"Miserable wretch. Have your skills so deteriorated that you cannot see who it is that stands before you?"
The figure glided into the light.
And when the man stepped out to where he could fully see him, Jeremiah Purcell's pale skin blanched. The Dutchman couldn't believe his eyes. His mouth opened and closed with incredulity. When words finally came to him, he spoke in a choked gasp. "Master?" he managed.
And when the dead Master Nuihc spoke, it was as if he was speaking from within the Dutchman's mind. "I have returned," the Fallen Master intoned on that wonderful, terrible day. "The world has turned to the Hour of Darkness. The age has come. At last has it come. And the very ground where the chosen one walks will bleed."
And in that moment for Jeremiah Purcell, the terrifying Dutchman who had quailed hearts around the world, the fear of long-dead childhood was born anew.
"DO YOU FEEL fear now?" Nuihc asked his pupil. All around, the hum of the jet engines shook the plane with soft vibrations.
The Dutchman liked when his teacher spoke with him. Most of the time these days Nuihc was busy talking to others.
Nuihc spoke with Benson Dilkes. Explained to the killer what needed to be done. Outlined his plan to exterminate his two great rivals and lay claim to the House of Sinanju. But he rarely found time for his protege, the worthless boy who had grown into a halfmad failure.
"No, Master," the Dutchman replied.
"Lying wretch," Nuihc growled. "First you insult me with your incompetence. Now you attempt to lie to me. Your weaknesses are obvious. You have lived every day of your pathetic life in fear. Do you not know that I know your thoughts before they are formed? I live because of you. It is your failure that has brought me back."
The Dutchman felt the blood color his cheeks. He hung his head in shame. "I'm sorry, Master," he said.
"You are worse than sorry," Nuihc insisted. "You are a contemptible insect."
He might have said more, but a shadow fell across the empty seat.
"Excuse me, is everything all right?" a questioning voice politely interrupted.
Purcell looked up. The stewardess stood in the narrow aisle of the plane, a curious expression on her pretty face.
"Everything is fine," the Dutchman said hastily. He spoke in Korean. All of the flight attendants on this South Korean plane were Korean. Her smile broadened at his easy use of her native language.
"I heard you talking," she said in the same language, warming to the attractive American with the long, blond hair. "I thought you might be having a bad dream."
The Dutchman almost laughed. Every day of his life had been a waking nightmare. He didn't dare show any emotion. Not with his Master staring disapproval at him.
"I was talking to my fath-to my companion," Purcell said. He pointed toward the window seat. When the woman looked past the thin young man sitting on the aisle, her eyes opened in surprise. The woman didn't know how she could have missed the Korean gentleman. He lounged in the seat near the window. He didn't speak, didn't acknowledge her. There was an empty seat between the two men.
"Oh, I am sorry, sir," she apologized. "I did not see you there."
For some reason the Korean gentleman made her uneasy. It was as if he was there but not there. To look at him was like looking at a ghost. Her discomfort was apparent as she stepped away. Apologizing once more, she hurried up the aisle, leaving the two men to their private conversation.
The Dutchman was used to her reaction. He had been seeing it ever since the castle on St. Martin. Ever since fate had reunited him with his Master.
The Dutchman glanced at Nuihc. He was a waking dream. Face cast in perpetual disapproval. The image of his dark Master was the same as the one that he had seen in his mind for so many years.
Yes, the Dutchman had lied. He did feel fear. And yet with the rebirth of his teacher also came a welcome relief. He had been forced into the position of leadership after the death of his mentor.
But Nuihc was alive again. By some miracle, he was alive. The Dutchman could sink easily back into the role of subservient wretch. He deserved no more.
The pilot's voice came on the speakers to announce that the plane would soon begin its descent over South Korea.
The Dutchman settled back in his seat.
Nuihc was back. Nuihc would lead him to ultimate victory. It was time for history's end. Time for death.
Chapter 23
And in this time will be reborn one of the dead, but beyond death; of the Void and not of the Void; of Sinanju, yet not of Sinanju. And he will summon the Armies of Death and the war they wage will be the War of Sinanju, the outcome of which will decide forever the fate of the line of the Great Master Wang and all who have followed him.
-Book of Sinanju, Wang Prophesies, Volume 1
Chiun gathered the people of Sinanju in the main square.
From the frightened villagers, the Master of Sinanju heard the events of the night before his faithful caretaker had disappeared. He heard about the wails that haunted the night and put many a terrified man off sleep for days. Those who heard it agreed that the otherworldly noise sounded almost like a woman in the pain of childbirth. But it was not a natural sound. It was the sound of demon birth.
When he asked which direction it came from, they all said everywhere and nowhere. Some pointed to the bay.
As he had done with his dead caretaker's daughter, the Master of Sinanju instructed the people to go to their homes. Once they were locked safely away, he went to the source of the sound, to the West Korean Bay.
In ages past when there was no food to eat, this was the place where the babies of Sinanju would be brought. The infants were drowned in the bay, "sent home to the sea," the people would say, to be born in a better time.
The bay was home to death.
At the shore Chiun walked to the very edge where the cold, clear water lapped slippery stone. Gale-force winds whipped wildly the thin strands of yellowing hair that clung to his parchment scalp.
The Master of Sinanju opened his senses.
Despite the strong wind a familiar scent carried to the old man's sensitive nose.
He stepped away from the water, hiking a little way up the rocks to the farthest point wind-propelled waves might reach at high tide.
Crouching, Chiun turned over a rock. The underside was red.
Blood. As fresh as if it had been newly spilled, although it would have to be a week old by this time. Chiun touched it with his finger. It was still warm. A troubled shadow passed across the old man's face.
He turned over a few more stones. They were all soaked under with blood. At high tide the blood had stained the undersides of many rocks all around the bay.
The West Korean Bay had seen much death over the years. So much so that it had apparently grown full. The bay had finally rejected one of its dead.
Chiun turned from the water.
Walking briskly up the shore path, he headed through the village. All the windows were shuttered and the doors remained bolted tight.
Instructing the people to lock themselves inside was a pointless exercise. When death finally showed itself, a locked door would do little good to stop it.
He climbed the stone steps of the bluff and crossed the front walk to the Master's House.