“What!” Sunia exclaimed. “I suppose you think I cannot help my grandchild to be born? I suppose only a Christian will serve?”
“Mother, I pray you,” Yul-han exclaimed. “Is it a matter for me to decide? Let it be as Induk wishes.”
This Induk heard from an open window and she came hurrying out.
“Good Mother,” she said, coaxing Sunia. “The birth is not so important as the hundred-day feast. Will you let us celebrate the feast with you and the grandfather?”
Sunia, having made protest, was willing to be mollified, and so it was decided. On a stormy night in early spring, Induk went into labor, her mother and her sisters about her. Outside in the main room Yul-han awaited the birth with eagerness and also with mild amusement for Induk had said she wished the first child to be a girl.
“I am praying God for a daughter,” she told Yul-han one night as they lay side by side in bed in married talk.
He gave a shout of laughter.
“Now here is confusion,” he exclaimed. “I am praying for a son!”
Induk did not know what to say. At first she was inclined to be somewhat peevish. Then she thought better of it and smiled.
“Let us both stop praying and accept what God sends,” she said.
The birth was not easy for Induk. The hours were many and Yul-han was about to be fearful when, as the early sun climbed over the eastern mountain, his mother-in-law came to the door and beckoned him with her forefinger. He went to her at once and she gave him a sly look, for Induk had told her of their conflicting prayers.
“You have prevailed,” she said. “God has given you a son.”
He went to Induk then and knelt on the floor beside her bed. There, resting on her arm, he saw a sturdy child whose eyes were already open. It was his son! He felt a strange new pride in himself, a conviction of achievement, an upsurge of life and hope. Then he looked at Induk.
“Next time, since I am so strong in prayer, I shall pray for you a daughter,” he said, and weary as she was, she laughed.
… At first Yul-han thought of the child only as his son, a part of himself, a third with Induk. As time passed, however, a most strange prescience took hold of his mind and spirit. Babe though he was, he perceived that the child possessed an old soul. It was not to be put into words, this meaning of an old soul. Yul-han, observing the child, saw in his behavior a reasonableness, a patience, a comprehension, that was totally unchildlike. He did not scream when his food was delayed, as other infants do. Instead, his eyes calm and contemplative, he seemed to understand and was able to wait. These eyes, quietly alive, moved from Yul-han’s face to Induk’s when they talked, as though he knew what his parents said. He was a large child, strong and healthy, and he had presence. Yul-han, watching, felt a certain awe, a hesitancy in calling him “my son,” as though the claim were presumption.
“If I were Buddhist,” he told Induk one day, “I would say that this child is an incarnation of some former great soul.”
They were together of an evening, and Induk was preparing for the child’s hundredth day after birth, which was to be celebrated the next day. She was baking small cakes and while they were in the oven, she arranged upon a low table the objects for the child’s choosing tomorrow. According to tradition whatever the child chose was a prophecy of his future.
She paused when Yul-han spoke. “I feel it, too,” she replied quietly. “What it means I cannot say. I only know that this child will lead and we must follow. We must not try to shape him, though we are his parents. He will know what he is, and we must wait until he tells us.”
She came to Yul-han’s side then, and they knelt together before the child, who lay on a pillow on the ondul floor. He had been moving his hands as babies do, kicking his feet and making soft burbles as he discovered his voice. Now he turned his head to look at his parents, and he gazed at them with such intelligence, such awareness, that it was as if he spoke their names, not as his parents, but as persons whom he recognized.
“Oh, what is this—” Induk murmured in amazement.
The child smiled as though with inner joy.
… “Let no one speak,” Il-han said.
They were gathered together for this celebration, the two families, Yul-han’s and Induk’s, in Il-han’s house. For the first time Il-han and Sunia met with Christians, a meeting not possible if Il-han had not seen with his own eyes the steadfast courage of the Christians at the trials. Today, therefore, he greeted Induk’s parents with courtesy and they sat in the seats of honor, the father in his white robes, and the mother, short and plain of face, in her best gray satin skirt and bodice. On the outskirts in lower seats were Induk’s sisters and young brother, and Sunia’s sisters, a family crowd such as there had not been since the funeral of Il-han’s father.
All were intent upon the child. He, too, was in his new garments of red silk that Induk had made for the occasion. He was propped against a cushion, and he lay in calm content, smiling when he was spoken to.
“Let no one speak,” Il-han said again.
All voices were hushed then, as they watched the child. Upon the floor around him Induk had placed the usual objects, a brush for writing, a small dagger, a piece of money, a bundle of thread. The child looked at Induk inquiringly, and she nodded and smiled. Then as though he understood what he must do, the child examined the objects carefully and after a moment he put out his right hand and chose the bundle of thread. All burst into joyful cries and exclamations. The child had chosen the symbol for long life.
Thereafter they ate the cakes which Induk had prepared and drank tea and made talk happily. And when this was done, they presented their gifts to the child. Some gave garments of gaily colored silks, some gave money, and some bowls heaped with rice to signify wealth. The grandparents gave the essential gifts of bundles of thread, a rice bowl of fine lacquer with a cover of polished brass, a set of silver chopsticks and spoon. Each gift the child received with such calm and seeming comprehension that all guests went away awed.
When they were gone Sunia took the child in her arms. “I am glad he chose the thread,” she told Yul-han. “Else I might have my fears. He is too wise, this child.”
“Wisdom is what we need in times like this,” he told her.
“I raise a name for him,” Il-han said. “I raise a Chinese name. Let him be called Liang. Later he may add another name of his own choosing, but let us call him Liang, which means Light — the light of day, the light of enlightenment.”
They considered, looking at each other and at the child.
“It is a good name,” Yul-han said.
Sunia nodded. “A name big enough for him to grow in.”
But Induk snatched the child away from her. “He is only a baby,” she cried. “He is only a little baby. You make him too soon a man!” And she hugged him to her breast.
Beyond the despair in Yul-han’s own country, a turmoil appeared in the West. Out of the West, so long committed to peace, a war arose. At first no one could understand such a war, beginning, it seemed, in the single assassination of a nobleman in a country whose name the people here did not know. Suddenly like fire upon mountain grass, the single death was spread into multitudes. Europe was divided by war, and Germany, the nation most admired by Japan and where many Japanese had been sent by their Emperor for education in soldiery, Germany was the first to move to battle. By command of their ruler, a proud man with a withered arm, the German army moved swiftly across the nations.
“What is to happen to us?” Induk asked, in fear.
“We are helpless,” Yul-han replied.