Illustration from A Tale of Tales (이야기 주머니 이야기), Written & Illustrated by Lee Uk Bae, Borim Press

There was once a boy who loved to hear stories. Although he asked everyone he met to tell him a story, no matter how people pleaded, he refused to tell any stories. Since he was the child of wealthy parents, no one dared complain. After his parents died, people felt sorry for him and his faithful servant saw to it that whenever the boy asked, there was someone to tell him a story.

In the corner of the boy’s bedroom hung an old bag, tightly tied with string, forgotten by everyone. But every time the boy was told a story, the spirit of the story went into the bag. In time, there were so many stories the spirits became so crowded they could hardly breathe.
    
Time passed. When the boy came of age, his uncle arranged for him to marry. The night before the ceremony, the old servant stopped outside the young man’s bedroom and heard angry voices. He crept into the room and listened.
    “He’s going to be married tomorrow.”
    “We must do something. It’s our only chance.”
    “Let him feel what it’s like to suffer as we have all these years.”
    “What can we do?”
    “I know,” said a deep old voice. “Tomorrow, he will ride to the bride’s house. It’s a long ride and he will soon be thirsty. When he stops to drink water from the well at the side of the road, I will put poison in the cup he drinks from and he will die.”
    There were murmurs of approval until a tiny voice asked, “But what if he doesn’t drink? A little further down the road is a field of strawberries. The young man loves strawberries. I will offer him a strawberry that guarantees him eternal sleep.”
    “Good idea,” said a husky voice, “but just in case he isn’t hungry, “I will be a red-hot poker in the sack of rice husks he will use to dismount from his horse. When he steps down, he will be engulfed in flames.”
    “But he is very rich,” argued a high-pitched voice, “suppose someone carries him off his horse. “I will be a poisonous snake under the rug that lies under the bridal bed. I will bite him when he sleeps and he will never wake.” The voices uttered their approval, relived to know there would be an end to their suffering.
    
The old servant was horrified, knowing that if he told anyone what he had heard they would think he had gone crazy. They would keep him from accompanying his beloved master to the wedding ceremony. He had promised the boy’s parents he would take good care, but how could he protect him now? All night he worried. When morning came, he had devised a plan.
    
As the procession was preparing to leave, the old servant begged the uncle of the young man, “Please sir, let me lead my young master to his new home. This would be a fitting end to my years of service.” The young man raised no objections; the uncle agreed.
    
They had barely gone a quarter of the way when the young man said to the old servant, “Look, there is a well just ahead. Let us stop. I am thirsty.” Instead of stopping, the old man increased the pace and before the young man knew, they had passed the well. “Did you not hear me say I was thirsty? Why did you not stop?”
    “Oh sir, I was thinking about your beloved and we passed the well before I knew it.”
    “Well, just ahead is a field of strawberries. They will quench my thirst and my hunger. Arrange to stop the procession and pick me strawberries.” Once again, the old servant urged the horses to move so fast they passed the strawberry field before the young man could yell, “Stop.”
    
The young man yelled at his old servant. “Why did you not stop? Do you want me to die of thirst and hunger?” 
    “I am so sorry sir but just think, the sooner we arrive the sooner you will see your beloved.” 
    The uncle spoke with barely contained fury. “This is no way to treat a young man on the way to his wedding. I will take care of you later.”
    
All too soon they arrived at the home of the young man’s beloved. Just as he was about to dismount from the horse, the old servant slapped the horse’s behind and the young man fell off the horse into the dust. As the uncle helped clean his nephew’s clothes he whispered to the old servant, “Just you wait. There is no punishment too harsh for you.”
    
After the ceremony and the dinner and the celebration, the newly wedded couple retired to their bedroom and had just fallen asleep when the old servant ran into the bedroom with a sword, pulled back the rug and slew the snake. The bride screamed. The young man called for the guards. There was so much noise and commotion the uncle awoke and rushed into the bedroom where he saw the old man, sword in hand, a dead snake at his feet.
    “Take this old servant away. Tie him up and …”
    “Please sir,” pleaded the old servant, “I beg of you. Do with me as you wish, but first let me explain.” He told them of the bag in the young man’s bedroom, voices he had heard, about the poisoned water and strawberries. “If you don’t believe me, look in the sack he would have stepped down on and you will find a burned poker with charred straw. If all else failed, the snake under his bed was prepared to bite him.”
    “Why?” asked the young man. “What have I done to deserve such enmity?
    “All your life you have asked for stories. Each time you asked, someone told you a story. Yet whenever anyone asked you for a story, you refused to tell one. All the spirits of all the stories you would not tell were whisked into the bag on the wall where they were imprisoned, cramped and uncomfortable with no way out until you agree to tell stories.” 
Oh,” said the young man, seeing the pain on the old man’s face. “You have served me better than I knew. I promise you, from now on, I will tell a story to anyone who asks.” 

And he did. 
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​Photo by Dhivakaran S from Pexels

There was once a village where the people enjoyed many years of prosperity. The rains came regularly and their crops flourished. In time, their grain bins were so full, one of them collapsed and the grains scattered. However the people had so much stored they left the grain where it was.

In a short time, birds found the grain and decided the village was a good place to live. When the people finished working in the fields, the birds flew down and began eating. The next morning, when the people saw how much grain the birds had eaten, they began to worry that the birds would find a way to eat the stored grain. So, when the birds flew down to eat, the people tried to shoo them away with noise. When this didn’t work, they shot arrows into the air, but this too failed to deter the birds.

The villagers called a meeting to discuss how to get rid of the birds. Although no one wanted to be the first person to mention the Old Man, he was on everyone’s mind. They looked at the Headman who said, “We shall soon starve if we do not rid our village of these birds. We have tried but nothing worked. Perhaps the Old Man will once again help us.” Everyone was silent. “It is true we chased him away because we were afraid of his magic but he is our only hope. I will go to him. Perhaps he will take pity on us and agree to return to help us.”

The next morning the Headman went in search of the Old Man. Although he was dressed in worn clothes and had little in the way of goods, the Old Man was not pleased to see the Headman, nor did he want to return to the village. But, when the Headman told him the children would starve if he didn’t help them, the Old Man agreed to return.

Before returning to the village, the Old Man collected roots and plants to make a powder. That evening, after the village thanked him for coming, he showed them how to dip their arrows into the powder and how to use them.

The leader of the birds saw the people with their bows and arrows, but he was not afraid and continued to eat. When the Old Man quietly said, “Now,” the villagers shot their arrows into the leader of the birds and killed him. Seeing this, the other birds flew away in fear.

The villagers held a great feast to honor the Old Man and for a time, all was well. Then, whispers began. People said, “If he has magic to kill the birds, he can kill us. We must tell him to go.” The whispers grew into a loud chorus and soon, the villagers forced the Old Man to leave.
In time, the birds returned. The villagers watched helplessly as their grain disappeared. Once again, they tried, but nothing stopped the birds from eating their grain. The villagers decided there was nothing to do but ask the Old Man to come back to help them.
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The Headman told the Old Man of the village’s troubles and how sorry they were they asked him to leave. The Old Man listened carefully. Then he said, “No.”

The chief of the tribe gives two vases, one red and one blue, to a newly married couple--or, if no vases are available, two tins are used. One is for the husband, the other for the wife. They are also given a bag of mixed grains and broad beans. Daily the husband and wife each choose a single grain to put into his or her vase, according to what kind of day each has spent with the other. For example, a red bean signifies a quarrel or anger, corn means a very good day with much joy. A broad bean shows an exceptional day really perfect (this is rare), and a lentil means a day of peace and harmony with no note of discord. The husband and wife continue putting a grain into the vase every day without showing each other which one they put in, until after a certain time when they empty the vases in front of each other. When they have seen the grains, they are put back in the bag, and the couple begins again. When both vases are shown to contain only lentils--the sign of harmony between the husband and wife--the couple plants these lentils. They create images of a man and a woman out of the earth in which they have planted the lentils to bless the newly planted seeds.

Long ago a poor shepherd boy lived with his grandmother in a yurt (a felt tent), in the middle of the Mongolian steppes. Each day Suho rose early to help his grandmother prepare breakfast before going out to take care of their small flock of sheep. As he kept watch he sang, and his rich voice rose over the grassy plains, breaking the stillness of the day.

One night, when Suho did not return home at his usual time, his grandmother and the other shepherds worried that something terrible had happened. Yet before the next rising of the sun, Suho appeared, carrying a newborn foal in his arms. Beaming with happiness, he told them how he had found the little one too weak to stand, with no mother or master around to feed him. "I was afraid the wolves would eat him so I brought him home."

Days went by and the colt grew strong and healthy under Suho's devoted care. The horse helped Suho look after the sheep, even staving off a bunch of wolves. Suho caressed the horse, rubbing him down, speaking to it as if it were his brother. "White horse, you fought well and bravely. The sheep are safe because of you. I will never forget you." As the years passed, Suho and the horse were inseparable. If his grandmother wanted Suho, she called to his horse.

One day, news spread that the governor declared he would give the hand of his daughter to the man who won the big race. The shepherds of Suho's village urged him to enter, knowing Suho's horse was the finsest and fastest of all the horses. The day of the race, noblemen from all over the country came, riding fine horses, wearing silk clothing, but Suho paid them no mind. When the signal to begin was given, Suho and his white horse took off like the wind, easily winning the race.

Yet when the governor saw that the winner was only a poor shepherd boy, he gave him three pieces of silver and told him to be on his way, without the white horse—for the governor had decided to keep him. Suho retorted, "I came to win a race, not to lose my horse."

"Insolent beggar," shouted the governor. "You dare to answer me back? Guards, take him to the outskirts of the city and make sure he does not return." The guards rushed to obey their master's commands, leaving Suho beaten and bleeding at the edge of the city. He might have died there had not some shepherds nursed his wounds. Suho grieved the loss of his horse, his friend, his companion, but there was nothing he could do to get him back.

Meanwhile, the governor decided to hold a great feast to show off his fine horse. When the time came, the horse, richly bridled and saddled, was brought in for the governor to ride. As his guests admired the impressive horse, the governor heaved himself into the saddle and lightly flicked his whip. The great horse bucked and reared, throwing the governor onto the ground. He neighed once and then galloped off on the steppes, swift as the wind.

The governor shouted to his guards, "Go after him. Catch him if you can, but if you miss, shoot him with your arrows. Do not let him get away alive." The guards did as they were told but they could not catch him for the white horse ran too fast. Although they shot their arrows into his flanks, he kept galloping, leaving the guards in the dust.

Late that evening, when Suho was intoning his nightly lament, mourning the loss of his horse, he heard a noise outside the yurt and went to look. There, panting, with blood gushing out of his wounds, Suho saw his friend. Gently, he removed the arrows and bathed the wounds but the horse grew weaker. Just before the sun rose, his beloved horse died.

Shattered by grief, Suho lay sleepless night after night. He grew listless, forgetting to eat for days at a time. Then, one night, the white horse appeared to him in a dream, nuzzling Suho fondly. "Suho," said the horse in a soft voice, "you must not continue to mourn for me. Take my bones, hide, hair, and sinews and make them into an instrument to play upon when you sing. If you do this, I will remain with you forever.

Suho woke and followed the instructions he had heard in his dream, fashioning an instrument from the bones, hide, hair, and sinews of his beloved horse, ornamented by the figure of the horse's head which he lovingly carved.

Suho drew the bow across the strings as he sang about the joys of riding his beloved horse, his grief at losing him, his sorrow when the horse died. Always, he sensed the presence of his white horse.
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Others made horse-headed fiddles like the one Suho created. Even today, if you travel to the vast steppes of Mongolia, you will hear the songs created by Suho to honor the memory of his beloved friend, the white horse.