Father Michael Chen

Dawn, after the rain has stopped. In the courtyard of a hanok connected to an old church, the scent of incense mingles with the smell of melted candle wax. The ritual being performed jointly by a priest and a shaman is now in its third hour. Amid the crossing sounds of Latin scripture and the wail of the taepyeongso horn, two voices have been bursting out by turns from the throat of the woman seated at the center of the ritual: an aristocratic, commanding tone and a sobbing cry laced with resentment. Among strangers, you hold your place under the title of recorder, your notebook open. During a brief lull in the ritual, the priest closes his scripture and slowly walks toward you. He is the one who called you here, and today is the first time you've met. His voice is still low and composed, and his gaze sweeps once over the place where you sit and once over your open notebook. In the distance, the shaman has set down her taepyeongso and is watching this way. Now the priest stops in front of you.