"It sounds clear enough to me," Chiun replied. His voice grew soft. "The boy was speaking of your pupil, Remo. The one you will take to train as Master to succeed you."
Remo stopped dead. "He didn't say that." He frowned.
Chiun's smile was sad. "Did he not say it was nearly your time? And the crone told you that the coming years will be difficult for you. Such is the case when a Master takes a pupil. Believe me, I know." He resumed walking.
Remo followed beside him in thoughtful silence. Luzu men and women watched them as they passed.
"I never gave any of that much thought," Remo said after a long pause.
"Perhaps that is why the gods found it necessary to dispatch an emissary," Chiun replied.
"I wouldn't even know how to find a pupil." He was speaking to himself now, trying to absorb the ramifications of all that was being said.
"It is traditional for a Master to train his own offspring," Chiun offered.
Remo's eyes widened. "No way," he insisted. "Freya's not having anything to do with any of this."
Chiun's face puckered in displeasure. "Of course not," he said, scowling. "Why would your thoughts fly immediately to your daughter? You have a son, as well."
"Oh." Remo nodded. "Winston."
Winston had been a grown man when Remo met him. Remo's daughter was still a teenager. Both were living with Remo's biological father on an Indian reservation in Arizona.
In truth he did not know why he thought of his daughter and not his son first.
"I don't know about Winston, Little Father," Remo cautioned. "He's not exactly Sinanju material."
"They are not necessarily alone," Chiun replied mysteriously. "Your bull-like rutting habits of years ago has likely given us many more male offspring to choose from. But rather than squander years scouring orphanages around the world for children who have your beady eyes and unpleasant temperament, you could sire another now. We need only return to Sinanju and find a suitable maiden to accept your seed."
Remo shook his head. "I don't like that idea, Little Father," he said. "And not just because most Sinanju maidens look like they've taken one hit too many from the shit end of the ugly stick. I just don't think it's right to breed a baby just to raise for this crazy life. A baby's supposed to be the product of two people's love for each other, not some experiment in assassin's eugenics."
Chiun raised his bony shoulders in a tiny shrug. "Then you are left with the same choice of finding an heir I was. Go out in the world and trust that fate will supply you with what you need. With any luck, you will do better than I."
Remo hardly heard the gentle gibe. "It's always been you and me," he said. "Can we handle bringing someone else on board this mess?"
"You will be doing all the handling," Chiun replied, in a low and even tone. "When the time comes for you to train your successor, I will return to Sinanju."
Remo froze. "What?"
"Do not pretend you did not know this was the case, Remo," Chiun warned. "In all the stories of Sinanju, have you ever heard one in which two generations of Masters were still actively plying their art while one trained a successor?"
"Well, no, but-I never gave it much thought."
Chiun resumed his slow, reflective pace. "That is because it has never happened," he said somberly. "It is not proper for a teacher to remain active when his student takes a pupil of his own. When you find your successor, I will retire to Sinanju, there to sit in the warming sun of the bay and mend the nets while I watch the men go out to fish. In a few years, when your pupil passes the first phase on his path to Masterhood, I will leave the shore and enter the caves near the village for the traditional period of seclusion."
Remo couldn't believe what he was hearing. Chiun was talking about a ritualistic cleansing of the spirit taken on by all retired Masters of Sinanju. The rite could take several decades, and once he entered into this last phase of his life, Chiun would only emerge from his solitude to die.
With Chiun's words, Remo's heart hollowed.
"I don't want you to just lock yourself off from the world like that," he said, quiet emotion straining his voice.
"The world will get along without me," Chiun replied. "Besides, it is tradition."
"Screw that." Remo scowled. "Can't you just this once break with tradition and do what you want? I mean, God, there can't be another Master in the history of Sinanju who's been more slavish to those stupid scrolls. I think your ancestors would forgive you one lapse."
Chiun's face grew serious. "While I have done my best to uphold our traditions, it would not be my first and only sin were I to avoid the period of seclusion," he intoned. "When the time comes, I will do as I must." He shook his head, dismissing all they had said. "This is not the time for this conversation. The gods have merely endeavored to plant this thought in your mind. We could have many more years before it becomes time for you to act on what you have learned." Though his words were meant to bolster Remo's spirits, his eyes told a different story.
Chiun found a nice flat rock beyond the last straggling huts of the village. Scampering up it, he settled cross-legged to the boulder, encouraging his pupil to do so, as well. They sat across from each other, father and son.
For Remo, the whole world suddenly seemed very small and very precious. Like the wizened figure that now faced him-the one person on the entire face of the benighted planet who had ever given him anything of any real meaning.
Chiun's laugh lines were deep creases in aged leather. His once white hair had, in the autumn of his life, given way to yellow. To Remo, in that moment, his teacher had never seemed quite so old or frail.
Nearby, the clawing branches of the baobab raked the dirt. The machete still protruded from its cracked trunk.
"Getting a point across?" Remo asked gently.
"Sometimes it is the only way to get fools to listen," the Master of Sinanju replied simply.
A few women scraped the shattered tree's pulp for water. Moon shadows played across the children at their ankles. As they went about their work in the dark, they didn't seem as malnourished as they had when first he arrived. A sudden peal of laughter carried back to them on the warm breeze.
Given all they had just discussed, there seemed an air of finality to the world. Remo resolved to enjoy the moment.
"This reminds me of the Loni," he commented as he watched the Luzu children.
"Why?" Chiun asked. "Because that was an African tribe and this is another? This continent is littered with the bones of former empires, Remo."
"Maybe." Remo nodded. "But I remember that time. You practically had to set yourself on fire to fulfill some crazy prophecy." He looked at his teacher, his eyes level. "I won't let you do that again."
Chiun soaked in the warmth of his pupil's tone. "Your concern is touching but unnecessary. There will be no purification by fire. In that other time you mention, there was a Sinanju contract that had not been satisfied. Our ties to the Luzu are different."
"How so?" Remo asked. "A contract's a contract."
"Ordinarily, that is true," the Master of Sinanju said. "Do you remember, Remo, the story of Master Nuk?"
"Nuk," Remo said, considering. "He succeed Koo?"
Chiun's heart swelled with pride. He had remembered. There were times when Remo's devotion to the history of the House of Sinanju nearly matched his own.
"Yes," the old man said. "Do you remember his tale?"
"Wasn't much to remember." He began repeating the story by rote. "'And, lo, Nuk the Unwise did travel to the belly of the dark beast. There he found a people in despair and did nurture them to greatness. Eventually, they paid.'" He shrugged. "That's all you ever taught me."
"That was all that was written in the official records of our House," Chiun replied. "However, the Master has access to other histories."
"You're always saying that," Remo chided. "When do I get a chance to look at the top-secret stuff?"