Chiun was not ready to return to the United States. He spun about, his purple robes pressing against his spindly arms and legs in the persistent sea breeze. Even though the wind was coming off the water, still the nostrils of the Master of Sinanju picked up the scent of boiling rice from the cooking pots of his village. And mixed with that, the unpleasant stink of burning pork and beef.
As the village square came into view, Chiun saw the women bent over their pots. They scarcely looked up at him, who had returned to Sinanju after a long absence, bearing new treasure for the glory of the village. So much treasure this year that there was no room for it in the wooden house on the hill called the House of the Masters and Chiun had had the strong men of the village put it in the spare treasure house, which was of rude stone and decorated with sea shells.
Yet, despite this abundance of riches, the men who were sweeping the square clear of the day's dust paid him little heed.
The Master of Sinanju comforted himself with the thought that they were busy. It was no slight when his industrious villagers went about their tasks with such fervor that they did not pause to engage him in conversation or to thank him for the glory he brought to the village.
The Master of Sinanju looked around his village. Where other eyes might see mud huts or fishing shacks, he saw tradition. Where foreign eyes might see an outwardly poor village, he saw a center of culture that had stood on this spot for five thousand years, inhabited by a bloodline that had been unbroken for almost as long. It was rare when an outsider was allowed to marry into the village of Sinanju, rarer still when one of the village dwelt in the outside world for long periods of time as he had.
The clear eyes of the Master of Sinanju drank in the sight of his ancestral village with pride. Only by his labors, his sacrifice, did the people continue to eat, despite the poor fishing and the exhausted farm soil. Only by his upholding of ancient traditions did Sinanju live more secure than any village, nay, any city in North Korea. It was safer even than Pyongyang, the communist capital.
The Master of Sinanju's searching gaze alighted on a circle of children playing in the shadow of the Gong of Judgment. A happy smile wreathed his wrinkled countenance.
The children of the village. For as long as Chiun lived, none of them would ever be sent home to the sea-drowned in the bay for lack of food to nourish them. The adults might take that for granted, but the children would not.
Chiun glided toward the children, his eyes twinkling with wisdom to be shared.
"Ho, children of my village," cried the Master of Sinanju in the low, quaking voice he used to recite tales of the House of Sinanju, the most feared assassins in history. "Gather around me, for I have come to tell you stories of the barbarian West."
The children converged on him like pigeons after corn.
"More stories!" a butterball boy squealed.
"Come," Chiun said, shooing them away so he could settle onto a flat stone. The children sat, folded their legs, and placed their tiny hands on their knees. They looked up at him with wide innocent eyes. "Tonight," Chiun began, "while the sun is still to be seen and our bellies await the evening meal, I will tell you the story of how the white men sailed to the moon."
A little girl stuck out her tongue. "It is not true. How could a white man sail to the moon? It is not in the ocean, except at day, and then it is under the ocean."
"I have told you of the hollow birds that the whites use to go places in their faraway land," Chiun said, raising long-nailed finger.
"Yes!" the children of Sinanju chorused.
"This is a story like that. Let me begin. " Chiun deepened his storytelling voice further.
"Now, the days of which I speak were long ago," Chiun said. He touched a girl's button nose. "Before any of you gathered around me were born. In those days I dwelt in this village, and the times were lean. In those days the babies of Sinanju were those who, through my forbearance, were allowed to grow up to become your mothers and fathers, instead of being drowned, for in those days there was no work for the village and the money was almost gone."
"What about the treasure?" the little girl asked.
"The treasure is not for spending," Chiun retorted. "It is the heritage of the village."
"My mother says we would have fuller bellies if the treasure were spent and not hoarded."
"Who is your mother?" Chiun snapped, his cheeks blowing out in sudden fury.
"Poo. "
"Ah, I remember Poo," said the Master of Sinanju, gaining control of himself. He would see to that common scold, Poo, later. He went on with his story in a calmer voice.
"I have already told you about the day the white man with a hook for a hand came to this village in his iron boat that sailed under the seas. This man brought to me an offer of much riches if I would journey to his far-off land to train a person of his choosing in the art of Sinanju. Although it was a burden on my frail shoulders . . ." Chiun paused to see if appreciation lighted the faces of the children. When he recognized wonderment, he decided it was good enough and went on.
"Although it was a burden, I accepted this task and journeyed in the cold belly of the ocean to do what was asked of me, for I knew that my trials would feed the babies who are now your parents, and although I knew that some of them would never achieve wisdom enough to appreciate that sacrifice, I nevertheless went on, for I knew even then that those children would one day bear children of their own. And no ordinary children either, but those who understood sacrifice and appreciate the gifts bestowed on them. You children."
The children put their childish hands to their mouths and giggled. Chiun took that as appreciation. He would have preferred respectful silence, however. Bowing of heads would not have been amiss either.
"Now, the days of which I am about to speak are the earliest days of my time in the barbarian land of America. It was the three hundred and thirty-fourth day of the Year of the Dragon, which was, according to the complicated dating used by westerners, the third Tuesday of that second month, on the festival known as Dairy Goat Appreciation Day, during National Secretary's Week, in the year that numbered only 1972, for this land is in truth much younger than Korea.
"On this day," Chiun went on, "the land of America was in turmoil, for one of their strange vessels was nearing the moon. Hearing of this, I hurried to the throne room of the secret King of America, Mad Harold. I have told you of Mad Harold before. And presenting myself to this man, I said to him, 'I have heard tales from the remote provinces of your land that some of your subjects were nearing the moon.' And Mad Harold replied that this was so. He was exceedingly calm about this news, although I could detect a trace of pride in his tones.
"Now, when I heard this news, I too grew excited. No man had been to the moon in thousands of years, since Master Shang had walked so far north that his feet actually trod upon the cold wastes of the moon. And I shared this with Mad Harold, who seemed not surprised to learn that Koreans had journeyed to the moon before whites. And Mad Harold told me that other whites had been to the moon before that time. I was suspicious of this, and questioned Mad Harold about this closely, and he told me that the first whites to land on the moon did so in their year of 1969. To which I replied that Master Shang achieved the moon in our Year of the Heron. So, remember, we were the first. And do not forget that Shang walked.