Freya read through Kojong’s scroll and instantly felt a kinship with the man who had left his home to become part of a tribe in Arizona. In a flowery, yet sad prose, Kojong detailed moving east after reaching this new land, on the far side of the Great Eastern Sea. While other tribes treated him with suspicion and violence, one tribe welcomed him and invited him to stay. Every child in the tribe was familiar with that part of the story. Kojong was their Washington and Lincoln rolled into one. Yet for some reason, tiny holes peppered the document — everywhere the tribe’s original name had been written.
“Why are words cut from the scroll?” Freya asked.
“My Pop said that after Kojong’s arrival, there was a civil war in the tribe,” Mick said, peeking out from under his hat. “I don’t know what happened, but Kojong declared that the old tribe’s name be forever banished from the records. I don’t even know what the original name was.”
“They must have done something terrible,” Freya murmured, returning her attention to the scroll. Though every member of the Sinanju knew the first part of Kojong’s story, Freya was unfamiliar with what came next. Two rival tribes had attacked Kojong’s tribe, and Kojong made the mistake of trying to protect everyone. Although he was a fully-trained Master of Sinanju, he had little experience in its use.
The invaders sliced through the tribe’s defenses, and Kojong found himself protecting the chief, deflecting enemy arrows. Newly-acquired Spanish muskets drew on him, and though he felt the pressure waves, they did not register like the focused pressure waves of an arrow or dart.
Kojong attempted to deflect the incoming musket balls as though they were arrows, but they traveled faster than any arrow he had encountered. Had he simply dodged them, he would have left the chief unprotected.
The new technology confused him for a moment, and that was all that was necessary. Kojong felt a burning sensation as a ball of lead entered his chest, collapsing one of his lungs. The shock to his system disrupted his breathing, and Kojong nearly lost his center. He took no chances with the next wave of bullets. The tiny balls were easily dodged, but his lung was filling with blood, choking the breath from him.
In his last moments of consciousness, Kojong remembered dashing for one of the rival chiefs, only to find him surrounded by men with muskets. He heard the loud reports of a dozen shots, felt a brief wave of pain, and then everything dissolved into blackness.
When he awoke, the field was littered with the corpses of the tribes that had attacked. At his feet lay the heads of both rival chiefs and behind him, the roar of his tribe filled his ears.
“Sunny Joe!” they cried, unable to properly pronounce ‘Sinanju.’ “Sunny Joe!”
But Kojong did not feel their praise. He wondered how his wounds had mysteriously healed and how the other tribes had been killed. Over two dozen of his own tribe lay slaughtered, including Chief Ahote and his only son Makya.
After they began rebuilding, the villagers chose Kojong as their new chief. There was a small number who insisted that the reins of power be transferred to Ahote’s bastard son — whose name, Freya noticed, had also been carefully cut from the scroll — but they were overruled.
Kojong married Chief Ahote’s only daughter, Tiponi, but never forgot his out-of-body experience on the battlefield. Before he died, he had a vision. Kojong said that he had spoken with an immortal, standing in an endless sea of stars. The scroll ended with an ominous warning: “No one can protect you. Everything will burn.”
Freya closed the scroll and quietly set it on Mick’s desk.
“I understand why Master Kojong does not want other Masters to read this,” she said.
“There are five more scrolls,” Mick said, pointing to the desk.
“I can’t,” Freya said. “Not now. I need time to think about this.”
“When you decide to read the others, let me know.”
“Thank you, Mr. Mick.”
“You’re welcome, Freya. But remember: you can’t tell anyone what was in that scroll, not even Sunny Joe.”
Freya looked Mick straight in the eye and the look on her face spoke before she did.
“There is no possibility of that,” she said. “I am ready to go now.”
“Kathleen wanted me to urge you to get back on your horse,” Mick said. “She can be pretty pushy sometimes.”
“No, she is right,” Freya said. “Please tell her thank you for me.”
“Aren’t you seeing her tomorrow?”
“I will see her when I return. Tell her that I’m getting back on my horse.”
After she left, she pulled out her cell phone. While others her age seemed to treat the device as if it were an extra limb, modern technology always frustrated her. It was confusing, and she only used it when absolutely necessary.
She tapped the button like Stone showed her, and pictures of her contacts appeared on the screen. There were pictures for Stone, Mick, Sunny Joe, Ben (whose picture was simply a black square), and Kathleen.
Freya tapped the picture of Stone and the phone automatically dialed.