“Nam and the Messenger”: A Short Story

Nam was a young noble, long ago, in a little seaside county famous for its pottery. He had a virtuous spirit and a scholar’s love of Art. However, he had the misfortune of having a father with the same gifts, and so his family had little money for his education.

Reasoning that arrows were much cheaper to fletch than schools were to attend, Nam decided the art he should study was warfare, and took the military examinations that won him his post protecting the port from pirates. In that role he distinguished himself and served for many years. Still he preferred, whenever possible, to sit beneath the cherry trees on his family’s estate, and listen to the magpies, and paint pictures of the chrysanthemums.

He was putting the final touches on such a picture one morning when he was startled by two riders – one in white whom Nam already knew, and a second in black, a stranger to him. To his surprise, the second man did not bow after dismounting.

“At peace, Commander?” asked the messenger in white.

“Until now, I was,” Nam snapped, his face reddening. “Who is this comrade, and where is he from that he has learned no manners?”

“My name,” answered the messenger in black, “is Yi Deok Chun, and I am from the land of Jeoseung.”

“What comrade, Commander?” said the messenger in white.

The blood left Nam’s face.

“Jeoseung,” he repeated slowly, as if testing the word. “My father moved to that land, not too long ago. What is the news?”

The messenger in white blinked in confusion, but said, “Commander, the new king has declared that his people should no longer live in fear of piracy. He has ordered his army to sail to the Land of the Rising Sun from which the vermin strike, and put their hideouts to the sword.”

Nam sighed. “I thought it might be something like that.”

But Nam was of virtuous spirit. He immediately ordered his servants to pack provisions. And in the morning he stepped out of his door, wearing bags under his eyes but also the iron-plated robes a nobleman wears to war. His wife, son and servants assembled in the courtyard to wish him well. She invited the local shaman for good luck.

The old woman observed his eyes and said, “Did you dream?”

“Yes. I was in the palace of the Dragon King at the bottom of the sea. He said, ‘How did this man swim down here?’ I told him I had been filled with iron, so I sank.”

“How auspicious!” she cackled. “We dream fortunes reversed!”

“Yes,” said Nam, for why argue? Then, suddenly overcome with emotion, he gave his wife such a kiss as to deeply embarrass all in attendance. Thereupon he mounted his horse.

“Wife,” he said, watching as Yi Deok Chun climbed up his own black steed, “I have a request. Lately, I have become enamored with the smell of oranges. Will my wife plant some orange trees for me? Perhaps in a circle around the house. So the smell of them will enter the windows.”

“Must they all be orange trees?” she asked. “I am partial to peaches.”

“No peaches,” said Nam, and set off down the path to the port, flanked upon his right by his messenger, and on his left by the other.

死

When he rode back up again he rode more slowly and only one of the two riders still kept him company. The approach to the house, he noted with approval, now required passing under the boughs of multiple, heavy-laden orange trees.

As he passed through the shadows of the trees Nam turned to see if Yi Deok Chun would halt rather than continue. Far from stopping, the messenger reached and plucked one of the fruits for himself. Nam sighed and looked ahead.

His family and servants ran out of the courtyard to meet them.  To his surprise his wife ran out ahead and when he dismounted she leapt into his arms, giving him such a kiss as to deeply embarrass all in attendance.

“My love has came home!” she said. “What would my darling like? My husband is home and he can have anything!”

Nam looked from his wet-eyed wife to the messenger. He said, “Wife, let us buy a sapsaree.”

So as a welcome gift for her husband, Nam’s wife sent for a sapsaree, and of this dog let me tell you, the tales are true. As soon as it arrived it sensed Yi’s presence and barked at him. It snapped its jaws. It did not stop objecting to the messenger all day, nor cease defending its master at night; it growled and howled and clawed at the window if it were inside.

Tirelessly it denounced the unwelcome guest, morning and noon and evening.

“Wife,” said Nam on the third night, “let us sell the sapsaree.”

So Nam’s wife sold the sapsaree. When she returned from town, she found her husband beneath the orange trees, listening to the magpies and painting a picture of a chrysanthemum. The messenger looked over his shoulder.

“Wife, forgive me,” he said. “It may cause our family great difficulty, but I am not returning to my post. With whatever time I have left, I have decided to study Art. As soon as I can I will take the examinations.”

Nam’s wife was not a foolish woman. From his strange requests and this fateful statement, she understood her husband was haunted. So she put her arms around him and said, “Husband, I know that as a student of The Master you do not approve of the shaman, but would you let me invite her again for a ritual? For some time now I have felt uncomfortable. I think a spirit has taken residence in our home.”

Nam agreed and his wife sent for the shaman. The very next day the old woman arrived to hold the ritual. She erected a display of liquor, food, and flowers to attract the gods’ attention, then danced as Nam’s servants played their instruments.

Tirelessly she danced, morning and noon and evening.

“Wife,” Nam said on the third day, “let us pay the shaman.”

So Nam’s wife paid the shaman and a despondent Nam returned to his place beneath the orange trees to pick up his brush. To his surprise he was joined by his son. Then, suddenly overcome with emotion, he said to his son, “My boy, I will be taking another journey, perhaps very soon. It may be that we will not meet again for a long time, so we should speak, you and I, of what course your life will take.”

“Mother tells me my father will be a painter,” said Nam’s son.

“If there is enough time.”

“Every day my father was home from his post I watched as he painted one picture of a chrysanthemum after another. I think I would like to be a painter too. I can paint a great orange tree.”

“That is a wonderful calling,” Nam said. “Join me here and we will study together.”

So Nam and his son studied together under the orange trees, listening to the magpies and painting pictures of chrysanthemums and orange trees, one after another. And Nam’s loving wife kept them all fed with the little income left from their estate. The messenger took rice with them and sometimes watched them paint. Nam began thinking of him as an unwelcome housemate instead of an unwelcome guest.

Eventually Nam traveled to the new capital to take the examinations, taking his son and Yi with him. There he passed the many tests and the ministers, looking with wonder upon his pictures of chrysanthemums, appointed him a government employee of the eastern sixth senior rank, the highest possible status for an artist. They gave him a tag of deer horn with which to command respect. And thus credentialed, he painted chrysanthemums for the government, until one day the king called him into his royal chambers.

“Paint me like one of your chrysanthemums,” the king said.

And so Nam began painting pictures of the king, one after another, and in that role he served for years.

死

 Nam was an old noble, long ago, in a little seaside county famous for its pottery. He had a virtuous spirit and a scholar’s love of art.

One day his old friend Yi Deok Chun leaned over his shoulder, a little more closely than usual, to admire Nam’s latest picture of the king. He whispered, “I have enjoyed the Artist’s hospitality, but I have received word from the King of Jeoseung that I must return.”

Nam put down his paintbrush. “I think I once told Yi the Messenger that my father is there. Perhaps I may accompany him?”

“Of course.”

The artist smiled. “The Messenger honors me. You know, I think he has become a good friend?”

Nam was of virtuous spirit. He immediately packed provisions for himself and the messenger in black. And in the morning he stepped out of his door, wearing a white face but also the black robes a nobleman wears to honor his ancestors. His wife, son and servants assembled upon a hill to wish him well. His wife invited the local shaman for good luck.

“Family,” he said, watching as Yi Deok Chun climbed up his own horse, “I leave our home in my son’s care.”

“Perhaps I will plant more orange trees,” his son mused.

“No oranges,” said Nam, as he set off down the path once more, flanked on his right by the messenger.

死