Chiun bore both insult and tone with a stoic face. "Many of the palace guard are dead," he responded, his eyes level. As he regarded the angry tribal chief, his hands locked with chilly calm onto opposite wrists within the sleeves of his kimono. "And my warriors were seen?"
"Since we did not slay everyone from here to Bachsburg, yes," Chiun said.
Batubizee shook his massive head. "You old fool!" he spit. "You have led them to me!"
Bubu stepped forward, casting a glance at Chiun. "The old Master could not-" he began, his voice pitched low.
"Old," Batubizee interrupted. "You are correct. This old fool is not the Master of Sinanju of our histories. Nuk was a vital and powerful man. The lions would not even eat this thing of bone and gristle." He stabbed a finger at Chiun.
"Mandobar has destroyed the nation to which Luzuland is an arm. You promised his head!"
"Even Sinanju cannot kill a man who isn't there," Chiun said simply.
The Luzus in the square were attracted to the raised voice of the chief. Even as they came forward, more appeared from dilapidated huts.
Batubizee towered over the tiny Asian, his anger growing. "Could you even see him if he was there?" the Luzu chief demanded hotly.
"Please," Bubu stressed. "Let Master Chiun-"
"Silence, " Batubizee snarled. He waved a disdainful hand at Chiun. "This feeble thing is not even to blame for this disaster. I am. It is my fault for trusting the legends. The Luzu Empire was already dying. Now, on its deathbed, I have strangled it."
A proud man, Batubizee knew he had already let the common villagers see too much. Shoulders sagging, he shook his head at Chiun.
"Go, old one," the chief said, defeated. The effort to speak seemed draining. "Return to your American emperor. I should not have summoned you in the first place."
Turning wearily, he began trudging morosely to his hut.
He had taken barely two steps before there came a commotion from behind. When Batubizee turned, he found the Master of Sinanju standing where he'd left him. The old man had removed his hands from the sleeves of his robes. Clutched in the bony fingers of one was a long, curving machete. Batubizee saw that the blade Bubu had carried from the truck was no longer in the young native's hands.
The machete was damaged halfway up the blade where it had come in contact with the Citizen Force rifle.
As both Bubu and Batubizee watched with growing concern, the Master of Sinanju pulled a spear from the grasping fingers of a nearby warrior.
Chiun's bright hazel eyes burned deep into those of the Luzu chieftain. Peering into their frigid depths, Batubizee suddenly felt naked.
Chiun turned abruptly from the gathered throng. All eyes tracked the wizened form of the Master of Sinanju as he strode away from the group, a weapon in each hand.
"What is he doing?" the chief asked Bubu, struggling to keep the hint of sudden fear from his voice. The young native's expectant eyes were trained on Chiun. "Watch," he whispered.
Noting the tingle of excitement in the younger man's tone, Batubizee fell silent.
Women who sat in the dirt of the square separated as Chiun passed. Their wasted children ceased playing in his wake. Flies buzzed around malnourished heads as all eyes turned to the strange old man. At the far end of the square, towering above a pair of tumbledown huts, a mighty baobab tree sprouted from the arid ground. Its dark and pitted trunk was nearly thirty feet in diameter. The highest of its long, gnarled branches clawed more than sixty feet into the hot East African sky.
Chiun stopped at a dried-up fountain at the center of the vast square. From where he stood, the tree was farther than any man could throw.
As natives watched in growing fascination, the tiny Korean raised the machete high in the air, curved tip of the supersharp blade just behind his shoulder. The spear he hefted in his other hand, close to his ear.
A hush fell over the crowd. Even the insects of dusk seemed to hold their breath in anticipation. When the tension became more than any of them could bear, one bony hand shot forward.
The spear launched from Chiun's fingers with an audible crack. Almost simultaneously, the other hand whipped down. Another crack and both spear and machete were rocketing across the square toward the huge tree.
Time drew a different pace around the weapons. All eyes could see them as they sliced hot air.
At the midpoint between Chiun and the baobab, the machete sprang forward. Blade struck spear, cleaving the blunt end. With a determined whir, it split the spear up its length, building speed as it went. The machete broke through the far end, skipping ahead of the still airborne spear halves. An instant later, the blade found its mark, thwacking loudly against the trunk of the baobab.
The Luzus felt the ground beneath their hare feet shake from the vibration of the impact.
And as Chief Batubizee and the others watched in amazement, the fat trunk of the huge black tree cracked up the middle. The baobab split into two flowering halves, revealing the pulpy interior of the ancient trunk.
Before the first leaves from the deciduous tree could begin raining on the square, the twin sections of the bisected spear sank deep into the newly cleaved trunk, one to each side. They quivered in the humid African air like awkward new branches. And, with thundering slowness, the two sections of tree crashed to the ground.
When Chiun turned back to Chief Batubizee, a light gurgle of water was trickling from the exposed interior of the giant tree. Emaciated children stumbled to the water.
His face stone, the Master of Sinanju padded silently to the Luzu ruler. He looked up into the stunned face of Chief Batubizee.
"It is wise to question history, chief of the Luzu," Chiun intoned somberly. "For historians are men, and men do often lie. However, history's graveyards are heaped with dead-king and peasant alike-who have questioned the abilities of the Masters of Sinanju."
He let the words hang between them for a moment before turning on his heel. Without looking back, he padded slowly away. When the wizened figure had disappeared behind a tight knot of miserable huts, Chief Batubizee finally exhaled. He hadn't been aware that he was holding his breath.
"I attempted to warn you," Bubu whispered. None of the others present would dare speak thusly to their chief. Not that they'd even thought to speak. All eyes were locked in awe on the last place they had seen the ancient Korean with the deadly flashing hands.
The display had been impressive. Batubizee hoped the old one's skills were as impressive with real men.
Bad luck had forewarned the government in Bachsburg of his intentions. In spite of the Master of Sinanju's powers, they would respond.
The Luzu leader said not another word. Bubu in tow, he ducked back inside his large hovel.
CHIEF BATUBIZEE'S SURMISE ultimately proved correct, although the swiftness of the incursion would surprise even him. Twenty minutes after he entered his hut, a new cloud of dust appeared on the distant darkening horizon. A small band of East African government killers led by Remo Williams had entered the homeland of the Luzu.
Chapter 16
In the front seat of the Chevy Blazer, Remo saw with faraway eyes the stone marker that noted their passing into Luzuland. Where they traveled, grass and other low scrub filled the vast plain that had once been plowed farmland. Here, a sickly tree sprouted from the earth-there, a massive hive swarmed with fat, black insects. In the near distance, mountains kissed the sky.
The hired killers he was with chatted endlessly as they drove. Remo heard not a word.
The air-conditioning in the truck was on high, though for the other occupants it remained hot. For Remo, heat had become something alien. The chill he'd felt the second time he'd seen the mysterious vanishing child had now become a penetrating cold that seeped into his bones. That he was dealing with something supernatural was no longer a question.
When the little Korean boy with the sad face had appeared this time, he was standing at the elbow of L. Vas Deferens in the presidential palace of East Africa. Th
e defense minister obviously didn't see the boy, for he had no reaction whatsoever to the apparition. He continued to give Remo instructions as if there weren't a mournful ghost standing in their midst.
Finally given the opportunity to speak to the child, Remo had no choice but to sit by and watch. The entire time he stood there, the deeply fearful expression the boy wore had not fled his flat features. His eyes never strayed from Remo's. When the meeting at last ended and Remo had his instructions, the little boy had turned and walked into the wall and was gone, leaving a chilled Remo with a creeping sense of apprehension that had yet to fully dissipate.
The speeding truck bounced along the road. Locked to the seat, Remo didn't seem to move at all.
Remo had accepted the assignment from Deferens with no complaint. Of course he didn't plan to kill the Luzu chief, but he needed to speak with the Master of Sinanju. And the defense minister's men knew their way around East Africa.
The three men he was now with had several times attempted to draw him into their conversation, but Remo had remained mute the entire trip from Bachsburg. His absent eyes were directed out the side window, staring at everything they passed yet seeing nothing.
"I still don't like that he gets to do Batubizee," the driver whispered to the others. His East African accent was harsh and guttural.
He was referring to Remo. It wasn't the first time they'd spoken about him as if he weren't there. After being silent so long, the men had begun to act as if Remo were surrounded by a soundproofed bubble.
"I don't care about that," one of the big men in the back seat dismissed. "One mooka's the same as the next to me. Just as long as we get bloody on some Luzus."
Remo had determined that mooka was some sort of East African racial slur. As far as the rest, the men were exceedingly anxious to meet resistance once they reached the main Luzu village. They were certainly prepared for it. There were enough weapons piled in the back of the truck to arm a small revolution.
"They say that Luzu warriors are amazing with weapons," one of the men in the back cautioned.
"Mookas with pointy sticks," the driver said mockingly. "I'm really worried. Let's see 'em outrun a bullet."
"Don't be too sure," the cautious man replied. "From what I heard about their attack on the palace today, I'm gonna be watching my back."
"Don't worry," the driver said with cheerful sarcasm. "We got our new expert on all things Luzu here."
He slapped a broad hand to Remo's shoulder. Or at least he tried to. The hand swept through empty air.
Remo seemed not to have shifted in his seat. He continued staring out the window.
The driver grunted a frown and turned his full attention back to the rutted trail.
They drove another ten minutes in silence. The orange of the setting sun had melted into streaks of expanding reds when Remo first caught the scent. It was difficult to discern it in the closed cab of the truck. The air conditioner worked to recycle the already fetid air. On top of that, the men he was with smelled like cheese soaked in Brut. But it was there.
Sitting up, Remo powered down the side window. A burst of warm, clean air filled the stale truck interior:
"What are you doing?" the driver snapped. "You're letting all the cold out."
Remo didn't reply. Alert for the first time on their long drive through Luzuland, he expanded his nostrils, sampling the hot dusty breeze.
It was there, carried on the eddies that swirled around the speeding Blazer. The warm scent of rice and hyacinth.
The grass grew high on either side of the long road. As they flew toward it, Remo saw the mouth of a footpath leading through the savannah. It was angled off the main road.
"Stop the truck," Remo commanded abruptly. The driver twisted to him, a scowl creasing his ruddy face. "We're nowhere near the village," he snapped. "Now roil up the damn window." Remo didn't listen to him. He reached over with the toe of one loafer and tapped the brake. With a painful squeal of locked tires, the truck slammed to a dust-raking stop.
The men in the rear were flung against the back of the front seat. Only the pressure of Remo's hand against the driver's chest kept the man from crashing through the windshield. Even as the men were catching their breath, Remo was slipping the truck into park and pocketing the keys.
"Don't go anywhere," he said as he popped the door. It opened onto the foot trail.
On the seat beside him, the driver had already come through the shock of their jarring stop. "Gimme those keys, Yank," he threatened, rage sparking his dark eyes.
Remo shook his head. "Sorry." He shrugged. And to keep the men from following him, he fused the driver's fingers to the dashboard.
While the other two men pulled at their friend-whose hands had suddenly and inexplicably become indistinguishable from the surrounding plastic of the dash-Remo hopped from the front seat and took the path into the brush.
On either side, the swaying grass rose to his shoulders. The gray of dusk raked up from the ground like witch's claws.
He only needed to walk until the truck could no longer be seen when he came upon the little boy. It looked as if he'd been waiting there for some time. A circle of grass around where he sat on his rump had been crushed flat. The boy had picked much of the dry grass from the area. He had woven it into the shapes of huts, which he'd arranged into a model village. Roads had been carved into the scratched-up dirt. The tiny men he had chipped from small stones stood among the huts.
The boy didn't even note Remo's approach, so engrossed was he in play. But when Remo stopped above him, the boy looked up from the town he had built. His brown eyes caught the reflected red of the dying sun.
"I like to fish," he announced abruptly. "Do you like to fish?"
The non sequitur was certainly not what Remo had expected as the boy's first words. Remo didn't know what else to say. The kid was some kind of ghost, but he had the big inquisitive eyes of any normal fresh-faced youth. He found himself answering truthfully almost before he realized it.
"Not really," Remo admitted. "I like eating them, don't like catching them."
"I did." The boy nodded. "There was a big sea where I lived. I used to like to fish there when I was little. But the fishing was poor, and there was little fish to catch and so the men of the village hired themselves out to warlords and emperors." Sadness brushed his bright brown eyes. Looking down, he moved one of his little stone men.
The rice-and-hyacinth smell that had led him there was the scent that clung to Chiun's house back in Sinanju. But for Remo, the words he had just spoken clinched it. Just now the boy had started off talking like any normal child of six, but had taken a turn and lapsed into a rote recital of early Sinanju history.
Sitting on a cushion of grass, the boy moved another stone man next to the first. Remo noted that none of the figures he had made were smiling. All wore the same flat expression. Neither happy nor sad.
As the boy played, Remo crouched beside him. "Who are you?" Remo asked.
At this, the boy's eyes grew infinitely sad once more. Remo instantly felt guilty for asking the question.
"I am the Master Who Never Was," the boy replied. "I have been before and if fate so chooses, I will be again."
Remo shook his head. "I don't understand."
The boy scrunched up his button nose. "You don't? Most grown-ups do. Are you dumb?"
For a moment, Remo seemed at a loss. As he searched for the right words, the boy abruptly pushed away his homemade toys. He scampered to his feet.
"Want to see what I can do?" he asked, his eyes wide with the innocence of youth. Before Remo could answer, the boy held out his two balled fists. "You do it, too," he instructed seriously.
Remo was surprised at the way the boy stood. It was the light stance used for Lodestones, a training exercise meant only for two full Masters of Sinanju. If the boy wasn't wrapped in some ghostly disguise that hid his real age, someone of his years should not have advanced so far in Sinanju training.
To mollify the
youth, Remo got to his knees before him and mirrored his posture.
"Now, the object is to not touch hands." His hooded eyes widened. "Do you understand?" He nodded slowly, in an open tone that wasn't meant to insult.
Before Remo could respond, the boy struck forward.
Remo matched the blow, hands drawn back with the child's knotted fists. He tracked the tiny hands out and allowed the boy to come at him again, once more mirroring the youth's darting movements.
"No, you have to come at me, too," the boy insisted with a frown.
Remo didn't feel comfortable striking out at a child, even if he was a ghost. But he didn't want to disappoint the kid. Keeping his movements slow and wide, he threw two broad strokes the boy's way.
He was surprised to find his actions matched perfectly. It was as if the boy's hands were locked in orbit around his own. Always near, never touching.
They played Lodestones for a few minutes, their movements growing progressively more complex. The boy seemed lost in the game. While certainly not up to the level of a full Master, Remo was amazed at his abilities. He was far more advanced than he should have been. A child of his age would have been a prodigy in Sinanju.
After a time, the boy finally grew bored.
"I learned that when I was very little," he announced, dropping his hands. "A long, long time ago."
"Who taught you?" Remo pressed.
The boy looked him deep in the eyes, tipping his head to one side. "Do you like toys?" he asked. "I wasn't allowed to have them. But sometimes I snuck away and made some with the other children. Like this." He picked from his small village one of the stone men he'd made.
When he held it out, Remo was impressed by the detail. The features on the toy man were Asian. "You can have it if you want," the boy said. When he pressed the figure into Remo's hand, Remo felt the same unnatural cold he'd experienced at the airport in New York and again on the sidewalk in Bachsburg. There was a total lack of warmth to the boy's body.
Once he'd closed Remo's fingers around the figure, he looked up. His eyes were bright. For the first time, Remo noticed flecks of hazel at the brown edges of his irises.
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