He held the folded newspaper, his hands trembling, and then threw it down. “I cannot read it. You read it — no — let me read this one — this third one.” And Il-han read in a loud voice. “‘National aspirations must be respected; people may now be dominated and governed only at their own consent. Self-determination is not a mere phrase; it is an imperative principle of action.’ … My son—” Il-han folded the newspaper small and thrust it in his bosom. He pointed his long forefinger for emphasis. “My son, it is of our people that he speaks! He knows — he knows!”
The tears of the old come as easily as the tears of children, and Yul-han saw that his father wept for relief upon hope long deferred. Underneath his seeming confidence in Woodrow Wilson he had hidden a deep fear that again an American President was not to be trusted. Now he could believe. Self-determination — was it not the same as independence?
“Sit down, Father,” Yul-han said. “Let your heart rest.”
… Il-han was not the only one to be overjoyed. Everywhere the people rejoiced in private, and Christians gave thanks in the churches. On the following Sunday such thanksgiving was made in Yul-han’s church. He went alone that morning, for Induk had stayed at home to tend her younger child who was fretful and often ill. The day was fair, the mountains clear against the deep blue sky, and Yul-han felt a new cheerfulness as he came out of the church. As usual, beggars waited at the steps leading from church to street, for they had learned that Christian hearts were softer on a Sunday than on other days.
Now as Yul-han came to the street, a beggar stepped forward and caught his coat. Without looking at him, Yul-han reached into his pocket and found a coin and dropped it in the beggar’s hand. He went on then and after a few minutes he heard footsteps and turning his head, he saw the beggar again. He waited until the beggar came near to ask why he followed. When the beggar came near, however, he saw the eyes and was silent, wondering. Where had he seen those eyes?
“You do not know me,” the beggar said.
“No,” Yul-han said, and suddenly it occurred to him that this voice he heard was not the beggar-whine he had heard at the church.
“Walk on,” the beggar said. “I will follow, my hand outstretched, as though I were begging.”
Yul-han obeyed, much amazed, and the beggar went on talking, his voice low but strong.
“How many years has it been? I cannot blame you for not knowing me. Yet I am your brother.”
Yul-han turned involuntarily and was about to cry out Yul-chun’s name, when he heard the beggar-whine again—
“A penny, a good deed, master — mercy, good master, to send you on your way to heaven.
“Put money in my hand,” Yul-chun muttered. Again Yul-han obeyed.
“Good master, you have given me a bad coin.”
Yul-han leaned to look at the coin lying in the beggar’s hand and he heard these words: “Leave the gate open tonight — and do not sleep.”
They parted, the beggar effusive in thanks and Yul-han as steady as though his head were not swimming. Yul-chun! Of course it was Yul-chun. He hastened home and told Induk, swallowing his words in his haste and then his eyes fell on his son. The child was listening as though he understood, an impossibility, and yet Yul-han fell silent.
… Somewhere between midnight and dawn, when the night was darkest, Yul-han heard the gate swing slowly open, not more wide than enough to admit the thin body of a man. He stood in the darkness and he put out his hand and felt his brother’s shoulder and he slid his hand to find his brother’s hand. Then stealing in such silence that their feet made no sound, they crossed the garden to the house, and Yul-han led the way to a small inner room, a storeroom with no windows, and where bags of grain stood against the walls. Induk brought floor cushions and a lantern and the two brothers sat and talked in whispers.
“I escaped prison two days ago,” Yul-chun said.
“Prison!” Yul-han exclaimed.
The light from the candle flickered on Yul-chun’s high cheekbones and shadowed the deep-set sockets of his eyes.
“Did you not guess I was in prison?” he asked. “Ever since the trials.”
“The Living Reed!” Yul-han said in sudden comprehension. “You were the Living Reed.”
“And am,” Yul-chun said. He went on to tell his brother hastily what had befallen him since they had last been together.
“But how I escaped — you will not believe it, but a Japanese came to my cell that night I thought myself doomed, and I spoke recklessly of my dream of independence for our people. He listened, said nothing, and went away — and I saw the door of my cell ajar.”
“What was his name?” Yul-han asked.
When Yul-chun spoke it, Yul-han remembered that it was the name of the young chief of the Bureau of Education who had given him permission to become the head of the Christian school, and who himself had once attended a Christian school in Tokyo. Was there not a miracle here, a Christian miracle?
Yul-chun was urging questions again. “How are our parents? Tell me what has happened in our family — but quickly, brother! By dawn I must be far away.”
As quickly as he could Yul-han told him of their parents and of his own marriage and the birth of his children.
A flickering tenderness appeared on Yul-chun’s harsh face. “I would like to see your son,” he said. “Since I am not to have a life like other men, it may be that only your son will carry on the war for our independence.”
At this Induk, still silent, rose and went to the room where Liang lay asleep. She lifted the boy from his bed, and carried him to Yul-chun. The child was barely awake but being amiable and benign by nature, he roused himself and smiled at his uncle at first without much concern. Suddenly, however, an inexplicable change took place. The smile left his face, he leaned forward in his mother’s arms and gazed most earnestly into his uncle’s eyes. He gave a cry of joy, he reached out his arms and leaned out so far that Yul-chun caught him to keep him from falling. The child clung to him, he put his arms about Yul-chun’s neck, he laid his cheek against his cheek, then he lifted his head to gaze at Yul-chun again and laughed aloud, and this he did again and again while Yul-han and Induk stood transfixed in amazement.
“How is this?” Induk cried. “The child knows you! Why, he was never like this, even with us!”
“One would say he recognizes you from some previous life,” Yul-han said, and was troubled, for a strange excitement had taken possession of Liang. He was between laughter and tears, he was struggling to speak and had not enough words, nor could Yul-chun soothe him except by yielding to him and holding him close. This he did for a few moments. Then he gave the child to Induk and he strode from the room.
In the dark garden the two brothers clasped hands and whispered a few last words.
“When shall we meet again?” Yul-han asked.
“Perhaps never,” Yul-chun said. “But perhaps sooner than we dream. I am going back to China!”
“China! Why there?”
“The greatest revolution in man’s history is brewing there. I have much to learn there still — and some day I will come home again to use what I have learned. Have you any money?”
“Yes, I thought you would need it.” Yul-han had prepared a packet of silver coins, all that he had saved, and he gave it now to his brother. They parted then, but Yul-chun suddenly came back the few steps he had taken.
“I do not know why Liang behaved as he did, brother, but this I do know. A great soul came into him somehow when he was born. I am no Buddhist, I have no religion, but I know this is no usual child. Respect him, brother. He has a destiny.”
With these last words, Yul-chun disappeared into the night and Yul-han returned to his house, his heart heavy with concern over what Yul-chun had said. Yet when he came into the room where the beds were spread on the floor, he saw Liang peacefully asleep while Induk, in her nightdress, braided her long hair.