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murdered everyone in my life. I'm going after him. Are you going to tell me
which way he went-or am I going to have to waste a lot of precious time?"
"Very well," Chiun said, drawing himself up proudly. "He took the shore
road."
"See you later, then."
"If that is your wish. You will miss the funeral. But it does not matter. A
person so bent on self-destruction that he would leave without saying good-bye
to his only child and the child's mother is obviously above pausing to pay his
respects to the woman he almost married. The woman he claims to have loved."
Remo stopped in his tracks. He did not turn around. "Postpone the funeral," he
said.
"Sinanju law. Burial must be on the evening of the passing of the villager. I
cannot bend Sinanju law, not even for you. But go. I will tell the villagers
that you would not attend the funeral because you did not truly love her. I
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have been saying it for months, and now you are proving it to me."
Remo turned to face the Master of Sinanju. The resolve vanished from his face.
"You always have an answer, don't you, Chiun?"
"No," said Chiun, turning his back on Remo. "It is you who always have a
problem. But I like that in you. It makes life so interesting. Now, let us
bury our dead."
Chapter 30
Cold moonlight washed the funeral of the maiden Mah-Li like an astringent
solution.
The funeral procession began in front of the House of the Masters. The entire
village wore white, the traditional Korean color of mourning. Villagers
carried the rosewood coffin on a palanquin. Remo and Chiun walked just ahead
of the litter, the remaining villagers trailing behind, carrying incense
burners and making no more noise than the sea mists rolling off the bay.
Jilda walked in the rear, her arms bandaged, Freya beside her.
The procession followed the shore road to the plum-tree-shaded burial ground
of the village of Sinanju. Every Sinanju villager was entitled to a mound of
dirt in the burial plot, with a small stone or pillar to mark his or her
life.
The palanquin was set on the ground beside an open hole. After a moment of
silence in which the villagers were allowed a final view of the face of the
deceased, the coffin was closed.
The Master of Sinanju watched his pupil, Remo Williams, as the lid closed on
the face of his beloved for the final time. There was no expression on his
face. No shock, no grief, no nothing. Chiun's parchment countenance frowned.
Chiun stepped before the villagers.
"Think not that Mah-Li is dead," he said, looking squarely at Remo. "She was a
flower whose perfume has made our lives sweeter, but all flowers wither. Some
with age, some by disease, and others by cruel acts. So it was here. But let
this be said of Mah-Li, if nothing else. That she was a flower who left us
while her perfume was still fragrant in our nostrils, and our last sight of
her face gave us the pleasure of her smooth skin and her innocent nature. No
one will remember this child as stooped or wrinkled or infirm. I decree that
future generations, when they speak of Mah-Li, will know her as Mah-Li the
Flower." Chiun paused.
The villagers wept silently. Only Remo stood unmoved. "Before we let the
maiden Mah-Li settle into her final rest, I will ask her beloved, my adopted
son, Remo, to speak of her memory."
Remo stepped forward like a robot. He looked down at the coffin.
"A year ago I took a vow to protect this village and everyone in it," Remo
said. "My vow to you today is that the man who did this will pay dearly. No
matter what it costs me." And Remo stepped back.
Chiun, unsettled by the raw edge in Remo's voice, signaled for the coffin to
be lowered into the ground. Shovels began cutting into the mound of loose dirt
beside the hole, and with dull, final sounds, clods of barren earth fell upon
the coffin.
The people of Sinanju stood respectfully as the coffin was covered. Except
Remo Williams. Without a word, he stormed off.
Chiun lowered his head sadly. Tonight, he thought, felt like the end of so
many things.
Remo took the shore road, the wind whipping the loose cotton of his white
funeral costume. He had no destination in mind. He was just walking.
He came to the house he had built with his own hands and never finished. The
doorway gaped cavernously like the eye of a skull. There was a hole in one
wall, where the Dutchman had hurled him, and no roof. It was the final touch
he had not gotten around to.
Remo stepped inside. The interior was a single square room filled with
starlight so bright Remo could see the hairs on the back of his hand clearly.
He squatted in the middle of the room and lifted his face to the sky. It was
brilliant with stars. They lay in wreaths and pools, like diamonds awash in
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celestial milk. In all his years in America, Remo had never seen such a
beautiful night sky. Its haunting glory made him want to cry. But he knew that
if he shed tears now, they would not be in tribute to the beauty of creation,
but over the waste of earthy dreams.
The Master of Sinanju appeared in the doorway. He said nothing. Remo did not
acknowledge his presence, although both men knew that each was aware of the
other.
Finally Chiun spoke.
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