"And so must you, whether you feel you deserve it or not," the old man added pointedly.
Remo leaned against a tree. He remained there, his eyes focused inward, until the rice was cooked. Finally he walked over and knelt beside the old man. "I want you to do me a favor," he said, so quietly that he was almost inaudible.
"So the white man speaks at last. Of course, his first words are to demand some service of me. But I am prepared. Go ahead."
"I want you to go back to Smitty and tell him I'm through."
The expression on Chiun's face did not change. "Because you failed?"
Remo hung his head. "Yeah." A puff of mirthless laughter came from his lips. "Just a little. Sam only got his arm blown off because of me."
Chiun helped himself to the rice. "Well," he said, "for once I agree with you. You have failed miserably."
Remo expected him to say more, but when the old man only went on with his meal in silence, Remo stood up. "That's that, then. I guess I'll leave you here."
Chiun nodded. "Yes, yes. But before you go, Remo, let me ask you one question. Have you never failed before?"
"Not like this."
"Ah." He chewed another mouthful of rice.
After what seemed like an eternity, Remo said, "What does that mean? 'Ah'?"
"Nothing. Only that a great lesson has been shown to you. But evidently you have chosen not to learn from it."
"What are you talking about?" Remo shouted. The veins in his neck stood out. "I'm walking away from everything that means anything to me."
"Why?"
"Because I don't deserve it, damn it!"
"Ah," Chiun repeated. "As I thought."
Remo took a deep breath. "I suppose you knew I was going to quit."
"Of course."
"Oh, excuse me," Remo said nastily. "I underestimated your powers as a prophet."
"Not as a prophet. As a historian."
"This never happened before."
"Not to you," Chiun said. "But to another. Shall I tell you the story, or are you eager to dart aimlessly into the darkness?"
Remo shot him a disgusted look, then sat down. "This better not be about how the Masters of Sinanju had to hire themselves out as assassins to feed their starving villagers."
"It is," Chiun said cheerfully.
Remo rolled his eyes. But it would be the last time, he thought. Even if it was a story he'd heard Chiun tell countless times before, he wanted to hear it again. "Okay," he said.
"I have never before told you the full story of the Great Wang, first real Master of Sinanju." Chiun began. "You know only that he was the one to save his village by offering his services as an assassin to foreign monarchs. But you do not know how Wang came upon the idea. You see, it was the Master himself who brought on the misfortune that destroyed his village and made his people starve."
"Wang? I thought he was the Dudley Do-Right of the East."
"Then listen, my son." The old man settled his robe around him. Lit by moonlight, his parchmentlike skin seemed to glow as he told the ancient legend.
"Wang did not become Master until well into his fifth decade." Chiun said. "But he was a hero among his people from the time he was a young man. As a youth, he used the discipline of Sinanju, which he himself developed, to protect the village from the invading soldiers of a greedy prince. The villagers loved him for his deeds of valor. They draped his house with garlands and showered honors upon him. He was known to them all as Wang the Invincible.
"A yearly festival was set up in his honor. During the proceedings, all the young men of the village would pit their strength and cunning against the mighty Wang. They could not defeat him, of course, because even in those days the the talents of the House of Sinanju were incomparable. But Wang pretended to struggle with the competitors, and each one came away with a feeling of accomplishment.
"The villagers who did not compete sold trinkets and made music and danced and feasted, and the celebration of Wang the Invincible was a day of gaiety and cheer for all.
"But during one festival— the last— a small child wandered away from the village toward the seashore. It was a windy day, and the sea was turbulent, tossing many beautiful shells onto the seaweed-strewn rocks of the coast. The child saw the shells and, since he was alone, climbed down the rocks to play with them. But the rocks were slippery, and the ocean wild. The child was drowned.
"When Wang heard of the tragedy, he visited the child's grieving parents. They had dressed the drowned boy in his best clothes and laid him out before burial. It was there that Wang noticed that the boy's fingers had been scraped nearly to the bone. He realized that the boy had not been drowned quickly, but had clung to life until his last breath on some cold piece of rock. And he knew also that the boy had called for help for all the terrible hours that he held onto the rock, but no one could hear him above the music and laughter of the festival. You see, no one was listening— not even Wang, whose duty it was to protect the people of his village."
"But— but it wasn't his fault," Remo said.
"No? For the pleasure of an afternoon, Wang had permitted a life to be sent into the Void unnecessarily. Was he not to blame?"
Remo was quiet for some moments. "What did he do?" he asked at last.
"What you have planned," Chiun said. "As penance for his negligence, he took himself to the caves of Sinanju, where he lived in solitude for thirty years without even the sound of another voice to comfort him."
Remo nodded. It was a stiff sentence, but he could see the justice of it.
"During that time, invading armies tore the village of Sinanju to pieces, until there were no crops, no trades— not even fish in the sea. The conquering prince knew that without Wang the villagers would offer no resistance, and so he took what he wanted from Sinanju and then left it to die. The villagers grew so poor that they had to send their infant children back to the sea because there was no food for them.
"Then, in his fifty-seventh year, Wang returned to Sinanju. Seeing the ruins of his village, he realized that the thirty years he had spent atoning for his sin had been wasted. For in those thirty years, the drowned boy had not returned to life, and Wang had not been present to fight for his village either.
"He went to the ocean in anguish, and asked of the God of the Sea, 'Why was it ordained thus? The sacrifice of three decades of my life was for nothing. It has brought only more failure and more shame to my heart.'
"The sea rumbled. The sky darkened. At last the voice of the God of the Sea boomed out like a thunderclap: 'Has it brought enough, then?' And at last Wang understood that sometimes the only way to learn is to fail.
"On that day did Wang go forth to distant lands, trading his skills in exchange for gold to feed the starving people of Sinanju. To accomplish this, he had to set aside his shame over the past for the sake of the future. For he realized that although he was not a perfect man, he would do his best and never look back. It was then and only then that Wang became Master. He was the first, and the greatest of us all. Do you not think, my son, that Wang's failure was as much a part of him as his successes?"
Remo nodded slowly. "Thank you, Little Father," he whispered.
"Have some rice. But don't eat it all."
?CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Early evening was Al Meecher's favorite time of day. Especially the half-hour between six and six-thirty. His dinner was over and the dishes were stacked and dried. That was when he poured himself a second cup of coffee from the pot on the stove and took it into the living room, where he could read the evening paper, sip his coffee, and relax. For a short time, he could forget about his failing business, his ex-wife and her shark lawyer, and the ever-increasing stack of bills on the hall table.
Meecher's wife had left him a year before, taking every cent in the savings and joint checking accounts. She'd also taken the family dog, a cocker spaniel named Bingo. It had only taken a few weeks for Meecher to realize that he missed the dog a hell of a lot more than he did his wife. The dog had been loyal, cheerful, and obedient— everything Ethel hadn't been.