"Do not be gross," Chiun chided. "Matches are made of poison. The whatever-it-is they put on them that makes the fire causes a disease called necrosis. Thousands have been killed or crippled. The deadly poison at their tips has even been used for murders and suicides. Matches are wicked implements of death and destruction."
Remo's eyes narrowed. "When did this allegedly happen?" he asked suspiciously.
"Oh, just the other day," Chiun insisted, fussing at the skirts of his kimono. "I believe it was in the 1830s."
"Thought so," Remo said, nodding.
He was learning that this sort of thing was typical for the Master of Sinanju. The old Korean measured everything against the yardstick of Sinanju. Since his discipline had been around for millennia, his concept of time was skewed. Although the United States was nearly two centuries old, Chiun still considered it to be an upstart nation. Events of 140 years ago were just yesterday to him.
If he had met the Master of Sinanju a few short months ago, back when he was in his old life as a Newark patrolman, Remo would have thought the old man was senile. But he had come so far in so little time that he was finding himself accepting the words of the wizened Oriental more and more. Not that it was always easy. It seemed as if Remo could do nothing right. Earlier that morning, for instance.
Today's training had involved climbing sheer rock faces. Of course, Remo did it wrong. He used hands and toes to seek out cracks and bumps in the surface. Chiun had told him that he should make himself a part of the wall. Remo wasn't sure exactly what that meant. Besides, it wasn't necessary.
"Why should I try that hocus-pocus?" Remo had asked. "If I can find a ledge or a crack, I should use it."
"And what will you do if you encounter a completely smooth surface?" Chiun had asked.
"Find a ladder," Remo replied with certainty.
"And suppose there is not one available?"
"I'd tell Rapunzel to let down her freaking hair," Remo groused. "I don't know what I'd do, Chiun. I'd holler for help, I guess."
"And assuming there is only you?"
"There isn't just me," Remo said. "There's MacCleary and his boss and probably a dozen other guys in training like me. They'd send help."
At this, Chiun shook his aged head. "There is only you, Remo," he insisted. "There is only ever you. You must learn to rely on yourself, not others."
"You seem like an okay guy," Remo said. "For a slave-driving pain-in-the-keister. How about I call you?"
During their conversation, the harsh lines of the Master of Sinanju's face had softened ever so slightly. At Remo's words the old man's face hardened. Sniffing, he raised himself to his full height.
"Climb," Chiun commanded, his voice cold steel. Remo climbed.
But that was today and this was tonight and Remo was on his fiftieth rock combo and he still hadn't discovered fire.
"What kind of a sissy-girl desert is this?" Remo complained after another pair of rocks exploded in his hands. "That's it, I give up. These rocks are made of goddamned saltines." He threw down the stone shards in disgust, brushing the powder from his hands.
"Rock is rock," Chiun said quietly. "It is the same as it has always been. It is you that is different." By his tone it was obvious the old man thought he was making some great point. Remo had no idea what it might be.
"What do you mean?" asked Remo.
"This," said Chiun.
And the Master of Sinanju picked up two of the bigger chunks of rock Remo had broken and discarded. Clapping the surfaces together over the pile of twigs, the old man sent off a spark that ignited the tinder.
He held the rocks out for Remo to inspect. Somehow they hadn't broken in the old Korean's weathered hands.
"You have reached a new level in your training," Chiun explained as the fire caught in the kindling. "How'd you do that without breaking them?" Remo asked, puzzled. He took one of the rocks from Chiun. It was small in his palm. His fingers nearly wrapped completely around.
"Because I can control what I have learned."
Remo raised a dubious eyebrow. "You trying to tell me I broke rocks with my bare hands?"
"What do you think this exercise was all about?" Chiun replied. With a long stick he began turning over the small pile of brush, spreading the fire evenly.
Across the growing campfire, Remo frowned. He hadn't been aware that this was an exercise. Taking the rock tighter into his palm, he squeezed. Nothing happened. The rock remained solid, unbreakable. But that wasn't right. Just a few minutes before it had been just like all the rest, shattering from an even bigger stone in his hand.
He raised his doubtful eyes from the rock.
"You weren't thinking about it before," the Master of Sinanju said, answering his pupil's unspoken question. "You were thinking only of the fire and of your frustration. Your attention was focused on something else. Like now."
Remo wasn't sure what the old man was talking about until he looked back down. In his hand was a crushed pile of rock. Stone dust sifted from his open palm.
"Holy Christmas crap," Remo gasped, amazed. "Did you see that?" He looked up, wide-eyed.
"Your mind is unfocused," Chiun replied as he played in the fire. "We must work on that next. But that is for tomorrow. For now you need to sleep."
"Sleep? No way. Did you see what I just did? I just crushed a freaking rock with my bare hand. With my bare hand. That's even better than breaking boards."
"It is child's play in Sinanju."
Remo slapped the dust and shards from his hand, scooping up another rock from the ground.
"It's gotta be a trick. Show me what I did."
"No," Chiun said. "It is time for you to rest."
"I don't want to rest. I wanna break more rocks," Remo said, barely able to contain his excitement.
"You just did," Chiun pointed out.
Remo looked down at his hand. Another solid rock had been crushed while he wasn't looking. "Hoo-wee, this is great!" Remo enthused. "You've gotta be the greatest teacher ever."
Despite his agitation that his order to sleep had been twice ignored, Chiun's face warmed at the compliment.
"Either that or I'm the greatest student ever," Remo insisted.
Chiun's face dropped. Remo felt the desert air chill. "You have an ugly tongue, even for a white," the Master of Sinanju said. "Go to sleep."
"What?" Remo asked. "What'd I say?" His answer was an icy stare.
"Okay, okay," he grumbled. "But this is more like what I expected from all this training. Sign me up for more of this stuff in the morning."
Remo didn't think he'd ever be able to sleep again. He felt as if he could burst out of his own skin, so astonished was he by his own growing abilities. But Chiun was adamant and so he obeyed, curling up on the ground in the glowing warmth of the blazing fire. In spite of the rush of excitement he was feeling, sleep quickly overtook him.
AN HOUR LATER, Remo awoke to the most disgusting odor he'd ever smelled in his life. Retching bile-fueled air from deep in his empty belly, he sat up.
It was just after one in the morning. A soft breeze stirred the desert dust. Chiun was still tending the fire, a thoughtful expression on his weathered face.
"Where's that stink coming from?" Remo gasped. The old man looked up. Yellow fire danced across his hazel eyes.
"You," the Master of Sinanju replied. Remo frowned. Since the second month of his Sinanju training, he hadn't needed deodorant. He didn't know why. Just another one of the freaky changes his body had been undergoing. Chiun told him that his body was beginning to awaken, to do those things it was meant to do. But this smell was different than body odor. It was a strong stench of rotting flesh that flooded his senses and filled the air. He tasted the foul odor thick on his tongue.
"No way that's me," Remo said. "I think an animal must have died around here somewhere."