Sword of God(48)
Chi-Gon Jung had given them a map of Seongsan Harbor, explaining where his boat was docked and how to get there. The boy and his father were scheduled to arrive at midnight, the most chaotic moment possible, when they hoped to slip aboard unnoticed. An hour later, one of Jung’s most reliable tour guides would pilot them to the open sea. By morning, they would reach one of the small ports on the southern coast of South Korea, where they hoped to disappear into the countryside. At least that’s what Jung had gathered.
Unfortunately, he had no additional information about the Parks. No hotel. No phone number. Not even a backup plan. They had stumbled into the Daeyu Hunting Lodge looking for a guide and were given Jung’s business card. They showed up at his cabin unannounced, told him what they needed, and gave him a small cash deposit. The entire time the boy never spoke. He just stood near his father, clutching his hand or holding his waist. More like an infant than an eight-year-old boy. Jung knew something was wrong, but every time he asked Mr. Park, he became angry. Aggressive. Protective. Eventually Jung got the hint and stopped asking.
That was two days ago, and he hadn’t heard from them since.
Payne, Jones, and Kia arrived in Seongsan just before dinner. The town was abuzz with tourists, the pulse of the festival just springing to life.
The trio lucked into a parking spot adjacent to the harbor, five minutes from the marina entrance. Jung’s boat was just where it was supposed to be, tied off at the end of a long wooden dock. No one on board. Nothing suspicious.
Payne glanced at his watch and noted the time. They would check back in a few hours, just in case someone showed up early.
But until then, they had plenty of time to kill.
Dozens of pojangmachas—street stalls on wheels that cooked and sold Korean food—lined the narrow roads. Clouds of steam rose off the metal carts, the smell of spices filling the air. Payne and Jones browsed the selections as Kia translated the menus. There was gimbap (rice rolls), sundae (Korean sausage in hot sauce), tteokbokki (rice cakes in red pepper sauce), and odeng (simmered fish cakes on a skewer). Plus an assortment of items they recognized on their own. Egg rolls, dumplings, fritters, and meat on a stick—although no one knew what kind of meat it was. Payne ordered okdom, a fish found only off the coast of Jeju and Japan. It was broiled in sesame seed oil and served with a side of scallion pancakes. Jones bought a combo platter, grilled pheasant and pan-fried kimchi (fermented vegetables), plus a seafood egg roll. Meanwhile, Kia fed her sweet tooth, getting a persimmon shake and a small bag of yugwa (grain cookies), treats she used to eat when she was a little child growing up near Seoul.
They took their food to a nearby table and ate in relative silence, watching people stroll by as the sunlight began to fade. Every few minutes firecrackers burst in the distance. The pop! pop! pop! echoed across the harbor like gunshots in the night. Kia flinched the first few times but eventually filtered out the sound, realizing it posed no threat. The whole time Payne and Jones never budged, years of experience honing their senses.
Suddenly, as if on cue, hundreds of paper lanterns were lit by villagers, who hung them in their windows and trees, while a giant bonfire was ignited at the top of the crater. Sparks and ash erupted into the night like a volcano. In an instant the entire village was bathed in firelight. Everyone’s attention soon shifted to the outdoor theater at the base of the peak. The rumble of a Korean drum, beaten with pulsating precision, heightened the drama, as if the mother ship from Close Encounters was about to land in Seongsan, as it did at Devil’s Tower. A rainbow of colors exploded from the bank of spotlights as a provincial dance team, dressed in white masks and ancient robes, started their performance, leaping and twirling to the sounds of a Korean orchestra hidden in the wings. Tourists surged forward, jostling for the best view possible, trying to soak in the pageantry of center stage.
Kia spoke above the clamor. “This is only the beginning. The festival goes until tomorrow morning, when we welcome the New Year. In fact, the sunrise is the most important part.”
Jones joked, “I guess that’s why they call it the Sunrise Festival.”
Kia smiled. “I guess so.”
Payne asked, “You mean nothing goes on at midnight? Jung said it was going to be crazy.”
“Don’t worry. It will be. The whole night will be crazy.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m worried about.”
They made their way through the crowd, casually searching for the Parks, even though it would have taken a small miracle to find them. Too many people. Too much frivolity. Everywhere they looked, Koreans were dancing and singing, their faces shielded from the cold with hats and hoods. Others wore elaborate masks, painted with festive colors, that obscured their identities.