NTN 08

Chapter 08

Holy Communion

“After nursing, you must hold the baby upright for twenty to thirty minutes.
Feed the baby before it becomes desperately hungry.”

The gentle, sermon-like voice of Im Gyeol echoed through the room.
Shim Dohwan and the others listened intently, jotting down what they thought important on the sheets of paper they had prepared in advance.

Seong Geon-woo kept the same posture as when the lecture began, eyes fixed on Im Gyeol—though his gaze seemed to drift somewhere far away.

About twenty to thirty minutes later, Im Gyeol ended her talk and looked around.

“That will be all for today.
Everything I’ve said is the teaching of the Spirit.”

“Praise your forbearance!”

Before Shim Dohwan or the other followers could respond, Geon-woo raised his arms as if cradling a baby and lightly swayed them, offering the chant with unusual enthusiasm.

Startled, the others eventually imitated him, bending their elbows and giving the ritual motion.

“Praise your forbearance!”

Im Gyeol started to speak again, then simply closed her mouth.

Checking the old digital watch on her wrist, she said,
“It’s later than I thought. We must return home before the streetlights come on.
Let us now begin the final rite—the Holy Communion.”

She disappeared into the inner room with a woman who introduced herself as Auntie Lee.
Less than a minute later they returned: one carrying small and large bowls, plastic lunchboxes, and spoons; the other holding a tall cylindrical container filled with something dark.

A rich, sweet aroma pierced Geon-woo’s nose.
Without thinking, he lifted a hand and wiped his mouth.
It was the smell of sesame mixed with sugar.

Desserts like that cost sixty points a pound—about as expensive as pork.
The finer sweets could reach seven hundred twenty points a pound.
Considering his own breakfast cost only eight to ten points, this was extravagant.

Auntie Lee distributed bowls and boxes, while Im Gyeol ladled the black mixture into each vessel.

When everyone had been served, she announced,
“This is today’s Holy Communion—black-sesame porridge.”

The congregation replied in solemn unison,
“Praise your forbearance!”

As the newest member, Geon-woo received his portion last, except for Im Gyeol and Auntie Lee—and his bowl was filled nearly to the brim.

He responded with equal devotion.
“Praise your forbearance!”

The phrase “you” in their chant referred not to Im Gyeol herself, but to the divine Mission they served.

Auntie Lee watched Geon-woo’s face and smiled.
“Are you moved?”

“Yes!” he answered, holding the bowl with one hand and wiping his mouth with the other.

The two women returned to the edge of the bed, bowed their heads slightly, and murmured together,
“Praise your forbearance.”

The followers echoed them and began to eat.

The porridge was slightly cool but perfectly delicious—nutty, sweet, full of sesame’s deep flavor.
Geon-woo hesitated after the first spoonful, then began to eat quickly, even licking the bowl clean.

When he was done, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked around.

After the rite, the followers praised the Mission that ruled December, then queued to return their dishes to Auntie Lee and Im Gyeol.

When it was Geon-woo’s turn, Auntie Lee asked with a smile,
“How was your first gathering?”

“It was delicious,” he said seriously.

Her expression stiffened slightly.
“Anything you’d like to suggest? Don’t hesitate—everyone in the sect is family.”

Geon-woo thought for a moment.
“I wish there were more communion.”

“…And?” she prompted, forcing a smile.

His eyes wavered.
“I should brush my teeth first next time.”

Auntie Lee coughed as if she’d reached her limit.
“All right, everyone else may go. Geon-woo, stay. The guide has something to tell you.”

Shim Dohwan and the others left. Auntie Lee carried the dishes inside with her husband.

Im Gyeol approached and said warmly,
“You’re newly joined, so you should quickly learn our prayers.
Don’t worry, it isn’t difficult. Our principal Mission is the true Spirit who governs time itself, and the Spirit cares nothing for empty formalities.”

Geon-woo nodded.

“We have no fixed prayer times,” she continued.
“Sometimes, upon waking early, we simply give thanks for being alive.
We hold formal rites only when a baby reaches one full month of life or when someone is buried.
On the first day of December we hold the Grand Rite to welcome our Mission, and on the last day another Grand Rite to pray that our Lord will open the gates of a new world.

“You’ve already learned the gesture—cradling a child and gently rocking.
Depending on the occasion, we say one of three things:
for death or passing, ‘The end returns to the Mission’;
for the nobility of life and our Lord’s grace, ‘Praise your forbearance’;
for new birth, ‘New life is like the sun,’ or ‘Life is most precious.’

“That’s the basics.
The communion food changes each time—sometimes black-sesame porridge, sometimes milk, juice, soy milk, meat broth, vegetable soup, or yogurt.
Do you see what these have in common?”

Geon-woo thought.
“They’re all very tasty.”

“…,” Im Gyeol kept her smile.
“They’re all liquids or close to it.
Liquid food is what newborns and the dying usually eat.”

Before he could respond, she gestured toward the door.
“Good. You may go now.”

Instead of leaving, Geon-woo asked,
“Auntie Im, how many Daljigi are there?”

“Most people assume twelve, matching the months, but that’s not true,” she said with a laugh.
“There are thirteen. One represents the leap month—taking the whole year’s place when there’s no leap month.”

“And that one’s honorific title?”

She shook her head.
“I don’t know. We worship the Mission; there’s no need to know more about the others.”

Geon-woo asked no more and left for Section A, Unit 35.

Relying on his lantern’s light, he made his way back toward Unit B-196.
At every junction he turned off the lamp and slipped along the wall, just as Shim Dohwan had shown him.

Back in his room, he grabbed the nearly flattened tube of toothpaste, squeezing out just enough for a brush.
He brushed carefully, washed his face, but the ceiling remained dark.
Finally he sat at the table, leaned against the chair, closed his eyes, and pressed his temples.

In a vast hall filled with countless stars, Geon-woo’s silhouette appeared.

He first gazed at the cold, black metal wall nearby, then lifted his eyes to the towering sky.

Above him, countless lights shimmered like the universe shown in textbooks—each a stellar system, each system forming galaxies.
The silver river of star clusters had faint but visible boundaries.

He began counting the galaxies, as he had once before.

“One, two, three… eleven, twelve, thirteen.
Thirteen…”

His image slowly faded and disappeared into the star-strewn hall.

After a long wait, he finally saw the world outside flare bright.
The ceiling lights of the underground city switched on.

Still wearing his dark-green coat, Geon-woo took his plastic lunchbox and stepped out toward Section C—the supply market.

On the way he spotted Yong Yeo-hong, already up early enough to avoid the public-bathroom line.

“Today they’ll announce the job assignments,” she said, purposely waiting to ease her tension.

“Right,” Geon-woo replied.

Ahead, a woman soothed a crying child at a doorway.
For a moment, Geon-woo wore a strangely unsettled expression, lost in thought.

Yeo-hong glanced at him and asked as they walked on together,
“What’s wrong? Bad dream?”

After a two-second pause he said,
“I’m feeling disillusioned with life.”

She neither understood nor wanted to.
They chatted idly as they reached the supply market, waiting for the staff cafeteria to open,
then each spent eight contribution points for a breakfast of one boiled egg, two pieces of multigrain bread, and a small plate of pickled vegetables.

END