Warren Murphy: Father to Son

Remo ordered them to stay put. The soldiers went back to man their vehicles while Remo dragged Dilkes back into the village.

"I didn't want any of them to get out of here," Remo explained to the others. "I've had enough clomping around the world for my next three lifetimes." He turned his attention to Dilkes. "Where is everybody?"

Dilkes was staring at the lifeless body of Jeremiah Purcell. Although he didn't see Nuihc anywhere, he assumed the worst. By the looks of it he had picked the wrong team.

"This way," Dilkes said, defeated. He led the four men from the village.

"The real Nuihc didn't just want to kill us," Remo explained as they walked along the rough shore. "He wanted to take over the village and lord his victory over everybody here. He had an ego as big as North Dakota. If Purcell thought he was channeling Nuihc, he'd want to take over Sinanju, too. A kingdom's no fun without subjects."

Caves carved by the rolling sea speckled the rock a mile from the village. As they closed in on the caves, Remo and Chiun sensed many heartbeats coming from within.

Dilkes stopped before a big cave mouth. "In there," he said, pointing.

"Wait here," Remo ordered.

He turned for the caves, but Dilkes stopped him. "Master of Sinanju, I beg for mercy," Benson Dilkes said. "I was retired. I wouldn't even be involved in this if I hadn't been invited to try to kill you." As he spoke, his eyes strayed to Harold W. Smith.

"Let me guess," Remo said to Smith and Chiun. "America had to field a contestant, as well."

Chiun remained impassive. Smith fidgeted uncomfortably.

"It was against my better judgment," Smith offered.

Remo turned to Dilkes. "You already cash the check?" Dilkes nodded. "Good." Remo planted his fist so deep in Benson Dilkes's head the others caught a glimpse of daylight before the assassin dropped to the ground. "Try to get the money back now," he said to Smith.

Alone, Remo ducked inside the cave.

For the next several minutes there issued terrible breaking sounds from inside. When Remo finally emerged back in sunlight, he was surrounded by Korean faces.

There were men and women, old and young. For the first time in days, the entire population of Sinanju stumbled out into daylight. They blinked against the glare as they began trudging back to Sinanju.

The last one out was an old woman.

Hyunsil, daughter of Pullyang, fell to her knees at Chiun's feet, kissing his kimono hems and giving thanks to the Master for liberating the villagers. None of the other villagers offered so much as a word of thanks, which wasn't a surprise to Remo. With their legendary ingratitude, he would have been disappointed in them if they had.

"The praise is not mine to accept, child," Chiun said, gathering the old woman up from the ground. "For it is not I, but my son who deserves our gratitude. Furthermore, the Master's House needs a new caretaker for when we are away. You would honor us to assume the duties of your father."

"The honor is mine, O Master," Hyunsil said. And bowing with great reverence, she headed back to the village.

"Okay, just FYI here," Remo announced once the villagers were gone. "The Time of Succession is officially over for me. I smelled a hundred different stinks from a hundred different nationalities in that cave. I'm gonna have Kim's tin soldiers bag them up and ship them back to wherever they came from. If this doesn't impress the leaders of the world, I don't know what will."

He didn't give time for argument. Turning on his heel, he headed for the village. Smith and Howard followed.

Only Chiun lingered. Eyes trained on a distant hilltop, he padded in thoughtful silence after the others.

Chapter 35

The investiture of a new Master of Sinanju was by tradition a quiet affair. The retiring Master and Master-to-be stood on the steps of the House of Many Woods to face the gathered villagers and pledge support in life and death. Remo and Chiun recited the memorized speeches that had been passed down from generations of Masters of Sinanju.

Harold Smith and Mark Howard had been permitted to witness the occasion. It was the first time since Kublai Khan that a foreigner was allowed to observe the ancient rite.

Children threw cloth flower petals at the feet of the Masters. An ancient song extolling all the dead Masters was sung. After, Chiun beat a gong three times, completing the symbolic transfer of authority to the new Master.

Afterward it was the people who celebrated. The Master and his teacher didn't join in the raucous festivities. This was as it always was, for the lives of the Masters of Sinanju were spent apart from the villagers.

Throughout the ceremony, Mark Howard and Harold Smith maintained a respectful silence, sensing the weight of tradition hanging heavy in the air. When it was all over, Smith shook Remo's hand.

Though unseen, the North Korean army was still nearby. At Remo's order they were up the shore carrying the bodies of the dead assassins from the caves. Despite CURE security concerns, it seemed right that Smith be present for this. They had all been through so much together over the years.

"Congratulations, Remo," the CURE director said, a thin smile on his lemony face. "And to you, Master Chiun."

He offered a bow. With his assistant Smith went to await the submarine that would take them both home. From the front of the Master's House, Remo and Chiun watched the activity in the village.

"I take back what I said about that smelly Russian swami, Little Father," Remo said once they were alone. "He was right after all. The Dutchman was so nuts he thought he was two people. As far as he was concerned, two Masters of Sinanju did die. I guess that's what Assmuffin meant."

"Yes," Chiun said vaguely. "Go inside, Remo. Your skin must be taken care of. I have a poultice that should help. Lie down while I go collect some seawater to mix with it."

Remo didn't argue. The truth was, he was exhausted. He could use some shut-eye.

As Remo went inside, Chiun headed down the front path.

The old Korean's gaze was trained once more on the rocky hill that sat in the shadow of the Horns of Welcome above Sinanju. And on the small man who sat cross-legged watching the activity from his lonely perch.

FROM HIS MOUNTAIN vantage point he watched the celebrations through bitter, hate-filled eyes.

This was supposed to have been the end. The destruction of the village, the murder of the last two Masters of this false New Age.

He had come back from death to witness the destruction. To watch the House fall and the village burn.

But the last hope had failed. When the people returned to the village, he watched them stomp the body of the dead white Master to a flat sack of broken bones before throwing the trampled remains into the cold water of the bay.

There was dark power in that boy. But it wasn't enough. Nor were the summoned Armies of Death. He could see what was left of them even from this distance. They were being carted away by the men who had arrived in the wheeled metal beasts.

Sinanju lived. In the people, in the village, in the five-thousand-year-old tradition. In its newest Master. Atop his mountain, the Lost Master, who had been reborn only to fail, hung his head in disgrace. He sat with his shame for a long time before a voice broke his solitude.

"I will tell you a tale." The Lost Master looked up.

Chiun stood with him on the flat mountaintop, a figure of ancient wisdom. He padded silently over, sitting down before the Forgotten One.

"It is a tale of the earliest days of the New Age," Chiun continued. "It happened after Master Hung of the Old Order had died, leaving no heir. The Great Wang went out into the wilderness, only to return with a vision for a new future for this village." He held a hand out to Sinanju.