Page 16 of The Last Tiger

Seung

Throughout the past few months of winter, I’ve studied and worked, worked and studied.

I took over Dad’s old job at the gold mine while he struggled against his illness.

The mines occupied my days and evenings, except the ones I spent with Eunji, running through the village and the outskirts together as she quizzed me on the previous week’s lessons.

I spent every spare moment at home, studying for the Exam.

My life lately has become one long blur.

I can hardly tell one day from the next.

I’ve learned to eat quickly, in just a few minutes, so I can squeeze in more time reading textbooks or pacing anxiously around the house, reciting answers in my head.

Sleep has become a rare and precious gift, a luxury that I can’t afford to indulge in often enough.

I never knew before just how much I had taken for granted a full night’s worth of sleep.

The job at the gold mine is utterly exhausting. My muscles are constantly aching and sore. Still, I power through and keep going on, no matter what. The date of the Exam continues to approach all the while, like a sign at the end of a long road.

I burn through the rest of our family’s oil studying into the late hours. When there is no oil left, and no money to buy more, I whisper facts and figures to myself in the dark.

All the while, Dad’s illness worsens.

In the time between snows, I chop and collect wood to burn to keep us warm. I lob my weight into the ax as I fell and split the dried-out tree trunks in the woods behind our home.

Live, I think, swinging the ax.

My breath fogs in the air, and my fingers sting with cold through my gloves.

Still I swing, again and again, breaking the thick wood pieces apart.

Live, damn you.

It’s late evening. Mom and Hoyoung have already gone to bed, but I can’t sleep.

Dad’s rasping, pained breathing in and out hasn’t let up for hours.

I toss and turn in the dark, nervous, frustrated.

My arms and my whole body ache from splitting firewood all evening. I’m exhausted. But still I can’t sleep.

“Seung.” Dad’s voice comes quietly, so as not to wake the others.

I sit up finally, rubbing my eyes, and eventually make my way over to Dad’s sleeping mat. His frame is thin and pale; he’s lost a lot of weight.

Dad grabs weakly at my hand. His fingers are wispy and light, his grip barely strong enough to close around my skin.

“Do you need water?” I ask. “I’ll get it for you.”

I return with a cup. Dad lifts his head from the pillow, too weak to sit up. I help him drink, the water spilling a little down his chin.

“You couldn’t sleep,” Dad whispers, his voice hoarse. “I kept you awake—” I cringe as he doubles over, hacking a terrible cough.

“It’s okay, Dad. Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s going to be all right, Seung,” Dad mutters, his mind seemingly elsewhere.

He hacks another wretched cough. I feel a stab of pathos, seeing him in such a terrible condition.

“If I don’t make it—” Dad begins.

“Dad, don’t say that.” I squeeze his hand.

“Shh. I know you’ll take good care of your mother and Hoyoung. I’ve never worried about that. They’re in good hands with you. I’m so proud—proud of—”

Dad stops again, his lungs racked by the pneumonia.

“Dad, stop it. You’re going to be okay. All right? You’re going to be just fine—”

“No—” He tries to stifle the coughing. “This is important—”

He’s sweating; I wipe his brow clean with a cloth. When he speaks again, Dad is more measured.

“Seung—I know you’ve always struggled to accept the life we have.”

“Dad—”

“And I know, it’s true. Our life isn’t easy. Trust me, I know that. Thirty years working in the mines, I know.”

I flinch, swallowing my protests and falling quiet, seeing by the look in his face how determined he is to speak now.

“No one’s life is easy, Seung. Ours may be harder than many. Maybe because we’re Tiger people in someone else’s empire. Maybe because we don’t have much. That’s true.

“But Seung, our life is worth living too. I want you to know that. We have the blood of Tiger people in our veins. We stick together. We support each other. We love each other. That’s all we can do, at the end of the day.

And I hope someday you’ll see that that’s enough.

” He holds my gaze. “Promise me you’ll remember what I’m saying when I’m gone, okay? ”

“Dad, I—”

“Promise—”

Dad lays his head down on the mat, exhausted now from the effort of speaking. He closes his eyes. I wipe the tears from my cheeks and look away.

“I—I—” I want to tell him he’s going to make it.

I don’t know why I can’t just say the words. It’s something so simple. He never asked for much.

Still I sit there, the words catching in my throat, unable to come out.

All I can see is the policeman, and the dent on the wall where he shoved my father—and the way I turned away from him in the woods. I imagine Dad coming down the path, taking off his coat, leading the officer home.

Is it my fault? Did I cause all this to happen?

I want to tell Dad I can promise to accept the life that we have. That he can rest easy, knowing I’ve come to peace with everything.

But what if I don’t have to?

What if I never have to take another beating from a Dragon officer again?

What if I could pass the Exam—rise above my station—become someone in life that we never dreamed could be possible? What if we didn’t have to accept life on the terms we were given but could rise above it, could make something more of ourselves?

When I finally look down at him, I see that Dad’s fallen asleep. His chest rises and falls slowly, thick with wheezing. I tuck the blankets in around him tighter, then make my way to bed.

The next morning, Dad doesn’t wake up.

His head has fallen to one side, a half smile frozen on his face. He looks so peaceful, the sunlight falling aslant onto his body. I stand there all morning and long into the afternoon, watching him, unable to look away.

Spring in the Tiger Colonies arrives suddenly. First the moon grows full, then fades to a slim crescent as the final weeks pass one by one.

Winter snows continue to fall thickly over the mountains, blanketing the landscape in a heavy white sheath that hardens and thickens under the morning sun. The snows gradually pile up, covering the whole valley in an even blankness that whites out the world.

Then, after some indiscernible shift in the air…the snows slowly shrink and pull back as the days begin to warm.

Trickles grow into small streams as the mask of snow shudders and finally melts over the mountainside, baring first one sheer face of rock, then another.

The tree branches quiver and spring to life, freeing themselves from the casing of ice and snow that held them in place all winter.

And buds of life begin to burst from the tips of those branches—first in sparse, eager handfuls, then in great waves coming fully to life over the mountains.

There are vibrant reds and carefree yellow bells with long, thin tongues. And of course, there is the ever-present mugunghwa, our onetime national flower, pride of the Tiger Colonies, whose milk-white petals blush pink in the center like pinched cheeks.

And there it is, suddenly: spring.

The date of the Exam approaches, inexorable, like a sign at the end of a long road. Three weeks. Two. One.

Finally, it’s the day of the test.

I sit perched on the hilltop just behind my house, watching the sunrise break over the horizon. An orange-yellow glow has spilled out over the eastern sky and is rolling up gradually over the hills. I rub the sleep from my eyes, still swollen and red from days of crying.

Last night, I came home early from the mines, forsaking the night shift in order to get a full night’s sleep before the biggest day of my life. It’s the first time I’ve slept straight through the night in—well, I can’t remember how long it’s been, but it’s been a while.

I can’t believe it’s here, the day I’ve been dreaming about and dreading.

I have no idea whether or not I’m fully prepared, but I know one thing for sure.

There is absolutely nothing more I could have done.

I’ve thrown every last drop of sweat, everything I have, into preparing for this test. Whatever happens now is up to fate.

I stand atop the hill, watching the daylight breaking over the mountainside. The growing heat of the sun warms my hair. I take a deep breath and exhale.

Am I ready? I have to be.

Finally, I walk back down the hill to meet Mom by the door of the house. I almost cry again, seeing her; she looks so fragile, and brave, standing there. She must have been watching me while I stood over the hill; for how long, I don’t know.

Mom holds out a pack as I approach. Inside she has placed a bottle of water, two rice cakes she managed to save up somehow for nutrition during the long day, and a small towel.

“What’s the towel for?” I ask, not knowing what else to say.

“For sweat,” she says plainly. “In case you get nervous.”

I nod. Everything has an air of unreality to it. It seems impossible that this is really the day of the Exam. I step forward awkwardly and give her a hug. Mom holds me tightly before letting me go. I’m about to turn and walk down the path when she stops me.

“Wait, Seung,” she says. “One last thing for you.”

She presents me with something wrapped in a cloth.

I open it up. Inside lies a pair of two perfect, pristine pencils. They’re fine, high-quality ones, with firm, dark tips. I feel something drop in my chest.

I have no idea how long Mom must have saved up in order to afford these. How many nights have we boiled turnips and swallowed the watery broth so that I could take the Exam using these amazing—no, perfect—pencils?