The Master of Sinanju watched his pupil, Remo Williams, as the lid closed on the face of his beloved for the final time. There was no expression on his face. No shock, no grief, no nothing. Chiun's parchment countenance frowned.
Chiun stepped before the villagers.
"Think not that Mah-Li is dead," he said, looking squarely at Remo. "She was a flower whose perfume has made our lives sweeter, but all flowers wither. Some with age, some by disease, and others by cruel acts. So it was here. But let this be said of Mah-Li, if nothing else. That she was a flower who left us while her perfume was still fragrant in our nostrils, and our last sight of her face gave us the pleasure of her smooth skin and her innocent nature. No one will remember this child as stooped or wrinkled or infirm. I decree that future generations, when they speak of Mah-Li, will know her as Mah-Li the Flower." Chiun paused.
The villagers wept silently. Only Remo stood unmoved. "Before we let the maiden Mah-Li settle into her final rest, I will ask her beloved, my adopted son, Remo, to speak of her memory."
Remo stepped forward like a robot. He looked down at the coffin.
"A year ago I took a vow to protect this village and everyone in it," Remo said. "My vow to you today is that the man who did this will pay dearly. No matter what it costs me." And Remo stepped back.
Chiun, unsettled by the raw edge in Remo's voice, signaled for the coffin to be lowered into the ground. Shovels began cutting into the mound of loose dirt beside the hole, and with dull, final sounds, clods of barren earth fell upon the coffin.
The people of Sinanju stood respectfully as the coffin was covered. Except Remo Williams. Without a word, he stormed off.
Chiun lowered his head sadly. Tonight, he thought, felt like the end of so many things.
Remo took the shore road, the wind whipping the loose cotton of his white funeral costume. He had no destination in mind. He was just walking.
He came to the house he had built with his own hands and never finished. The doorway gaped cavernously like the eye of a skull. There was a hole in one wall, where the Dutchman had hurled him, and no roof. It was the final touch he had not gotten around to.
Remo stepped inside. The interior was a single square room filled with starlight so bright Remo could see the hairs on the back of his hand clearly. He squatted in the middle of the room and lifted his face to the sky. It was brilliant with stars. They lay in wreaths and pools, like diamonds awash in celestial milk. In all his years in America, Remo had never seen such a beautiful night sky. Its haunting glory made him want to cry. But he knew that if he shed tears now, they would not be in tribute to the beauty of creation, but over the waste of earthy dreams.
The Master of Sinanju appeared in the doorway. He said nothing. Remo did not acknowledge his presence, although both men knew that each was aware of the other.
Finally Chiun spoke.
"It is customary to speak of the cherished memory of a loved one at a funeral, not to voice vengeance."
If Chiun expected an answer, he was disappointed. Remo continued to ignore him.
Realizing that his pupil was not going to take the bait, Chiun asked in a gentler voice, "What is it you do here, my son?"
Remo's throat worked as he struggled to answer. His words were thick.
"I was trying to visualize how it would have been."
"Ah," said Chiun, understanding.
"I'm trying to imagine the furniture," Remo went on in a distant voice. "Where the cooking fire would be, how the noodles would be drying out in the courtyard with the radishes in their big rattan bowls. The sleeping mats would be over there. How every morning she would wake me up with a kiss. I keep trying to see the children we won't ever have. And you know what, Chiun?" Remo said, his voice cracking.
"What?"
"I can't," Remo said, choking on the words. Chiun frowned.
"I can't imagine it. No matter how hard I try, I can't imagine how it would be. For a solid year I daydreamed about it all the time. I knew exactly how it would feel and smell and taste, but now I can't even bring back the memory of that dream."
Remo buried his head in his arms.
Chiun stepped inside and settled into a lotus position before his pupil. He waited.
"Why can't I do that, Chiun? Why can't I bring back the memory? It's all I have left."
"Because you know it was only a dream, and you have awakened from it."
Remo looked up. For the first time since the funeral procession, his face registered emotion. Anguish. His eyes were like old pennies, worn and impossibly sad.
"I had such plans, Chiun. Sinanju was going to be my home. No more Smith, no more killing. No more of any of it. Why couldn't I be happy? Just once. Finally. After all the shit I've had to live through."
"Let me explain something to you, Remo," the Master of Sinanju said quietly. "That which you call the 'shit,' that is life. Life is struggle. Do you think happiness can come to one such as you by living peacefully in a small ugly village surrounded by backward peasants? No. Not you. Not I. Why do you think I have lived in America these last two decades? Because I enjoy breathing brown air? To live is to struggle. To continue to exist is to respond to challenge."
"My life is screwed up," said Remo.
"You are the finest example of human power to walk the earth in our time-next to me, of course-and you say that your life is screwed up. You belong, not to me, not to Mah-Li, not even to Jilda and little Freya, Remo, but to a greater destiny. You act as if your life is over when truly it is just beginning. "
"I grew up in an orphanage. Having a family I could call my own was my greatest dream. I'd give up Sinanju for a normal life, a house with a white picket fence, and a wife and kids."
"No, you would not. You say it, but in your heart you do not mean it."
"How would you know what I mean?"
"I know you. Perhaps better than you do yourself."
"It's such a simple dream," Remo said. "Why can't it come true for me?"
"I remember when I married," said Chiun. "I, too, was filled with such yearnings. I married young, and my wife, although beautiful on our wedding day, grew shrill and old before her time. Have I ever told you about my wife?"
"Yeah. And I don't want to hear it again."
"Too bad. I am going to tell you anyway. In the past, you heard the lessons of past Masters of Sinanju from my lips. Of Wang, of Kung, of little Gi. But I have never told you the great lesson of the Master Chiun."
"Wrong. I know that one by heart," Remo said bitterly. "Never accept checks."
"I will ignore that," said Chiun, his squeaky voice dropping into the dramatic tone he used when telling lessons of past Masters. "I have always told you that my wife was barren, and having no heir, I was forced to train the son of my brother-in-law, Nuihc, in the art of Sinanju."
"Yeah," interrupted Remo. "And Nuihc went off to freelance for himself, sent no tribute back to the village, and you were left without a pupil. Until Smith hired you to train me. And even though I was a white who couldn't keep his elbow straight, you made do. And we took care of Nuihc. But he had trained Purcell, so now we have the same old problem of a renegade Master. He just wears a different face. Did I leave anything out?"
"How eloquent," Chiun said tartly. "But I have never told you the full story. About the time I had a son of my own. I will tell you that story now."
"Go ahead. I'm not going anywhere," Remo said resignedly, but the Master of Sinanju recognized the first stirrings of interest in his voice.
"The son who was born to me was named Song. He was a fine boy, lean of limb, with skin like tallow and intelligent eyes. I took him as my pupil, of course. And as the years passed, my heart swelled with pride as he learned, first the breathing, then the early exercises. He learned quickly, and the quicker he learned, the faster I pushed him along the path to greatness."