He dived into the void.
The scene that greeted him was utterly appalling.
Five
Kurogosho’s Messenger
1
Sunlight filtered through a netting of foliage then streamed through the basement window, casting latticed shadows on the tatami.
Every now and then a light breeze would disturb the leaves and cause the mottled pattern of light to shimmer. The tearoom was 4.5 tatami mats large. There was the sound of water quietly coming to a boil. Steam rose from an iron pot suspended over the brazier toward the center of the room. The room’s alcove contained a bamboo vase which held a single Alaskan bellflower, its tiny purple petals angled downward, ready to open. The dignified flower on the cusp of full bloom brought an elegant tension to the room. The space had been fashioned in the Soan style, using textures that were exclusively natural and wooden.
The room was lavishly expensive, from the thatched Gamamushiro ceiling to the rounded pillars, although such details would not be obvious to a layman. Everything had been made from the highest-grade material. The sole ornaments were the flowers in the alcove and the Chinese scroll on the wall behind them. The scroll stood out like a sore thumb among the otherwise austere design of the room. It was not rendered in a style befitting a tearoom; painted in lavish colors the scroll depicted a pair of male and female deities copulating in a standing position. The scroll had been penned as a tribute to the god Heruka.
Heruka looms imposingly in dark ultramarine blue to the center. A black and green female deity is sitting in his lap, head arched backward as the god penetrates her. Her legs are wrapped tightly around his waist. Heruka is fiercely bearing his teeth, with a priceless gem in his left hand and a cobalt pestle in his right. His innumerable arms fan out on each side holding particular ritualistic tools, human bodies skewered through the anus, and the severed head of Brahma. The god’s clothing is made from human heads of all races, and there are ten skulls affixed to his brow. Trails of blood form webs in his three open eyes as the crimson flames of a lotus flower burn in the background. The scroll was from a denomination of Esoteric Buddhism, in a style that was almost hateful in its rendition of eroticism.
Four people sat assembled in this strange tearoom. There was a single female, and two of the remaining three were elderly men; one was decked out in formal Japanese dress preparing tea according to the traditional method. He appeared to be in his mid-70’s, completely bald apart from a few wispy gray hairs that extended toward the back of his head from behind his ears.
He seemed completely at ease despite the formality of his dress. The man was not particularly bulky yet he emanated a sense of weight that made him appear larger than he was. The force that resonated from his frame was both strange and oppressive. His bearing was of great dignity, but somehow he communicated an underlying sense of raw, untethered energy. His handling of the bamboo whisk may have appeared careless to some, but his easy movements reflected an absolute mastery of the form. He placed the finished cup in front of a man wearing an immaculate suit.
“Well, Toyama?” His voice resonated. Toyama took the bowl, appearing to be nervous. He was in his early 50’s. Carefully following the ritual’s protocols, Toyama drank from the bowl and replaced it before him.
“The bowl is Kuro-oribe,” Toyama said in a voice that betrayed tension.
“Hmm,” the old man narrowed his eyes, “you know about ceramics?”
“I’m no expert but yes, a little.”
“I’m clueless about it, myself.” Toyama gave the old man a confused look. “I’m sure someone told me the name when I bought it but it went straight out the other side, along with the price I paid.”
“I see.”
The old man’s eyes flashed with the hint of a smile. “Perhaps, then, you could help me with these.” The old man reached for two bowls on a stand next to him. “Well?” He lined them side-by-side before Toyama.
“I’m sorry, what would you like me to do?” Toyama appeared to be at a loss as to what the old man wanted of him. He turned to focus on the two bowls; one was Shinoyaki, the other maybe Ekaratsu.
“I care nothing for their names. Tell me which you believe the more valuable,” said the old man.
“But.”
“Relax, it’s just some light entertainment. Just say whatever comes to mind.” The summer was too hot for his suit, but that was not why sweat trickled down Toyama’s forehead. The old man watched his perspiration with interest. “Perhaps I should re-frame the question,tell me how much you would pay for them. Give me a price and I’ll sell them to you.”
Toyama was sweating heavily.
“Well? 20 million? A million? Maybe just 2 or 300 yen.”
“I...I couldn’t,” Toyama started, “Master Kurogosho, please forgive me.” Toyama placed his hands on the tatami and kowtowed. The old man looked at the other two sitting behind Toyama, a diminutive old man and a young woman.
“Enoh, how about you? What would you be willing to pay?”
Enoh’s heavily wrinkled face contracted into a grin. He was almost half the size of Master Kurogosho and wore the black robes of Taoist priest over his slight frame. He was the only one present to be sitting casually with his legs crossed.
“Let’s see,” he said. He brushed a veiny hand through the white hair on his temples. “First, I would have someone bring me premium Chinese sake, Lao-chu would be perfect.”
“Yes?”
“Then, I would have them fill the bowls with it.”
“I see...”
“I’d pay whatever the Lao-chu cost to fill them,” he said brazenly.
“You dog.”
“That’s all they are worth.”
“Enoh, how dare you insult my handiwork by comparing it to the price of booze?” The old man laughed, replacing the bowls to the stand.
“T...these are your own, Master Kurogosho?” Toyama said, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. The bowls were extraordinary, all the more so for having been forged by an amateur.
“Now, Toyama,” the old man said as he returned his gaze from the stand, “I hear that Kumon Hosuke has joined Mt. Koya. Is this true?”
“It is. We had not anticipated that they would set their sights on the same Diver as us.”
“Hmm.”
“According to the agent we have following Tamura, he turned up with someone called Biku.”
“The man that crossed Iba in the mountains. Who is he?”
“We aren’t sure yet, but he does appear to have strong ties to Mt. Koya. If we had known that earlier, we never would have let Kumon Hosuke go with him.”
“You had Hanko with you.”
“We were attacked by a bear in the middle of the proceedings. Hanko took care of the bear, but Jakouin sustained an injury.”
“Ah, that woman.”
“If she had not been injured, we were confident that Hanko would have been able to handle the situation.”
“Hanko and Jakouin,” the old man murmured and crossed his arms. He glanced at Enoh. “What do you make of this?”
“There is nothing we can do about it,” he answered.
“Would I be correct in assuming that you, as his trainer, and Jakouin are the only two able to exercise control over Hanko?”
“That’s correct.” Enoh nodded.
The old man uncrossed his arms and turned back to address Toyama, “Have they made the connection between Tamura and Iba?”
“Not yet, it seems.”
“I was appalled to hear that Tamura was still alive.”
“We confirmed his pulse had stopped. It would appear that Mt. Koya found some way to resuscitate him. It is, of course, within the realm of possibility to restart a stopped heart depending on the cause and time of death.”
“Mt. Koya.” The old man’s expression darkened slightly. “Have you managed to ascertain what happened to Tamura there?”
“Not yet. Whatever happened, it happened the moment he made physica
l contact with Kukai.”
“And now Kumon Hosuke is going to dive into Tamura?”
“We believe so,” said Toyama.
“How much information will they be able to extract from him?”
“If Kumon Hosuke is as good as the rumors suggest, they will probably be able to gain access to...certain facts.”
“Be more precise.”
“If Tamura has seen your face, Master Kurogosho, they will be able to drag it out of him.”
“Psyche Divers have that ability?”
“The most important factor will be the manner in which Tamura saw you, Master Kurogosho. His memory of you won’t appear as a true-to-life photographic reflection. He will have memories of any number of faces aside from yours. For these reasons, it’s highly unlikely that they’ll be able to create the link between yourself and Kukai. That being said, if they were to spend months collating information and then commit it to some kind of processing system then they could possibly--”
The old man listened to Toyama with his eyes shut. “Do you know any other Divers that may be of use?” he asked.
“In Japan, very few. If we were to use licensed Divers we would no longer be able to guarantee the secrecy of the assignment. There is one by the name of Juta Busujima, but he’s in Brazil. We have made attempts to contact him but have yet to receive a response. There are other freelancers, but they are Tamura’s level of proficiency at best, mostly less so.”
“Another died after Tamura, correct?”
“Yes. Again, immediately upon making contact with Kukai.”
The old man’s expression was growing more intense as a tangible anger coursed through him. “I assume this mess with Tamura’s body will be resolved today?”
“Iba is already working on it,” Toyama said, bowing his head to the tatami. The old man made no effort to conceal the force collecting within him. He looked over to the woman. So far, she had remained completely silent.
“Renobo,” he called to her.
“Master,” she answered, bowing slightly.
There was something deeply carnal about her sharp, narrow eyes. She sat formally on her knees, straight hair reaching the floor. Her lips were freakishly red. Her pale skin stood in stark contrast to the darkness of her hair and her ruby-red lips. She looked like an invertebrate, her pale skin suggesting that she had been raised in a dark cave. Her body was flush with a beguiling energy that surged outward, creating an almost palpable aura that warped the air around her. Her allure was beyond any normally practiced form of seduction. She exuded lust as though it was something she had been born with; it was completely organic to her.
“I heard that someone was snooping around, trying to find out about Panshigaru,” the old man said.
“Yes. We’ve picked him up, a reporter by the name of Yoichi Munakata. He was employed by a man called Senkichi Fuminari.”
“Senkichi Fuminari?”
“We haven’t come across the name before. Munakata doesn’t seem to know much about him either. Their contact was limited to phone conversations. Fuminari sent him a million yen upfront, delivered via registered courier service.”
The old man raised his eyebrows slightly. “He knows too much, let’s clean up.”
“Are you sure?”
“We’ve learned what we can.” The old man stood. “Enoh, it’s been too long, it’s time you treat us to a display of your skills again.”
2
The four walked out to a spacious garden surrounded by a forest of larch trees.
The odd birch tree punctuated the grounds; their positioning suggested that they were naturally occurring rather than planted. The garden was situated on a raised plateau and the air was free of humidity with a fresh, bracing wind that cut through the leaves. A white table and four chairs had been laid out in front of the central hall. Five men stood next to the arrangement, one was in jeans with the others surrounding him, blocking his escape. His captors were rugged-looking, everything about them suggested a casual familiarity with violence. They gave off an energy that was distinct from the untrained ferocity of small-time yakuza, or the purely physical intimidation of a wrestler or a heavyweight boxer. They were clearly professionals.
The old man took a seat. Enoh, Renobo and Toyama continued to stand at his side. The four bodyguards stepped back, marooning the man in jeans.
“Yoichi Munakata,” the old man said.
“I’ve told you everything I know. Please, let me go,” Munakata whimpered.
He was in his late 20’s. His hair was a mess, face covered with dark stubble. He was bruised and bloodied, watching the old man through sunken, bloodshot eyes. He looked like he was recovering from some illness. His lips were parched. He seemed to be struggling to stay upright. He had been tortured; over half of the fingernails were missing from his hands and his fingertips were red with congealed blood. The growth of his beard hinted at the length of his captivity.
“If you are even half-capable of your job, the depth of your involvement should be obvious by now,” the old man’s voice was rich and full. Wind teased through the lines of white hair above his ears. The blood drained from Munakata’s face, his skin paled from the throat upward. He knew exactly what the words meant for him. “You’ve seen my face.” The old man narrowed his eyes.
“You...you’re going to kill me.” Munakata’s voice was coarse. His legs were trembling. “Please, let me work for you. I’ll do anything,” the words issued from his mouth like droplets of blood.
“There remains only one thing you can do for me now.” The old man grinned. Munakata’s reply stuck in his throat.
“We are blessed with a fair wind,” the old man continued, smiling. “It is a beautiful day. Just look at the green of the trees, truly stunning. Soak it up Munakata, this will be your last opportunity.”
While the old man was speaking, the bodyguards maintained their impassive expressions, Renobo her innocuous smile, but as her narrow eyes fell on Munakata they betrayed a feverish glint. Enoh looked as though he were watching a grandson about to receive an award, his eyes were creased with gentle lines. Toyama was the only one of their number that appeared uneasy.
“No...don’t!” Munakata screamed, starting to back away. “Don’t kill me!” He stumbled and tripped over himself, falling backward. He appeared unable to regain his balance. His handsome features had transformed into something hideous.
“Enoh, if you would,” the old man whispered softly.
Enoh took a step forward. Wind buffeted the sleeves of his black robes revealing sinewy arms up to the elbow. He stood with a slight hunch, the effect made him appear even smaller than he was. He sent forth an eerie intensity. Munakata crawled across the grass, and as he did the blood that had congealed around his fingertips began to flow again, leaving a trail. He reached out for the trunk of a nearby beech tree and pulled himself up, staining the white of the bark with bloody handprints. Enoh began to approach, pacing over the grass on tiptoes, keeping an easy rhythm. It was like watching the steps to a dance.
Munakata screamed and launched himself at Enoh in a wild frenzy. Enoh sprang up as the two were about to collide. He was like a bird taking flight. The tree above rustled as he came to rest on a slender branch above Munakata’s head, the branch yawed in a wide arc. Without looking back, Munakata started to sprint away. Enoh whistled and took flight, using the returning momentum of the yawing branch to launch himself forward. He soared gracefully through the air toward Munakata. “Kyaa!” An animal noise welled up from his throat as he dropped lazily down, striking Munakata, his body fell limply into Enoh’s arms.
“It’s done,” the old man murmured.
“Bring a bucket!” Enoh shouted. One of the bodyguards ran into the central hall. Enoh’s right hand had pierced Munakata’s throat; the hand stuck in there, slanted down and buried to the wrist as he supported Munakata’s weight from below. He held his other hand over Munakata’s mouth, using his elbow and shoulder to support the man’s frame. The bodygu
ard returned with a large plastic bucket.
“Put it there,” Enoh laid Munakata’s body on the grass, placing it so that his head hung over the bucket. The other men steadied the bucket and lifted Munakata. Enoh pulled his hand away from the man’s mouth and a stream of blood fountained noisily out; the flow was tremendous. The liquid collected in the bucket, bubbling with a cherry-red froth. An awful stench wafted up with a wave of hot air. The bucket began to warm in the bodyguard’s hands. As the flow began slowing, Enoh pulled his other hand from Munakata’s throat. The wrinkled, sinewy hand was soaked with blood. Enoh wiped the blood over Munakata’s clothes.
“That should do it,” Enoh began to walk back with the gait an old man out for a stroll in a park. A dazzling fire burned in Master Kurogosho’s eyes.
“Renobo,” he looked up and turned to the woman, “you shall visit me tonight.”
“It would be my pleasure, Master.” A carnal grin played over her crimson-glistening lips.
“It is time for us to begin searching for the next sacrifice,” he said quietly.
3
The scene that stretched out before Kumon Hosuke was sickening.
The man’s self was missing; instead Hosuke saw a repulsive mess of viscera, the inside of an animal that had its entrails torn to shreds.
That was how Hosuke perceived the mental remains of the man that had been found lying unconscious outside the burial chamber at Mt. Koya. The remains of the man’s self that clung to the outermost shell of his ego were nothing more than a jumble of torn, bloody fragments. Maggots collected where the self should have been, mental refuse from the deepest ruts of consciousness, squirming as though being ejected out of a warm colon. Some were shaped like hearts, some like hair; they assembled in a clutter of differing shapes and colors: striking reds, blues, yellows, and other indeterminate hues. It was as though ten years of stagnant city sewage had been collected and churned up simultaneously. At some point the pieces had all been part of a single, unified self. Now its components were nothing more than chunks of cognitive meat drifting in the void.
The Psyche Diver Trilogy: Demon Hunters Page 10
