Then it was gone.
And so was he.
Chapter 26
Chiun walked alone in the hills east of Sinanju. The evergreen trees pointed toward the heavens, some so high that they seemed to yearn for the clouds gathered above. Shafts of bright amber sunlight raked the sky like hollow swords. The air was cold and clean.
He walked the brown earth, between sharp inclines covered in rich green.
There was someone waiting for him up ahead, where the path diverged. Chiun knew he would be waiting here. Just as he had been waiting for him for nearly five decades.
The tall man wore a white shirt with a tight waist and loose sleeves, a pair of baggy black pants that tightened at the ankles, white leggings, and black sandals. His hair was short and black, his features were proud. His eyes were the shape of almonds and the color of steel.
The man smiled warmly at Chiun's approach.
"Hello, Father," Chiun said.
"My son," said the tall, handsome man. He looked Chiun up and down, nodding his approval. "You have grown," he said. He had not aged a day since Chiun had last seen him.
"It has been many years, Father."
"Yes. Yes, I suppose it has." There was a hint of sadness in his strong voice.
An awkward silence hung between the two-together as men for the first time.
"Why are you here, Chiun the Younger?" his father asked at last.
"I am young no longer, Father," Chiun explained. "I ceased to be young both in name and in spirit on the day you went into the hills. Little did I know then that my burdens were just beginning."
"And your pupil?"
"Alas, the son of my brother turned his back on our village," he said sadly. "I was forced to deal with him severely."
"Our disgrace is the same," Chiun the Elder said, nodding. "Mine public, yours private." He smiled. "To me you will always be 'young Chiun,' my son."
Young Chiun's wispy beard trembled. "You know of my crime, father?"
"Not a crime. A necessity. The boy was a renegade who had to be brought to task. No one but you could have fulfilled this duty. Your son in Sinanju was saved. The line will continue." He paused. "How is he, by the way?"
"Remo?" Chiun asked. "I know not, Father."
His father's eyes grew moist. "My grandson in Sinanju," he said wistfully.
"Remo is a fine boy, Father," Chiun agreed. "Pigheaded at times, but he respects our history. His history."
"Just as we have respected that same history?" Chiun the Elder laughed. "We are the same, you and I," he said, staring absently at a cleft in the wall of rock beyond.
Chiun knew where his father's thoughts were drifting. "You did only what you had to do, Father," he told the man who was now, inexplicably, younger than himself.
"As did you, Son. Why do you torment yourself?"
"My ancestors were shamed by my deed," Chiun said, his head bowed.
Chiun the Elder spread generous arms. "I am not ashamed. Am I not your most cherished ancestor?"
"You do not understand," Chiun said, his wrinkled face still downcast.
Chiun the Elder extended one hand, raising his son's chin until their eyes locked. "Know you this, my son. I understand more than any other. You think you have performed the most despicable of deeds. But it is only so here." He placed his fingertips against Chiun's forehead. "You know in your heart that the act you were forced to perform was just and right. As do I. You will never have peace nor leave this place until you come to understand that the greatest battle a man can win is the one within himself."
Old Chiun the Younger remained silent, contemplating his father's words.
"How is it you come to be here?" the old-man-who-was-young asked finally.
"I was protecting the boy, Father. My son is very strong in body, but not yet powerful enough in mind. Had he been banished to this place he would have built a home, married an angel, and fathered strapping boys with properly shaped eyes. He still yearns for peace, and the things he cannot have. He accepts what he should not and does not accept what he should." Chiun's words were more for himself than anyone else.
"Like you, my son?"
Chiun seemed uncertain. "Perhaps."
The handsome young old man clasped his hands behind his back. "We sacrifice for our children," he said simply. "It is the most difficult duty we are called upon to perform. And the most noble. Fortunate are those who are called to the temple of fatherhood."
Chiun's hazel eyes glistened in the starlight. "I missed you, Father."
Chiun the Elder smiled. "Yes, my son. I know. Your devotion sustained me in my last days in these mountains. When I looked to the sky, I saw you. The eternity of nothingness, was filled by you." He shook his head. "For me there was no emptiness, no suffering. I survived in you. And in your promise."
Chiun looked into the eyes of the man who had taught him so much in so precious little time. "I loved you, Father," he whispered. "I have abandoned mercy, pity, remorse, but I do know love. That was your greatest gift to me. Thank you, Father. Thank you."
The handsome visage of Chiun the Elder turned to his son, and his smile lit the heavens. Then he became the heavens, his face turning into the sky and stars.
Chiun looked up at the night, which now hemmed in the mountains, and felt all eternity around him. But it was no longer cold and distant.
At last, he understood.
The Leader had opened the recesses of Chiun's mind with his gyonshi poison. It was no wonder that no one returned after glimpsing this. Their bodies were merely empty shells for the poison that raged in their systems, driving the victim to attack without conscience or compunction. Their minds lived on in the hell or paradise of their own imaginings.
To remain was tempting. Here, anything was possible.
Chiun heaved a sigh and turned his back on eternity. There was still much he had to do. The work on Remo's body was all but finished. It could hardly grow any more skillful. But there was much yet to be done with the potentially limitless power of his mind.
"Sinanju swine!"
Chiun spun when he heard the taunt in Korean. "Who dares call me thus?" he shouted. The darkness had become total, bathing the mountains until they were immersed in a sea of sludge.
There was something about the darkness. Something vague. Something . . . inviting.
"I dare, puny one! Prepare yourself!"