Gwangju Writes: Tale of the Mighty Four

By Stephen Kagarise

There was once an old couple who, having offered a prayer to Buddha, were blessed at last with what they had hoped for, a son. But sadly, their son could not stand or sit, or take a few steps, or speak a few words, not even on his first or second birthday, or his third. Too weak to move, he could only twitch his face.

One day, his parents woke to find that he was gone. They searched the house, unsure of how a boy who could not walk, climb, or leap could have gotten far. After an hour they found him, by the path to the mountain, sitting on a rock.

“Mother, Father, let’s take this rock back to our yard at home.” The boy was only seven, and the rock was massive, but even so, to the amazement of his parents, he lifted it and set it on his shoulder. They nearly fainted, as off he went. This child was now as strong as anyone in the town. No matter its weight or size, he could lift any rock. For that, he was given the name “Rock.” Over time he got stronger and stronger, until, at twelve, he could have fought anyone, anywhere, and been the victor.

Ten years later, war broke out. A mighty nation had invaded, and though the people tried to turn them back, their troops, in twos and threes, could not resist the flood. Like an oil lamp blown by the wind, it seemed that doom was near. Rock knew about the war. He thought, “Perhaps I can help.” Throwing a knapsack over his shoulder, he said goodbye to his parents.

After a few hours of walking, he saw a willow in the distance. Its branches were rising to the sky, and then falling back down. Going closer, he saw a man beneath the tree. Through his gaping nostrils, his breath would

draw down the willow’s branches, then blow them up again.

Rock kicked him in the side. “What man is this who torments a tree? Tell me what gives you the right.”

The man looked at Rock. “Just taking a nap, is all. Think you can go about kicking people?”

He got to his feet and glared at Rock. It was decided. Not by words would they resolve this conflict. Instead, they would grapple and try to beat each other in a round of wrestling. But could anyone compete with Rock? No. The man lost.

“What’s your name?” asked Rock.

“Snore,” he said. “Since I was born, they called me that.”

And so the two became brothers. Rock, having won, was the elder, and Snore, the younger.

Farther down the road, they noticed a mountain, off in the distance, collapse below the tree line, and then, just as quick, jut high into the air. Curious, the two went closer to investigate. There, at the mountain’s base, was a grim-looking man. He was holding a large, wooden rake. He kept pushing and pulling the mountain up and down.

“Why do you toy with the mountain like that?” asked Rock. “What has it done to deserve it?”

“Who are you, boy, to interfere with me?” replied the man. “Spare me your lip, and be off.”

Rock and Snore took off their shirts. The man threw down his rake. It was time to wrestle again. Rock won, Snore came in second, and their new brother, Rake, in third.

Together, they set off to fight the army that had come to take their land. But as they walked, the trough beside the road began to fill with a dark, frothy liquid that gurgled as it went. Foul-smelling, too, with the stench of vinegar. They followed it and saw a man standing in a field, with trenches dug in the earth by his piss. It was flowing everywhere, like rivers.

“Ill-mannered lout,” said Rock. “You can’t just piss wherever you want.” But the three beat him handily at wrestling. So they were four now: Rock, Snore, Rake, and Piss.

At last, they reached the enemy’s main force, camped in a valley. From above, the four could observe the soldiers swarming like ants. Rock began by blocking both sides of the valley, so that nothing, not even a mouse, could escape. Then Piss decided it was his turn. He let loose a torrent that zigzagged its way to the enemy’s camp. Many tried to flee, but they were caged in by Rock’s expert handiwork. Before they could tell the source of the flood, it had swept them off their feet, dragging tents and gear in its course. Once a quiet valley, it was now a sea of piss.

“Snore, it’s your turn. Give it your best,” said Rock.

He took a deep breath of air, so deep it seemed his chest could hold no more, and then sent it reeling down the mountain. It froze the sea of piss, and the soldiers still clinging to debris were stunned to find themselves encased in ice.

“The rest is up to Rake,” they said.

He grabbed his namesake, the tool that never left his side, and walked down the slope towards the heads that poked above the ice. They gaped at him, in dread of what would happen next. He set his rake against the ice and pushed with all his strength. It rocked, and then cracked in several places. Pushing and pulling, he sent the blocks of ice, with people inside, up and down through the air, making a mountain and unmaking it.

“Enjoying the ride?” he asked. “Surrender, or you’ll be sent flying again.”

They all begged for their lives, and were set free.

Stephen Kagarise has been living in Gwangju for the past nine years. He has been busy the past two years hiking and biking around Korea.