The people had turned out at dawn. Hurrying to prepare for the ceremony, they were ready by midday. Just in time.

When the white-hot sun reached its highest point in the heavens, the great men arrived.

Chief Kwaanga strode in front, a powerful man with a broad, smiling face and flowing, colorful robes. This day, Kwaanga did not smile. Behind their chief, astride a huge black pony, rode the protector of the Luzu people.

The chief's horse had once belonged to the Spanish. It was a demonstration of both gratitude and humility that the chief should lead his guest like a common Luzu.

A hush fell over the people-ten thousand strong-gathered at the foamy shore.

The man atop the horse wore a ceremonial robe of a green deeper and more vibrant than anything the Luzu had ever seen. Upon his head bobbed an awkward hat of thin rice paper, stained black. The hat was too small for his head and seemed ready to blow off from the slightest breeze.

He was known as Nuk, the Master of Sinanju. He who had taken as seed a small band of warrior peasants and helped them to grow into a mighty empire.

Nuk did not meet the eyes of the crowd. As his pony walked closer to shore, he stared over the heads of the people. He looked beyond the land, beyond even the waiting ship in the harbor. He was gazing at a point where sky met sea, to distances the Luzu people could not perceive and to depths none but he could fathom.

A warm breeze came across the ocean, pushing landward. It disturbed silken robes and blew a cloud of fine sand inland. Passing through the multitude, the Master of Sinanju and Chief Kwaanga paid the wind no heed.

Where the men walked, the Luzu people parted. Silently, proud black features glistening in the merciless African sun, the chief led the horse through the throng. At the shore, he stopped.