The Four Stones: The Curse of the River Woman
When Jin and Jae entered their cottage, they were greeted by their mother’s embrace. “I was so worried! Did you find the tiger?”
“No,” Jae said, “but if you want to know why we aren’t eating deer for the next few days, ask Jin.”
She gazed at her youngest son, who avoided eye contact. “Come sit down,” she said. “Lona and I were just having tea.”
And indeed, Lona was sitting at the small table in the center of the room. Jin loaded his plate with the dinner that was now cold—mushrooms with sardine and green onions on a bed of buckwheat groats.
“Others can say what they will, Koya,” she was saying to his mother, “but I know it was the River Woman.”
Jin could not suppress a shudder. Of all the skinstealers said to haunt the woods, that of the River Woman scared him the most as a child. She had as many names as she did guises, but they all had one thing in common: death came to those who encountered her.
Jae shook his head safely behind them before he took his place at the table next to Jin. But their mother’s face was grave.
“How do you know?” she asked.
Lona rubbed her face with her calloused hands. “A week before Aman disappeared he was acting bewitched. His eyes were glazed over, always smiling… he was in love.”
“In love? Are you certain?”
Lona nodded. “He had looked at me that way once,” she said quietly. “When we were first married.”
“And… you think he met the River Woman?”
Jin saw fear in his mother’s eyes.
“I know he did,” Lona said. “I heard her keen in the woods not two hours before dawn.”
A chill ran down Jin’s spine. He had heard the wail, too. Could it have been the River Woman?
“Maybe what I heard last night was when she was—was—” Lona’s voice broke and she held her face in her hands. “If I had gone out sooner maybe I would have been in time to save him.”
Jin gazed sorrowfully at Lona. Her and Aman had been married longer than he was alive. His mother patted Lona’s arm. “There, there. You could have been harmed, too, if you went out in the woods at night.”
The widow sniffed. “I was so jealous, so angry, when I knew he had met someone and that was what drove him off—“
“You can’t blame yourself for his death.”
“He wouldn’t have ran off if I wasn’t—“
“Any wife would have the same reaction.”
A heavy, oppressive silence ensued. The night waxed on, and with it the shroud of fear and sadness grew heavier.
“Why don’t you boys play us some music?” Jin’s mother suggested to him and Jae.
They gladly agreed. Jae picked up a flat drum and mallet leaning against the wall and Jin retrieved his flute from the mantle. They played a light melody with a quick tempo, followed by another. It seemed to lift some of the darkness in the cottage.
“You play beautifully, Jin,” Lona said. “Just like my grandfather did.” She turned to his mother. “Just like Koya.”
“Thank you,” Jin said.
“Play the Song of the Forest, will you?” Lona said.
He obeyed. It was a slow and sweet tune. It spoke of happier days when cares were smaller and the world was enjoyed for its beauty, not feared for its danger. Jin felt a ray of hope enter the cottage with that melody.
“That song was old when the world was young,” Lona said. “Back when we walked with the immortal folk. When their kingdom in the forest reigned over this land… before the skinstealers came…”
Jae cast an eye at Jin, but said nothing.
“Why don’t you get some rest?” their mother said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Lona nodded faintly.
“We can walk you home,” Jin offered.
“No,” she said. “You should stay indoors, or she’ll catch you.” Her voice sounded far away.
Lona walked out the door. Jin followed her and Jae was right behind him. They quickened their step so that they were at Lona’s side. She stared at the moonlit grass at her feet, not even looking ahead as they climbed up and over the low hills toward her cottage. Jin wanted to say something, but he didn’t know what. So he kept silent.
It was Lona who broke the silence, right when they arrived at her cottage. “Our fathers fled from the sea escaping the evil ones of the water, and now we are plagued by those of the forest.”
“Beg your pardon?” Jin said.
Lona looked at him. “Our people used to live on the water. But the skinstealers drowned the fishermen, children, anyone. So we live on this cliff now, and hoped to escape their wrath.” She gazed out toward the ocean and shook her head. “But they followed us here. Changing skins… changing faces…”
Jin and Jae exchanged a worried glance over the woman’s shoulder. “Our mother will visit you first thing tomorrow, auntie,” Jae said. “Try and get some sleep.”
The woman nodded. “Stay away from the Red River,” she said and entered her dark house. They watched her until they saw the flicker of a light in her window. Jin felt the loneliness of that home wash over him, and he pitied Lona.
“I still can’t get over you facing off that tiger,” Jae said to Jin. They were back home and Jin had made some more tea. Jae leaned lazily against the wall on a small wooden stool.
Jin only shrugged.
“You really shouldn’t have done that, Jin,” his mother said, looking up from the wooden basin. She was up to her elbows in dishes and sloshing water. “It could have attacked you!”
“What was I supposed to do?” he said. “Let it attack Lona?”
“You could have gone to the village to get some of the men,” she said.
“By then it would have been too late,” he replied.
His mother only shook her head, but Jae chuckled. “You are the most foolish person I know,” he said. “Running right into the tiger’s mouth.”
“Promise me you won’t ever do that again, Jin,” his mother said.
“Alright,” he said, not knowing if he meant it.
Satisfied, his mother continued scrubbing the frying pan.
Jae was silent a moment. “Do you think it is the same one you set free all those years ago?” he asked Jin.
“What are you talking about?” his mother said.
“That was a long time ago,” Jin muttered, not wanting to go down this path.
“When was this?” she asked, alarmed.
“The last time a man-eating tiger was in the woods,” Jae said. He added, “you should have left it in its trap, Jin.”
“The villagers were going to kill it if I didn’t,” Jin said. When the snares the village had set for the animal did not work, they bought a metal trap from town. It was a horrible machine, with iron teeth in iron jaws that snapped whatever stepped inside its open maw.
“Of course!” Jae said. “That way it wouldn’t have gotten Aman last night!”
Jin’s stomach dropped. “So it’s my fault he is dead?”
“I didn’t say that,” Jae said quietly.
“You said as much,” Jin said.
“That’s enough, boys,” his mother said as if they were children instead of young men. She turned to Jin. “Now tell me, just when did you set a tiger free?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said.
“You should thank me for never telling the village,” Jae said.
“It would have been rotten of you if you did,” Jin replied.
“You never told me, either,” his mother remarked. Jin was silent. But Jae said, “its all that folklore you fill his head with. He thought it was his spirit guardian.”
“I never said that,” Jin retorted.
“You didn’t have to,” Jae said.
“It’s not folklore, Jae!” Their mother took a deep breath. “How can the gods help you if you have no faith? You don’t even wear your guardian amulet anymore.”
“I lost it, remember?” Jae said.
Jin fingered the amulet at his neck. He traced the outline of the tiger carving in the smooth wood.
“Besides, what about Aman?” Jae said. “He believed in the gods and neither they nor his guardian spirit saved him.”
Jin hesitated. He had often had the same thought. If believing in the gods did not protect them, what could?
“We don’t get to know everything, Jae,” his mother said. She stopped scrubbing and began to rub her hands and wrists.
“Is your arthritis acting up?” Jin said. She hesitated. “Let me take over the dishes.” He set his tea down. Reluctantly she stepped aside.
“I’m not sure I even want you going in those woods alone in the daytime,” his mother said. Jin sighed audibly. “I’m an adult, mother,” he said.
“That’s a fine thing for the young shoot to tell the withered stalk,” she said, taking a seat at the table. “Besides, it’s not just tigers to be wary of. There are the skinstealers, too.”
Jae groaned. “Don’t talk about them to Jin. He already thought he heard the River Woman wail last night.”
“You did?” she said. “That’s right, you were awake last night… I remember seeing you at the shutters.”
“Did you hear it, too?” Jae asked their mother quizzically. She shook her head.
“It was nothing,” Jin said, finding himself scrubbing the pan harder than he needed to. “I probably just dreamed it.”
“So Lona was right,“ his mother said.
“Don’t tell me you believe in that nonsense about the River Woman luring victims to the river and eating them whole,” Jae said.
Their mother’s face was stern. “I do, and you’d best believe it, too. How can you protect yourself against evil if you don’t think it exists?”
Jae muttered something incoherent under his breath. Their mother sighed deep and brushed back her graying locks. “When I was a girl I remember playing out in the woods on the hill just south of the Red River. Suddenly a flock of deer bolted up the slope past me. Then a chill came over me as bitter as a winter storm, even though it was the middle of summer. And the forest was quiet… so quiet…” The memory haunted her large brown eyes. Jin had never seen his mother look so vulnerable. She shivered, as if still cold from the memory.
“Rather uneventful story,” Jae remarked.
Jin saw his mother stir, coming back to the present moment. “Next day Little Fei was found on the banks of the river. He was… eaten.”
The image of Aman’s body rushed back to Jin. He tried to push it away, but it wouldn’t budge. It wasn’t just the blood and torn up flesh that disturbed him. It was his eyes. Large in silent terror, Jin felt if he stared too long into those milky depths he would see the unimaginable horror of the man’s last vision. When he carried Aman’s body to the open ground, Jin did not look into those eyes.
“Children and men she takes,” his mother said. “And the waters run red with the blood of her victims.”
Jae gave an exasperated sigh. “The river is red because of the soil. We learned that in school.”
“I think your schooling did more damage than good,” she said.
“There was some good in it,” Jin said. “We learned so much.“
“Too much,” his mother said. She mindlessly sipped the tea before her and sputtered. “This isn’t green tea—what is this?”
“It’s mine,” Jin said, biting his lip as she sniffed the liquid. “Is this lily turf?”
He hesitated. “Yes,” Jae cut in. “And he’s drying some more of the tubers out back.”
“But we already have some,” his mother said.
Jin scratched the back of his head, forgetting his hands were wet. “Well, not exactly. I had to get more.”
His mother turned to face him. “You’ve had all of it?” Her forehead creased in worry. “I thought you said you weren’t feeling sick.”
“I’m not,” Jin said, hearing his own lack of conviction in his voice.
“Then why are you having lily turf?” she said.
Jae glared at him. “Because he’s feeling sick.”
“Come here,” his mother said. Jin sighed audibly as he stood in front of her, bending for her to feel his forehead, then cheeks.
“Your warm,” she said.
“It is a warm day,” he said, returning to the washbasin.
“How do you know it wasn’t a tiger?” Jae said. “Did you see her?” Apparently he was still thinking of the River Woman.
“No,” their mother said. Jae looked triumphant. She continued, “the only life in the forest I saw that day was a small red fox.”
Jin stopped scrubbing. A fox?
“Never trust a fox or a raven,” she said. “Where they are, evil is sure to follow.”
Jae shook his head. “You’re as mad as Jin.”
Jin looked at his brother. Those words struck his heart.
Jin slammed the door of the cottage behind him.
“What’s his problem?” he heard Jae say on the other side of the door. He dimly heard his mother’s voice scolding his older brother.
His boots found their way down the grassy slope toward the cliff’s edge. He stopped. The ocean tide crashed against the rocks below.
You are as mad as Jin.
He shut his eyes. Anger quickly turned to pain. Not the kind that burned his core and gave him fever, but the kind that tore his heart in two. The kind that made him ache so badly he just wanted an escape. Jin looked down at the crags slathered in white foam. Any escape.
His eyes stared hypnotically at the tide. The darkness of their depths beckoned to him. He watched the waves slash violently against the cliff, then disappear. Another came, but it was not long before they vanished. Some lasted longer. Others were hardly birthed before they were swallowed by ocean or collided with rock.
Jin crept closer to the edge. Only his heels were on solid ground. Quickly. It was over quickly. Jin closed his eyes when the tears came. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt, he thought. The waves thundered below. No more pain. But he wouldn’t do it. No more sadness. Of course he wouldn’t. No more fear. Suddenly the weight of loneliness was so heavy, so intense, he couldn’t bear it. Slowly, so gently, he began to lean his weight forward. The salty wind rushed up to meet him when he heard a soft deep voice in his ear—
Come with me.
Jin’s eyes snapped open. He stepped back from the edge without even realizing it. He looked around for the speaker but saw no one. He was alone. Then he saw what looked like two flames shining in the darkness. They hovered at the edge of the forest north of his cottage. Then the two flames blinked. Jin realized with alarm that they were eyes. The creature took a step toward him. Jin thought it would be the fox, but a beam of moonlight revealed striped fur along the shoulder.
It was the tiger.
From across that distance Jin locked eyes with the animal, his heart pounding. Then, without warning, a great surge of painful fire radiated from his core. Jin cried out and stumbled to the ground, clutching his abdomen.
His breath came in sharp ragged gasps. Somehow he managed to stumble up the slope and to his cottage. He fell through the door, landing on his hands and knees.
His mother leapt up from the table. “Jin!” Jae ran from her side to his brother.
Another seizure of pain ratcheted Jin’s body. It flooded his torso, convulsing inside him. It was a pain that had nowhere to go, could not be expelled. Jin felt the searing heat would melt the flesh right off his bones. Jin prayed desperately for it to end. His voice was hoarse as he cried out.
“Get the healer!” he heard his mother shout to Jae.
Jin wanted to tell Jae not to, for a tiger was lurking nearby. But he could not form the words. He was dimly aware of his brother leaping across the cottage and out the door. His blood ran hot as it pumped down his limbs, up his neck, head. It felt like it was boiling beneath the surface of his skin. Every breath was turned to a cry.
“Hold on Jin,” his mother said.
A rough, gnarled hand lifted Jin’s head and he felt a burning sticky liquid poured down his throat.
“I don’t like him taking so much snakeroot,” his mother’s voice said. “It’ll ruin his kidneys.”
“Something has to break his fever—and knock him out, for mercy’s sake,” Jae’s voice whispered.
Jin tried to open his eyes. Through blurred vision he saw the old wizened face of the healer woman bent over him. He was dimly aware of her chanting monotonously, while shaking a branch of leaves over him. Jin tossed and turned on his mattress of hay. Drenched in sweat, he kicked off the blanket over him.
Smoke—no, incense—was waved over him. Its pungent odor filled his nostrils. His eyes still open, he dreamed.
A raven flapped against the bars of a cage. Jin greatly feared its release without knowing why. It cawed and screeched, tearing at the metal. Then, to his horror, the cage was opened. The raven was free. It rose high in the sky and stretched its wings, covering the land in darkness. Jin fled, but it chased him. Unto the ends of the earth he fled from it, but always its black wings followed him, shadowing his steps.
Jin ran until he found himself in the woods behind his home. He saw the fox with the old woman’s eyes. Its eyes narrowed, glowing red and menacing. Blood was on its maw as it feasted on a carcass. A lutung swung from a low branch, swiping at the kill. The fox snarled, then snapped at the primate.
Master says you must share, it said. We must all grow strong.
A bearcat slinked from the trees. A weasel followed close behind, as did others obscured by the forest shadows. The fox bared its teeth, hovering over the kill.
Jin looked down at the carcass. It was Aman.
There was a rustling of feathers overhead that sounded like laughter. Jin looked up to see the raven on a branch, hovered above them all. Share the meat, little fox, it said, for all of my servants must grow strong with the blood of mortals.
The beasts tugged and tore at Aman’s body, ripping his flesh with their razor claws and dagger teeth.
“Stop!” Jin cried.
The lutung snapped its head to Jin. Someone watches us!
Their voices screeched through the wood: Spy! Spy!
Jin stood helplessly as they began to circle him. His heart raced in panic. In the back of his mind he still heard the healer chanting.
“No, please…,” he said.
His mother spoke, “what is it Jin?”
Jin looked around in the forest. He heard her voice, but where was she? Then the fox snapped at his feet. The bearcat swiped at his leg, he felt its claws rake into his skin.
Jin gave a cry.
“What is it Jin?” his mother said, desperation in her voice.
Get him! Kill him! the raven ordered.
“The raven… he is coming for me…”
“Jin there is no one here but us and the healer,” his mother said.
“It must be the fever speaking,” Jae whispered.
Jin grit his teeth and grunted in pain.
“Foul spirits are preying on him!” the old woman said.
Jin gave only a soft cry, a whine of agony.
“Who is his Guardian in the night sky?” the healer said.
“Tiger,” his mother replied.
She shook the leaves over him. “Come, stalker of the woodland realm. Protect this boy, born under your stars in the heavens. You are his spirit guardian and he needs you now. Call to him, Jin!”
Jin tried to open his mouth to speak. But he could not. Please come, he thought. The fox circled him again, grinning. It snapped at his heels, drawing blood. Then something bounded through the forest and leapt in the air. When it landed it was between Jin and the devilish beasts. It was the tiger! Jin felt both fear and relief inside him.
Then, Jin’s vision shifted. He was in their small cottage and he saw the face of his brother, mother, and the healer woman over him. He felt too weak to move. But the pain had momentarily relented.
His mother smiled in relief, but the old woman’s face was grave. “What have you done, boy, to bring evil spirits upon you?”
“He has done nothing,” he heard his mother say.
Jin held his side as another wave of pain swept through him. The healer turned to her. “Burn incense on your altar and pray to the gods. Now.”
The healer put her gnarled face close to Jin. “Renounce the evil in your spirit. Perhaps the gods will send the dove to save you,” she whispered.
Jin wanted to speak in his defense, but was too weak. He broke out in a sweat. The blankets were off of him but he could not get cool. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came out.
“What is it, Jin?” he heard his brother say.
“Water,” he whispered. His mother was burning incense at the altar on the east side of the house and the healer was speaking in hushed tones in her ear.
Jae came with a cup of water and put it to his lips. He poured it gently down Jin’s throat. Jin laid his head down on the hay. He felt his mind slipping from consciousness and embraced the pull.
Jin woke up with a cool rag wiping his forehead.
“How do you feel?” his mother said beside him.
He tried to sit up but the effort was too much. “Like an empty shell,” he breathed. “But the pain is gone for now.”
His mother wrung out the rag in a wooden bowl beside her. Jin hated himself for making her wait on him. “This is the time in life where I’m supposed to be taking care of you,” he said.
“I’m not that old,” she smiled. “And right now you are the one needing taking care of.”
Jin shut his eyes to hold back the tears. A few years back he had gotten so ill that he was bedridden for six weeks, and it was several more until he could do the smallest of mere household chores. Jae couldn’t fish, as the boat needed to be manned by at least two, and Jin could sell neither trade items or his own labor. And so their family was reduced to eating nothing but plain groats twice a day for several months. Jae and his mother never once complained. Jin had promised he would never do that to his family again. But here he lay, sick and helpless.
“I don’t want to always be a burden,” he said. “I want to live a normal life.”
“You are not a burden, Jin,” she said. “And maybe the gods will heal you of this sickness.”
Jin shook his head bitterly. “I’ve been hoping for that since I was a boy. It hasn’t happened yet and it may never happen.”
“Just be patient—“
“I’ve been patient!” he said. “Eleven years I’ve been patient! Either the gods aren’t real or, if they are, they care nothing for me.”
“Don’t say that, Jin,” she hushed. She sighed in the way Jin knew meant she was collecting herself. “We don’t know why things are the way they are. The gods never promised us that this life would be easy. But they did promise it would be worth it.”
Deep down he knew that was true. But he couldn’t bring himself to openly agree. Life still hurt too much.
“It’s not this life that matters,” she said. “It’s the next. There’ll be no sickness then. No hunger, no sadness. But its how you handle those things in this life that will determine if you go to Paradise with the gods, or…”
“The Void,” Jin finished. His mother nodded. She didn’t even like saying the word, as if refusal of the word could refuse the destination itself.
The Void. It was where those who hated the gods went. It was said to be a place of darkness and unbearable cold. But the real punishment was loneliness.
“We should pray for Aman,” Jin said presently.
“Let us pray together now,” she whispered. She clasped his hands in hers and recited:
“To the Three Gods, maker of the Spirit and Earthen Realms,
“From the Temples at all corners of the earth may your glory shine,
“Grant us a pure and humble heart to serve you in this earthen life and the next,
“And protect us from evil flesh and evil spirit, now and always.”
She added, “and please guide Aman’s spirit to your dwelling, and comfort Lona.” She eyed Jin. “Would you like to say anything?” He merely shook his head.
Once finished, they sat in silence. His mother looked at him carefully. She rose. “There is something I need to teach you.”
“What is it?”
She brought his flute from the mantle that was once her own, before her arthritis prevented her from playing. “There is one more song you need to learn. It is the oldest and most sacred of songs. Are you well enough to play?”
“Yes, but I am hardly in the mood,” he said.
“Humor an old woman,” she said.
With great effort Jin rose to sitting. Slowly she played the notes. Her stiff fingers struggled to close the holes in the wood, but the melody was not lost on her delicate hands. It was a peculiar tune, like nothing Jin had heard before. It spoke to him of mountains and ancient trees, yet deeper and older than even the earth. It was not a sad tune, but Jin felt a melancholy in the beauty of the melody.
His mother passed the flute to Jin. Back and forth he listened to her play, then imitated the notes. This went on until she was satisfied Jin had memorized the song.
“They say the Steward of the Forest, a great white stag, taught our people this song before the kingdom fell,” his mother said.
Jin turned the flute over in his hands. “We saw a white stag when we were hunting the tiger.” He lifted his head to hers and gave a wry smile. “Maybe it was him.”
“Maybe it was,” she said, slapping his knee. She looked over at Jae and her face sobered.
“You are now the only one of your generation to know this song. Remember it well.”
Jin glanced at his brother, snoring on the other side of the cottage. “Shouldn’t this be passed on to the eldest?”
His mother smiled. “If I could make Jae believe in the old ways, I would. But you were the one willing to learn the flute. Not him.”
Jin traced the smooth wood of the flute, his fingers passing through the threads tied at the base. It had been passed down from generation to generation, as had the skill to play it. And now this strange new melody. “What is the meaning of the song?” he asked.
“There is hidden power in the music, Jin,” she said. “We were taught this song for a reason. Never let it die.”
Jin ran his fingers across the smooth wood of the flute. “What was the kingdom like?” he asked.
“It was a time of peace and prosperity,” she said. “The immortals took care of us and all the animals in their realm. This was their duty given to them by the Three Gods.”
“What happened?” he asked. He was mostly curious. He did not really more than half-believe the tales of a woodland kingdom hidden away from the world, but it captured his imagination nonetheless.
“Over time we strayed from the gods and the immortals alike,” his mother answered. “So they secluded themselves deep in the forest, and our ties with them and with nature severed.”
“What happened to the immortals?” Jin said.
“Our people say the Forest Palace still stands on a high cliff somewhere deep within the Sacred Woods,” she said, “but no mortal has seen it since the ancient days. As for the immortals, they are said to have disappeared.”
“Disappeared? How?” Jin said.
“Legends say something terrible happened within the palace,” his mother answered. “Something so horrible that the Three Gods forsook the king, handing him over to be punished. A spell is said to be on that place. If it is broken, we shall have peace again.”
“Can’t it be broken?” Jin asked. He was more invested in the story than he cared to admit.
His mother shrugged. “Perhaps. There is a great treasure of the gods called the Four Stones. Some believe they could break the spell.”
“Then why hasn’t anyone done it?” Jin said.
“The Four Stones cannot be wielded by just anyone,” his mother said. “They say the wielder must be completely pure of heart.”
She left him to his thoughts as she extinguished the burning candle. As Jin lay back on his mattress of hay, he thought of the story she told him. How could anyone be truly pure of heart? It was hardly surprising that no one had broken the enchantment over the Forest Palace. But that is just a legend, he thought, and rolled over to sleep.
Jin saw the raven again in his dreams. It squawked and flapped madly against the bars of its cage. Its eyes glinted with a cruel intelligence. The cage rattled and swayed. The fox stood before it.
Who was it that saw us? the raven said.
How should I know? the fox answered.
Find who it is, the raven said.
And what if I refuse? the fox replied.
You are mine, little fox, the raven said. You serve me now and always.
The fox leapt at the cage. The raven cackled and laughed. The fox attacked the bars futilely. Then it threw back its head and howled.
Jin woke from his nightmare to a sharp, throaty call from the woods. It had sounded like a she-fox. Or was it the wail of a woman? Across the cottage, Jin heard the old mare stamp the hay underfoot. Then he heard it again. A high moaning cry, loud yet distant. It rose, flowing from the woods down to the village. It sounded almost like… singing. Jin’s blood went cold. The horse neighed loudly. Jin’s heart raced in terror. Was it her?
Finally it ended.
“Jae?” he said, hearing his voice shake. “Did you hear that?“
But only his brother’s snores replied. Even his mother didn’t wake. The mare snorted nervously. Jin threw off his blankets and went to her. He stroked her neck with trembling hands. She was covered in sweat.
“You heard it, too, didn’t you?” he whispered. She neighed and stamped her feet. “Shh, it’s alright,” he said, not knowing if his words were true. He brought over his blankets and lay by the mare that night. Even after it was gone, Jin could not dispel the haunting and lonely keen of the River Woman from his mind. It was a long time before he fell asleep.
© Gina Tom 2016