The Arms of Kali td-59

by Warren Murphy

  He had been wrong in trying to solve things alone. He needed help.

  He needed Chiun.

  Chapter Eleven

  It was dark in the hotel room. The only illumination came from the stars that shone brightly in the clear Rocky Mountain night.

  Remo lay on a mat on the floor in the middle of the room, his hands folded across his stomach as Chiun had placed them. The old Korean sat in a lotus position on the floor near Remo's head.

  "And now you will speak," Chiun said.

  "I don't know what's wrong with me, Little Father. I thought I could shake it, but I can't."

  "Speak of it," Chiun said gently.

  "I think it was a girl," Remo said.

  "Just a girl?" Chiun said.

  "No one special," Remo said. "Belonged to some crazy cult. I followed her when we took that just Folks flight into North Carolina and two of her friends tried to kill me."

  "Did you kill them?"

  "The friends. But not her," Remo said. He shivered from the memory, but then his body grew calm as Chiun, sensing Remo's pain even in the darkness, reached out a hand and touched his shoulder.

  "I couldn't kill her. I wanted to. But she wanted to die. She wanted me to kill her. And she was chanting, they were all chanting, and it made me crazy and I had to get out of there. That's when I went to the mountains to think."

  Chiun was silent.

  "Anyway, I saw her again tonight and I thought I could kill her this time. She had something to do with the deaths on the planes, and I thought I could do my job and kill her. But I couldn't. It was her smell."

  "What kind of smell?" Chiun said.

  "It was a smell ... but not really a smell," Remo said into the darkness of the room. "More like a feeling."

  "A feeling of what?"

  Remo tried to find the words but could not. He just shook his head. "I don't know, Little Father. Something big. Frightening. More frightening than death. A terrible thing . . . God, I am going crazy." He rubbed his hands together nervously, but Chiun took them in his own hands and replaced them over Remo's solar plexus.

  "You said they chanted," Chiun prompted. "What kind of chanting?" he asked softly.

  "What? Oh. Crazy stuff. I don't know. 'Long live death. Long live pain. She loves it.' I tell you, they love death, even their own. And it was that way tonight too. She told me I would have to follow her, and I knew, Chiun, I knew that even if I had killed her, she would have been saying, 'Kill me, kill me, kill me, because it is right.' I couldn't kill her; I let her go."

  "Why must you follow her?" Chiun asked.

  "Because I'm supposed to be somebody's lover. Somebody wants me."

  "Who is this person who wants you?" Chiun asked.

  "A name. A funny name. I think it's a woman's name," Remo said. "The name was . . ." He paused, trying to remember.

  "Kali?" Chiun asked. His voice was hardly more than a breath in the blackened room.

  "That's it. Kali. How did you know?"

  Remo heard Chiun sigh, and then the old Korean's voice was brisk again.

  "Remo, I must arrange to meet Emperor Smith at once."

  "What for?" Remo asked. "What's he got to do with it?"

  "He must help me prepare for my journey," Chiun said.

  Remo looked at him, puzzled. Even in the darkness of the room, his eyes were able to gather enough light to see clearly. The look on Chiun's face was one of pained resignation.

  "I must go to Sinanju," Chiun said.

  "What for? Why now?"

  "To save your life," Chiun said. "If it is not already too late."

  Chapter Twelve

  Harold W. Smith walked briskly into the Denver motel room.

  "What is it? What was so important that you couldn't tell me over the telephone?"

  "Don't look at me," Remo said. He was leafing through a magazine and did not bother to look up from its pages.

  Chiun sat in a corner of the room on a straw mat. As Smith turned to him, the old man raised his head slowly. His face looked older than Smith had ever seen it before.

  "Leave us, Remo," Chiun said softly.

  Remo slapped the magazine down into his lap. "Come on, Chiun. Isn't this a little much? Even for you?"

  "I said, leave us," the old man snapped. His face reddening, Remo threw the magazine onto the floor and strode out the door, slamming it behind him.

  "Is something wrong?" Smith asked Chiun.

  "Not yet," the old man said impassively.

  "Oh," Smith said. Chiun did not speak, and Smith felt uncomfortable in the silence. "Er, is there something I can do for you, Chiun?" He looked at his watch.

  "My needs are small, Emperor," Chiun said, and Smith thought he recognized the opening of a new salary negotiation. Every time Chiun said that he needed nothing, it turned out that only more gold would save him from an eternity of disgrace in the eyes of his ancestors.

  Smith felt an unaccustomed small surge of anger. The pressure was mounting on CURE from the White House to end the airline killings. International Mid-America Airlines had just about gone belly-up, and who knew how many airlines would follow. The news media were putting people in an afraid-to-travel panic. Civilization, which in the long run meant the free flow of goods and ideas, was in danger. And Chiun was going to try to beat him out of more money.

  "You remember, Master, you said the matter with Remo would be straightened out." He watched Chiun's face, but it revealed nothing. "Yet I come here, and instead of working, he is reading a magazine. Remember your promise? For four extra gold bars, if you remember. It was our last conversation, Chiun. Do you remember?"

  He had tried to keep the irritation out of his voice, but he had not been too successful.

  "It was not fair," Chiun whispered softly.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "It was not fair," Chiun repeated.

  "It most certainly was," Smith snapped, making no attempt now to conceal his annoyance. "You agreed that for a nine-weight payment to Sinanju, you would get Remo to work again. If he has refused-"

  "It was not you who were unfair," Chiun said. "Not you, O gracious Emperor. It was I." He lowered his eyes in shame.

  "I see. You mean Remo refuses to work, even with the additional tribute."

  "He does not refuse to work. He has been unable to work."

  "Why?" Smith asked. "Is he ill?"

  "He is afraid."

  Smith felt himself flushing with anger. Afraid. Smith, too, had been afraid many times during his life. Many times he had faced death. He had never been blessed with Remo's natural skills or his training, but all the same, when the crunch came, Harold Smith had overcome his fear and gone on about his work. Fear was no excuse. In the rocky New Hampshire soil where Smith had grown up, there was an old saying that he had somehow absorbed into his rock-hard soul: "Do it afraid if you have to, but just do it."

  "He'll just have to get over being afraid," Smith told Chiun tersely.

  "I have said it incorrectly, Emperor. It is not the fear that will stop Remo. He will find the source of the airplane killings, because he will not be able to stop himself. And he will fight whoever is at that source."

  "Then what's the problem?"

  Chiun sighed. "Remo will not survive the fight."

  Smith took off his hat and turned the brim around in his hands. "How can you know that?"

  "I know. I can explain no more. You are not of Sinanju and you would not believe." He lapsed back into silence as Smith twirled the brim of his hat.

  "Are you saying this is the end?" Smith said at last. "The end of Remo? The end of our working together?"

  "Perhaps," Chiun said.

  "I'm not going to pretend I understand anything you are saying," Smith said. "And I don't know what I could do about it even if I did."

  He looked toward the door, and Chiun said, "Do not go, Emperor. I have thought of a way to protect him." Smith's lips tightened. The usual, he thought. Just done with a little more dramatic flair this time.
<
br />   "More tribute, I suppose," he said sarcastically. "Chiun, I'm a busy man. There was absolutely no reason to call me away from my office for this. If what you wanted was more gold, you could have told me over the telephone. I want you to know I don't appreciate this. Not one bit." He turned to leave.

  "I do not want gold," Chiun said.

  Smith's hand was on the doorknob. It froze there. "Then what?"

  "I must go to Sinanju immediately," Chiun said.

  "Out of the question. Things like that take time to set up."

  "It is the only way," Chiun said.

  "No."

  "There is something in my village that can save Remo," Chiun said.

  "And you just happen to get a free vacation at the same time," Smith said. "You've cried wolf once too often, Chiun." Smith opened the door.

  "Hold!" Chiun's voice was like electricity cracking. He rose to his feet in one smooth movement that seemed like a puff of colored smoke rising, walked over, and pushed the door shut. "I rescind my request," he said.

  "Pardon?"

  "For the additional tribute. The extra four-weight of gold was not Remo's wish, in truth. It was my own for the welfare of my village. I hereby offer it back to you in exchange for my passage to Sinanju and back. Immediately."

  Smith studied the old man's face. It was the first time he had ever heard Chiun give up an opportunity to amass gold. "This is serious, isn't it? It means that much to you?"

  "Yes, Emperor."

  "You honestly think it will help Remo?"

  "I do not know. I can only try," Chiun said.

  "Maybe if you'd tell me . . ."

  "It is no dishonor to you, Emperor, that you would not understand. There are things in this world that none understand but me. This is because I am reigning Master of Sinanju and the history of scores of centuries rests with me. I must go. Now."

  The two men looked into each other's eyes for a long time. Smith realized how small and old and frail Chiun was. Finally the American nodded. "Done. You'll go back to Folcroft with me. I'll arrange for jets and a submarine."

  "Thank you, Emperor. Before I leave, I must see Remo."

  "I'll send him in," Smith said.

  "I'm glad you two had such a nice chat," Remo said as he plopped down on a chair.

  "Our conversation had nothing to do with you. Nothing really," Chiun said.

  "Oh, bulldookey. You think I was born yesterday? You think I don't know about your little arrangement to have me bumped off in case something goes wrong? Like if I can't work anymore?"

  "That was an old agreement that I made with Emperor Smith. Long before I knew who you were and what you would become," Chiun said. "This did not concern that."

  Remo stared at Chiun for a moment, then buried his head in his hands. "Maybe it should have," he said. "I'm ... I'm just ... nothing left. It's getting stronger, Chiun. The smell, the feeling. It's with me all the time now, and I can't shake it."

  "And you will not be able to shake it, as you say," Chiun said.

  "I'm losing my mind. That's all there is to it. Maybe you ought to go back to that old agreement and get it over with and send me to never-never land. Sometime when I'm not looking. No. Do it when I'm looking. I want to make sure you keep your elbow straight."

  He smiled at the private joke between them. For ten years he had learned at Chiun's feet and absorbed all that the Master had given him of the disciplines of Sinanju. But praise was not Chiun's way to teach, and when Remo did something perfectly, without flaw, Chiun's final defense against having to praise him was to complain that Remo's elbow was bent and no one with a bent elbow had ever amounted to anything.

  But Chiun was not smiling. "I am not going to remove you, no matter what my contract says with the Emperor," he said.

  Remo was silent, and Chiun went on. "Instead, I will tell you a story."

  Remo's face fell. "Maybe it'd be better if you just killed me."

  "Silence, you pale piece of pig's ear. I have little time. This story concerns Master Lu the Disgraced."

  "You gave me all that one before. He cleared the muggers off the roads of Rome and then went to work in a circus. Lu the Disgraced. Tsk, tsk."

  "And I told you there was more to his story," Chiun said. "And now the rest. And don't you go telling anybody this, because the last years of Lu's life are a story so secret that knowledge of them is restricted always to the reigning Master. I am violating tradition by telling you."

  "He must have done something really bad," Remo said. "What was it? It must have had something to do with money. The worst thing that all those old Masters ever did was forget to get paid: Master Lu the Unpaid. No wonder he was disgraced."

  Chiun ignored him. He closed his eyes and spoke in Korean, his singsong voice taking on the cadences of ancient poetry as he unfolded the rest of the story of the disgraced Master Lu, who, after his shame in the arenas of Rome, fled that decadent city to wander through the uncharted regions of Asia.

  The Master's wanderings, as Chiun related the story, gave Lu no peace in his heart until one day, after all the moons of the year had passed and come and passed again, he ventured into a small village high in the mountains of central Ceylon. The village was an isolated place, far smaller than Sinanju, and the people in it showed the effects of a population closed to outsiders. They were a beautiful people, unlike any the Master had ever seen. Neither white, nor black, nor red, nor yellow, the people of Bathasgata, as the village was known, resembled all the races of the world and yet none.

  No one in Bathasgata knew the origins of the humans who lived there, but they were grateful for their land and their village and the companionship of one another.

  As a token of their gratitude, the people created a statue out of the clay of their village. They fashioned the statue in the form of a woman more beautiful than any ever made of living flesh and worshiped her by the name of Kali.

  But something happened after the statue was completed. The once peaceful villagers began to abandon their fields and flocks to devote all their time to the adoration of Kali. They claimed that although their love pleased the goddess, Kali wanted more than garlands of flowers and prayers written on paper, folded into the likenesses of animals.

  She wanted blood. With blood, the devotees claimed, Kali would love them back. But none in the village was willing to sacrifice himself or a loved one to the statue.

  It was then that Lu appeared in Bathasgata.

  "It is a sign," the worshipers of Kali shouted. "The stranger has come just in time to serve as Kali's sacrifice."

  And so the four strongest men of the village fell upon the traveler and sought to kill him. But Lu was Master of Sinanju, and greatest assassin on all the earth, and soon after their assault on him, Lu's attackers lay dead upon the ground.

  "They seem only to be asleep," one of the village women said. "There is no blood."

  Then the oldest of the village spoke. He said that the arrival of Lu the Master was indeed a sign from the goddess Kali. But the stranger was not to be the sacrifice, rather the instrument of sacrifice. Then the Old One instructed the others to take the bodies of the four dead men to Kali to see if their unshed blood, encased in death, pleased her.

  They placed the four bodies at the base of the statue at the time of the setting of the sun, prayed, then returned to their homes.

  With the break of the new day, they saw the result of their sacrifices. The statue had grown a new arm. "A miracle," the villagers exclaimed.

  "A sign from Kali."

  "Death pleases Her."

  "She loves it."

  "Kill for Kali."

  "Kill for Kali."

  "Kill."

  "Kill."

  "Kill."

  With respect, they brought Lu forward to face the statue, and the Old One again spoke to the goddess. "Most revered Kali," he said, "this traveler has killed these men in Your service. He has shed no blood so that they might be delivered whole into Your embrace."

  The growin
g of the new arm was the First Miracle of Kali, and now the Second Miracle of Kali happened. Although the statue was as hard as stone, Her eyes looked directly into those of the man standing before Her and the corners of Her lips curved up into a smile.

  Astonished, the villagers knelt in obeisance to the goddess and to Lu, the man She had taken to Her heart, and the Third Miracle of Kali occurred.

  A strange smell emanated from the statue. It permeated the small village square. Master Lu thrust his hand into his kimono and pulled forth a yellow cloth with which he tried to seal off his face from the aroma, but it was too powerful and finally he dropped to his knees and kissed the statue's feet and looked up at its face with the eyes of love.

  "She has taken him for Her own," the old one said. "Kali has consummated the union of love."

  Lu was frightened of the strange power which the stone statue had over him. At first, he said nothing to dissuade the villagers of Bathasgata from believing that he was of special importance to their homemade goddess, because he feared reprisal for killing four of their people. Then, during the second month of his stay, the Fourth Miracle of Kali occurred and caused him to fear for more than his life.

  The remains of the first four sacrifices had long since rotted and been buried when the goddess again hungered for the taste of blood.

  "She wants more," the Old One said, but Lu refused to kill senselessly for the appeasement of a piece of clay. "She will make you kill again for Her," the Old One prophesied.

  "No one can force the hand of a Master of Sinanju," Lu said, and walked to the center of the village to stand before the statue of Kali. "You have no power over me," he told the stone goddess with all the conviction of his soul.

  But it was not enough. Once again, the statue emitted the woman-scent of the goddess and the aroma insinuated itself into Lu's senses and he fell into a fierce and uncontrollable lust.

  "He is ready to kill again," the Old One said.

  The villagers talked excitedly. "Whom will he choose?"

  "He will not choose," said the Old One. "Kali will choose."

  "How?"

  "We will know. We will have a sign," the Old One said.