She spat out a stone.

☽

       Ever since her near-drowning, Junja was allowed to follow her mother and grandmother to the seashore, instead of staying home to watch her little brother. That task now belonged to second sister, Gongja, who was only ten, but already knew how to make a fine millet porridge.

       “I could probably cook a chicken too,” boasted Gongja.

       “But you don’t know how to kill the chicken,” yelled Jin. “Or pluck out its feathers and clean the innards!

       “Pretty soon you’ll have to take care of yourself, useless boy,” said Gongja. “Because I’ll be old enough to do water work with Ummung and Halmung and Junja.”

       “Hush,” Mother said, crouching down to look her son in the eye. “Heed your noonah well. Don’t forget that Gongja is your mother while we are gone. Behave like a man. Both of you must weed the garden and feed the chickens. When you finish, write the alphabet three times. Over there, on the dirt near the garden fence, so the chickens can’t walk over it. Then, you may play.”

       Mother rose to gather the supplies they needed for their day of work, dividing everything between her eldest daughter, her mother, and herself: picks, knives, scythes, hemp nets and rope, twig baskets, dried gourds, lengths of cloth, kindling, and fresh water.

       The three of them walked down the rocky path toward the beach, large bundles balanced on their heads. The dawn sky was inky, but their eyes were accustomed to the darker pitch of the ocean. They navigated the shadows, their bare feet steering.

       “Aigoo,” said Grandmother, “My feet are too old for these bad black rocks.”

       “Aigoo,” said Junja, giggling, “My feet are too young for these bad black rocks.”

       “Such noise!” scolded Mother. “You will wake the clams in their beds.”

       “Tell me, what do you remember of your sea dream?” Grandmother asked, when Mother walked a few steps ahead of them to kick the large stones away from the path. Grandmother had asked this question every morning and every night for weeks, hoping that something would dart out of the crevices of her granddaughter’s memory and be caught.

       “I cannot remember much, Halmung,” apologized Junja. “I remember falling and falling. Everything was dark and cold and wet. I couldn’t breathe, and I couldn’t move. I remember thinking, ‘I am dead now. Instead of helping Mother, I am only bringing her sorrow.’ Suddenly, I could move again. The sea king and his maidens watched as I swam back up. I kicked and pushed toward the light. When I woke, I was holding something in my hand, something I knew I couldn’t let go.”

       “You kept the pearl,” said Grandmother, “but you lost the treasure.”

       Junja stayed silent.

       “Your sea dream was the true treasure, but the sea king tricked you with a pearl so you’d return to this world holding onto a stone instead of the truth.” Grandmother sighed.

       Mother had traded that pearl for a large sack of white rice and a new garden hoe. Junja didn’t understand how a dream could have been more helpful, despite Grandmother’s stories about her great-great-grandmother, who had captured a sea dream and shared its riches with everyone in her village.

       “She dreamed her entire life in that sea dream. After she coughed the ocean out of her body, her mind cleared, leaving behind a detailed picture of everything that was going to happen in her life. She knew when typhoons would blow, which winters would freeze solid, and which summers would shrivel up in drought. She knew which parts of the ocean were teeming with delicious living things and where there were only barren rocks and sand. When she met the man she would marry, she told him, ‘I dreamed about you, and you will be my husband.’

       “It wasn’t always easy to bear, knowing what would happen. Usually she would bite her tongue. On the day her mother drowned, she tried to stop her, begging her not to go out. The mother, wiser than her gifted daughter, continued on her way, because knowing never stopped the sun from rising or the tides from coming in.”

       “Did your great-great-grandmother know how she’d die as well?” Junja wondered if knowing about your own death could somehow delay it.        Grandmother clucked. “She probably did, but she never told another person that secret. She grew so sad, knowing when everyone else would die, that all sorts of troublesome spirits were able to enter and cloud her mind.

       “One night, she slipped and hit her head on some bad black rocks. When she woke up, she was as simple as a child of two. The villagers had to tether her to a tree so that she wouldn’t wander off a cliff. While no one was watching, she loosened the knots and slipped away. They found her body washed up on the beach, head cracked like an egg. It was the sea king’s way of reminding us that whatever comes from the sea will always return to it.”

☽

       On the beach, bonfires were blazing. Women scurried about, stoking flames, coiling lengths of rope, and inspecting gourds for breaks and nets for tears. Some of the divers were singing a song that keened like the wind. Others were rubbing their hands together as they chanted prayers to the sea god. Seabirds hovered as the sky began to brighten. Junja added her family’s kindling to the community pile.

       “Gather your dolchu,” an elder barked. Junja hurried to the water’s edge, where speckled black-and-white stones had been washed clean by the night tides. She found a smooth one, the size of a summer squash, and showed it to her grandmother, who hefted it with an approving grunt. The first group of divers were standing before the fire in their water clothes, eyes shut, faces glowing with heat.

       “Water time! Water time! Go into the sea!”

       The divers secured their seaweed scythes and shellfish picks. They spat into their masks and rubbed the bubbles over the glass. Junja’s mother, hands in thick wool mittens, stirred the embers with a stick and pulled out stones to cool on the sand.

       With the warm anchor stones nestled in their hemp slings, the first group stood ready, led by an elder who would guide them to the first dive site.

       The barefoot women waded into the water, arms wrapped around their gourd floats. The anchor stones warmed their bellies. Their linen swimsuits darkened before puckering to cling to their skin. As the women kicked their way through the surf, the sound of singing grew fainter, giving way to the slapping waves and the pounding of their pulse.

       The ocean sucked each diver down greedily. But the women were prepared for battle. They swiped their knives at the fingers of sea grass that clutched at them. They used picks to pry away shells clinging to underwater rocks. They worked the waters, humming the chants of their forbearing mothers, who had explored the deep before them.

☽

       You must leave the ocean before your fingers and lips grow numb. Grab your fistful of treasure and fly back up toward the light. When your head breaks the surface, release the air you held captive in your chest, letting it fly away in a whistling scream.

       Rest your cheek on the gourd, which bobs on the water, dreaming of the steady ground that once moored it. Place your shell inside the net bag and thank the sea king for his gift. Close your eyes and imagine the sun’s fire sinking deep into your belly.

       Swallow another gulp of shining air.

       Dive into the depths one more time.