The Kite Fighters: Chapters 8–11

Using a stiff brush and the blunt edge of a knife, he had flicked and spattered the gold leaf over the whole surface of the kite paper.

The rain of minuscule gold dots had resulted in a fine sheen that glowed faintly when the light touched it.

The boys had argued about whether or not the kite should be flown before being presented to the King. Young-sup, of course, had been eager to try it out, but Kee-sup had prevailed, fearful of damage to the kite.

In a few years Kee-sup would take the difficult series of examinations required of those who wished to be employed by the royal court. Such coveted positions were awarded based on the examination results; however, it was well known that those in favor at the court were looked on with added grace.

Young-sup carried an extra burden of worry as he walked alongside his brother.

With one of the guards the boys stepped into a small antechamber. The huge carved doors opposite them were opened by two other guards, revealing a grand hall.

They saw that he was flanked by several advisers and guards.

“Who are you calling pig-brain, you cow-dung?”
Young-sup would have continued the banter, but one look at the shocked and confused expression on Kee-sup’s face gave him pause.

The King pulled something from his pocket and tossed it into the air, and the three boys at once began a rousing game of kick-the-shuttlecock.

He did not speak of the honor that had been bestowed on him, although the thought never left his mind and seemed to float beneath his every word.

He stopped walking and turned his head to look at the imposing wall of the palace in the distance behind them.

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, as if to quell the rising dread in his heart.

He stumbled over only a few words, Young-sup prompting him.

He was staring at the tabletop, his brow furrowed in ferocious concentration, the deepest of frowns on his face.

He watched listlessly as his mother and the maidservant taught his little sisters how to make mandoo, meat-stuffed dumplings.

But he dared not be angry at his father, either; it was forbidden by the tradition of filial duty.

“It was our lesson this morning, the Five Virtues. I have a duty to our father, it’s true. But I have other duties as well. To the King, as his subject. To you, as your elder brother. And to both of you, as friends.”

To confront their father about a decision he had already made was a taboo of the greatest order, and Young-sup did not even want to guess what the conversation had been like.

He was flailing around on his sleeping mat, his arms and hands making desperate movements, as if trying to control a kite line.

“He was cutting my line!” Young-sup spoke frantically. “I couldn’t stop him. The King’s kite—I was about to lose the King’s kite...”

Of the myriad skills involved in kite fighting, it was the line cutting that most worried him.

They could barely keep their eyes open as they rolled out their sleeping mats. That evening Young-sup was feeling especially sluggish.

He looked up sheepishly. “That day I threw the jar—remember? You swept it up for me, but you must have missed these tiny pieces. I’ll fetch a damp cloth—the broom would probably just miss them again.”

The littlest was only a baby, and some of the younger ones were shy and bewildered, clinging closely to their mother.

The house filled with noise and activity as the adults bustled about putting away bags and parcels.

From time to time, he poked gingerly at the bundle.

“The broken stuff—spread it out on the paper,” he ordered. Young-sup complied, using a spoon to scoop up and spread the ground pottery.

Young-sup’s line began to fray almost immediately. After just a few sawing motions, his piece was cut through.

The old man cocked his head curiously and gestured his assent.

The old man’s eyes lit up with keen interest.