It was here, Remo thought morosely, that he and Chiun had enjoyed their best times together. Cooking and eating.
And arguing. Always arguing. It had become a ritual with them. And now he missed it terribly.
Remo left the kitchen, going to the storage room.
And he knew then what had impelled him to return.
Chiun's steamer trunks. Fourteen oversize lacquered trunks in every ungodly color imaginable. Emblazoned with dragons, phoenixes, salamanders, and other exotic creatures. They had been a pain in the ass to truck around during their vagabond days. But Remo would carry them to the moon and back for another combative afternoon with Chiun, listening to his carping and eating steaming bowlfuls of pure Javonica rice.
Dropping to his knees, he threw open a lid at random. Remo was not surprised to see that it contained an assortment of junk-restaurant giveaway toothpicks in colored cellophane, swizzle sticks, coasters, towels emblazoned with the crests of scores of hotels from around the world. Remo closed it, feeling sad. All this stuff carefully collected. And for what?
The next trunk contained rolls of delicately packed parchment scrolls, each tied closed with a different-colored ribbon. Here was the history of Chiun's days in America. These were what had called Remo to the house. He would have to return them to the village of Sinanju, where they would join the histories of past Masters.
Remo reached down to pluck one up. It looked to be the freshest.
He held it in his hand for a long time, fingers poised over the emerald ribbon.
Finally he simply replaced it unread. It was too soon. He could not bear to reexperience their days as seen through Chiun's jaundiced eyes. Remo closed the trunk.
The next one opened up on a sea of silks and fine brocades. Chiun's ceremonial kimonos. Remo lifted one-a black silk kimono with two orange-and-black tigers stitched delicately onto the chest, rising on their hind legs, their forepaws frozen in eternal combat.
A faint light made the tigers jump out from the shimmery ebon background.
"What?"
Remo turned, the kimono dropping from his surprised fingers.
Feeling his mouth go dry, he gasped.
"Little Father?"
For there, less than six feet away, stood the Master of Sinanju, shining with a faint radiance. He wore the royal purple kimono that he had last worn in life. His hands were concealed in the joined sleeves. His eyes were closed, the sweet wrinkles of his face in repose, his head tilted back slightly.
Remo swallowed. Except for a bluish cast, Chiun looked as he had in life. There was no corny opalescent glow like in a Hollywood ghost. No saintlike nimbus. None of that ghostly stuff.
Still, Remo could see, dimly, the shadowy bulk of the big-screen TV behind the Master of Sinanju's lifelike image.
"Little Father?" Remo repeated. "Chiun?"
The bald head lowered, and dim hazel eyes eased open as if coming out of a long sleep. They grew harsh when they came into contact with Remo's own.
The sleeves parted, revealing birdlike claws tipped with impossibly long curved nails.
One trembling hand pointed to Remo.
"What are you saying?" Remo asked. "If it's about my going through your trunks"
Then it pointed down, to the Master of Sinanju's sandaled feet.
"You did this last time," Remo said. "And the time before that. You're telling me that I walk in your sandals now, right?"
The eyes flashed anew. The hand pointed down, the elbow working back and forth emphatically, driving the point home again and again.
"I'm going back. Really. I have something to clear up first."
The elbow jerked.
"I was on my way but Kali came back. I don't know what to do."
With the other hand the spirit of Chiun indicated the floor.
"You can't hear me, can you?"
Remo put his hands in his pockets. He shook his head negatively.
The Master of Sinanju dropped silently to both knees. He rested tiny futile fists against the hardwood floor and began pounding. His hands went through the floor each time. But their violence was emphatic.
"Look," Remo protested, "I don't know what you're trying to tell me. And you're starting to drive me crazy with all this pantomime stuff. Can't you just leave a note or something?"
Chiun sat up. He formed strange shapes with his hands and fingers.
Remo blinked. He peered through the half-light.
"What is this?" he muttered. "Charades?"
Chiun's crooked fingers twisted this way and that, forming Remo knew not what. He thought he recognized the letter G formed of a circled thumb and forefinger bisected by another index finger, but the rest was a meaningless jumble of pantomime.
"Look, I'm not following this," Remo shouted in exasperation. "Why are you doing this to me? You're dead, for Christ's sake. Why can't you just leave me alone!"
And with that, the Master of Sinanju came to his feet like ascending purple incense.
He approached, his hands lifting to Remo's face.
Remo shrank back. But the hands plunged too quickly to evade.
"Noooo!" Remo cried as the whirl of images overtook his mind. He smelled coldness, visualized blackness, and tasted brackish water-all in one overwhelming concussion of sensory attack. His lungs caught in mid-breath-from fear or what, he didn't know. It felt like the oxygen had been sucked from them.
He sank to his feet, eyes pinched shut, breathing in jerky gasps.
"Okay, okay, you win!" he panted. "I'll go! I'll go to Sinanju. I promise. Just stop haunting me, okay?"
The images swallowed themselves like water swirling down a drain.
"What?"
Remo opened his eyes. The faint radiance was gone. In the half-light he thought he caught a momentary retinal impression of Chiun's dwindling afterimage. The Master of Sinanju had thrown his face to the heavens. Remo could almost hear his wail of despair.