The arrow pointed to a paved turnoff.
Colonel Kyung tapped the brake and prepared to take it.
"Drive straight!" commanded the Master of Sinanju from the back seat of the jeep.
"But the sign says—"
"The sign points to the lesser town called Sinanju to discourage tourists."
"But there are no tourists in—"
"Drive on."
Colonel Kyung drove on. "I have always wanted to see the village of the three no's."
Remo turned to Chiun. "Three no's?"
"No rice. No fish. No mercy," said Chiun, his face stiff with barely concealed pride.
"My father told me many tales of his part of the Battle of Sinanju," Colonel Kyung continued.
"Battle of Sinanju?" Remo said.
"It was during the days of the war against the Americans. The imperialist Eighth Army of the criminal MacArthur was hurled into the Yellow Sea by the mighty armies of the Democratic People's Republic. With the comradely assistance of China."
"I never heard of that," Remo told Chiun.
"It is in your history books," said Chiun unconcernedly.
The road came to a sudden end as if the earth had caved in. The jeep slowed to a stop at the edge of a sharp drop. Below, the village of Sinanju lay spread out like a clam flat. Without the clams.
It smelled like a clam flat. It looked like a clam flat. In truth, it was a clam flat.
It was near dark, and the dying light didn't make it any easier on the eyes.
Colonel Kyung stepped out from behind the wheel and stated down at the sight with widening eyes. Remo joined him, Chiun following. Chiun's eyes were bright with pride.
"This—" Colonel Kyung gulped "—this is Sinanju?"
"Magnificent, is it not?" said Chiun.
Colonel Kyung swallowed twice. "Yes," he said in a voice that wore truth like a tattered rag.
"Now that your life has been fulfilled," intoned Chiun without warmth, "you may depart in safety."
"The Battle of Sinanju must have been terrible indeed," Kyung said, unhearing.
"It was. For the Americans."
"So my father said," Kyung said. "As a child, he told me often of his struggle against the white invader, of how they fought day and night for sixty days until the imperialists fled licking their wounds and eating the body parts of their fallen dead to sustain themselves."
"Your father lied," Chiun spat out.
"Why would he lie about the glory that was Sinanju in those days before it was reduced to this terrible state by the great battle?" Kyung demanded.
"Fool! Sinanju is unchanged since Nineveh was new."
"What?"
"No Korean or Chinese engaged the Americans on this spot. There was no battle. Only a rout when Chiun the Defender sowed death and terror among the invaders who in their ignorance had surrounded Sinanju with their noisy cannon and machines, disturbing his precious sleep. They fled, and to cover the cravenness of their flight, invented stories of a great battle that never took place."
"But my father—" Kyung protested.
"Every layabout in the armies of the elder Kim later claimed to have taken part of the Battle of Sinanju. Since no one had, it was a safe he to speak. Except here. Now begone, offspring of a lying father."
Woodenly Colonel Kyung retreated to his jeep and sent it whining backward. He watched them with strange, stunned eyes. He progressed nearly half a mile before it occurred to him to turn the jeep around to face the way he was going.
"That story you told is true?" Remo asked Chiun after the jeep was out of sight.
Chiun's eyes narrowed. "I always speak truth."
"Remind me to look it up when we get back."
"It is good to be home," said Chiun, turning to drink of the sight of the village of his birth.
Remo said nothing. This was not home. In fact, it was a place of difficult memories. They started to flood back. Here, he once thought he'd settle down. Here, he intended to take a Korean bride and have children. It was the last time Remo could remember being truly content. But an old enemy had followed him here, and his betrothed had been murdered.
His eyes went to the plum-tree-sheltered burying ground, the one well-tended spot in the entire village.
"You are remembering the past," Chiun said.
"I never liked this dump," he said.
"Think of the road that stretches before you, not that at your back," said Chiun, starting down a narrow dirt path to the village proper.
Remo shook his head as if to dispel the unhappy thoughts. He had enough recent bad memories without dredging older ones. A lonely wind whined as if to announce their coming.
Shadows were gathering all over the village. The air off the bay smelled of salt and dead clams. The sun finished going down, its dying red rays silhouetting the rocky coastline.
There was a hump of dry ground too squat to be considered a hill on which stood an ornate pavilion- roofed building—the House of the Masters, the legendary treasure house of Sinanju and Chiun's home.
The Master of Sinanju headed toward that.
Reluctantly Remo followed.
At first no one seemed to notice their approach. Then a child, splashing in a mud hole, happened to look up and, spying Chiun, leaped to his feet and ran shrieking into the village.