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And he was using it all to rout a bunch of gun-happy adolescents from a bordello. Old Wang was surely turning over in his urn, Remo thought as he recalled the events of the day.
The Managuans weren't an assignment. They were an embarrassment. Not to mention the people he'd stuck his neck out to save. Anybody who used phrases like "quintessential nothingness" deserved to drown in a hot tub.
Things weren't supposed to turn out this way. Chiun didn't spend the best years of his life watching interpretive dances to machine gun fire. Where was the challenge of the traditions of Sinanju for Remo?
He had left Manhattan and was striding along a river-bank leading upstate. Instead of bringing him serenity, the clean, still air of the countryside made the burdens of his emotions even heavier. It occurred to him that perhaps he had just been born too late. Maybe the glory of Sinanju was just a legend now, relegated to the distant past where legends thrive. The modern world, Remo's world, had no place for heroes.
Yet there had once been a man who had taxed all of Remo's resources. A strange, terrible man who could fight every bit as well as Remo.
No, he thought angrily. Keep the record straight. The Dutchman had fought better than Remo.
Because he not only understood the subtle discipline of Sinanju as well as Remo did, but he was also equipped with a mutant mind so advanced and unique that it controlled whatever it fixed on. The Dutchman had frightened Remo. It was a sensation he missed. In a life filled with losers like the Managuan Liberation Front, the sheer skill of an opponent as horrifying as the Dutchman was worthy of respect.
But the Dutchman was long dead. Not by Remo's hand;
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he hadn't been able to do it. Even now, the knowledge that the Dutchman's death had occurred through forces of nature and not Remo's ability still galled him. It had been his one chance to test himself to the limit, and he hadn't been up to the job. And never, he knew, never would it come again.
The Folcroft Sanitarium complex came into view. "Oh, what difference does it make, anyway?" Remo said aloud. He wasn't some freelance hero searching for adventure at the bidding of the gods, after all. He was just a guy with a job, and for that job he had been trained more expertly than anyone else on earth. It was useless to spend his time moping about inadequate adversaries, because Remo and Chiun were, since the Dutchman's death, the only people alive who even knew anything about Sinanju. Besides, he reasoned, it wasn't as if he didn't have anything to do. Challenge or no challenge, there were enough murderous yo-yos around to keep him busy for the next 600 years.
Just drop it, he told himself. He'd take off for a while, to someplace beautiful and sunny where the girls showed a lot of skin, and, he'd be as good as new. He climbed the steps leading to Folcroft's main double doors. Tahiti. That was where he was going. Tahiti was perfect. Chiun would like it, too. The old man liked coconuts.
Mrs. Mikulka, Smith's secretary, made the usual fuss about her boss's instructions to be left undisturbed, and as usual, Remo beat her to the door and let himself in. Smith was squinting hard at a piece of paper in his hand and reciting from it, a look of extreme discomfort permeating his lemony features.
"On wings of dust gather we into the Void. . . . Good God." He turned when Remo entered. "Oh, i't's you," he said irritably.
"Thank you for the usual warm reception, Smitty.
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Where's Chiun? I figured the sub from Sinanju ought to be back by now."
"That is correct," Smith said tersely. "The submarine has returned. Chiun, however, was not aboard."
Remo was alarmed. "Is he-"
"He is not spiritually disposed to return at the moment. At least that's what he told the captain. He sent along an Ung poem instead." He waved the paper at Remo.
"The Song of the Butterfly," Remo read. "Oh, that's a good one. Wang's finest. Catchy verse."
"Remo, I dispatched a Navy submarine to venture quite illegally into enemy waters just for the purpose of picking Chiun up from his holiday. The captain is extremely distressed, to say the very least."
"Nothing else? Didn't he send any message for me?"
"Yes, yes," Smith said crankily. He picked up a scroll tied with a reed ribbon and handed it to Remo. "This is for you."
Remo unrolled the aged parchment and read the fading Korean characters.
He is created Shiva, the Destroyer; death; the shatterer of worlds; the dead night tiger1 made whole by the Master of Sinanju.
Below were another set of characters:
The Master will die by the hand of the Other in the spring of the Year of the Tiger. And the Other will join with his own kind. Yin and yang will be one in the Year of the Tiger.
The parchment, finally exposed to light and humidity after centuries of storage, cracked and disintegrated in his hands.
"Aw, come on," Remo said.
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"What is it?"
"A story," Remo thought about it. "A dumb story."
"What does he want?"
"I think he wants me to go to Sinanju."
"Well, you can't go on a United States submarine," Smith said.
"I'm not going at all. I've waited for this vacation, and I'll be damned if I'm going to spend it in North Korea."
Smith gave a small shrug and leafed through some computer printouts on his desk. He checked his watch. "Er . . . your vacation has begun. Report back to me in ten working days."
Remo dusted the shards of parchment off his knees and swept out of the building.
He'd had it. This time he'd really had it with the old man's sneaky methods of luring him to Sinanju. The place was a pit. And he really needed a healthy dose of Tahiti. Now Chiun would gripe and complain for the next six months about Remo's not showing up when he was summoned by some melodramatic chicken scratches.
For dinner, he ate some rice in a third-rate Chinese restaurant, then went back to his motel room and turned on the television. Chiun can take his vacation by himself for once, he told himself. There's no reason why Remo had to spend two weeks in misery just to keep the old man company. He turned the volume on the television higher.
Still, what did it mean? The Shiva nonsense at the beginning was for him, he was sure of that. Chiun took some kind of perverted satisfaction in pretending that Remo was the reincarnation of some Indian spirit with a dozen arms. For the life of him, Remo could never figure out why. But the rest of it. The Master will die. . . . Which Master? Wang? The scroll had obviously been written centuries ago.
And who-or what-was the Other?
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He turned the sound on the television up to ear-shattering level. The legends and traditions of Sinanju irked Remo to no end. In the first place, he couldn't understand them. And in the second place, he'd just received a day-long demonstration of how little the mystique of Sinanju affected his daily life.
Dross. It was all just a bunch of baloney to further complicate Remo's already complicated existence. The legends had as much relevance to Remo as the man in the moon.
But Chiun was old. He lived in the past. Let it go. He went over to the television again, found it wouldn't go any louder, and sat back down.
When was the Year of the Tiger? He tried to remember the calendar system used by the ancient Masters of Sinanju. The Tiger was a wild and ferocious beast, beautiful and deadly, swift and quiet and unpredictable. The year would be a time of changes and reversals, unexpected challenges, sudden surprises. It was ... He counted on his fingers.
Then, feeling his heart thudding in his chest, he got up and turned off the television. He sprinted out the door and headed back to Folcroft. Chiun hadn't written the message. The scroll had belonged to the collection among the ancient archives. And yet it had been a warning. Or a cry for help. Which Master-Chiun or Remo? One of them was going to die at the hands of someone-Male? Female? Machine? Spirit?-called "the Other."
And it was going to happen soon, because this was May. It was the spring of the Year of the Tiger
.
Chapter Three
Remo arrived soaking wet upon the shores of Sinanju.
"Tell Smitty I love him, too," he mumbled after the rapidly submerging submarine in the distance. Leave it to Smith to stipulate that the sub deposit Remo a mile from shore.
Well, at least he'd arrived. Smith's loud protests notwithstanding, Remo managed to wrangle a ride to the place for which, now that he was actually seeing it, the term "pit" seemed woefully inadequate.
Sinanju was cold and rocky. Its shores, lapped by menacing, steel gray waves, looked like the backdrop in a Frankenstein movie. The only visible forms of life were the lichens and barnacles that grew on the jagged boulders in the sea. But there were other life forms here, Remo reminded himself as he stepped gingerly toward the village.
Snakes. Sinanju was literally crawling with snakes, most of them poisonous. If there was one thing memorable about this wasteland so desolate that even Chairman Mao hadn't bothered to send propaganda here, it was the snakes. Remo lifted his foot in the tall grass to allow one to slither
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by. A brief thought of the dream that was Tahiti flickered in his mind and died there. Remo shrugged. Tahiti would be around for the next vacation, whenever that would be. Chiun needed him now.
An old man walking along the shore a hundred yards away signaled him with a rough-hewn cane. Remo met him. "You wanted to speak to me?" he asked politely in Korean. He noticed that the old man was blind.
"Your teacher awaits you. I will take you to him."
Remo looked around, confused. There was no one else in sight. "Are you sure you have the right person?"
"You are Remo, are you not? The Master Chiun waits within a cave not far from here,"
"How-how did you know I was coming today?"
The old man smiled. "I knew. My name is H'si T'ang."
"Chiun's teacher? But 1 thought . . ." Remo caught himself.
"I was dead? No, I am not dead yet. In Sinanju, when a Master lives to pass on his title to his successor, he is obliged to enter a period of seclusion for many years. During that time, the new Master is not permitted to speak of his mentor, for the retired Master must be left in absolute peace. But now my time of seclusion is past."
He led Remo deftly through the ragged high grass, pointing out moving snakes with his walking stick. "There is a colony of vipers to your left," he said, walking briskly past a deep, sandy pit alive with slithering forms. "Very dangerous. At rest, their long fangs rest horizontally in their mouths, but when they are enraged, the poison arrows spring into view. It is a most alarming sight."
Remo looked down at the pit, then at the old man's milky white eyes. "Can you see them?" he asked.
"Not as you see," he said warmly. "But remember, we are in Sinanju. Your eyes are but one tool of many in your
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possession. You must be prepared to use all your tools, all your knowledge here. The cave lies ahead."
Remo liked the old man. There was a strange aura about him, a field of crystalline intensity that seemed to emanate from him, that Remo found pleasant. The cave they were walking toward exuded the same feeling.
"Nice flowers," he said, noticing the spare, beautiful arrangement of plants outside the cave's entrance.
"Those are my friends," the old man said, his face crinkling happily. "They remind me of a poem written by Yun Son Do in the seventeenth century. It is called 'The Five Friends.' " He recited:
How many friends have I? Count them:
Water and stone, pine and bamboo-
The rising moon on the east mountain,
Welcome, it too is my friend.
What need is there, I say,
To have more friends than five?
Remo smiled. "Well, it's better than Ung poetry."
"So is the sound of a donkey braying. I detest the Ung," H'si T'ang said. "It is a form which appeals only to old-fashioned purists."
"Chiun likes Ung poetry."
"I know. I have been forced to listen to it all these weeks." He gestured with his head toward Chiun, who was sitting in lotus position on the fragrant grass mat in the cave, scribbling furiously with a feather on a parchment scroll. "There will be more Ung tonight, I'm afraid," he whispered.
Remo stared at the slight figure bent over the parchment. "I thought you were sick," he said.
"That is typical," Chiun answered. "I send you a clear message about participating in the Master's Trial, and you interpret it as a sign of disease. H'si T'ang, this is the
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ocfish white thing on which I have wasted the knowledge of Sinanju." He went back to his work.
"Remo and 1 have met," the old man said, pinching Remo's arm affectionately. "I will prepare tea."
When he had gone, Remo went over to Chiun and snatched the quill out of his hand. "Do you mean to tell me that you're perfectly all right?"
"Of course I'm all right." He grabbed the quill back. A doilop of ink splashed onto the parchment. "Look what you have caused now!" he shrieked. "It is ruined! The most sublime piece of Ung since the Great Wang himself." 'forget Ung. I gave up my whole vacation to come here because I thought you needed me. I think I deserve an explanation."
"All was explained in my missive," Chiun said loftily.
"All that scroll said was some craziness about yin and yang and somebody called the Other, who was going to kill the Master. I'd like to know what that was about, if you don't mind."
H'si T'ang entered with the tea. "Yin and yang, my son, are the two halves of a whole," he said. "Light and darkness, good and evil, life and death. One must always balance the other. It is the way of all being."
Remo stared at him. "Uh, sure," he said. What the hell, he thought. Old people were allowed to be a little nuts.
Chiun looked up from his writing. "There was no mention of the Master's Trial?"
"The what?"
Chiun placed a finger to his lips, thinking. "Perhaps I forgot to include the note about the Master's Trial," he said. "Well, no matter. You are here now."
"For what!" Remo shouted.
"Lower your voice in this place."
"He has a right to be angry," H'si T'ang said. "He
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does not yet understand his purpose here." He handed a cup to Remo. "We shall explain, my son."
They told him about the rules of the Master's Trial and the names of the opponents he was to face in combat.
"Do you have any questions?"
Remo opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He tried again. "You've got to be kidding," he said.
"1 assure you, o silver-tongued orator, this is not a joke," Chiun said tightly. "It is one of the oldest traditions of Sinanju."
Remo leaned forward. "Let me get this straight. You want me to go around the world, without any money or even any food in my pockets, and fight a bunch of characters I've never even met?"
"That is correct." Both old men were smiling serenely.
"Well, I hate to break it to you, but that's the wackiest idea I ever heard. No thanks."
"Listen to how the young reject the sacred ways of the old," Chiun screeched. "I am ashamed, o Master, woefully ashamed of the pale piece of pig's ear I was deceived into training as my pupil. For this, I deserve to enter into the Great Void before my time. For this-"
"Calm yourself," H'si T'ang said, patting Chiun's knee. He turned to Remo. "But why, my son, do you refuse?"
Remo sputtered. "Because it's a crazy idea. I don't have anything against Jildo the Viking, or whoever he is. Why should 1 kill him?"
"It is not understood that you will kill anyone. Perhaps they will kill you."
"Come on. A bunch of half-naked aborigines who've been living in the past for a thousand years? I don't have to prove anything by slaughtering them."
"The Master's Trial is a necessary rite of passage for all Masters of Sinanju. No emperor would hire an assassin who has not completed his training," Chiun said.
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3
"I'm already working."
"Only for the United States," Chiun sniffed. "There are other governments."
"I'm satisfied with one."
Chiun got up and walked out. "Lout," Remo heard him mutter at the entrance to the cave.
Remo and H'si T'ang sat in silence. The old man poured more tea with exquisite grace. Finally he said, "Do you know the legends of Shiva the Destroyer, my son?"
Remo sighed. "I've heard them. And heard them. And heard them."
"But you do not believe that you are his reincarnation."
"I'm Remo Williams. I used to be a cop in Newark, New Jersey. All I know is, if I was a god who wanted to come to earth, Newark isn't the place I'd pick. I think Chiun's imagination went overboard on that one."
H'si T'ang nodded. "And the Master's Trial is an unnecessary annoyance for you.''
"I just don't see why I have to murder a bunch of total strangers."
"I see. You feel that the other participants pose no challenge to you?"
"Well, I don't want to seem conceited, but-"
With a motion so swift that Remo never saw it coming, the old man pinned him to the floor by his neck, pressing on nerves that made it impossible for Remo to move his arms and legs. Remo stared up, terrified, at the sightless eyes. Then, as quickly as he had attacked, H'si T'ang released Remo and helped him up.
"Forgive me, but I felt it necessary to demonstrate my point. You see, I too, looked with disdain upon the ancient peoples until I met with them during my Master's Trial."
Remo rubbed the place on his neck where the old man's hands had gripped it. "So? You won."
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"Not without great difficulty. Not one of your opponents would have missed my attack."
Remo looked at the floor.
"These are not primitive humans. They are highly advanced in their ways, and are to be respected. You will see that for yourself if you go. But if you continue to refuse, the warriors of these lands will be greatly insulted, and will make war on us. They will destroy the village as a point of honor."
"You mean they'll kill me if I don't fight them?"
"Perhaps not you, but all the innocent people of Sinanju who have relied for so many centuries on the Master to protect them. They themselves have never learned how to fight." The old man took his hand. "Chiun is still too young and proud to beg, even for his people. But I am not. Remo-"
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