On a corner shelf sat gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh, presented without condition to a Master two thousand years before by a trio of Zoroastrian mystics. A reward to Sinanju for a prophesied vision, as yet unfulfilled.

Pullyang passed through room after room, making certain nothing had been disturbed. As he did evry day, he took special care at the door of the library. A few years before someone had entered the house and stolen an old wood carving from that room.

As his tired eyes searched the corners of the library, Pullyang's heart sang a quiet song of thanksgiving. Everything was where it should be. Feeling great relief, the old caretaker left the Master's House.

It was two hours since he had awakened. There was life in the village now. Men and women were in the square. As he walked along, Pullyang smiled at the playing children.

A group of people had clustered together in front of the cobbler's house. In the middle of them stood one of the women of the village. She seemed greatly disturbed.

"I saw it when I took my washing down to the shore," the woman was insisting. She was out of breath.

"What did you see?" a man asked.

"The shore," the woman said fearfully. "The shore is like blood. It stains the rocks. Come quickly! It is already washing away."

She grabbed the man by the wrist and began dragging him along. A few others went along with her. Such idle time-wasting was common in Sinanju. The people had nothing better to do than invent foolishness to occupy their days. Pullyang alone had important work to do.

While the group led by the agitated woman went to the shore, Pullyang headed out of the village. At the outskirts he left the main road. He shuffled up a weed-choked path into the black hills that overlooked the shore.