"I was talking to my fath-to my companion," Purcell said. He pointed toward the window seat. When the woman looked past the thin young man sitting on the aisle, her eyes opened in surprise. The woman didn't know how she could have missed the Korean gentleman. He lounged in the seat near the window. He didn't speak, didn't acknowledge her. There was an empty seat between the two men.
"Oh, I am sorry, sir," she apologized. "I did not see you there."
For some reason the Korean gentleman made her uneasy. It was as if he was there but not there. To look at him was like looking at a ghost. Her discomfort was apparent as she stepped away. Apologizing once more, she hurried up the aisle, leaving the two men to their private conversation.
The Dutchman was used to her reaction. He had been seeing it ever since the castle on St. Martin. Ever since fate had reunited him with his Master.
The Dutchman glanced at Nuihc. He was a waking dream. Face cast in perpetual disapproval. The image of his dark Master was the same as the one that he had seen in his mind for so many years.
Yes, the Dutchman had lied. He did feel fear. And yet with the rebirth of his teacher also came a welcome relief. He had been forced into the position of leadership after the death of his mentor.
But Nuihc was alive again. By some miracle, he was alive. The Dutchman could sink easily back into the role of subservient wretch. He deserved no more.
The pilot's voice came on the speakers to announce that the plane would soon begin its descent over South Korea.
The Dutchman settled back in his seat.
Nuihc was back. Nuihc would lead him to ultimate victory. It was time for history's end. Time for death.
Chapter 23
And in this time will be reborn one of the dead, but beyond death; of the Void and not of the Void; of Sinanju, yet not of Sinanju. And he will summon the Armies of Death and the war they wage will be the War of Sinanju, the outcome of which will decide forever the fate of the line of the Great Master Wang and all who have followed him.
-Book of Sinanju, Wang Prophesies, Volume 1
Chiun gathered the people of Sinanju in the main square.
From the frightened villagers, the Master of Sinanju heard the events of the night before his faithful caretaker had disappeared. He heard about the wails that haunted the night and put many a terrified man off sleep for days. Those who heard it agreed that the otherworldly noise sounded almost like a woman in the pain of childbirth. But it was not a natural sound. It was the sound of demon birth.
When he asked which direction it came from, they all said everywhere and nowhere. Some pointed to the bay.
As he had done with his dead caretaker's daughter, the Master of Sinanju instructed the people to go to their homes. Once they were locked safely away, he went to the source of the sound, to the West Korean Bay.
In ages past when there was no food to eat, this was the place where the babies of Sinanju would be brought. The infants were drowned in the bay, "sent home to the sea," the people would say, to be born in a better time.
The bay was home to death.
At the shore Chiun walked to the very edge where the cold, clear water lapped slippery stone. Gale-force winds whipped wildly the thin strands of yellowing hair that clung to his parchment scalp.
The Master of Sinanju opened his senses.
Despite the strong wind a familiar scent carried to the old man's sensitive nose.
He stepped away from the water, hiking a little way up the rocks to the farthest point wind-propelled waves might reach at high tide.
Crouching, Chiun turned over a rock. The underside was red.
Blood. As fresh as if it had been newly spilled, although it would have to be a week old by this time. Chiun touched it with his finger. It was still warm. A troubled shadow passed across the old man's face.
He turned over a few more stones. They were all soaked under with blood. At high tide the blood had stained the undersides of many rocks all around the bay.
The West Korean Bay had seen much death over the years. So much so that it had apparently grown full. The bay had finally rejected one of its dead.
Chiun turned from the water.
Walking briskly up the shore path, he headed through the village. All the windows were shuttered and the doors remained bolted tight.
Instructing the people to lock themselves inside was a pointless exercise. When death finally showed itself, a locked door would do little good to stop it.
He climbed the stone steps of the bluff and crossed the front walk to the Master's House.
Inside, he went to the library. Cabinets and cubbyholes were filled with rolled scrolls and items of importance brought back by past Masters. On a desk in the rear of the room was the village telephone. It was the old-fashioned kind not seen for years. A separate earpiece was attached to a cord and the mouthpiece was connected to the upright base.
Chiun lifted the earpiece from the cradle and picked up the base to speak.
Smith would know how to locate Remo. Remo needed to know of the danger. The Time of Succession would have to be suspended so that Remo could return to Sinanju. Together, Master and pupil would face whatever evil had come to the small fishing village.
The phone was dead.
With a slender finger, Chiun tapped the cradle. There was no dial tone.
Chiun carefully hung up the phone. With leaden movements he set it back to the table.
Sinanju was isolated. No one in the village had the skills to repair a damaged telephone. There were no radios. Whoever had killed Pullyang had cut the village off from the rest of the world. And yet they had waited to do so until the Master had returned to Sinanju. The phone had worked well enough for Hyunsil to summon the Master home.
For a long moment the Master of Sinanju stood alone in the library of the House of Many Woods, thinking.
Only Pullyang was dead. Only one man in the entire village of Sinanju. There were days before Chiun returned when the treasure could have been stolen. Or the scrolls. But nothing was taken. Only one man dead.
Perhaps the village was not the target. Perhaps Pullyang's murder was a ploy to lure Chiun back. To separate him from Remo at this important time.
Two Masters of Sinanju will die.
Together they would pose a far greater challenge. Separate they would be easier for an enemy to defeat. Chiun felt the worry blossom full.
"Remo," he hissed.
The name had not passed his lips before the old man was flying for the entrance to the library. He exploded out the entrance to the Master's House. On flying feet the Master of Sinanju tore through the village and ran to the highway.
Frantic thoughts uncaring of the villagers he had sworn to protect, the wizened Asian raced away from the defenseless village of his ancestors.
ONLY ONCE the Reigning Master of Sinanju had become a speck on the distant road did the dark figure finally emerge from its hiding place.
Standing on the hill above the village, the Lost Master of Sinanju watched as Chiun vanished from sight over the horizon.
Behind the figure was the cave of the ancients. The place of spiritual purification where retiring Masters of Sinanju had been coming to reflect on their lives since the time of Wang. It was the perfect place to hide. This would be the last place any Master of Sinanju of the line of Wang would search.
Blaspheming such a holy place with his presence brought joy to the black heart of the Forgotten One. Sinanju was spread out before him.
"And now begins the end."
With a wicked smile, the Lost Master folded his legs and sat on the mountaintop. To await the slaughter.
Chapter 24
Remo spent the entire flight from Madrid trying to sort out just exactly how he was going to explain to the Master of Sinanju his failures in Spain and Germany.
The first thing he decided was that in no way would he call them failures. After all, he hadn't even been given the chance to fail. You couldn't say someone struck out if they hadn't even gotten a chance at bat, right? And in a way Remo had succeeded. The guys had turned tail and run rather than stand and fight. A forfeit counted as a victory.