Kongjwi and Patjwi

The wooden hoe came down for its first stroke and snapped in two.

It was not because she struck too hard. The field in front of her was all jagged rock. Big stones and small ones crowded together under a thin skin of soil, as if no one had ever worked this ground before. The moment the wooden blade touched a stone, it gave a dry crack. Then it broke off right in her hands, leaving a bare stub of handle in the early morning sun.

Not far away, on a patch of flat, soft, crumbly ground, another girl held a sharp iron hoe. She worked with light, easy strokes, and the job was soon done. It was the same morning and the same household. Yet the two sisters had been given two very different plots of land, and the two hoes in their hands were nothing alike either.

The girl holding the broken handle was named Kongjwi. The girl turning the soft earth was Patjwi, the stepmother's own daughter. Kongjwi's mother had died when she was small. Her father loved his child, and he married again. His new wife was a widow who already had a daughter. From that day on, the stepmother doted on Patjwi in every little way. As for Kongjwi, the heaviest and least fair work in the house always came to her first.

The story of these two sisters is told in 17 different versions, handed down from one generation to the next all across Korea. This telling begins on that same morning, in that field of stones, with the wooden hoe broken in two in Kongjwi's hands.

Staring at the broken handle, Kongjwi sank down in the middle of the stony field. She had no idea how to plow a field this wide. Just then, one corner of the sky suddenly went dark. The clouds rolled together into a thick black mass, and out of it a huge black cow came down right in front of her. Its heavy steps made the ground tremble slightly. The cow lowered its head and slipped into the plow harness by itself. Then it plodded on in silence, dragging the plow through furrow after stony furrow. The stones flew aside, as if an invisible hand were sweeping them away. By the time the sun was sinking, the whole field was neatly plowed, without a single patch of hard ground left. The cow set a basket full of warm food down beside Kongjwi. Then it walked off and faded into the air, as if it had never been there.

A few days later, the stepmother gave Kongjwi a new task. Before the village festival, she had to fill a large jar that stood in the middle of the yard. Kongjwi carried bucket after bucket from the well and poured them in. But however much water went into the jar, just as much seeped out through a long crack in its bottom. She drew water until both arms ached, and still the jar stayed as dry as before, while the festival came closer every hour. As Kongjwi stood panting by the rim, a toad hopped up from nowhere. It crawled straight into the crack and puffed itself up to seal the gap. Kongjwi poured in one more bucket, and this time the water stayed. It rose little by little until it brimmed over the top.

The village festival was only one afternoon away, and still the stepmother would not let Kongjwi rest. She dumped a big pile of rice, still full of husks, out in the yard. She ordered Kongjwi to pound it clean before dark. On top of that, Kongjwi had to finish weaving a length of cloth, enough to sew a whole outfit for the festival. Two big tasks were crowded into one short afternoon, and Kongjwi alone could never finish them in time. She had just bent over the pile of rice when a whole flock of sparrows swooped down. Hundreds of small wings beat all over the yard. Their beaks pecked without pause, and in a moment every grain was clean. At the same time, a fairy came softly down from the sky to the idle loom in a corner of the house. She sat down at it and sent the shuttle flying back and forth until she had woven a splendid length of cloth. The fairy sewed Kongjwi a festival hanbok, the traditional Korean dress. It had wide silk sleeves and a soft, flaring skirt. Then she vanished before Kongjwi could say a single word of thanks.

Kongjwi put on the new clothes and slipped her feet into a pair of pretty slippers. Then she hurried off to the festival, where the drums were already booming in the distance. The wide ground in the middle of the village was bright with flags of many colors. Villagers stood shoulder to shoulder to watch the dancing, and the drums mingled with lively string music all around. Kongjwi stood among the crowd, her eyes shining at all the games. For the first time after so many hard days, her heart felt light.

But in the crowd, Kongjwi suddenly saw her stepmother and Patjwi walking toward her. In a panic she turned and ran, afraid of being recognized in clothes that were not her own. She came to a small stream that crossed the path home and leapt over it in a hurry. At that very moment a slipper slid off her foot, fell into the water and drifted away. Kongjwi did not dare go back to look for it. She ran all the way home with one bare foot.

Some time later, a district magistrate passed by that same stream. By chance he spotted the little slipper caught against a rock. He bent down and picked it up. He studied its fine embroidery and its rare, soft silk, and he knew at once that it did not belong to an ordinary person. The magistrate sent his men across the whole region, asking at every house, to find the true owner of the slipper.

The men carried the slipper from one village to the next. Many girls tried it on, but it fit none of them. At last the search party came to the very house where Kongjwi lived. She stepped out shyly and gently slipped her foot into the slipper they had brought. It fit snugly, as if it had been made for that one foot. Knowing that Kongjwi was the girl he had searched for so long, the magistrate asked for her hand, and a marriage was arranged for her.

On the day Kongjwi left her old home for a new life, the once stony field was still lush and green from the furrows of the black cow. The water jar in the yard was still whole, without a single crack. Under the eaves of the thatched house, the sparrows still chirped and nested every morning. And in the clothes chest at the head of her bed, the hanbok the fairy had woven lay neatly folded. Its silk was soft, as if it still held a little warmth from the hands that had spun every thread.