The Seventh Stone, page 13
· · ·
Remo felt a tiny trace of light-headedness, the little warning indicator that his thrashing around had begun to use up his air. As the tight-woven netting slipped across his face, he caught a glimpse of a figure in the distance swimming steadily toward him.
Kim, he thought. He had come to save her and now she was going to rescue him.
But as the shadowy figure approached and came into sharper focus, Remo saw that it wasn’t Kim. It was a man in frogman’s gear.
And he carried a sword in his hand.
· · ·
Twelve minutes. Did Remo expect him to loiter around here the entire afternoon like some lavatory attendant hoping for a tip? No. He, Chiun, had better things to do and very soon now, Remo or no Remo, he would depart to do them. He could almost smell the fragrant aroma of fresh tea.
· · ·
The frogman circled Remo, maneuvering for position. The clear blue water rippled as the thin blade struck out. It poked through the net, straight at Remo’s unprotected chest. Remo threw himself sideways, barely out of its path as the blade passed within a quarter-inch of slicing open his rib cage.
The frogman withdrew the blade and quickly struck again. Remo whooshed out of the way but not quickly enough and this time the razor-honed blade had nicked his shoulder. It was nothing more than a scratch but there was a little blood and sooner or later it would draw the sharks.
This was not, Remo decided, such a great vacation after all.
Both hands on the sword this time, the frogman lunged at Remo from above. Fighting the constrictions of the net, Remo fell backward. He could feel the cold smooth steel, even colder than the water, as it passed over his cheekbone like a lover’s caress, a foretaste of what was soon to come. He knew he could not last much longer. His head felt as light as a circus balloon.
When he had to, Remo could live on the oxygen stored in his body for hours. But that required stillness, a shutting-down of the body’s oxygen needs. He was not able to do that here because of the frogman’s attack and he felt a tingle in the lower part of his lungs. How long had he been underwater? It seemed a lifetime. No. Nineteen minutes. He could hang on, he told himself grimly.
· · ·
Twenty minutes and Chiun couldn’t understand what was keeping Remo. Maybe he had slipped out of the water without Chiun seeing him; maybe he was back at the condo, already having put the tea water on to boil.
· · ·
Remo twisted his body but the blade nicked him again. It had taken almost all his strength to avoid a direct hit, and the net continued to draw tighter around him, restricting his movements further. His lungs were ready to burst; his head was filled with white light. It would all be over soon. He could see the frogman’s carnivorous grin, distorted by the Plexiglas face mask. Remo had always wondered what death would look like when he finally met it face to face. He had never expected that it would be an idiot’s grin under glass.
The frogman yanked the blade free of the mesh and raised it once more. Remo tried to will his body to move, but nothing happened. His body wasn’t listening to him anymore. It knew when to give up. You give up when there is no more air left; you give up when there is no more strength left to fight. Your mind might tell you other things, but your body always knew when it was time to surrender.
It was all over. Good-bye, Chiun.
The long slender blade flashed through the water. Remo stayed motionless, his mind already accepting the steel, anticipating the first contact as it sliced through layers of flesh and muscle to burst the fragile bubble of his heart.
As the blade pierced the netting, a yellow hand streaked bubbling through the water, the extended forefinger poking a hole in the frogman’s throat. Red bubbles gushed toward the surface like pink champagne as the sword slipped from the frogman’s grasp and he sank, limp and lifeless, toward the bottom of the sea.
Remo felt strong hands grasp the net and simply yank it apart. Then he was being pulled upward. His head broke the surface and his lungs greedily gulped in deep drafts of sweet, salt scented air.
“Always nice to see a friendly face,” he said.
“Do you know how long you kept me waiting?” Chiun asked. “And this kimono is ruined. This awful water smell will never leave it.”
“Where’s Kim?” Remo asked, suddenly panicked.
“She is all right. She had the sense to come out of the water before the games started,” Chiun said.
“How did you know I was in trouble?”
“One can always expect you to be in trouble,” Chiun said. He brought his hand up from under the water. The long slender blade of the sword glittered in the sunlight. Chiun’s dark eyes narrowed as he read the simple inscription etched on the blade just below the handle. It consisted of only two words, the ancient Indonesian symbols for “Wo” and “son.”
As they walked out of the water onto the shore, Remo said, “Little Father, I think I’m better now. I think the hiding time is over.”
“Good,” said Chiun. “Because it is time that I told you of the Master Who Failed.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
AFTER CHIUN BREWED TEA and Remo put on a dry T-shirt and chinos, they sat facing each other, cross-legged on the floor. It was late now and the setting sun filled the airy room with a warm glow.
“I tried to tell you this story the other day but you did not listen.”
“Is this the one about the guy who didn’t get paid?” Remo asked.
“You might say that,” Chiun allowed.
“See? I was listening. I told you. I always listen.”
“If you always listen, why don’t you ever learn anything?” Chiun asked.
“Just lucky, I guess,” Remo said with a grin. It felt good to be back; good to be Remo again.
“The prince of whom I spoke was Wo and he had a brother with his eye on the throne, a brother massing a large army far greater than he needed to defend his own lands.”
“This sounds like where we come in,” Remo said.
“It is, but not if you keep interrupting.” He glared at Remo and took a sip of tea. “Prince Wo wished to rid himself of this scheming brother and yet did not wish to have the death laid at his own doorstep, so Prince Wo sent for Master Pak and a bargain was struck. The very next day, the Prince’s brother died, by falling from the parapets of his own castle.”
“And when the assassin came to be paid?” Remo said.
“He was dismissed. Prince Wo insisted that his brother’s death had been a true accident and he would not acknowledge the Master’s work. He refused to pay the tribute that was agreed upon.”
“This is getting interesting,” Remo said, trying to please Chiun.
“It is getting long because you keep interrupting me. Anyway, the following morning the prince’s concubine was found dead. The news and manner of her death spread quickly throughout the kingdom and soon everyone knew that the prince’s brother had not died by accident. Master Pak had sent his message. He wanted to be paid.”
“It’s a great way to send a message,” Remo said. “A lot more zip than Federal Express. And the prince still refused to pay?”
“No,” said Chiun. His thin lips turned up in a wintry smile. “Prince Wo realized his error at once and sent a courier to the assassin with double the payment, one part for the assassination and another to ensure Master Pak’s silence.”
“All that extra gold. Sounds like a happy ending to me. They must have broken out the party hats back in that mudhole by the bay.”
“What mudhole?” Chiun asked.
“Sinanju,” Remo explained.
“Silence, you nincompoop,” Chiun snapped. “The payment was only part of it. More important than the payment is the manner in which it is made. Prince Wo did not wish to be seen by his subjects as having been forced to pay the assassin, but Master Pak could not let this happen. If one prince refused to pay him, others might try the same. It was no longer enough to be paid; he had to be paid publicly, in tribute, as was his right.”
“So he sent the gold back,” Remo said.
“Of course not.”
“Right.”
“He sent back the empty sacks requesting that they be filled again and payment made again where all could see it. Prince Wo refused, for his own pride was so great that he did not wish to be seen bending to any man’s will. Instead, he summoned his warriors and mobilized an entire army to pursue and kill a single man.”
“I bet it didn’t work,” Remo said.
“It did not. Prince Wo’s oldest and wisest general devised a plan called the seven-sided death. Each manner of death was inscribed on a separate stone. Death by sword, by fire and so forth. But none of the ways worked and Prince Wo’s army was decimated and each of the first six stones was shattered.
“The great army had dwindled down to a handful of men and the only way left was that of the seventh stone. It was said to be ultimate, invincible, the one way that would work when all the others had failed.”
“So that’s why Pak is known as the Master Who Failed?”
“No, that’s not why. The seventh stone was never used. Prince Wo and his remaining followers put out to sea and finally disappeared from the known world. And when they vanished, the seventh stone vanished with them.”
“Well, what happened to Pak?” Remo asked.
Chiun sighed. “He spent the rest of his days searching for Prince Wo. Finally he was so overcome by disgrace and his own inability to find the prince that he retired to a cave and took no food or water until finally he died. He had a vision though in the very last moments of his life. He foresaw a future time when the descendants of Wo would try to wreak vengeance on another Master of Sinanju. With his dying breath, Pak left a cryptic message, a warning that the seventh stone spoke truth.”
He looked up to Remo for comment. Remo shrugged. “Interesting story but that’s two thousand years ago. Maybe they wanted to get even once, but, come on, it’s a long time ago.”
“As long as the bloodline flows unbroken, the memory does not die,” Chiun said. He drained his teacup. “Remember when we first came down here? That little article you told me about, the one that described the big stone that they had dug up on this island?”
“I remember mentioning it,” Remo said. “Are you telling me that was the seventh stone?”
“It may be,” Chiun answered solemnly. “Emperor Smith has pictures of it and he is trying to find out what it says.”
“Hold on, Chiun,” said Remo. “You speak every language I ever heard of. You can’t read this writing?”
“The language is long dead,” Chiun said, “and Pak left no instructions in its use.”
“It’s probably not the same stone at all,” Remo said.
“It probably is,” Chiun said. “Here is proof.” He held up the sword he had taken from the frogman and ran his fingertips over the etching on the blade. “In ancient Indonesian, this says ‘Wo’ and ‘son.’ I think the men of the seventh stone are after us.”
“And Pak says the seventh stone knows the true way to kill us?” Remo asked.
“So says the legend,” Chiun said.
“Then we’d better hope that Smitty finds out what the stone says,” Remo said.
“That would be nice,” Chiun said agreeably, as he finished his tea.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
HAROLD W. SMITH SAT in front of the computer watching the little lights blink on and off as if someone inside the silent machine was trying to send him a message in code.
Smith loved the computer because it was able to do in seconds or minutes what might take humans days and months. But he hated it too because once it started working, there was nothing to do but sit and wait for it to finish. That made him feel guilty. Technically he might be working, but he really wasn’t doing anything at all, except drumming his fingers on the console. After too many years with the government, he still got anxiety pains from not working, a tight little knot in his stomach that felt as if he’d swallowed a hard rubber ball.
He headed his own organization and was answerable to no one but the President himself. Yet he had a recurring nightmare, a dread dream of a day when someone would breeze into the CURE headquarters in Rye, New York, look at him, point a finger and say: “There you are, Smith. Goofing off at the computer again.”
He felt a slight loosening of the knot in his stomach as a message took form on the computer’s monitor screen. The machine had managed to decipher the first part of the message on the stone found in Little Exuma, although why Chiun thought it was important was beyond Smith.
“The two plums,” the computer tapped out. Smith said it aloud just to hear the sound of it, but it sounded no better than it read. That was the trouble with ancient languages. They tended to relate things in terms of fruit and stars and trees and birds and entrails. Everything meant something else because the ancients lacked the gift for direct prose.
The machine had hesitated but now it tapped out two words from the end of the inscription. He now had:
“The two plums… are bereft.”
Not exactly enlightening, Smith thought with a frown. Without the middle, the message made no sense at all, and he had a sinking feeling that even when the computer finally figured out the middle part, the message still wouldn’t make much sense.
Still he should let Chiun know what the machine had learned so far. He telephoned Little Exuma and Remo answered on the first ring.
“I’ve got some information for Chiun,” Smith said. “The inscription on a stone he wanted me to translate.”
“Terrific. What does it say?” Remo said.
“Well, I don’t have the entire inscription yet. Just a sentence and just the beginning and the end. There’s some stuff missing from the middle that the computer still has to figure out,” Smith said.
“Just give me what you’ve got so far,” Remo said.
Smith cleared his throat. “‘The two plums,’ that’s the first part. And then there’s a blank. ‘Are bereft,’ that’s the last part.” Smith listened to fifteen seconds of silence from the other end of the line. “Did you get that, Remo?” he asked finally.
“Yeah. I got it,” said Remo. “The two plums are bereft? That’s the great message.”
“That’s what I have so far.”
“What does‘bereft’ mean?” Remo asked.
“Destitute, saddened, heartbroken,” Smith said.
“Good. And what’s the‘two plums’ about?”
“I don’t know,” Smith said.
“Gee,” Remo said. “Be sure to call us right away, Smitty, if you get any more exciting news like this. Wow, I can’t wait to tell Chiun that the two plums are bereft. He’ll be real excited.”
“I don’t really need your sarcasm,” Smith said.
“And I don’t really need you,” Remo said as he hung up.
· · ·
It was a wonderful night for a funeral. Overhead the sky was clear, dusted with a million twinkling stars. There was a steady cooling breeze off the ocean, stirring the flowering vines along the garden wall and filling the night air with their lush sweet fragrance. The weatherman had guaranteed no rain and as if he were comforted by this meteorological perfection, the corpse appeared to be smiling.
The vast emerald-green expanse of Reginald Woburn’s back lawn was crowded with the gathered descendants of the Wo clan. Clothed in flowing silk robes, leisure suits, loincloths, they filed past the grave of Ree Wok, their fallen kinsman. He had made the ultimate sacrifice, paid the price that can only be paid once. He had died in battle, the only true way for a Wo warrior to die. In every mind was the thought that there was no greater honor, no greater nobility than that which was now Ree Wok’s.
The cool night air was filled with wailing, keening, whispered prayers and warbling chants for the safe swift passage of Ree Wok’s departed soul, a symphony of grief played on dozens of different linguistic instruments.
Ree Wok’s beautifully appointed satinwood coffin was covered by a thick carpet of flowers, some of species so rare that they had never before been seen in the western hemisphere.
Other descendants of Prince Wo left a variety of objects at the graveside, each a mark of how a great death was honored in their own native culture.
When the last of the mourners had paid their respects and the grave had been filled in, the tall French doors of the mansion parted and Reginald Woburn III emerged atop a sleek black stallion, its head capped by a coronet of three fluttering plumes, its glistening flanks festooned with jewel-encrusted ribbons.
Reggie said nothing. He looked not right or left. All the kinsmen of Prince Wo could see the grave, solemn set of his handsome features and they knew that for this one moment they did not exist for Reginald Woburn III. Each was sure that his grieving was so pure, so intense that his mind held no room for any other thing. In his overwhelming despair, they knew his soul was as one with that of his departed brother, Ree Wok.
It was a beautiful moment, a time, an event that would live in story and song, a treasured memory passed down from one Wo generation to the next.
Reginald Woburn III gigged the jeweled stallion forward. His face solemn, he rode slowly, regally to the graveside.
Overwhelmed by the magnificent sight, the descendants drew a collective breath. They might speak dozens of different tongues, live dozens of different creeds and cultures, but each at last saw Reginald Woburn III as a true prince, the true leader of his flock, heartbroken by the death of one of his own.
Reggie reached the gravesite and carefully backed the noble stallion up so that the animal was standing directly over the rectangle of freshly turned earth. Only then did he acknowledge the presence of others. Sitting ramrod straight in the saddle, he turned his head slowly, his clear blue eyes sweeping the crowd.
