Echoes of the White Giraffe by Sook Nyul Choi Read Free Book Online Page A

his grave. We will read what was written on his tombstone. Then we can plant some seeds and take some of the seashells you collected and decorate the grave. ”
    Wiping the tears from my cheeks, I nodded. “I want to take some sand and mix it with the soil, too, so that the plants will grow fast and flower soon,” I mumbled.
    â€œYes, we will do all of that early tomorrow. Today I still have too much work to get finished,” Mother said.
    I didn’t go to choir practice that day. On Sunday, Mother and I went to Mass at dawn, and then we started up the poet’s mountain. This mountain was even higher than ours, and the poet’s grave was at the very top. When we arrived, we saw withered roses, daisies, and cosmos covering the grave.
    A smooth, gray stone slab stood in front of the mound of earth and read, “Baik Rin, 1899–1952. May he rest in peace in God’s love. May he shout his morning greeting to us each day in our dreams. From his fellow mountain refugees.” Each letter was deeply and clearly chiseled into the cold gray stone. I traced each letter with my index finger, one by one.
    How ironic that his name was Baik Rin, meaning “White Giraffe.” I thought that giraffes did not make any sounds, yet this was the name of my shouting poet. The giraffe was my favorite animal and I had once read that giraffes like to eat the tender spring leaves of the acacia trees as they are filled with morning dew. I promised myself that someday I would come up here again and plant some acacia saplings around his grave. I imagined a tall, graceful white giraffe happily feeding on a grove of acacia trees here at the top of the mountain.
    â€œWhite giraffe, white giraffe," I kept mumbling to myself, wondering why these words sounded so familiar to me. Suddenly I remembered the story of the white giraffe that my grandfather used to tell me when I was very little. I had not thought of that story for a long time. Grandfather said that ages ago, there was a kindhearted scholar who saw a white giraffe in the forest. He was overwhelmed by its grace and beauty, but he was frightened for it. Without the natural camouflage of an ordinary giraffe, this white giraffe looked very vulnerable and helpless. The hunters and curious villagers would surely spot this delicate, precious creature and scare it or harm it. So the scholar draped himself in a long white cape, wore a tall white hat, and strolled through the forest every morning while the giraffe grazed on the leaves of the tall trees. When the hunters and villagers saw the mysterious white figure walking among the green trees, they simply said, “Oh, that eccentric scholar must be taking a walk again.” And they always stayed far away from that part of the forest.
    I could not recall the rest, but I remembered how enchanted I had been with this story. Maybe that was why I had always been so fond of giraffes.
    â€œCome on, Sookan,” Mother said. “Sprinkle some sand over the seeds I planted and then cover the sand gently with red mud. Why not place the seashells around this little area so that people won’t step on it?” I busily covered and packed the seeds so that they would grow and bloom for the shouting poet.
    â€œGood,” said Mother. “I see rain clouds hanging low over the mountains. The rain will be good for the seeds, and soon flowers will blossom and grace the poet’s grave. Come. Now we must hurry home.” Without looking back, I followed Mother down the mountain in silence and thought of the shouting poet in his white T-shirt with his head tilted back and his hands cupped around his mouth. I could almost hear his voice echoing through the mountains.

Chapter Six
    Pelted by the rapid fire of raindrops, the tin roofs emitted their deafening cries. “Plank! Plank! Plank-plank-plank-plank! Plank!” I was glad that it was raining so hard. I could not bear to see the sun shine today. I wanted the