The Scent of Myrrh and Sage

1. Wandering Corpses

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"Here you go, boy. Now hurry on back. It's getting dark out."

Seonghwa sent the old baker lady of their village a fleeting grin. She tried to give one back, but a cough trembled through her hunched figure. As she turned away, wrapping her shawl over her mouth to stifle the sickness, wrinkly fingers beckoned at Seonghwa to go.

"Take care," he muttered, leaving her alone to fumble for some water. He ducked outside of her hut and back into the snowy landscape. The needle forest enveloped the village, towering and dark, looming with attentive eyes. Crows called into the night and Seonghwa stepped into the same traces in the snow that led him here. Already, they were covered by a fresh layer of crunching white.

With the bread cradled in his arms, Seonghwa hurried back to their cabin. He passed the stone well rimmed with a pale white coat. Few houses had the light flickering behind their windows. Most had tugged all shutters and doors closed to save warmth.

Alone with the watchful crows, Seonghwa dashed through the whirl of white. The forest was still around them, as if frozen under winter's frigid grip. When an icy zephyr whirled through the powdery snow to whip at Seonghwa's coat, he buried into himself, shuddering.

Soon, the promising warmth of his home drew near. Seonghwa huddled inside and slammed the door shut before the greedy grasp of the cold could follow. Since he didn't plan to go out again tonight, he shoved the bolt into place.

"I have the bread, mother," he chirped at the corner of the room, shrugging off his coat. He placed another log of wood on the fireplace and dusted off his palms before hooking the pot back on top of it in which he had been making soup when he realised they were out of bread.

A pleased sigh answered him. Their small space was cosy from the heat. Creaking wooden beams kept the cold out. When he was a child, the groaning of the wood scared Seonghwa. But he was old enough now to protect his house from any outer dangers, no longer scared of the lumber's whispers. His father died a few years back, so he was the man of the house. The one meant to shelter and protect.

When the soup was done, he poured some into a bowl and left the rest to simmer over the fire. With a fresh slice of bread, he approached the bed in the corner of the room.

"Our baker family seems sicker by the day. Her cough barely improved," Seonghwa muttered as he sat on the corner of the mattress and dunked the bread into the soup. "The entire village is sick. How long has it been since Wooyoung left to get the court physician? Will he ever come back?"

The narrow figure propped against the pillows didn't answer him. Deep shadows lined his mother's eyes and protruding cheekbones when he fed her the soup. Her skin was taut over her bones, just barely holding together the skeleton of her. When spindly fingers reached for Seonghwa's wrist, he gently pressed them back down onto the blanket.

Contrary to the rest of the village, his mother had always been sick. Seonghwa grew up playing outside only with the other kids and his father, but his mother was in poor condition from the moment he was born. She shunned the sun since it was too bright for her eyes and she moved little, always afraid when her brittle body might give out on her. Though she wasn't so old, her grey hair was sparse on top of her head and she often couldn't breathe in the night.

Seonghwa took care of her from the moment he was old enough to walk. Brought her water and books, beamed at her brittle smiles. She always cared. Made sure he wore his scarves and didn't forget his coat. Occasionally, she hummed melodies for him or managed to cook. But the strength in her slender limbs was that of a summer breeze.