Leaving the carts behind, I enter a long alleyway lined with restaurants. Smoke from cooking fires wafts through open doorways. A glimpse through the nearest one reveals a room laid out with tables spread with dishes of food ranging from small bowls of spices to large platters of roasted fowl and fish. Bright cushions are arranged haphazardly about the tables as if revelers had been sitting comfortably, enjoying their meals, only minutes before. At the entrance, pairs of neatly placed sandals and slippers are lined up all in a row. Patrons went into the restaurant, but they didn’t come out.
I back away from the doorway. Carts without owners. Cooking fires without cooks. Shoes without people.
A city of ghosts.
There’s a soft breath of laughter against my neck. I turn around abruptly, but there’s no one there. Still, I feel as if there are eyes on me, unseen and watchful.
What sort of place is this? It’s not like any of the stories my grandmother told of the Sea God’s city—a place where spirits and lesser gods gather in joy and celebration. The fog covers the realm like a cloak, muffling sight and sound. I cross over short, arched bridges and down abandoned streets, everything around me colorless and dull but for the ribbon, achingly bright as it cuts through the fog.
How did the Sea God’s brides feel, waking to a realm of fog with only a bright ribbon as a guide? There were many who came before me.
There was Soah, who had the loveliest eyes, framed by dark lashes that looked as if they were coated in a heavy layer of soot. There was Wol, who stood as tall as any man, with strong, handsome features and a laughing mouth. And there was Hyeri, who could swim the span of the Great River twice over, and who broke a hundred hearts when she left to wed the Sea God.
Soah. Wol. Hyeri. Mina.
My name sounds small beside theirs, these girls who always seemed larger than life. They traveled from far away to marry the Sea God, from villages closer to the capital—even from the capital in the case of Wol. They were girls who would never have ventured to our backwater village in any other life than the one that forced them to give up their own. These girls, these young women, they were all older than me, eighteen when they left to be brides. They walked the same path as I walk now. I wonder if they were nervous or afraid. Or if hope made fools of them all.
After what seems like hours of walking, I turn a corner and step out onto a wide boulevard. The fog is thinner here. For once, I can see where the ribbon leads. It flits down the length of the boulevard, floating up a grand sweep of stairs and vanishing through the open doors of a massive red-and-gold gate. With its ornate pillars and gilded roof, this can be none other than the entrance to the Sea God’s palace.
I hurry forward. The ribbon begins to sparkle and hum, as if it can sense my nearness to the end.
I reach the stairs and take one step, then another. I’m about to pass through the threshold of the gate when a sound catches my ear. The soft chime of a bell, faint enough that if the world hadn’t been blanketed in silence, I might not have heard it. The sound came from somewhere to my left, down the stairs and back into the labyrinth of streets.
My eldest brother, Sung, thinks all wind chimes sound the same. But I think he just doesn’t have the patience to listen. The clanking of bronze baubles against seashells sounds different from the tapping of tin against copper bells. The wind, too, has varying degrees of temperament. When it’s angry, the chimes make a sharp, shrilling sound. When it’s happy, the chimes clink together in a lively dance.
This sound, though, is different. Low. Melancholy.
I step back down the stairs. The ribbon doesn’t resist but grows in length, trailing after me.
I can hear my grandmother’s voice in my ear. There are rules to the world of spirits, Mina. Choose carefully which ones you break. There is a reason this city is veiled in mist. There is a reason I can only travel through it by way of a ribbon of fate. But the sound of the chime was close, and the truth is, I think I’ve heard it before.
The sound leads me to the doorway of a small shop off the boulevard. I brush aside the rough curtain and step inside, gasping at the wondrous sight. The shop is filled with hundreds upon hundreds of wind chimes. They cover the walls and hang from the ceiling like teardrops. Some of the charms are round and small, made of seashells, acorns, and tin stars; others are large waterfalls of golden bells.
And yet, as within the white fog, there’s no wind in the shop.
But I could have sworn I heard a sound. My eyes are drawn to the far wall, where a gap at the center displays a single wind chime. A star, a moon, and a copper bell are threaded on a thin bamboo string. It’s a simple construction for a chime.