Remo was disgusted. He had never understood why Chiun continued to support his lazy, ungrateful fellow villagers. They did nothing but eat and breed.
And complain. If they were Americans, they would all have been on welfare.
Remo laughed to himself to think that Sinanju had pioneered the concept of welfare. But so it seemed to him. He couldn't imagine living in Sinanju permanently, or taking one of the flat-faced, broad-hipped Sinanju women for a wife.
He wondered if he had a choice anymore.
"Remo, to me," Chiun called suddenly. Breakfast was over.
Remo walked through the squatting villagers. No one bothered to move aside for him.
"Remo, my son," Chiun whispered in English. "Help an old man to stand. But do not be obvious about it."
"Yes, Little Father," Remo said respectfully. He took Chiun by the arm and carefully helped him to his feet, making it look like Remo simply moved the throne aside in a gesture of courtesy. Chiun seemed smaller, slower, and Remo fought back a wave of emotion.
"Stand by my side now," Chum said.
Remo stood. A sea of Korean faces looked up at him. They were as blank and expressionless as apple dumplings.
The Master of Sinanju shook his arms free of his flowing black sleeves, and raised them to draw attention to himself.
"My children," he intoned, "great is my joy, for I have at last come home. But deep is my sorrow, for my days as your Master are drawing to a close."
And at that a low hush fell upon the crowd. Remo saw tears appear on some faces. He wondered if they were for Chiun or because their meal ticket was fading before their eyes.
"Despair not, my children," Chiun continued, his voice lifting. "For I have not returned empty-handed. I have brought gold. I have increased our treasure manyfold. Lo, richer than ever is the House of Sinanju-thanks to Chiun."
And a cheer came up from the crowd. Some villagers, dressed in ornamental costumes, danced in joy. There, Remo saw a leaping heron, here a furry bear, representing Tangun, progenitor of the Korean race. Out from the rocks a man dressed as a dragon came running clumsily. He, too, joined in the dance, although his movements were awkward and less fluid than those of the others.
"Know that the Master of Sinanju suffered greatly in the land of the round-eyed whites," proclaimed Chiun, and Remo thought his voice, as he waxed flowery, also grew more vital. "In America, I served not the emperor, for America has no emperor, no king, not even a lowly prince."
The villagers gasped. It was an unbelievable thing. "These Americans have, instead of a king or proper ruler, a thing called a president, who is not of royal blood. No, this ruler is chosen by lottery, as is his co-ruler, a thing called a Vice-President, who is well-named for he rules over a land of vice and license. Truly, this land has fallen into decline since the days when it was a colony of the good King George."
"You're laying it on too thick, Chiun," cautioned Remo.
"But I did not serve this President of America," continued Chiun. "No. I served a pretender, a physician known as Dr. Harold Smith, who claimed to be one of the most powerful men in America. Yet when the Master of Sinanju offered to dispose of the President of America and seat the pretender Smith on the throne of America, Smith would have none of it. Instead, this lunatic preferred to run an asylum for the mad, called by the meaningless name of Folcroft, while sending the Master of Sinanju hither and yon slaying the enemies of America."
"Is it true so, O Master?" asked a villager.
Chiun nodded solemnly. "It is truly so. Ask my adopted son, Remo, who is an American."
No one spoke up. It was as if Remo weren't there. In Korean, Remo tried to explain.
"In America, we elect a new President every four years. It is our way. We are a nation of laws. But some evil people in America have bent the laws of my country to their own ends. Something had to be done. So a President years ago created a thing called CURE and put Dr. Smith in charge. It was Smith's job to fight the bad elements in America, and the enemies of my country throughout the world. He didn't want to rule America, just to protect it."
The women giggled.
"Tell about the Constitution, Remo," Chiun said in English. "They will find that amusing."
"It's not funny," Remo growled. But he continued speaking to the crowd. "In America, each man's rights are protected by a shield. It is called ..." Remo turned to Chiun, and in English, asked, "How do you say 'Constitution' in Korean, Little Father?"
"Drivel," said Chiun placidly.
"It is called the Protector of Rights," said Remo, improvising in Korean.
Here the villagers leaned forward, for they understood shields.
"This shield was a document, on which all the rights of men were written. It says that all men are created equal and-"
Remo's words were drowned by gales of laughter. "All men are created equal," the villagers chortled. "Not all Koreans are equal, but even the lowest are more equal than pale Americans."
"How can a paper shield protect a man? Does it not wear out being passed from man to man?" the caretaker, Pullyang, demanded.
"Because Americans believe in this shield," Remo answered.
"Americans must believe all shields are equal too," Pullyang said smugly. And the villagers howled. Chiun silenced his people with his palms held out.
"That's better," Remo growled. "Years ago, a President of the United States saw that evil men were abusing the Constitution to make mischief. But the President could not fight these men without offending the Constitution."
"Why did he not tear it up?" asked a young boy.
"The Constitution is sacred to Americans," Remo shot back. "The same way the legends of Sinanju are sacred to all of you."
And that the villagers understood. They fell silent again.
"So this President created a secret organization called CURE to work around the Constitution, so it would not perish."
"He spat on the shield of his country?" asked someone.
"No, he didn't spit on it," Remo barked. "He worked around it."
"He pretended it did not exist?"
"No, he violated its laws so that he would not break faith with the American people."
"Why not make his own Constitution? Was he not the ruler?"
"He did not have the power. He was the protector of the Constitution, like ... like a shepherd."
"America must be a land of sheep, then," scoffed Pullyang. "Their rulers are powerless and their people unthinking."
"No, that's not it!" Remo was getting angry. Why didn't these people try to understand?
Chiun touched Remo's shoulder. "I will finish your explanation," he said. "But it was a good try."
Remo frowned, stepping aside.
"Now, it is not the way of America to recognize an assassin," Chiun intoned. "They do not believe in assassins, but they needed one. So a functionary from America was sent to me. He would not hire an assassin, he said stubbornly. But he wished the services of Sinanju in training an assassin of their own. A Master of Sinanju would not do, this functionary, who was named MacCleary, insisted. This assassin must be white, because he would work in secret. He must be able to walk among whites unseen.
"And I said to this MacCleary that a Master of Sinanju is of more value standing beside a throne. When your enemies know you have employed the House of Sinanju, they will shrink from wickedness. Secrecy is for thieves. But this MacCleary would not, or could not, understand. How could he? He was white and from a land that had never employed a Master of Sinanju, for America was only two hundred years old. The white MacCleary insisted upon secrecy, and I told him that the color of an assassin is not what guarantees secrecy, but his skill. Still this MacCleary insisted. He said that the assassin they wished me to train would be charged with finding his own victims."
And the villagers of Sinanju laughed at the ridiculous logic of the Americans.
"And I told him it was the duty of the emperor to select the victim, the assassin's to execute him. It is an
old understanding. The king does not kill and the assassin does not rule.
"Times were hard then. There had been no work. Some of you remember those days. There was talk of sending the babies home to the sea. So I took, to my great shame, this odious task. I agreed to train a white assassin for America-first extracting an agreement that America's assassin would not take work away from any future Master."
The villagers nodded their approval.
"Instead of a babe, they presented a man for me to train in Sinanju," Chiun said mockingly. Laughter.
"And instead of a Korean, they gave me a white." More laughter.
"But lo," said Chiun, his voice growing serious, "this white, although an eater of meat, was sound of limb. This white, although big of nose and clumsy of gait, was good of heart. And I taught him the first steps toward correctness. Grateful was this white. And he said to the Master, "I am but a lowly white, but if you will give me more Sinanju, I will follow you to the ends of the earth like a puppy dog, and I will sing your praises, O awesome magnificence."
"Not bloody likely," Remo grumbled.
Chiun gently nudged Remo in the ribs with an elbow.
"And I said to this white, this sub-Korean, I said, 'I will do so because I have signed a contract, and contracts are sacred to Sinanju. Now the contract I signed was wondrous. No Master of the history of Sinanju had ever signed such a wondrous contract. This contract stipulated that I train this white in Sinanju, which I did, and it further stipulated that if this white's service was unsatisfactory, if he failed his white leaders, or if he shamed the House of Sinanju with incorrect posture or bad breathing or any similar great offense, the Master of Sinanju had the duty and obligation to dispose of this white like so much duck droppings."
Everyone looked at Remo.
"What else would you do with a recalcitrant white?" Chiun said, and beamed as a signal to the villagers to laugh. And they did.
Remo fumed.
Chiun grew serious again.
"But as the months passed while I trained this white, I discovered a remarkable thing." Chiun paused for maximum dramatic effect. "This white accepted Sinanju. Not merely in his flabby muscles or in his pale skin or in his dull mind, but in his heart. And it was then I knew that, while his skin was inferior, and his habits poor, his heart was Korean."
A few villagers made a show of spitting on the ground when they heard that.
"His heart was Korean," Chiun repeated. "A miracle! After all these years without an heir for the Master of Sinanju, I dared to hope that I had found a worthy successor. I trained him and trained him, lo these many years, breeding in Sinanju, and erasing the filthy white habits of the land of his birth, until the proper hour. That hour has now come. I present him to you, my adopted son, Remo."
The faces of the villagers of Sinanju regarded Remo with stony silence. Remo fidgeted.
"Tell them," Chiun hissed.
"Tell them what?"
"Of our decision. Quickly, while the crowd is with me."
Remo stepped forward.
"I am proud to be Sinanju," Remo said simply.
Stone silence.
"I am grateful for everything Chiun has given me."
Nothing.
"I love him."
The faces of some of the women softened, but those of the men grew harder.
Remo hesitated.
Chiun grabbed at his heart. "I hear nothing," he said under his breath. "It must be that I am failing."
"And I want you to know that I am prepared to assume the responsibilities as the next Master of Sinanju," Remo said suddenly.
The villagers cheered wildly. They stamped their feet. They danced. Those in costumes cavorted around Remo like he was the maypole. The dragon dancer kept getting in Remo's face.
"This is crap," Remo said angrily. "They hated me until I promised to support them."
"They were merely waiting for you to prove your Koreanness," Chiun said. "And now you have. I am proud."
"Hogwash," said Remo, and stormed off.
Chiun called but Remo did not respond. He kept walking, and the look in his eyes caused the crowd to part. All except the dragon dancer, who followed him at a careful distance, not really dancing, but certainly not walking normally.
Chiun slipped to the ground, taking again to his throne.
"What is this?" asked the caretaker, Pullyang.
"It is nothing," said Chiun. "He has looked forward to this great moment all his life. He is merely overcome with emotion." But Chiun's eyes were pained. "Perhaps we will postpone the great investment ceremony a few days," he said doubtfully.
Chapter 10
Remo struck out to the north, not noticing where he was going. He just wanted to get away.
For the last few months Remo had been haunted by the need to find out who his parents were, and why they had abandoned him as a baby. It meant, really, discovering who he actually was. It had all seemed so important. But now that Chiun was dying and Remo faced the ultimate test of where his loyalties lay-with America or with Sinanju-it wasn't relevant any more.
What would happen, Remo wondered, when Smith didn't hear from him? Would he assume Remo was hurt, or killed? Would he send the U.S. Marines in to find out? Or would Smith even care, now that CURE operations were winding down?
But CURE operations never wound down. Remo knew Smith had been deceiving himself. This was just a lull. Soon, some crisis would rear its ugly head, and it would be back to business as usual. When the call came to return to America, what would he do? Remo wondered.
Remo looked back from a low hill. Sinanju lay below, with its tarpaper and wood shacks, pagoda roofed houses, wooden sidewalks, and the magnificent treasure house. It looked like an Oriental's version of a Wild West town, and nothing like home. Not Remo's. Not Chiun's. Not anyone's.
Remo felt suddenly very, very tired. He had walked off to be alone with his thoughts and his frustrations, but now all he wanted to do was find some nice warm place-indoors-where he could nap.
Remo found such a place almost immediately.
It was a modest house by itself in a little vale, far from any other houses. By American standards, it was just down the road from Sinanju proper, but by the tightly knit standards of Chiun's village, the house was an outpost.
There were no signs of habitation as Remo approached. No bowl of radishes drying outside, no strings of noodles hanging in the sun. Maybe the occupant had died. Remo couldn't remember having seen the house in any of his previous visits to Sinanju. He decided that if no one wanted it, he would take it.
Remo pushed the door in. It was unfastened. Only a little light entered with Remo. It was very dark inside. That was good. He would sleep better in the darkness.
Remo's foot touched a floor mat. He lay down on it, starting to relax almost as soon as his spine felt the hardness of the floor under it.
"Maybe I'll wake up back home," Remo said wishfully.
"Who is it?" a small voice asked in the darkness. The voice spoke in Korean.
Remo shot to his feet. His eyes dilated automatically. Someone else was in the house, sitting in the darkness of one corner, sitting without light or sound. "Hello?" Remo asked, embarrassed.
"I do not recognize your voice," the voice said. "Is there something that you want?"
The voice was light, lilting-a woman's voice.
"I thought no one lived here," Remo said. "I'm sorry."
"Do not be," the voice said sadly. "No one visits me."
"Why do you sit in the dark?"
"I am Mah-Li," the voice said. "By Sinanju law, I must abide in the darkness, so that no one will be offended by my ugliness."
"Oh," said Remo. He could see her, a shadowy figure in a yellow high-waisted dress. Her traditional Korean bodice was white and airy. One hand covered her face protectively while the other reached into a pocket and extracted something filmy. When she took both hands from her face, she was wearing a heavy gauze veil behind which liquid eyes glinted. He felt sorry for
the girl. She must be deformed.
"I am sorry to disturb you, Mah-Li," Remo said in a small voice. "I was looking for a place to rest." He started for the door.
"No," Mah-Li called, reaching out. "Do not go just yet. I hear celebration in the village. Tell me, what transpires?"
"The Master of Sinanju has come home."
"This is welcome news. Too long has he dwelt in far places."
"But he is dying," said Remo.
"Even the mightiest tide ebbs," Mah-Li said softly. "But the flowing back to the sea is a sad thing nonetheless." Remo could tell she was deeply affected. It was the first hint of true feelings anyone in Sinanju had expressed about Chiun.
"You are sorry?" Remo asked.
"The Master of Sinanju is a candle that has illuminated the world since before the days of the great warrior king Onjo, who built the first castle in Korea," Man-Li said thoughtfully. "It is a shame that he dies without heir. It will break his heart."
"I am his heir," said Remo.
"You? But your voice is strange. You are not of Sinanju."
"Not of the village," said Remo. "But I am Sinanju. Chiun has made me Sinanju."
"It is good," said Mah-Li. "The traditions must be kept. Some of them, anyway." And she touched her veil self-consciously.
"You live alone?" Remo asked.
"My parents died before I had memory. I have no one. The men will not have me because of my ugliness. They called me Mah-Li, the beast."
"You have a lovely voice," Remo said, not sure what else to say. By American standards, the ordinary women of the village were unhandsome. He wondered how much worse Mah-Li was. Maybe she was like the Elephant Man, all covered with knobs and tumors.
"Thank you," Mah-Li said simply. "It is good to talk to someone who has a kind heart."
Remo grunted. "I know what you mean. Chiun's people aren't high on compassion."
"They are what they are."
"I'm an orphan too," Remo suddenly blurted out. He wasn't sure why he said it. It just popped out of his mouth.
"It is a terrible thing, to be alone."
Remo nodded. A silence passed in the room. Remo felt like a teenager at his first high-school dance, uncertain of what to say or do next.
The Eleventh Hour td-70 Page 10
