stepped inside. “What kind of an idiot snaps
at the people trying to help him? Jinri says you’ve been yelling at everyone. I
hope you haven’t been drinking—” He stopped, and took a step backwards.
Jongin untangled
himself from a set of limbs, murmuring something as he sat up. His gaze met
Kyungsoo’s and for a moment, Kyungsoo thought he saw panic.
“Well.” Kyungsoo
swallowed. “It seems you’re well enough to entertain guests. Here’s some more
medicine.” He placed it on the small table to his left and turned quickly on
his heel.
He was out the
door before Jongin had even spoken.
Beijing
Docks, Beijing
Monday,
3:24pm, May 23rd, 1858
The
boat lurched to a stop and the deck became a mass of bodies as sailors shouted
back and forth, throwing ropes to men waiting below.
Minseok had never
been so happy to see a dock in his life. He could only assume that his joy and
relief were shared by Jongdae, who hadn’t ever fully accustomed to life at sea.
Even now his face still held a greenish tinge, though it looked like color was
returning as he gripped the handrail, trying to stay out of the way of the
crew.
Minseok stood
beside him with his own luggage. “It would be easiest to take this boat home.”
“They won’t be
leaving for a few weeks, at least.” Jongdae was rummaging through his bag
for something, “No boats are going to leave port anytime soon, not after Hong
Kong.”
Minseok gave a
frustrated sigh. “That is why we need to return to Joseon. I must go to
Hanseong and report immediately.”
Jongdae shook his
head. “They’ll be suspicious if we get off here and go straight back to
Joseon.”
“Then what do we
do?” It was amazing how fast it had become “we”.
Jongdae remained
silent for a moment before he gave a small smile, a ghost of the cocky grin
that Minseok had grown accustomed to. “We stay and collect information.”
“Is this all for
one of your stupid stories?” Minseok accused as the gangplank was locked in
place and the sailors began shouting for people to depart.
“Why can’t you
just assume I want to serve king and country as much as the next loyal
subject?” Jongdae tried to look offended, but under Minseok’s glare he simply
rolled his eyes. “This story needs to be told. The sooner we get the
information we need and find a telegraph, the sooner we can think of a way
home.”
“…very well.”
Minseok murmured, not at all pleased. The moment his feet hit solid earth he
let out a sigh. It was good not to have the ground swaying beneath him. “We
need to find out why Hong Kong fell. It wasn’t an accident. It couldn’t be an accident.”
Jongdae grinned.
“Now you’re thinking like a reporter.” He dragged Minseok out of the crushing
crowds into a less populated street. “First things first, these clothes have to
go.”
Minseok gripped
the rim of his bat. “Why?”
Jongdae sighed, realizing that he was going to be doing that quite often. Minseok never did anything without questioning why first.
“The last thing you want to be is a Korean in China. In fact we had best change
our names as well.”
Minseok had been
all over Joseon. He’d scrambled over rooftops and under gates. But this…he
found himself completely overwhelmed. The harbor was in panic. People were
rushing the docks, shouting and crying and pleading. “It seems that they
already know about Hong Kong.”
Once they broke
free of the harbor, Beijing loomed beyond them in its old, majestic glory. The
merchant district was alive and flourishing, seemingly ignorant of the panic at
the ocean’s edge. Jongdae took a deep breath and grinned. “To the tailors!” He
suddenly seemed in his element, no longer green-faced from sea sickness.
“Why don’t we wear
Western clothing?”
“Do you want to be mugged?” Jongdae shook his
head, “My god if you’d been left to your own devices you wouldn’t have made it
off the ship.” He was scanning the street signs, before a broad smile cross his
face and he made a bee-line for a small shop on the corner of the next street.
Inside it smelled
heavily of oolong and lavender. An elderly woman came out from a back room and
eyed the two of them, then said something in rapid Mandarin that Minseok barely
caught. It took a few moments to realize she’d been asking if they had any
money.
Jongdae leaned
against the counter, “We have yuan to
pay, auntie. My brother Xiumin and I were studying in Joseon. We’ve lived there
most of our lives. We came back to visit relatives.”
Minseok raised an
eyebrow at the name, but Jongdae was continuing in his halted Chinese. His lie
certainly made sense. If they’d grown up in Joseon they would speak horribly
accented Chinese. He’d made a viable excuse for their lack of fluency, and he’d
also given a reason for their current Korean clothing that wouldn’t rouse too
much suspicion.
The woman gave a
knowing smile. “You cannot visit relatives in those clothes.”
“We had planned on
getting some things in Hong Kong but, well, I’m sure you’ve heard the news.”
Jongdae sighed, “It was terrible.”
The woman latched
on to the information, “You saw it happen?”
“We were on a boat
sailing past. We didn’t stop once we saw the flames.”
The woman clicked
her tongue and shook her head. “These are terrible times we live in. Here, let
me go find some suitable changshan.”
As the woman
disappeared into the back room once more Minseok turned to Jongdae. “Xiumin?”
Jongdae shrugged.
“It was the only name that came to mind. I’ll be Chen, by the way. In case she
asks.” He didn’t wait for a response, merely turned back to the old woman with
a charming smile as she walked out with an armful of cloth.
Minseok
let Jongdae do all the talking, and fifteen minutes later they were properly
dressed and heading further into the city.
They passed by the
Beijing Guozijian and Minseok was
struck with how antiquated it seemed. It was still built in the traditional
Chinese style. Once, Korean nobles had fought to send their children here. Now,
Chinese nobles fought to send their children away, like his friend Luhan.
In fact…Luhan’s
father was the Marquis here, wasn’t he? If Luhan learned about the fall of Hong
Kong, he’d try and return. He’d always worried about his father when they’d
roomed together. He’d have to try and find some information about Luhan’s
father to bring back to him. It was the least he could do for his friend. Luhan
had taught him Chinese, after all.
The entire
district was unkempt, interspersed between shops and suspicious looking
buildings. He wondered how many people still attended here. He wondered how
long it would take before Sunkyungkwan became just as dilapidated as Korean
nobility struggled to send their children to Europe.
“The best place to
find information,” Jongdae straightened the collar of his changshan with a
licentious grin, “is the red-light district.”
“What?” Minseok
sputtered, halting in his steps. They were in the middle of a crowded street and several passerby glared, calling out expletives in Mandarin that Minseok
somewhat understood.
“Are you really
the emperor’s dog?” Jongdae glanced at him suspiciously. “Let me guess, you’re
used to using rank to get what you need?”
Minseok didn’t reply.
“Don’t forget,
we’re Chinese. With our faces it won’t be hard to pretend. But no Korean.”
Jongdae pushed through a crowd, Minseok following behind absently.
Minseok did not
take orders well. But he was out of his element. And he was still trying to decide
how the red-light district had spread so close to a once-hallowed institute for
learning. He would have been offended, except he found himself too distracted.
“Now then…Xiumin
ge, let’s go visit that brothel!” And he steered Minseok toward the crimson
door with an arm around his shoulder and a pleased grin.
The
Red Stag Gentleman’s Club, Hanseong
Tuesday,
7:15, May 24th, 1858
It smelled like
expensive cigars and cologne. Joonmyun had already accepted the constant
migraines with his title, but the heady smell was aggravating it more than
usual. He couldn’t remember a night without some kind of tonic, and he knew
he’d need extra this time around, especially with the amount of bottles being
carted to their table.
He settled himself
down in his seat more comfortably, trying not to let his displeasure show. The
last thing he needed was for Lord Oh to notice and make something of it. He’d
come here by invitation from the man himself, along with several other members
of the House of Lords.
“I heard they
hired a new cook all the way from France.” Lord Lee grabbed a drink from a
passing tray and downed its contents in one gulp. “He’s making foie gras,
whatever that is.”
Lord Oh didn’t
comment, merely held up his cigarette for the server to light. He offered one
to Joonmyun who declined with a tight smile.
“Lord
Oh, did you hear about the demonstrations last week? They blocked off three
roads. I was late to my tailor!”
Lord
Oh scoffed. “The isolationists?”
Lord
Hwang nodded. “The anti-Western and immigration movements are becoming more
frequent.”
Lord Shim rolled his eyes and waved his cigar beneath Lord Hwang’s nose. “This
certainly isn’t the first time the dogs have started barking. It will pass,
just as it always does.”
“More members of
the lesser nobility and Sunkyungkwan students have begun flocking to these
meetings. A leading group among the isolationists has appeared, calling
themselves Holang-i. They’ve been meeting in large groups. There is talk they
plan to riot in the merchant quarter to ban British imports.” Joonmyun
supplied. The truth was, several minor lords have come to him with growing
concerns over the fact.
Lord Oh stared
down at his half-empty glass of brandy and clucked his tongue in reproach. “The
police should be able to handle the situation. Once the leaders of the movement
are imprisoned it will lose momentum.”
“No one knows who
the leaders are. They all wear masks. If someone is caught they don’t know anything.”
Lord Hwang continued. He was the Lord High Constable and was in charge of the
security within the city. If something happened he would be the one held
responsible. It explained his nervous behavior the past few weeks. There had
been a few cases of small groups of these masked men attacking patrolling
officers.
“Then perhaps you
should do something about it.” Lord Shim snapped, “You’re ruining the
atmosphere.”
Joonmyun had
thought the mood had been ruined the moment he’d walked inside and seen this
group of men sitting at a table but made no comment. Lord Hwang sputtered in
indignation, “You’ve been eyeing my position for years. I wouldn’t be surprised
if you had something to do with this. Your son is one of the students speaking
out against Western trade at Sunkyungkwan!”
“Those are merely
intellectual debates!”
“Enough.” Lord Oh
murmured, and the two men had the decency to look embarrassed at the scene
they’d caused. “It is obvious who the culprit is.”
“It is?” Lord
Hwang smoothed his mustache.
“The Cabinet
Secretary you dolt.” Lord Shim hissed. “He hasn’t been subtle in his dislike
of Britain’s influence.”
“Is it possible
that the movement isn’t backed by a political figure? It would not be the first
time that a group of scholars were responsible for an uprising.” Joonmyun shook
his head. “Lord Kim dislikes the West but he follows the will of the King.
The King allows Western trade, although he has spoken about sanctions and
regulations. The Holang-i want to rid Joseon of everything that is not Korean.”
Lord Oh raised an
eyebrow as he turned to face Joonmyun. He seemed to look through him, eyes
boring past skin to read his innermost thoughts. Joonmyun tried not to
squirm. Finally Lord Oh smiled thinly, “My future son-in-law is correct.
Perhaps we should look into alternatives. I would like you to speak with the
Cabinet Secretary and see his stance on the issue.”
Joonmyun nodded.
“Of course."
Geum-eocho Street, Hanseong
Tuesday,
8:20pm, May 24th, 1858
“Your
library never fails to impress.” Luhan looked around the room with a smile.
“Did you bring back all of your books from England?”
Kyungsoo shook his head as he grabbed his cup. It had been a while since he’d had coffee, but Luhan’s father had sent some to his son and he’d offered to share it. He took a sip and sighed. “Quite a few of them are from Oxford, but I had procured many of them beforehand and had them shipped here. Several of the medical books are from the Universität Wittenberg in Germany. I visited there on my tour of Europe. They’re the leading authority on surgical practices concerning the brain.”
Luhan
sighed wistfully. “The rest of the world is advancing faster than we can catch
up.”
Kyungsoo
shrugged. “We have the means to do so. It’s simply a matter of realizing that
we can’t continue on as we have.”
“Trying
to throw away tradition in Joseon is asking for civil war.” Luhan shook his
head. “It will never happen, not without a fight. Joseon can’t afford that…but
it can’t afford to remain so behind either. Joseon has became England’s pet
dog. But what happens when it decides it wants more food than its master is
willing to give?”
“You
are extremely pessimistic today.” Kyungsoo smiled, but it didn’t reach his
eyes. Truthfully, he was the one that was usually distant and moody. Over
the past month he had developed a friendship with the older boy, and it was a
welcomed distraction.
It was easier not
to think of Jongin when he was busy doing other things. If he wasn’t teaching
or grading papers he was discussing politics with Luhan and dodging invitations
from Lord Oh. And when he wasn’t doing either of those things he was in his
lab, working on his personal experiments.
It was simply
better to keep busy.
“I think the more
immediate threat to Joseon roams outside these walls and doesn’t particularly
care for politics.”
Luhan snorted.
“I’ve tried making that point several times before, and no one seems receptive
to it. Everyone is too busy taking sides to realize the Afflicted are what we
need to deal with.”
Kyungsoo nodded.
“I think people have become complacent with living in our walled cities. They
think they’re safe now and are content to live this way.”
“Like animals.”
Luhan retorted. “That’s what we’ve become. I just can’t understand why no one
else is taking this seriously.”
“They are, in
their own way. It was the same in England. Once you realize that there is a
wall between you and your biggest threat, your priorities become twisted.”
Luhan huffed and
tugged on his cravat. “It’s ridiculous.”
“Your last paper
was a bit lacking. Are you having a hard time with nerve wiring?”
Luhan groaned in
frustration, “I thought we weren’t going to mention school here, professor.” He
took a hasty sip of his coffee. “I haven’t slept well these past few nights. Have
you heard of the Holang-i?”
Kyungsoo’s lips
thinned in a worried frown. “I’ve heard of them in passing. I saw a
demonstration on Hwangso street a few
days ago. I was picking up a shipment of chemicals I’d sent for. They were
picketing the railroad.”
Luhan cursed under
his breath. “They’ve begun threatening the Korean railroad workers. A few were
followed home and beaten in the streets. At this rate they’ll begin bringing in
Chinese refugees to take over and that will cause even more unrest.”
“You’ve been
worried about the demonstrations?”
“I’m more worried
for their victims. They burnt down a church last night! The Father barely made
it out alive. They found the remains of two attendants near the altar. Why
can’t they see how barbaric it all is? People are dying because of some
ridiculous superiority complex.” Sehun avoided him now. No matter how many
times he tried to speak to him about the demonstrations he found that Sehun
refused to even acknowledge his existence.
He’d heard of
being cut in British society, but he hadn’t thought Sehun would employ such a
Western method. It was damningly irritating, because Luhan was just trying to
help. Sehun was a fool, and he was going to be a dead fool by the end of all
this.
Kyungsoo watched
Luhan fume and wondered at how much he seemed like a petulant, rebellious
child. Was it because Kyungsoo was wiser in this aspect? Or had he merely seen
so much of it that he was numb to that self-righteous anger? “As you said, our
biggest threat comes from outside these walls.”
“But not if we
kill everyone inside with petty in-fighting!” Luhan snapped back.
Kyungsoo smiled.
“Some members of Sunkyungkwan seem to have forgotten their true purpose in
striving forward in the name of learning, but not everyone has. Perhaps you should
focus on that thought. There is potential for the young scholars to do good
again.”
“What
could they possible do other than take sides in this idiotic fight?” Luhan
continued to pout.
“It seems to me that a new species has evolved
that could wipe us out. It we don’t adapt and evolve ourselves, we will become
extinct.”
Luhan’s
brow furrowed. “How do we evolve?”
“We’ve
been given the faculties to understand the crisis before us. We have surely
been given the means to prevent it.” Kyungsoo stood, placing his cup on the
table. “In fact, I believe we’ve already been given the first piece of the
puzzle.”
He
walked toward the back of the library, where a glass case lined one wall. And
then he paused. This wasn’t safe. There was no reason to tell Luhan anything.
He couldn’t trust him with this kind of information, even if he considered him
a friend.
He
couldn’t trust anyone with that kind of information. He turned back to Luhan
and away from the row of books and the leather-bound volume titled Zoonomia. “…all
we can do is try our hardest to learn more on the subject, I suppose.”
This was the kind
of thing that had gotten his father killed—free thinking and experimenting
against the commonly held belief. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake. Not
openly.
“What
if humans are just like the rest of the animals on earth? We breed things for
traits—dogs, horses, birds. What if nature does the same? Only it doesn’t pick
the traits it likes but those that help animals survive. These favorable traits
would be passed on as those unfit died and were unable to reproduce.”
His father’s words
echoed in his head. He wanted to say them aloud, but he knew he couldn’t. Not
now. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. Not until he was certain. So until then he
would say no more. He wouldn’t tell Luhan about Charles Darwin, about the
places Darwin had visited without RCN in South America and what he’d found
there.
His fingers
brushed the corner of a large book of bird illustrations. Finches. Finches from
different islands with entirely different beak structures, changed due to the
environment. He wouldn’t tell Luhan what he’d thought while he’d listened to
Darwin’s talk.
“The only way we’d
be able to stop all of this idiocy would be by finding a cure.” Luhan muttered,
taking another sip of his coffee.
Exactly.
Kyungsoo smiled, “Well, that would be preposterous. There is no cure.” Yes there is. “You know perfectly well I
have first-hand experience in that regard.”
Luhan shot him an
apologetic glance. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know.” Kyungsoo
sighed softly, “I have some papers to grade. I’ll see you tomorrow. I expect a
more well-thought out paper next week.”
Luhan grinned. “Of
course professor.”
Kyungsoo walked
him to the door and stood in the foyer for several minutes afterwards,
trembling. He’d almost done something foolish. How could he have been so
stupid? No one could know. No one could suspect.
He knew fully well
how untrustworthy the world was.
His father had
been betrayed by his best friend after all.
“Don’t
look, boy.”
Forgetting that
would get him killed.
Market
Street, Hanseong
Wednesday,
1:42pm, May 25th, 1858
Zitao
didn’t think he’d ever get used to the streets of Hanseong. People shove passed
him, shouting in a jumble of Korean and English and he caught barely any of
it. A few words here and there, a command or the name of something they were
selling or the amount. It was disorienting, to be surrounded by people and
hearing bits and snippets of things he could understand while the rest turned
into some garbled nonsense. It was almost worse than when they’d landed in
Haeju. Not knowing anything had seemed less confusing than knowing only a
little.
He
searched subconsciously for Yixing’s hand, but Yixing was carrying a box they’d
picked up from the post office full of supplies for Doctor Do, so Zitao settled
for clutching his shirt sleeve.
His
older brother looked nonplussed as they walked down Market Street, being shoved
and jostled. He seemed determined to make sure whatever Doctor Do had ordered
wasn’t broken. Yixing always seemed so calm, but Zitao knew he was on edge.
They’d heard the shouting on the street corners, had seen the posters plastered
to some of the street lamps.
Get the Chinese out of Joseon.
Joseon has no need for immigrant
dogs.
Take back our country!
Many of the signs
had Chinese characters, though they were written predominantly in hangul. Zitao wondered how they expected
the Chinese to read the signs if they couldn’t read them. But perhaps the signs
weren’t meant for them at all. Maybe they were just there to make people angry.
People
were very angry these days.
Doctor
Do had told them it wasn’t safe to be out past dark. A Chinese merchant had
been lynched just the other day. He’d been dragged out of his shop while his
wife and children watched. They’d thrown him into the street, covered him in
lamp oil, and set him on fire.
Zitao
knew what Yixing was afraid of.
Baekhyun
had come home last night smelling like kerosene.
“There
you two are! Hey! Over here!”
Both
turned to see Chanyeol waving frantically from a market stall on the corner.
The two plowed through the sea of bodies and managed to make it to the curb
without being trampled though Zitao felt like he’d have a bruise on his shin
from a well-placed kick. He wasn’t entirely certain if it had been intentional
or not.
“Come
on, they’ve got ox bone soup! I’ve already ordered us some.” He pulled them to
one of the small tables that lined the shop. Next to his seat sat a well-sized
crate full of metal parts that Zitao couldn’t identify.
“Parts.”
Chanyeol noticed his gaze. “For Jondae’s machines.”
Zitao
nodded, settling down beside his brother. They began eating in silence. It wasn’t
an awkward silence, but one of necessity. They’d decided it wasn’t safe to
speak in Mandarin out in public, in case anyone realized they were Chinese.
Their Korean was too limited to do much in the way of conversation. But it was
nice, knowing that Chanyeol was there if anything were to happen.
Zitao
was afraid sometimes, to go to the market. Afraid that when he spoke they’d
recognize his accent and he and Yixing would be dragged away and killed. He
wondered if there was any place that would be safe for them.
At
least out in the Deadlands they knew who their enemy was.
“I’m
in the process of putting the telegraph machine together. I’ve got everything I
need for it now. Once I do I can send back to Haeju and see if anyone knows
what happened to Jongdae. Kyungsoo says he hasn’t heard back yet from his
contacts.” Chanyeol rambled on, stuffing his mouth with rice. “I’ll start
building the printing press, but we can’t do anything without a printing
license.” They also didn’t have any stories to print. Jongdae would probably
write a scathing expose on the inherent violence of the Korean nationals in
Hanseong and get them all lynched. Chanyeol wasn’t going to risk that,
especially not when there were two Chinese men living in their house.
Zitao
reached for his cup of tea when movement flickered out of the corner of his
eye. Yixing had reached down to massage his leg. Zitao frowned. “Ge…” He
whispered softly, “Is it acting up again?”
Yixing
blinked before he gave his little brother a reassuring smile and a shake of his
head. “It’s alright.” His ankle ached sometimes, but it was nothing he couldn’t
fix with acupuncture. Zitao was already worried out of his mind, Yixing wouldn’t
add to that. He was the one that was supposed to be protecting his little brother,
not the other way around.
It
was frustrating because there was nowhere to go. No other option than to rely
on the kindness of others. They’d spoken with Doctor Do a few weeks ago and he’d
said that it didn’t seem likely anyone would be hiring Chinese workers at the
moment. It wasn’t safe to do so.
His
little brother was looking to him for a solution and there wasn’t one. It wasn’t
a matter of pride, either. Being indebted to someone didn’t bother him the way
it did Zitao. He knew Doctor Do was a good person, and he knew he was reliable.
He kept his word, and if Yixing were capable of trusting anyone in this world
that wasn’t his brother, it would probably be him.
But
it was becoming increasingly unsafe here and he couldn’t rely on someone else
to protect them. He needed to think of other options, to have an escape plan if
they needed it. They needed another means of survival if something happened.
Yixing
sighed, reaching for his bowl. He needed to focus on the now. It didn’t help to
brood. He wasn’t going to come up with a solution by fretting. He just wished
that he had some reassurance that they’d survive all of this. A sign that they
were going in the right direction.
“Hello.”
Zitao
nearly dropped the cup he’d been holding. The voice hadn’t been familiar, but
the language had. Mandarin. He turned slowly to the tall figure looming above
the rest of the crowd.
Wu
Fan.
Zitao
remembered a strange numbness fizzling through his body, before his eyesight
went dim and hot rage surged through him. Then Zitao lunged.
