The Snake, the Flower, and the Tiger - Chapter 85

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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85

Decades ago.
“Father, where are we going?”
Young Kyota stamped his feet against the cold, gazing up at his father.
Under ordinary circumstances, he would never have dared to speak first to his father, but the cold had become unbearable. Moreover, today his father seemed unusually animated, so Kyota waited for his answer.
As Kyota had anticipated, his father did not strike him. Instead, he looked down at his small son, roughly rubbed his flushed cheeks, and then scooped the boy into his arms and strode forward with long steps.
Unlike the nursemaid’s embrace, it was hard and uncomfortable, yet Kyota felt a joy he could not contain. It had been such a long time since his father had held him this way.
Unable to contain his delight, his underdeveloped toes wriggled inside his felt slippers.
“Just a little further.”
“Yes, Father…”
He did not answer where they were going, yet Kyota was pleased all the same. He was pleased that his father, who was always drunk, had not been drinking. He was pleased that speaking to him did not earn him a blow.
Above all, he was simply glad that his father was carrying him and walking briskly.
Perhaps a wish he had once made was coming true. At the thought, his heart hammered against his ribs—thump-thump-thump—as if he were running at full speed while nestled in his father’s arms.
‘Are we moving?’
Since some time ago, whenever Kyota saw the Full Moon, he repeated the same wish.
The villagers, watching Kyota and his father, made the same wish, so perhaps the Full Moon had granted his.
If they were indeed moving, as he wished, then it made sense that his father would climb the mountain at this late hour. Surely they were crossing the mountain to another Village—somewhere far away.
‘But I have nothing with me…’
It was then that Kyota remembered the pencils and dolls he had left behind. They were precious things that other children could not even dare to covet.
Among them, the toy Kyota cherished most was a Train Model with wheels that moved on their own.
Because he would never see the person who had given him the Train Model again, if he left it behind, he would never be able to obtain its like again.
“Father…”
After walking all this way, if he asked to go back and fetch the dolls, his father would surely be angry.
No, it would not stop at anger—he might loosen his Leather Belt and strike him as he had done before. But Kyota wanted to have the Train Model badly enough to endure a beating for it.
Just as Kyota was about to cajole his father while testing his mood, the man suddenly stopped walking. He ceased even his labored breathing and stared at something.
‘Father?’
The man’s expression resembled his drunken face, yet it was entirely different. His pupils were dilated, and madness gleamed in his eyes. At the corners of his mouth, a smile dripped with greed.
The man made a sound from his throat, a guttural laugh—”Kha, kha-kha”—like mucus rattling. Only then did Kyota realize his father was laughing aloud.
Kyota had never heard his father laugh before. He stared blankly at him in shock. But soon he too turned his head toward what his father was gazing at.
‘What is Father looking at…?’
What the man beheld was none other than an enormous, dark Pond cradling the moon. Beyond the still Pond stretched a dense Bamboo Forest.
Held in the man’s arms, Kyota looked back at the mountain path they had struggled to climb.
It was utterly different from the thick oak and pine forest they had passed through—an alien forest. It was as if they had stepped into another world.
‘I’m frightened…’
The Full Moon hung in the sky above, and its enormous reflection floated upon the water’s surface as if pasted there. The rippling black water beneath it, the Bamboo Forest swaying without wind—these alone filled young Kyota with terror.
It was a primal fear unlike anything he felt toward his father’s Leather Belt or the villagers’ pointing fingers, though the boy could not distinguish between them.
I have to run. I have to leave this place.
Somewhere along the way, the forgotten toys evaporated from his mind, replaced by a single, consuming thought. Kyota tugged weakly at his father’s clothes and shook them, but all he heard in response was the man’s muttering.
“…Found it. Found it, found it. It’s all over now. …You bastards, I’ll kill every last one of you. Now it’s done. It’s done. Done, all done.”
“Father?”
“It’s done now. Done, I tell you! Now I’ll set everything right, I will! I, Genboku Hayashi, will! I’ll set it all right, you fucking Korean bastards, I will!!!”
Genboku did not notice that his son, cradled in his arms, had been so startled he had lost control of his bladder. His eyes blazed red, and his heart thundered in his throat as if about to rupture.
Unable to contain his fury, Genboku cursed repeatedly. The Bamboo Forest across the Pond seemed to answer him, the leaves trembling—”Frrr-frrr”—as if in response.

After that, Genboku climbed the mountain with his son every single night.
Rumors spread through the Village that he had finally lost his mind, but Genboku no longer cared. Those who occasionally came to his house soon stopped visiting when met with his coldness.
Even when the rice jar ran empty and Genboku had to fast, he carried his starving son up the mountain. There, before the Pond, he would strip the boy down to his underclothes and paint his entire body with Red Paint. When the grotesque ritual ended, only Kyota’s eyes remained white against the red.
Winter was drawing near. Already fasting for whole days, Kyota had to endure hunger and cold while soaked in paint.
Though his son trembled like an aspen leaf, Genboku paid no mind and left Kyota standing before the Pond.
“F-F-Father, I-I-it’s t-t-too c-cold.”
Even as Kyota went hungry, Genboku had recently become an uncommonly tender father. He no longer wielded his Leather Belt, no longer struck the boy’s head with kindling.
For this reason, Kyota began to whimper despite his efforts to bear the cold.
“C-c-couldn’t I at least w-wear some c-clothes? Father…”
His jaw trembled so violently that his words came out broken. As Kyota shook and spoke, Genboku, who had been facing the Pond, turned toward his son.
Since discovering the Pond, Genboku had climbed the mountain every night, and his face had grown so gaunt that he seemed even more sinister.
“Cold?”
—Yes, yes… I’m so cold and hungry, Father.
There were countless questions he wanted to ask: why they climbed the mountain each day, fleeing from the eyes of men; what this red paint was that he applied to his own body; what Genboku waited for by the Pond. His mind teemed with them.
Yet Kyota understood, at least, that such questions were not his to ask.
But surely something as simple as cold and hunger would not be refused? As Genboku was his father, so too was Kyota his only child.
Contrary to his fear that Genboku might rage as he once had, the man regarded his son in silence, then moved toward the container holding the paint. He turned away, crouched, rummaged through something, and then approached Kyota swiftly with an outstretched hand.
In the moment the faint moonlight illuminated Genboku’s glistening hand and the thing he held in his grip, Kyota cried out in shock and collapsed where he stood.
—Ahhh!
—What’s wrong?
—Father… hah, hah… surely that’s not…
—A chicken. You’ve eaten it well enough when it was cooked, haven’t you? We can’t make a fire here, so eat it raw. Your hunger will ease. I’ve plucked the feathers, so just avoid the bones and eat. Come on.
Genboku extended the chicken’s leg with an untroubled expression, torn fresh from the bird. Though he had squeezed out the blood, the flesh remained dark and ruddy—more the mark of slaughter than any food.
Kyota stared at the container, his mind reeling.
Could the red liquid from that container—the very substance he had smeared across his own body every night without fail—not be paint at all?
A metallic taste flooded his mouth unbidden. Kyota doubled over, gagging where he stood.
—Ugh, ugh! Hack! Cough, cough, cough… no, no, I don’t want this!
After gagging several times, Kyota began scrubbing at his own skin with his palms. The dried chicken blood flaked away like dead skin, and as Genboku watched, his eyes flashed dangerously.
—What the hell are you doing?!
Smack! Genboku’s hand lashed out and struck Kyota savagely.

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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