Catacumba, Part II

The air within the entryway of the catacombs was…surprisingly dry. Karen had, for one reason or another, expected that these corridors would be wet, twisting, and teeming with all sorts of creepy creatures—in other words, more like caves than tunnels. Instead, it seemed like a fairly ordinary hallway, except that it was made of stone, was underground, and had no lighting. She switched her phone’s flashlight on once again and pressed on.

Karen wished she could simply teleport to her destination, even now, but she had already wasted the energy necessary for one Kimon today. Unlike her fire spells, which she had trained for years, and which aligned with her orientation, the Kimon was only something she had acquired recently, and after much effort, when she began working for the “boss man”. Using such a spell was very inefficient for her at this stage, taking nearly as much energy as the Hachimon Tonko she had performed before.

And thus, she was forced to keep walking, with neither spells nor shikigami to help her here. As she approached a corner, the first turn of many within this sprawling system, she saw shadows of stipples on the walls. A different kind of stone? So she believed, until she also saw a whole row of eye-holes staring back at her. These were bones. Shelves upon shelves of bones and skulls. Karen quickened her pace, not wishing to look at any one of the death’s heads for too long.

Not too far ahead, the corridor branched out into what seemed like several chambers, lined up one next to the other on both sides. She took a look in the first one on her left, and nearly jumped in fright; several coarse pieces of clothing, black and white, were strewn all over the floor, as well as the scattered remains of at least ten or twenty people. Satiated with this, and seeing as there was no light coming from here nor any of the neighboring chambers, she pressed on.

Another bend. And another. More and more shelves of bones. But up ahead, she caught a reflection of her phone’s flashlight once again. This was no grate, but what appeared to be a statue, metallic and roughly man-sized—actually, no, it was a skeleton in a suit of samurai armor. He, and another skeleton on his left, were guarding a lone recess here. Up above, a solitary skull decorated with “wings” of bone hung, and inside—Light!

Here, finally, the shelves were illuminated with something both warmer and brighter than the flashlight of Karen’s phone. Not only that, but these shelves were empty. The relief of reunion had come to her at last—but anxiety still stirred in her gut.

She quickened her pace. One left turn, and then another, and then—

More bones to get her. Plenty more. Bones filling every hole in every shelf in the walls. Bones shaped into pillars, on which bone-bundled torches were hung. A scene of bone-battles playing out on a bone-fresco on the back wall. A chandelier of bones suspended from the bone-ceiling. Even in the middle of the floor was a great ossuary, supported and bordered by more bones.

But this was not what greeted her eyes first—not before she took notice of all the people in the room. Against the walls on all sides sat at least a dozen men and women, cross-legged, black cloth draping over their heads and bodies like burial shrouds. Only the lower halves of their faces were visible, and these were motionless. They took no heed to her entrance.

Equally as statuesque was the man standing, back facing her, before the ossuary. He had long black hair, and the only article of clothing he wore that did not match this in hue, among his trousers, jacket, boots, and gun holster, was a checkered red-and-white scarf wrapped around his neck. Before Karen could approach him or anyone else in the room, a voice arrested her.

“Karen,” it said, “you’ve been out long, haven’t you?”

The voice was a man’s—of middling range, but sonorous and, above all else, serene. None of the hooded figures in the room had stirred; this voice belonged to the man in the center of them.

“F—Forgive me, Master,” replied Karen, “I…” She paused for a moment, which, evidently, was too long of a pause for the master.

“Did you fail, Karen?” he asked.

Karen gulped. Her breathing hitched. “I—I almost had them, Master. But Chigadaira…Chigadaira betrayed us…!”

“I see,” said the master, his timbre unchanging. “In what manner?”

“He…He said our plan wasn’t good enough for him. Then he attacked me, in my Hachimon Tonko. And my…my shikis…my poor shikis…” Karen’s voice broke. She turned away from the master, eyes misty. But she quickly turned back when she heard the master stir, unclasping his hands from behind his back and pivoting to face her.

Karen nearly jumped again. She could never get used to the sight of the master wearing a skull as a mask, wide eyes the only sign of life from his face.

“Well,” began the master, “that’s to be expected. If there is one emotion which onryo lack compared to the living, it is fear. Deathless, they feel far less bound by us. And…” he popped his pistol from his holster. Karen flinched, dragging one foot back. “…I don’t doubt there’s been some cross-contamination from the host. Did you confirm their identity, Karen?”

“Y—Yes, M—M—Master,” answered Karen with trembling lips. “She’s a—a high-schooler, in Seikyo. Her n—name’s N—N—Noe…”

“Numasaki?” mused the master. “Then there seems to have been a problem with the ritual indeed.” He drew the pistol out, turned to his left, his back not hunching even an inch. “Haruki,” he called out.

“Master!” eagerly replied the hooded figure in the north-west corner.

BANG!

As Haruki slumped forward, blood and grayness flowed out in an arc, before pooling on the cold floor. Karen yelped in fright. No reaction from the rest of the room.

“P—Please, Master…” Karen begged, almost sobbing, “P—P—Please don’t k—kill me… I’ll—I’ll get him next—”

“Kill you?” said the master, turning to face Karen. He raised his voice ever-so-slightly, to make himself heard above the death rattles behind him. “Of course not. You still have use. Your time will come…but not now.” He tucked his pistol away. Karen’s body un-tensed. “But you need not hold a grudge, either. That’s how you end up like that foolish onryo. Or…”

He paused for a moment, swiveled his head behind and down, and then back to Karen.

“Karen, do you know whose bones are laid in this ossuary?”

“N…No, Master,” Karen answered.

“Then I’ll tell you. Don Francisco Otomo—but better known in Japan as Otomo Sorin.” He turned back to the ossuary, laid his hand on its cold lid. “Don Francisco was lord of these very lands, Buzen and Bungo, at the end of the Warring States period, as well as Hyuga to the south-east. He was a fanatic for the namban-jin, the Portuguese and Spanish, from the start; one of the first in all of Satsuma to be baptized. He even had ambitions to make his own Christian nation from his domain. But he was still a warlord at heart—he challenged the strength of the Shimazu clan to the south, and lost.

“Don Francisco could not accept this defeat, and he intended to destroy the Shimazu no matter the cost. Ultimately, this led him to ally with Toyotomi Hideyoshi, the greatest threat to the work of the namban-jin. The Portuguese threw their weight, and their military might, behind the Shimazu, and their leader Yoshihisa, now Emperor Miguel I of Satsuma.

“The once-lord of Bungo and Hyuga felt personally betrayed. Yoshihisa had certainly been no friend to Christianity before—a begrudging ally under his father’s influence, at best—especially when he had been campaigning against the Otomo. The dagger was only dug deeper when Emperor Miguel used his castle at Funai in his former domain of Bungo to repel Hideyoshi and his forces. When Hideyoshi fled north to Kokura in Buzen, Don Francisco demanded command of the majority of his forces. Hideyoshi relented, but that proved a fatal mistake.

“Don Francisco refused to surrender to the last man at Kokura. The end result was a bloodbath; over forty thousand men perished. Armed with not only the weapons of the Portuguese, but the methods of alchemy, Satsuma made a great first show of force, but at a steep cost to themselves as well. The Otomo lord was among the dead, bitter and resentful to the very end. And now, here he lies, surrounded by the remains of the countless warriors he sent to their deaths, frozen in the scenes of their final battle.”

The master took a moment to contemplate the bone-frescoes before him. Then he resumed.

“All this to say, I suppose, that clinging to failed ambitions will get no one anywhere. You need not seek out Chigadaira again, Karen.”

“Huh…?” responded a confused Karen. “But…the plan to kill the—”

The master chuckled softly. “Chigadaira’s role was simply meant to be smoke and mirrors; enlisting the help of an everyman to throw them off our trail for a little longer. But when it comes to killing, why, anyone can do it. Even you.”

“Huh?!” Karen responded again, incredulously. “Y—You want m…m—m—me to kill him?! But…But I don’t have any shikis or spells to…!”

The master once again unholstered his pistol, this time seizing and holding it out by the barrel.

“You certainly don’t need magic to kill, Karen. Do you?”

“N—N—No!” shouted Karen, suddenly recoiling from the weapon. “Don’t…”

The master sighed, finally showing a hint of discontent beneath his serene veneer.

“Caspar,” he called. Now another figure, on the eastern side of the room, arose, and walked forward to meet Karen and the master. Large, with broad shoulders and deeply-tanned skin. He lifted his hood, revealing a buzzed head and thin eyes beneath. A burly hand emerged from beneath his cloak, softly clutching Karen’s head.

All at once, Karen’s whole throat stung with dryness. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Her skin began to tighten, then crack, then fissure all over. She stuck her arm out before her; steam was rising out of every pore. Pain seized her sides, doubling her over before she collapsed completely to the ground.

“Mahhhh…Mah-sterrrrr…” she groaned, her vocal chords themselves struggling even to open. “Pl’eeeaaaazzzzzzz…”

“Well, will you kill him or not, Karen?” the master asked. “You should probably answer soon. It will only be another minute or so before you lose consciousness. And you’ll lose the ability to speak well before then, of course.”

“I w—I w—I w’iiiiiiiiii—”

“Caspar!” signaled the master. Caspar released his grip on Karen’s head. Then he murmured something beneath his breath, and a cloud of mist formed all around her. In every pore, where the moisture had previously escaped, it now streamed back inside. When this was finished, Karen let out a loud cough and stood back up.

“Good,” said the master, keeping his eyes on her while he stepped forward to just in front of where she was, gun still extended out. Karen took this with two hands, daintily and yet with an air of mistrust, as if it were something completely alien to her.