Korea's ancient trees

The wilderness of Gangwon Province circa 1920s / Robert Neff Collection

By Robert Neff

Trees, especially large ones, are one of the most iconic symbols of nature. They dominate their surroundings and garner the attention and admiration of young lovers, elderly couples and the viewfinder of photographers' cameras with their beauty. However, these giants are also the guardians of the past and harbingers of the future.

In the latter part of the 14th century, "a prophecy passed from mouth to mouth" of the impending collapse of the 918-1392 Goryeo Kingdom. According to legend, the Silla monk Doseon (827-898) foretold that a man of the plum would found the next dynasty and would establish his capital in a place where plum trees flourished. The Goryeo king, hearing that plum trees grew in great abundance near Hanyang (Seoul) ordered the trees to be destroyed. Yet, despite the efforts to eradicate them, the trees survived and flourished. In 1392, the prophecy was realized when General Yi Seong-gye (Yi, meaning plum) became the first king of Joseon.

Trees also played a role in the prophecy of the Joseon's demise. In early January 1904, an unknown prophet warned that a great calamity would befall the pine forest. Many believed the pine forest represented the imperial palace and their fears were seemingly realized when Deoksu Palace was ― for the most part ― destroyed by a large fire on April 14.

However, dynasties and nobility were not the only ones plagued by immortal powers surrounding trees ― so, too, were commoners.

In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, it wasn't uncommon to encounter small altars or shrines (seonang-dang) beneath ancient gnarled trees near the entrances of villages and on isolated mountain paths. It was believed that the trees were sacred and possessed the spirits of those who had died in the vicinity due to accidents, disease or the ravages of nature. Depending on the whims of the spirits, they terrorized or blessed the travelers and residents of the surrounding areas.

Often the branches were cluttered with small offerings ― pieces of paper, rags, clothing, coins, locks of hair, human effigies or, hanging from straw ropes, small bags filled with rotting morsels of food. According to Rev. George Heber Jones, an American missionary who traveled extensively throughout Korea, every item had significance.

Women washing in a stream or river in the early 1900s / Robert Neff Collection

The long strips of rags and threads were requests by mothers for the long lives of their children. Sometimes, women who could not bear children would come and pray for a child. Coins were given in hopes of financial gains as were offerings of commodities sold by the wandering peddlers. The colored paper and cloth were left by newly married brides on the way to their in-laws' homes. Many people believed that the household spirits would attempt to follow the young bride bringing ruin upon her own household, but, by tying these colorful strips to the trees, she was able to distract the spirits thus leaving them behind. There were other distractions or slights. To circumvent a prophecy of impending death or misfortune, effigies of the victim and their clothing were hung from the tree in hopes that the spirits would be satisfied with the substitution.

The altars were cairns of stones which were added to by superstitious travelers and petitioners. Jones often witnessed travelers spit as they placed a stone upon the altar ― this, according to him, was a superstitious precaution against the snakes that might dwell amongst the stones. Snakes were vengeful creatures that demanded respect; to kill one was to evoke the wrath of the serpent which would ― in spiritual form ― follow its slayer and wreak havoc until his "irretrievable ruin." The spittle was thought to distract the serpent and allow the traveler to pass safely on his way or for the petitioner to conduct the sacrifice to the spirits unmolested.

Offerings of food were laid on or in front of the altar in hopes of appeasing the spirits dwelling within the tree. Usually pork, cakes and alcohol were offered but when the spirit inhabiting the tree was a victim of a tiger attack, dog meat was offered.

Frequently the site included a small shack that served as a shrine and housed painted images of animals or the sanshin (mountain spirit). Sometimes the shrines were quite "pretentious, being built of good timber with tiled roof and a keep dwelling in a house beside it." Apparently, if the spirits who lurked in the vicinity of the seonang-dang were tolerant, villagers would gather here in the summer to escape the heat "with wine, song and dance, to enjoy the grateful shade, drink from the cool streams nearby" and pay homage to the shrine.

These rituals and beliefs are not relegated only to the past. Some still believe that trees are haunted by the dead ― especially those who took their own lives. There are many ghost stories about haunted trees, including one that supposedly took place in the 1960s.

It seems that a woman ― abandoned by her lover and unable to endure the disapproving glares of her neighbors or their wagging tongues ― hanged herself from the branches of a tree near her village. When she was discovered, the villagers buried her not far from the tree ― just off the main path ― and quickly forgot about her. She, however, did not forget them.

A large tree commands the shore at the Paldang Dam area near Seoul in September 2018. / Robert Neff Collection

At night, villagers ― especially young men ― would reportedly encounter a woman, dressed in white and with disheveled hair, near the tree. She was always silent and never attempted to communicate. She merely stared back with unblinking eyes. After a few moments ― which must have seemed like eternity ― she would turn and walk into the overgrowth on the side of the path.

The few brave ― but foolish ― men who attempted to follow her soon found themselves alone at her weed-covered grave. They were unmolested but terrified. One can easily imagine young men daring one another to prove their bravery by walking down the path alone at night ― a harmless passage of manhood for village youths ― until a body was discovered.

One morning, an elderly man ― who often gathered brush and wood from the mountain ― was discovered dead at the foot of the grave. It would be easy to blame his death on poor health or his age, except for the expression of abject terror on his face. People speculated that he had somehow angered the spirit ― perhaps by urinating upon the grave ― and had paid for it with his life.

The villagers decided to move the grave to a spot farther off the path ― one less likely to be accidentally disrespected. When the girl's body was disinterred, the grave diggers were horrified to discover that the corpse bore little sign of decomposition ― despite the many years it had been buried ― and her eyes were wide open and seemingly staring straight ahead.

It was decided that the young woman's spirit was restless due to her life being unfulfilled as she had never married or given birth to a child. In hopes of appeasing her, she was wed, in a ghost marriage, to a young bachelor, who had died recently and they were buried together. The village is no longer plagued with these "unnatural" encounters.

The next time you see a majestic tree and feel the urge to sit beneath it, remember that sometimes in the shadows of the great boughs are dark secrets that should not be disturbed.

Robert Neff has authored and co-authored several books including, Letters from Joseon, Korea Through Western Eyes and Brief Encounters.