The Heart's Eye

Homeward

I survey the devastation left behind by last night's storm as my guide secures my suitcase to the back of his mule. Entire uprooted trees appear to have been dragged and thrown around by the hurricane-strength gale. Broken tree branches lay everywhere. Sections of the dirt road are submerged by a foot of water, on the surface of which float white and pink tree blossoms.

My guide is his usual silent self. I read him by newly acquired habit, automatically, without even trying. He is calm, contented, withdrawn, existing within the mundane world of his mind. I detect a degree of concern, low, underlaying, likely brought on by thoughts about his daily life, his family, his ability to take care of them. There is no hostility or resentment towards me, despite the fact that I represent a world very different from his own. There is no judgement. He is just doing the task he had signed up for, transporting my suitcase down to the waterfront, where a boat will be waiting for me.

His mule obstinately digs in her hooves as my guide drags her down the muddy path. We stop often to remove branches and debris blocking the path. The road is slippery, treacherous. There is nothing to hold on to. I slip and fall a few times, and my guide offers a hand as I get up. It takes us almost an hour to reach the bottom.

My guide declines a tip again, with a raised palm and a small but firm bow. It is a matter of honor, to do the job he has promised and collect what has been agreed upon. There is something admirable in his rigid, traditional thinking. He means what he says.

The rocky shelf at sea level is littered with seaweeds and shell animals crushed on the rocks by the surf. The waves are large, untamed. It takes time for such a large body of water to calm down from the surges the night before.

The small fishing boat is already secured to the wooden pier. I climb on, helped by the two-men crew. My guide tosses over my suitcase to them and waves goodbye. His attention then turns to his mule, who appears unwilling to embark on a trip back up. I read new concern mixed with affection. He cares about his mule just as he would care about a person. I find myself wishing I had a friend like him.

I bid a silent goodbye to Dokdo. Somewhere up those rocks, inside her minka, a subdued, slightly disoriented Mrs. Nakamura is likely cleaning up her guest room to get it ready for the unlikely possibility of another visitor. She believes that she had hosted a writer, who found inspiration in the solitude of her residence to work on a historical novel. This is the only freedom I took as I operated on her, erasing the nature of my identity in addition to erasing all her memories of the person she cared about most, her two-year-old daughter.

I could have erased more, her research, her knowledge of mind science, her ability to read emotions, but that would have erased everything that she was, and would almost certainly have gotten her killed. Those who expected to be trained by her are not the forgiving type.

Not that I owed her anything. Neither did I have any loyalty to anything she represented.

Should I have erased more? I had traveled to Dokdo to disrupt her work, slow down the growth of capabilities of our enemies, keep the razor-thin advantage over them. Why did I not erase her skills or even have her end her life as a form of justice to harm she had directly or indirectly inflicted on others? Did I feel indebted to her because she gifted me her art without regard to who I was? Or did I do what I did because she showed me her side of the story, her vulnerability, her imperfection, her love for her daughter? Did she, through unjustified, illogical honesty and trust, gain a corresponding honesty and trust on my end? Or was everything a result of more primitive, primal attachment resulting from our one single night together?

I can almost see her walking down that dirt road last night, covered in mud, lightning splitting up the skies above, the torrent drenching her to the bones, the gale uprooting trees around her. She must have made it to the facility where her daughter lived, probably attended by a trusted babysitter. I imagine her walking in, sitting down next to her bed, putting her hand gently on the girl's head careful not to wake her up, caressing her hair, listening her calm, unaware breathing. Did she, Dr. Klein, cry as she said goodbye? Did she stay long or did she tear herself away quickly so she doesn't prolong the torture of the farewell?

She probably took control over the mind of her daughter's caretaker, erasing her relevant memories. This way, the caretaker would not even know who the girl's mother was. She would be instructed to move the girl away from the island, and give her a different, better life, untarnished by her heredity.

I shouldn't care if that is how it all happened. I came to Dokdo with a mission. I am leaving having failed, but with a new skill. I have to face different daemons now.

Dance, and love. This is what I had allegedly had — and lost — in a prior life. I can only assume that this happened when I visited Rob in his shack on his snowy mountain slope. I remember talking to him about Dokdo, and then skiing down with a feeling of lightness and inexplicable, amorphous hollowness. I have no memory of anything else that transpired in that visit which would explain or justify why I had undertaken the arduous treck to find him in the first place.

What did he do to me? And did I ask for it willingly?

The journey back is long, and the seas are rough, but somewhere ahead, they are expected to quell before we reach Matsue.