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"Nonda," Remo said. When the girl frowned, Remo realized that he had replied
"itchy" instead of "fine" to her inquiry.
"Nah, nuda," he said.
The Low Moo laughed. In three days, Remo had picked up just enough of their
tongue to hold his own in simple conversations, but not enough to be really
comfortable with the language. He suspected Chiun had fed him some imperfect
translations just to be mischievous.
"Dalka Chuin?" Remo asked, joining her at the tiller.
"Hiu," the Low moo said, pointing to the stern, which towered behind her.
"Yeah, I see him," Remo said in English. "Thanks."
"You're welcome," the Low Moo, whose name, she had told Remo, was Dolla-Dree,
said in English.
The Master of Sinanju was seated on the high poop deck at the junk's stern.
His pipestem legs dangled over the rail. He held a long bamboo pole in his
hands. A string tied to the far end trailed in the water.
"How's the fishing?" Remo asked politely.
"Slow," said Chiun, twisting the pole so that the line coiled around the end.
It lifted free of the water. There was no fish. As a matter of fact, there was
no hook or bait either. He frowned. "I do not think there are any fish in this
part of the ocean."
"Sure there are," Remo said brightly. "I can hear them laughing. "
Chiun turned his head and glared. He spun the pole in the opposite direction,
dropping the line back into the sea.
"Perhaps you will have better luck," he suggested sternly.
"Not me. I'm a city boy. Besides, I'm not hungry."
"But she is."
"I see. Gotta feed her highness."
"Do I detect a note of distaste in your voice, Remo?"
"No. I'm starting to like Dolla-Dree just fine. I'm just tired of you falling
all over her like she's God's gift to Korean seamen. You gave all the
food-what little of it there was in the larder-to her and none to me."
"You can go without food. So can I. Returning the Low Moo to her father, the
High Moo, intact and in good health, is more important than our stomachs."
"The High moo?"
"Yes."
"Tell you what," Remo said, settling on the deck beside the Master of Sinanju.
"You take the High Moo and I'll take the Low Moo, and whoever gets there
first, wins."
"What are you prattling about?" Chiun demanded, staring at the water.
"It's a joke."
"To your feeble mind, perhaps. Not to mine. Please explain. "
" 'Moo' is the sound a cow makes."
"No, Moo is the greatest client state in Sinanju history."
"You don't say," said Remo. "Well, since we're going to be here awhile, what
with the lack of wind and the fact that you're fishing without hook or bait,
why don't you tell me the whole involved story?"
"I do not need a hook."
"Tell that to the fish."
"And cows do not make a sound that resembles the name of Moo. Their sound is
more like a 'looouuuwww.' " Chiun gave a creditable impression of a lonely
cow.
"Not bad. But in America it's more like 'moooooo.' "
"Obviously American crows are inferior to Korean cows, just as Americans are
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inferior to Koreans. No self-respecting Korean cow would take the name of Moo
in vain."
Remo shrugged. "I bow to you as the supreme authority on cows, both foreign
and domestic. But can we get on with the legend?"
"How do you know I am about to treat you to a legend?"
"Your nose is wrinkled. It always wrinkles up when you are about to recite a
legend."
Chiun looked at Remo as if to discern whether or not he was joking. Remo
smiled impishly. Chiun turned his attention to his line, twirling it so the
line cleared the water. He did it slowly, to heighten Remo's impatience. He
returned the line to the water just as slowly. If Remo was going to make fun
of the sacred traditions of Sinanju, he deserved a dose of delay.
When the line was back in the water, Chiun started to speak. At intervals, he
tapped the bamboo pole to make the line wiggle.
"The days of which I am about to speak are before those of Wang, greatest
Master of Sinanju. Before the discovery of the sun source itself. In the days
of which I am about to speak, Sinanju was not like it is now. Masters of
Sinanju were not as they are now. The art of the assassin was known to Sinanju
then, but it had not achieved the purity which you have been blessed to know,
Remo. Masters of Sinanju used weapons-blades of iron, poisons-and not the
natural tools of the body. And in these ancient days, Masters of Sinanju did
not work alone. They were assisted by the young men of the village, who were
known as night tigers. Of these night tigers, but one would be chosen to
become the next Master. Thus, each night tiger fought hard and fought well,
for only through his efforts could he hope to achieve full Masterhood. It is
not like today, when even a white can achieve Masterhood."
Remo grimaced, but held his tongue. It had been a long time since Chiun had
told him a story of the early days of Sinanju. Sometimes Remo thought Chiun
preferred to sweep those days under the rug, because Sinanju was in such a
primitive state.
"Now, the days of which I am about to speak were the era of Master Mangko.
Have I ever told you of Mangko?"
"Nope. "
"Mangko was the son of Kim, who was not a Master. For in the days of which I
am about to speak, the line of Sinanju was not a bloodline. Instead,
Masterhood was passed from generation to generation through merit and
achievement. A worthy method, but now outdated, of course. "
"Of course," Remo agreed. His eyes were on the horizon. He felt a strange
peace out here on the still ocean, even not knowing where he was or where he
was going.
Chiun smiled at Remo's agreement and continued in a low, dramatic voice. "Now,
Mangko was the third Master of Sinanju. Young he was, and dark of hair and
keen of eye. Tall he was, being by Western standards nearly five feet tall."
"A giant."
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