The Hole in Namsangol

<please refer to the Chapter Notes for our own snide footnotes>

There is a Hole in Namsangol. Walk through the grand entrance, straight pass the colorful lanterns, around the ancient pine pillars, turn left, right, resist the gift shop, and there it is. Yes, right there on the unassuming grey wall. Get closer, real close, and you just might see it. The Hole is not apparent. It’s about the size of a wilted grape and is tightly squeezed between stone bricks and white cement. The shadows from the wall’s small roof-like structure conceal it even further. But it is there. The universe is acutely aware of it, as any self-respecting cosmic consciousness should be. You’d be just as embarrassed had there been a Hole through you where it had no business being; like on your left buttocks. Its placement isn’t particularly slimming, nor could you stick something expensively shiny in it to make it look purposeful. It is simply there and useless.

We have done everything in our power to fill it, but the damned thing is as stubborn as its maker. Any substance we attempt to put into it, the Hole either spits out or vanishes it entirely. Whether said vanishing is achieved by the Hole transporting or consuming the offending material, we are uncertain. And after the debacle that was the Sparrow Incident (1), we are hesitant to try and find out.

The reason why the Hole is doing this (i.e being there) would be wildly debated had anyone-barring yours truly- known about its existence. In such a hypothetical reality, where scholars leave each other snide foot notes about why the Hole is or isn’t, the leading theory would be something incomprehensibly clever and include lines and lines of numbers followed by a healthy sprinkling of Greek letters for some crunch. The real reason for the Hole can only be explained with words. And these particular set of words link together to form a fairly stupid story.

See, there was this man from way back when who was a champion at this game. It involved throwing a well-aimed stick into a clay pot from far away. Although the sport of throwing sticks has since been replaced with the innovation that is the sport of throwing balls, stick-throwing was highly regarded at the time of the Hole’s birth. And this man was the best at the stick-in-clay-hole game (2). Humans were no longer born with individual purposes (3), yet this man seemed like he was made for accurately throwing sticks into pots from a considerable distance. The man knew his own talent, but he also received another. He thus grew his fortune by tricking others to bet against him and became so rich that his name was known throughout the land, although long forgotten now. New challengers sought him out daily.

On one such day, a wrinkled old hag came for the man. Her skin sagged so far away from her bones that a soft wind would parachute her away. Every organ in her body screamed for death yet the woman simply refused them with a mild sternness, disregarding their tantrums as only a mother can. She asked the man to play the game, although the only stick she’s ever threw was her cane on bad days. The challenge she saw was of his trick and not the sport. Her ancient limbs shook with strain, but her voice was calm as an autumn’s pond; For the woman had spent her entire life polishing her Tricks. All the man saw was an old trembling lady and, while his very blood whispered against it, he took her up on the challenge.

The rules were simple. Stay behind the line, never on it, and your arm mustn’t cross either. Toss the stick in the holed jar. Accuracy and cleanliness of the stick’s arc and entrance is considered also. The man flex his muscles and rolled his joints in a show of strength as he explained the game. The old woman only looked amused and threw the first stick. It flew into the clay hole as a carrier pigeon would to its home. Arcing into the air, graceful as light, the stick landed into the pot with the faintest of taps. It sat there smugly as the man’s eyes threatened to pop out of their sockets. His aim was also true, and he scored quite well. But again and again his throws seemed but a child’s next to the hag’s.

The man could not believe it and demanded a rematch. This time, he extended his trick further. The goal was the sent the stick into a hole on the wall. The Trick was that the hole was barely a scratch on the stone and that there was nowhere for the stick to fall. The old woman merely stifled a smile, delighted by the man’s attempt at a trick. She stood at the jagged line in the sand, and she threw her cane towards the goal. Everything she held became her wand, bent towards her will and glided as she guided. Yet her cane was her strongest staff of all. It pushed through and through and through and through. Cutting the wall, the air, and the fabric beyond all. It slid into a Hole that should not exist, carving the universe at its Master’s command.

Out of seething rage and disbelief, the man broke the stick in his hands and tossed the jagged pieces aside with force. One half hit a nearby pepper plant and gave it a light concussion, the other stabbed deep into his own mother’s torso, though he would never know it. The old hag was rushed to the local healer, who managed to keep the blood in her body by suffocating her with herbed bandages, the brute, but it wasn’t enough. She died of a punctured lung, a fittingly hole-y demise for the creator of an eternal Hole.

It didn’t end a tragedy, though. The Hole, in its early beginnings, was young and open to new experiences. It allowed the tiniest bit of airy stuff from one side of it to the other. The following were the few let through during the Hole’s short life as a Tube: the earthy scent of fermenting soybeans and cabbage, a cold virus that led to the universe losing 7/10ths of a finger, and a strange glowing energy almost entirely comprised of Tricks. The universe was quite surprised when the soul of a cranky old woman disrupted its solitude, but I think the bastard appreciates my presence, regardless.

My cane that made the Hole has long lost its Tricks, and only at its Master’s plea could it pierce away one last time. We opened the Hole into a Tube long enough to send this through. Now you are of the few who know this dreadful Hole, and it is up to you to do what you will. You could push your enemies down and commit mass genocide. You could place a brick at an angle just so and keep the local sparrows safe. Or you could do absolutely nothing at all. We’re frankly quite done with it, as well.