A 9-Tailed Fox
& How My Genes Travel In & Out of Myth
There is always so much curiosity about what I am. I can’t be easily placed and this disturbs people. Especially Asians who need to know what ancestors I worship. The curiosity is sometimes surprisingly aggressive, even hostile, and it used to leave me perplexed. But lately, I’m seeing myself more clearly, and I’m beginning to understand: I am the articulation of every recessive gene in my family’s repository.
Like my long, bumpy nose—is it the gift of a Roman or Celt? Was there a wayward Jesuit in my past (certainly my mind turns like one) or maybe a rowdy Scottish sailor? I’m not being fanciful—medieval Asia was plagued by Roman Catholic priests, shipwrecked British soldiers and enterprising Portuguese merchants; the Japanese city of Nagasaki was established by the Portuguese in 1571 as a trading port. It wasn’t much then, just a muddy little harbor. But look at it now, a glorious bastard child of East meets West.
I’ll claim the Jesuit in my gene pool. And racing deeper back into history, I’ll claim a Celt, too. After all, my hair is inebriated with the Celtic gene, curling blond-red-possessing raven black. And I want this Celt to be ancient, as ancient as the mummies of Tarim—how mythic to be a child of the great Beauty of Loulan herself. A beauty who might have even brought noodle-making technology to the Chinese. (I have a passion for noodles.)
Another genetic trait even more curious, more ancient, expresses itself through my bones. Down my back, below the blue mark of the ravaging Mongol army, I have the protruding remnants of a tail. These bone remnants are so fierce, so raw, it’s as if the tail had only recently been cut off, like an incriminating sixth finger that’s still whispered about.
Tails.
My mother used to say I acted too much like a fox. In Asian cultures, foxes are powerful, cunning spirits, full of trickery and deception. They might bring you good fortune, but more likely they’ll destroy you. Often, fox spirits enter your life disguised as a fellow human, even as a close relative like a mother or daughter. In a famous Korean folk tale, a man has three sons and a daughter. The daughter is really a fox, and she systematically devours the entire family except one. Beware of foxes and daughters.
Whenever I feel the roots of my tail, I think about what my mother said, and I think about my russet hair, and I begin to wonder: am I a descendent of a kumiho, a nine-tailed fox who transformed into a woman?
Ancient family tales want to be told. As my hair becomes redder and redder, I feel the reverberations of the wily kumiho awakening the deep memory of bone. It must have been a long time ago, maybe a thousand years before the reign of the Silla kingdom, when dusky history makes data points impossible to find.
***
An ancestor was out hunting.
A pack of hounds smells the scent of a fox. The fox runs for its life. It is the beginning of winter, and the snow is a shallow but wide river across the fields. Day is turning into night; the moon full and high. The fox begins to weary; the hounds, frenzied by the anticipation of blood, run faster. Against a steep mountainside, the fox finds itself cornered. One by one, dogs leap into view. The teeth of their hysteria already savage the fox. Terror explodes. Terror explodes the fox into a woman.
My ancestor the fox was not an ordinary fox. She was a kumiho, a nine-tailed fox, a fox who has lived for more than a thousand years, each year gifting her with more and more knowledge until that knowledge transforms her into an uncanny human.
The knowledge had crept into her. She did not know she had the power of transformation until this very moment of terror, when the hounds were about to tear her apart, and instinct commanded her body to turn human. These hounds were not wild but domesticated, the property of a powerful lord. Hearing the cries of a woman, the lord flies off his horse and comes to her rescue.
She was so astonishingly beautiful, lying in the virgin snow, her thick russet-colored hair enrobing her pale, velvety, naked body. Moonlight shone out of her eyes. The most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
The Lord was fooled, but the hounds were not. The dogs howl and lurch in thorned frustration. Displeased, the Lord has the astonished servants drag the hounds away.
“You are not hurt?” he gently asks the woman.
He’s leaning close into her, not touching and yet touching too. This is the first time the Kumiho has ever seen a human so close. Humans are not so unlike a fox, she thinks, cautiously touching the Lord’s black beard. The touch tickles the Lord and he laughs, and so she too laughs. The sound of the fox’s new voice is startling to her, and to the Lord as well, who finds the Kumiho’s voice so ethereal, he’s convinced that the beautiful woman at his feet is really a winter snow fairy.
The Lord wraps his new love in his own fur robe, and together they ride back to his home.
Every sensation was new. And discomforting. In the mornings, the Kumiho would open her eyes and think this is not my world, this is not my body. This human life, the life of a beautiful woman, privileged wife of a lord, was a trance, delicate and tentative, ready to break with a sigh—and she would once again become a fox, wily in skin, free in spirit, her paws running against the undulating joy of earth.
Her human life was a life of many sighs. It was all so cumbersome, humanity, with its many, many layers of gliding suffocation. As a fox, she’d lived a simple life alone in her cozy burrow, snacking on succulent beetles. Here, the burrow had burrows, and in each burrow, more and more humans. And each human held a trap, the trap of language and this thing called etiquette.
What discomforted the Kumiho most was the binding they called clothes: layers and layers of robes twisting about her body, forcing her to stand on her hind legs or sit on her rear. Her long hair was bound as well, the weight of ribbons and heavy jewels bringing tears to her eyes. The Kumiho’s back ached, and her soul too. How she longed to run naked, but even her feet were robed! Without her bare paws, how could she feel the life energy of the earth? Without the earth, how could humans live at all? What were these humans?
She missed her tail. She’d always thought it was the one great beauty of a fox, the long, luxuriant, playful tail. Instead of tails, humans had hair, but in the wrong place, and it was dead, unable to move without the aid of the wind. Hair was not a friend but a cumbersome weight. She sighed, missing her tail.
Day by day, a terrible restlessness gnaws inside the soul of the Kumiho. The Lord feels it and is afraid. A powerful spirit brings destiny into a household. She must be kept at all costs.
Distraction and amusement became the life of the Kumiho. Hunts on sunny days. Duets on moonlit nights, the Lord playing his daegeum, the Kumiho the gayageum; his flute playful, her strings tinged with powdery melancholy which grieved the Lord’s heart. On rainy days, they wrote poetry and practiced calligraphy. After supper, there were games and drinking, gambling and storytelling. Mostly drinking, as the Lord was always sure to intoxicate his bride so she could not wander away with the darkness of night.
One day, while the Lord and his wife were playing cards, the Lord did something uncharacteristic. He sighed. The sigh was so dark, the Kumiho dropped one of her cards.
Strange, that the Kumiho never once considered the Lord her captor. To the fox, the Lord would always be her savior, the generous being who had rescued her from the hounds; she would always feel this eternal gratitude towards him that was akin to warm sunshine on a dewy morning. This lord was kind and handsome, and what she felt for him was love although she did not know it; the fox did not know what love was and so could not identify it as such. She just felt her heart sparkle when he was near, and that there were tickles and laughter, whispers and caresses. With him, there was more that she felt than without him.
So it was out of love and concern that she asked, “My sweet husband, why do you sigh?”
“Did I sigh?” he asked, smiling.
“Even your smile is a sigh, my Lord.”
“How wonderful it must be,” he said, “to roam free without a care in the world as the animals do, running wild in the forests. How happy they must be.”
“No animal is without care, my Lord. Even a field mouse must worry about the winter floods.”
“This is so,” the Lord said, laughing with good nature. He poured his wife another cup of wine, and they drank well into the night, each cocooned inside conjoining sadness.
Again, the next night, the Lord sighed, drinking more heavily than usual, until, again, his wife asked him why his sighs were possessed with such darkness.
“In the time of my great-grandfather, we were a powerful clan,” he simply said. “Other clans once feared us. Tributes came from far and wide. Now, it is we who must give tributes.”
With sympathy, his wife poured him another cup of wine.
“In the mountains, high above the temple of the Moon Goddess, there is a vast cave,” his wife said, her ethereal voice a tribute song to the goddess. “An ancient bear lives in this cave—they say he is as ancient as the Goddess herself; some even say that the bear is the husband of the Goddess. The cave is filled with treasure, treasure the bear has been collecting since the dawn of time. They say the cave itself is made of gold. Certainly the walls and ceiling blind like the sun.”
“You have seen this cave?” her husband asked, his eyes in the empty cup that sat cradled in his palm.
“Once,” the Kumiho replied. “Many, many years ago. This bear did me a great kindness. One very dry winter, a giant bird spotted me as I was running through a field. Even before I could feel its shadow, the bird’s claws were around my neck and I was flying high into the air. That night, I would have been the bird’s supper—only, as we were flying into a great mountain, the ancient bear threw a rock and hit the bird on the head. The bird went limp, and I began tumbling towards the earth. Luckily, I was caught by the kindly bear. It seems that the bear and this bird were ancient enemies, and the bear delighted in aggravating the bird in every way. He thought it was a great joke that he’d deprived the bird of its supper. In such good humor, the bear shared with me some of his own meal before showing me the way home. That is when I saw the cave, right before our supper. I was not allowed to enter, but I stood at the opening, and what I saw I will never forget. Such treasures! The cave so filled with rare and magnificent things, that if a man were to steal even a large sackful, the bear would never notice.”
“To be such a fortunate bear!” the Lord commented wistfully.
“I know my way back to the bear’s cave,” the Kumiho offered. “It is only two days’ journey.”
“When will we go?” the Lord asked his wife.
“In a week, if that suits my Lord. For a meeting with a bear is fraught with danger, and I must prepare.”
A kumiho is a fox that has lived a thousand years and acquired much knowledge. The Kumiho knew bears were capricious spirits, one moment genial and playful, the next, angry and impetuous. With one swipe of a powerful paw, a bear could easily kill a man, and with no remorse or afterthought, like men kill flies. So the Kumiho prepared a special arrow, an arrow whose tip was dipped in powerful poisons.
“You must not hurt the Ancient One,” she begged the Lord. “I give you this arrow only as a way to protect yourself. If the Ancient One means to kill you, you must shoot the arrow, right into his heart. But only if the Ancient One means to kill you.”
The Lord promised his wife.
The Lord and the Kumiho traveled alone, disguising themselves as pilgrims who were journeying to the temple. This temple, high up on the craggy mountainside, was where the Moon Goddess slept during the day. The mountain was the source of her power, and it was here at the temple that she renewed herself after each night’s arduous trip across the sky. Kneeling before her opal altar, the Lord and the Kumiho prayed, asking the Moon Goddess to bless their venture. That night, the Goddess turned herself into a sharp crescent moon, positioning herself upward like a cup filling itself with good fortune. It was a propitious sign, the Lord thought, and he grew confident.
The next morning, before they continued their journey to the bear’s cave, the Kumiho rubbed a strange mixture all over the Lord’s body and gave him clothes fashioned from grass.
“This is so the Ancient One will not smell you,” the Kumiho said. “We will not be able to trick the bear if he smells human near his cave.”
The Lord smiled at the cleverness of his wife.
“You must promise me again that you will not kill the bear,” the Kumiho said again. The Lord solemnly promised.
They spoke not one word as they traveled to the bear’s cave. When they finally reached the cave, the Lord hid behind some rocks as his wife called sweetly to the bear.
“Ancient One, it is I, the fox you saved from your enemy the impious bird!”
The Kumiho had to call out several times before the bear lumbered out of his cave. At first he seemed annoyed, but seeing the Kumiho, seeing the beautiful woman the Kumiho now was, he smiled.
“I thought you had forgotten all about me!” he joked.
“You, Ancient One?” The Kumiho laughed, putting one graceful sleeve up to her mouth in a flirtatious manner. “I have never forgotten your kindness, Ancient One, and I have always wanted to repay you. Alas, it is only now, after all these many years, that I have found the means to do so. Please accept this humble gift.”
The Kumiho presented him with a box wrapped in the most beautiful silk brocade. The Kumiho knew the Ancient One had a sweet tooth, so she had filled the box with all the great delicacies of the court, pumpkin and molasses candy, rice cakes, date cookies, custard pastries perfumed with rose water, presented like precious jewels.
“It is such a beautiful day,” the Kumiho remarked. “Shall we have a picnic?”
She led the bear far away from the cave, onto a flat rock she covered with a silk rug. As the bear ate, the Kumiho danced and sang, keeping the bear preoccupied as the Lord raided the bear’s cave.
“To think that the scared little fox has acquired nine tails!” the bear exclaimed, enjoying himself immensely.
“It was only due to your Grace’s benevolence that I did not die a young fox.”
“How beautiful you are as a human. So full of grace and amusement. A beauty equal to the Moon Goddess.”
The Kumiho looked down bashfully as she’d been taught to do at court, her long sleeve hiding half her face. She was like a jewel, a jewel worth hoarding.
“I have been too much alone,” the bear sighed. “How about staying here with me? Become my wife, little fox.”
“But Ancient One, are you not married to the Moon Goddess?”
The bear laughed. “She once looked very kindly down upon me, but no more. You make me quite forget the Moon Goddess. You are far more beautiful than she.”
In this way, the two creatures flirted, the bear becoming bolder and bolder.
Meanwhile, the Lord had become bored and anxious waiting for his wife. He’d long ago filled his sacks and was eager to return home. Leaving his treasure hidden near the cave, he crept stealthily until he spotted his wife and the amorous bear. The familiar way the bear was speaking to his wife, even touching her hand, filled the Lord with frenzied jealousy. The Lord strung his bow with the Kumiho’s poisonous arrow, the arrow singing into the bear’s heart.
The Kumiho screamed.
“Why?” she asked the Lord.
“I could not help it,” the Lord simply said. “It is the way with men.”
The Kumiho was now afraid of men.
They buried the bear and sealed up the cave. All the treasures were now the treasures of the Lord. The power of his kingdom grew. The richer the Lord became, the more lavishly he treated the Kumiho. Outwardly she seemed happy and content, but inwardly she was afraid and yearned to escape men.
And then, one evening, something quite unexpected occurred. It was the night of the summer solstice. In celebration, the court had gathered underneath the peach trees, music in the air, poetry on the lips, wine and food creating a giddy atmosphere. A gentle breeze traveled through the air, raining soft peach petals down upon the lords and ladies. The scent of the petals, the way the leaves rustled made the Kumiho laugh with pleasure; she thought of her days as a small fox, her first summer, all the pleasures of the woods fragrant with novelty. The Kumiho turned to the Lord, wanting to share some of these pleasures. “My Lord,” she said, raising her delicate sleeve to her open mouth. But the Lord could not speak. He could not move. He was frozen. The entire court was frozen. A garden of glittering statues.
The Kumiho stood and said, “Who is responsible for this enchantment?”
“It is merely I, ” a voice scurried out from underneath a bush. It was a fox, a nine-tailed fox. “Please forgive me, my lady. I was passing by when I saw your lovely party, full of such good food and wine, and on such a lovely summer’s night! I couldn’t resist, you see.”
The Kumiho graciously nodded. “Of course you must join us. Please sit. I will serve you personally.”
“Most hospitable, great lady!”
The Kumiho placed a small table in front of the fox. It was made of the finest jade, carved intricately like lace. The fox admired it tremendously. As if the old fox were the Lord himself, the Kumiho picked the best delicacies and presented it to the fox.
“Such grace and manners you have acquired since becoming human,” the fox exclaimed. “You are like the Moon Goddess herself, radiant and bountiful.”
The Kumiho laughed gracefully. In the manner of court ladies, she hid her mouth behind her delicate silk sleeve, the silk dancing with pleasure like butterfly wings.
The Kumiho poured the old fox another cup of wine and asked, “So tell me, what news of the fox world?”
“Just the usual, just the usual.” And with that, the fox reported on all the many weddings, births and deaths. He had so much news, he filled more than an hour, eating and drinking all the while.
The Kumiho began to grow weary. She did not like the way the fox smelled, the way his ramblings stopped each time he caught a different scent in the air, the way his nose twitched, the way he devoured his food, spilling crumbs everywhere, and then licking those crumbs, even from off the dirt ground. The fox understood and smiled.
“You will never be able to return to the fox world now,” he said.
Tears fell from the Kumiho’s eyes.
“How silly you are!” the fox exclaimed. “We will speak of you and laugh!”
With that, the fox ran off.
All the noise and movement returned to the garden.
“Why, you are crying!” the Lord exclaimed.
“I am moved by the poetry,” the Kumiho merely said.
“What a delicate creature you are,” the Lord exclaimed in admiration. He wiped away her tears with great care and composed a poem to commemorate those delicate tears.
The Kumiho wept secretly for many weeks. Her heart had remained a fox for so long: her dreams were in the fields, in the smell of new spring grass—were they now only dreams?
She had lived too long as a human to ever go back. What else was there for the Kumiho to do but become fully human? This, the Kumiho knew, was not a simple thing. For every creature had an essence unique to itself. A fox may look like a human, but its essence was still fox. To become human, a fox needed to consume the essence of human. In humans, this essence was stored in the liver, and that liver must be eaten as the body was still hot from the kill. The Kumiho needed not just one human, but several. She didn’t know how many—some humans had very powerful essences, others very weak. This was why it was important to kill a human in its prime, otherwise the essence was not worth eating.
With great care, the Kumiho picked her humans. Some she followed into the forest, seducing them with her beautiful human form before killing them and eating their fresh, hot livers. Others died in their beds, deep in unsettled dreams while their livers were in the Kumiho’s mouth. These grisly murders brought hysteria to the court, and the Kumiho was no longer able to hunt. How unfortunate, she thought. She felt she only needed one more strong liver.
At night, she sat looking at the Lord, his essence so strong, so vibrant. Her hunger drove itself deep into the Lord’s sleep, trampling him awake.
“Why do you stare at me so?” the Lord asked the Kumiho. Her eyes were that of a demon.
“You know what I am,” she said. “You know what I must do. Now that I have tasted the livers, I cannot stop. I feel I only need one more to become your wife forever.”
The Lord dressed and then dragged his wife into the courtyard. Hearing the noise, one of the Lord’s body servants scurried outside, waiting for the Lord’s commands.
“I am unable to sleep,” the Lord told the servant, a young boy who hoped one day to become a great warrior, perhaps even a lord. “Bring wine and refreshments to the garden. Fresh air might bring me rest.”
The servant ran to get the refreshments. With wine and delicate meat pies, he hurried to the garden, ready to serve the great Lord. But before he could even see the Lord, the boy was dead, a quick swipe from the Lord’s sharp sword slicing his neck cleanly in two.
The Lord cut open the boy’s torso and presented the liver to his wife. With supreme happiness, she ate; the liver was consumed in less than two breaths. Now she was human—and sadly still fox, fox and human essences mingling in ways she could never have expected.
In nine months, the Kumiho gave birth to a lovely boy. He had a tail, which, of course, the Lord immediately chopped off. Missing her own, the Kumiho saved her son’s tail, keeping it hidden inside a lacquered box. When she died, her great-great-granddaughter buried the tail and box with her. The great-great-granddaughter didn’t need the tail, because she had a secret tail of her own.
***
Sometimes—when I wake up from a deep sleep—the dormant Kumiho inside my bones rustles, and I sense that this is not my life, not my body, and that the fox must leave, and the human must leave, and I must find a truer self.
About J.A. Pak
J.A. Pak is the author of So Easy to Love. Her work has appeared in BHP, Litro, Lunch Ticket, Joyland, Queen Mob’s Tea House, etc. Come and visit her at Triple Eight Palace of Dreams & Happiness.