Kirin approaches, his long strides eating up the short distance. He lifts the wooden birdcage, and Shin gently places the magpie inside. The bird doesn’t seem to mind its imprisonment, content to hop up and down the cylinder perch that spans the width of the small cage. As Kirin ties closed the door with a piece of bamboo string, Shin turns away, sliding his sword back into its scabbard.
I point to the birdcage. “Where did that magpie come from?”
No sound comes from my mouth.
“Where did that—”
Nothing. No sound. No voice.
I press my fingers to my throat; my pulse beats strong. “What’s going on?” I can feel the words, the familiar vibrations. “Why can’t I hear myself?”
“Your soul is a magpie.”
I look to where Namgi grins at me on the bottommost step, having pulled the mask down from his face.
“What do you mean?”
He doesn’t have to hear my words to read my expression. Sauntering over to Kirin, he bends down to peer into the cage. “When Shin severed the Red String of Fate, it took your soul. For you, your soul is tied to your voice. It’s not unexpected with singers and storytellers.”
My … soul?
He raps a knuckle against the wooden bars, causing the magpie inside to ruffle its red-tipped wings. “A temporary state of being. Nothing too serious. Imagine it like missing every third heartbeat.”
I blanch, that in fact sounding very serious.
Kirin tugs the cage out of Namgi’s grasp. “At the end of the month, come to the south gate of Lotus House.” His voice is dull, as if he’s said these same words many times before. “A servant will deliver your soul to you. We will not be responsible for what might happen should you fail to appear.”
I struggle to understand. How different it is to believe in myths than it is to live inside one. If I am to trust their words, my soul is a magpie and somehow outside my body. Yet I feel no different than when I first woke to this world. Perhaps a bit salt stained and bone weary, but nothing compared to what I’d imagine losing a soul might feel like—one less heartbeat a minute, a chasm as wide as the world inside you.
“Lord Shin,” Kirin calls out, “with your permission, Namgi and I will return to Lotus House.”
Shin straightens from where he’s been leaning to pick something up off the floor. “You have my thanks, Kirin. I’ll join you shortly.”
Kirin bows, followed closely by Namgi. They turn to leave. The magpie shrills a warning.
“Wait!” I shout, but as before, I make no sound.
They sprint from the hall, taking with them the magpie, my soul. Soon, they’re gone.
“Tell them to come back!” I rush up the steps and grab on to Shin’s arm. Through the thin fabric of his shirt, I can feel the warmth of his body, the jump of his muscle flexing in response. He turns, the glint of a blade in his right hand. I stumble back and lift my arm. When no attack follows, I look up. He watches me with one brow raised, proffering my knife out to me, handle first.
“After the trouble I went through to take your soul,” he says mockingly, “you think I’d kill you now?”
His sardonic tone makes me bristle with anger. “I didn’t think it would matter. To someone like you, what is a body without a soul?”
His eyes immediately move downward, and I grit my teeth to keep from blushing. After a few excruciating seconds, they move back to my face, apparently having found nothing of interest.
Once more, he extends the knife, and this time I grab it and step to the edge of the small dais, putting as much distance between us as possible.
“Keep that with you,” he says. “A weapon forged in the human realm cuts sharp in the realm of the gods.”
His advice is unnecessary. I would have kept the knife regardless, the only item I have left from my own world other than the dress I wear. The only connection I have to my family and loved ones.
Shin claims to have stolen my soul, but why then do I feel like this—a sharp ache deep inside at thoughts of my family? Where does the pain come from, if not my soul?
“My grandmother gave me this knife.” I slide my thumb against the rough etching of a moon carved into the bone handle. “It belonged to her own grandmother, whom she said I reminded her of.” I roll the knife to the side, revealing the scar underneath, where I bled to make an oath to the Sea God.
“The song from earlier … was it your grandmother who taught you the words?”
I slip the knife back into my short jacket. “She taught me many songs, as well as folktales and myths. She said that through songs and stories I could learn about the world, and about the people who live in it.”