The Arms of Kali td-59

by Warren Murphy

  He walked back inside the room. Fresh air poured into it through the shattered picture window, and there was no trace of the foul odor the statue had always carried with it.

  Sadly Remo knelt beside Chiun. He placed a hand gently over the blue dot on the old man's forehead. The forehead was cool and smooth to his touch. Tears streamed down Remo's face and he asked whatever gods might hear him: "Let me die so well as the Master of Sinanju."

  The forehead beneath his palm wrinkled. There was a fluttering of eyelashes and then Chiun's squeaky voice:

  "Die well? You will die immediately if you do not remove your big barbarian hand from my delicate skin."

  "Chiun."

  Remo sat back. The old man straightened himself with great dignity, and as he did, the blue spot on his forehead slowly faded until it was gone.

  "How are you still alive?" Remo asked.

  "How?" The Korean's hazel eyes widened. "How? How indeed, considering that I am always burdened by you."

  "I...?"

  "Yes. You," Chiun snapped. "I was halfway into the great Void and you performed as usual. You did nothing."

  "l-"

  "You should have used the ring as I told you."

  "I did use the ring. I held it-"

  "You did nothing," Chiun said. "I watched."

  "But my hands." Remo offered his burned palm for Chiun's examination. There was not a mark on it. "The ring ... I saw ... It burned . . ." He reached into his pocket. There was something there. He pulled out a pitted ring, cheap and impure, fashioned of silver.

  "Was it all in my mind?" he asked incredulously.

  Chiun snorted. "If it all fit into your mind, it must have been a very small thing indeed," he said.

  "But I swear," Remo said. He felt something on his hand and lifted the ring from his palm. Beneath it, in the circle of the ring, was a drop of water. He tasted it. It was salt, the salt of tears.

  "Oh, Ivory," Remo said. He went to the cold, dead body of the woman. Her face was wet with tears. Silently Remo placed the ring on her finger. Perhaps, he thought, it would bring the Weeping Woman some peace at last.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  "Am I Lu, then?" Remo asked.

  "Well, aren't you an idiot," Chiun said. "Of course you are not Lu. Lu has been dead for two thousand years. Do you not yet know who you are, fool?"

  "But what about Ivory? The Weeping Woman. The ring."

  They were interrupted as Dr. Harold W. Smith entered the hotel room in New York and sat down behind the large writing desk.

  "Well?" Remo demanded of Chiun. "What about those things? What about the statue? It talked."

  He saw Smith glance upward sharply.

  Chiun said in Korean to Remo, "Such subjects should not be discussed with men of bound minds such as the emperor."

  "I beg your pardon," Smith said.

  "Ah, Illustrious One. Forgive me my prattle. I was merely telling Remo to remain silent about the cure for the malady which has affected his reason."

  "What cure?" Smith asked.

  "Something that will ease his burdened mind and make these visions of spirits within statues vanish forever, thus freeing him to be of greater service to you. But we do not wish to waste your time, O Emperor. Please do not give this a second thought."

  "But, well, if there's something I could do . . ." Smith said.

  "Truly, it is nothing," Chiun insisted. "While it would heal Remo in a moment, you should not be troubled with such trivialities."

  Remo cleared his throat. "Well, since you asked, I guess I could use a couple of weeks in Puerto Rico."

  "Pay him no heed, Emperor," Chiun said. He kicked him in the shins, out of Smith's view. "That is not what he needs."

  "How do you know what I need?"

  Chiun kicked him again, harder this time. "Sire, this boy is like a son to me, even if he is white. A son whose innermost thoughts find their way to my heart. I know what he truly needs."

  "Really?" Smith said. He sounded even more lemony than usual.

  "Indeed. But it is so minor, I will say no more."

  "Very well," Smith said agreeably.

  "Except that Remo wishes, above all things, to be able to give to his adopted village of Sinanju the tribute it so justly deserves," Chiun added quickly.

  "I do?" Remo said.

  Chiun ignored him. "A mere five-weight of gold is so little. It shames my student."

  Smith sighed. "I thought you gave up the extra tribute in exchange for the trip back to Sinanju."

  "That is correct, O Just and Enlightened One. And so it is not I who ask for a ten-weight of gold to replace the paltry five-weight-"

  "Ten? Before, we had settled on nine," Smith said. "Yes, O All-Recalling One. But now it is not I who ask for the ten-weight. It is Remo."

  "So far, he hasn't said a word about it," Smith said. "It is because he is a shy and reticent thing, Emperor. But in his heart, he wants above all things to see the people of Sinanju clothed and fed. Is that not so, Remo?" He looked sharply at his pupil. Out of Smith's sight, he jabbed a long fingernail into Remo's thigh.

  "Ow." Remo yelled.

  "You see, Emperor? So great is his concern for the village that he cries out in despair. Truly, there is no other way, lest we lose him to heartsickness."

  Smith exhaled in noisy resignation. "All right," he said. "An additional five-weight of gold annually."

  Chiun beamed. "He is most pleased, Emperor." Remo yawned.

  "But it has to come out of somewhere," Smith said. "For instance, Remo, these expenses you keep running up."

  "Of course, Emperor," said Chiun. "Remo is willing to restrict his food intake for such a worthy cause."

  "And we'll have to cut your vacation time too," Smith said.

  "Now, hold on just a minute," Remo said. "After the Seagull Motel, I want to go to Puerto Rico."

  "Make your choice," Smith said. "More gold for Sinanju or Puerto Rico?"

  "That's easy. Ow."

  "He desperately prefers the ten-weight of gold, Emperor," Chiun said, leaning forward. "Desperately."

  Smith looked at Remo, doubled over and racked with pain. "I'm glad that's settled," Smith said.

  "For now," Remo grumbled. "Only for now." After Smith had left, Remo and Chiun again spoke. "What of Kali?" Remo said. "Is she dead?"

  "The gods do not die. It is as I told that woman. Perhaps it will be many centuries before Kali finds another home on this earth."

  "I hope so," Remo said. "My clothes stunk for days afterward. "

  In the handsome suburb of Denver, little Kimberly Baynes sat in her playroom making shapes out of a mound of pink Play-Doh. She wore a tiny apron over her frock, as her grandmother had instructed her, and she worked cleanly and quietly.

  Mrs. Baynes peeked in and felt the same thrill she had felt every day since she had taken custody of Kimberly. Life had been grim since the death of her son and his wife and their son. It had seemed for a while that there would be nothing remaining to fill the last years of her life, but then Kimberly had come and the little girl's laughter had made Mrs. Baynes feel young again.

  Children were wonderfully resilient. After the police had found the poor little creature, Kimberly had done nothing but chant insensibilities for a week. But that had all passed. Now she was as normal as blueberry pie. She never even mentioned that terrible place where her parents had taken her and Joshua to live. They forget, Mrs. Baynes thought. That's how the young stay happy.

  Mrs. Baynes left the playroom to fix herself a cup of tea. She was sipping it in front of the television when Kimberly raced in, grinning, a wad of pink Play-Doh stuck to the end of her nose.

  "Come see, Grandma. See what I made."

  "Oh, my," the old lady said. "So this is the grand unveiling. Well, all right. I can't wait to see."

  But Grandma Baynes had to blink hard as she entered the playroom. The pink blob of Kimberly's miniature worktable was nearly two feet high and formed into the shape of a mature adult woman,
complete with breasts. Its face, childishly scrawled with a pencil point, seemed strangely malevolent. But the oddest thing about the statue was the number of arms it had.

  Five.

  "Why did you give the lady five arms, Kimberly?" Mrs. Baynes asked gently.

  "So it'll have room to grow more, silly," Kimberly said.

  "Ah, I see," Mrs. Baynes smiled. "It's . . . very pretty, darling." She didn't know why, but the sculpture filled her with loathing. Still, it was Kimberly's, and the child should be allowed to express herself. Maybe during the day sometime, she thought, she could fix the face herself with a nice smile and a pair of M es.

  "She's beautiful," Kimberly said. "She's my friend."

  "Does your friend have a name?" Mrs. Baynes asked.

  "Yes. Her name is Kali."

  "Isn't that nice?" Mrs. Baynes said. "Shall we have some ice cream now?"

  "Oh, yes," Kimberly said. She held her grandmother's hand and skipped from the room.

  The sun set, shrouding the room in darkness. And there, on the miniature worktable, covered with crayons and paper dolls and smudges of Play Doh, the tall pink statue produced a small pink nub in a space between its arms.

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