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Legend of the Undead Samurai - Part Two
Chapter Two – Unholy Resurrection
Part One: The Devil’s Blessing
It was exactly six years after the Shimabara Massacre, in the early summer month of June. It was, in fact, on June 6th… when the first stirrings of darkness began to manifest itself upon the land. It was popularly believed that the great warrior known as Mori Soiken was slain during the Shimabara Rebellion, in defense of Harano Castle. In reality, he had suffered grievous wounds and lay near death for a full year after the final battle was fought. He wanted to stand at the side of his great lord, Shiro Amakusa, the Tenshi. But when the Ninja attacked and the Shogun’s forces breached the gate, he could not reach Shiro in time to save him. It was all he was able to do, to slip out a window and allow himself: to fall to the ground below, hoping for a swift death not at his enemies’ hands. But he survived, by landing in the back of a passing farmer’s cart, which was filled with hay and soil. He had been struck through the abdomen by a soldier’s blade, and bullets from their rifles were lodged in six places in his chest, none of them anywhere near his heart. The farmer took him all the way to the province of Edo, where a great healer was alleged to live. There, with Mori near death at last, the healer worked his art and saved the man’s life. However, it was said that Mori’s soul did not return from death though his body did. Instead, some demonic entity had decided to inhabit his body, merged with his soul and fed on the bitterness of his regret at not having been able to save Shiro’s life. The man he had loved more than life itself. Now it was six years later, and Mori stood before the wooden stake upon which Shiro’s skull was still mounted… before the great cross at Harano, where the bones of the dead still lay heaped all about, and all around, the site of their demise. Mori caressed the skull with a gentle hand, imagining the face that had once been there. That beautiful face! “I am not so lovely as were you, my lord.” He admitted. For indeed, Mori was a short man with a broad mouth, a flat nose, and rather sorrowful looking eyes. His mane of coal black hair was streaked with white on either side since he returned from death, and his voice was hoarse from being damaged after all the smoke he inhaled during the fall of Harano Castle. He wore black robes, and slung over his back was a large sack. “You were too young to perish so cruelly, great Tenshi… and so, by the power that brought me from death I shall restore you to life once again!” Thusly, Mori slung his sack upon the ground and opened it, producing a wand made from a crude stick and topped with a gemstone shaped like an amber eye. He also produced a wicked looking dagger with a curved, serpentine blade and a twisted hilt. He slashed his own palms with the dagger, coating the wand in his blood, and then anointed the skull with the blood in much the same way that holy water might be used to anoint the heads of the faithful during a Christian mass. “With my blood, I call for you to rise again! Remember your oath to return, and though it is not one hundred years later… you are needed now, more than ever. I have brought the vessel for your rebirth hither. Look upon it, and be pleased to inhabit… your new body.” Mori snapped his long fingernails together loudly, and two black robed servants brought forward a familiar young lady. It was Ocho, who had been gone from Shiro’s life for so long. “You do realize, of course, that in doing this… you give up your own soul to death, so that his might inhabit your body to breathe and live once again.” Stated one of the two servants. “Yes, I really do understand… and I hope that my sacrifice will help to ease my regret at having not been able to steer him away from the course that led him to his end.” So she replied to the servant, who nodded his head gravely. Ocho had grown into a lovely young woman, but one who always looked a bit on the masculine side. A better term for her would be androgynous. She had dressed for this occasion, wearing the same white garments Shiro himself had worn on the day of his death. Out of her deep piety for him, she had shaved her head after the fashion of Buddhist monks. “I give up my soul, for him. For the Tenshi! Let Hell itself now take heed, and seal this, my pact with darkness. Let it be sealed, in blood!” so spoke Ocho, and with that Mori Soiken cut the throats of both of his servants, so spraying Ocho’s white garments scarlet. It was the second hour after midnight, and until the third hour nothing happened. But then, six minutes after the third hour… the skull that had hung there for so long fell to the ground. Thunder rumbled in the heavens, and lightening struck the great cross, cracking it down the middle and breaking it asunder. The shattered wood splintered here and there, whilst smoke came up from where the lightening had scorched the rubble whereon the cross thus stood. Ocho’s eyes did seem to stare dead and vacant, as if beholding some terrible sight far distant that no one else could see. Mori was trembling, for even he had not anticipated so very strong a reaction from the dark powers he had come to revere. He started to back away from the site, but Ocho did not move from where she knelt upon the rough ground. Indeed, she knelt as one lost to life itself and bound for some world beyond! Ocho was fully gone… her soul willingly traded away to the Devil for that of another. And that other, began to manifest his influence. “You longed for my return, Mori.” Said Shiro’s familiar voice, coming from Ocho’s mouth. “I am here! Let me thank you for this blessing.” Mori knelt as Shiro walked over to him in his new body: Ocho’s body. Black clouds covered the stars, casting the sky in darkness.
Part Two: Grace and Death
In 1645, one full year following the resurrection of Shiro Amakusa, Miyamoto Musashi died. He was sixty-two years old when he perished, of nothing more it said than old age and weariness from having fought so many battles. His biggest regret, in the hour of his death, had been his involvement with the Shimabara Massacre. It had been his dark secret, that the massacre could never have taken place or had any hope of succeeding, without his having aided the Shogun’s general. The great Musashi was buried in a tomb that had been erected on Mount Iwato. Most mysteriously, is that the tomb had been constructed with aid from the family of a certain Lord Hosokawa, whose family had met with tragedy due to his wife’s conversion to Christianity. Her name had been Tama, the daughter of the nobleman Akechi Mitsuhide. Her husband’s full name was Lord Tadaoki Hosokawa, who sat in great esteem in the Imperial Court. Upon her conversion to Christianity, she took the Baptismal name Gracia, and so became known as Gracia… or Grace… Hosokawa. Her marriage to Tadaoki had been arranged when she was only fifteen years old. The same age as Shiro Amakusa when his full rebellion began, ironically enough. In all, she bore her husband six children before swearing a vow of chastity. Many believed she swore this because of a hearty dislike for the man whom she had been wed to, and this fed all manner of gossip about the perhaps violent nature of their relationship. In the sixth month of the year 1582, Grace’s father betrayed his master, the lord Oda Nobunaga. This branded her a traitor’s daughter, marking her as such for life. Not willing to grant his wife a divorce, Tadaoki eventually had Grace sent in confinement to his family’s ancestral mansion in: Osaka. It was in fact there, where Grace learned a new kind of suffering: loneliness. And it was during this period that she had first converted to Christianity, following in the example of her maid, who was secretly also a Christian. It was in the spring of the year 1587 that she finally decided to attend a Christian church in Osaka, and there she felt a certain abstract sense of peace. Months passed, after which she began to hear tell that a new proclamation was issued which made it a dangerous thing to practice Christianity openly. Fearful for her soul, she decided to be baptized immediately and that is when and how she came at last to take the name Grace as her own. It had, up until then, been her nickname only… spoken only by her Christian friends. It came to pass that in the year 1595, Tadaoki discovered his life was in danger due to various associations and alliances he had made. Dangerous ones, which those in power were not pleased with. He once told her, that if their lives should ever be in danger, or if she were ever in any danger of being violated… that it would be her duty to take her own life rather than subject herself to such shame. She gave the notion of suicide much thought, and she came to dread it even as it secretly fascinated her, in a morbid sort of way. The danger to their lives passed, and all had been as it was before, as though nothing out of the ordinary had ever occurred. Even so, death continued to fascinate Grace much. The death of the man who was then Shogun, Toyotomi Hideyoshi, in the year 1598… created an unstable political climate in which rivals clashed to obtain the fallen lord’s powerful title. It was the year 1600, in which Lady Grace Hosokawa would come to her end. For during the struggle for the Shogunate, the warlord Ishida Mitsunari attempted to take her hostage, besieging the Hosokawa family mansion in an attempt to force her to come out so that he could seize her. He had already taken the castle in Osaka itself, and saw claiming her as the more pleasurable prize. Remembering her husband’s words, that if ever she were to be violated she was to take her own life… she now faced her end and found that her Christian faith prevented her from going through with it. “Suicide is against God’s will. I cannot damn myself, not even to save my honor!” This she spoke to her family retainer, Ogasawara Shosai, whilst dressed in her finest silken robes. He looked at her great beauty, and could not bear the thought of the myriad ways the warlord Ishida might despoil it. Thus, he was moved to pity for her plight. “God is not without mercy, my lady. I will take your life so that it will not damn you to die! In slaying you, I will thusly save your honor and your soul. May God forgive me for doing this.” He then sliced her stomach open with a blade before gathering the other members of the household so that they could all commit seppuku together. Only the cowardly Lord Tadaoki could not be found, and so he had escaped the end that claimed everyone else who had been in his family’s mansion on that fateful day. The outrage over Grace’s death and the family’s suicide was so great, that Ishida was forced to abandon his plans of conquest. Thus allowing his rival, Tokugawa Ieyasu, the chance to become Shogun… a rise to power that would change the political and religious landscape of Japan from that time onward. Such was the sordid history of the family of the man who had helped to raise the tomb of the great, fallen swordsman Musashi. Many claimed that his brutality had made his wife crave death, and that his cowardice had doomed his entire household. In secret, many Christians whispered that the Devil would soon exact from the house of Hosokawa a terrible price indeed, for Grace’s death.
Part Three: Hosokawa’s Reward
Shortly after the burial of Miyamoto Musashi, Shiro Amakusa decided to pay a visit to the ancestral mansion of Hosokawa in Osaka. The building had been totally sealed and boarded up, left as a tomb for the lady whose bones still lay within its’ walls. Rather than purchase a tomb for her, the house itself had been converted into her tomb. No one ever ventured near it, and many believed it to be haunted by the ghosts of those who perished within. It was at the stroke of midnight when Shiro decided to enter the building, his faithful servant Mori at his side. The old door creaked open at the touch of Shiro’s delicate hand, for the wood was rotten with age and many years of neglect. Within, all the skeletons of the dead lay where they had fallen… exactly as the tales told. The saddest of all, was that of the once beautiful Lady Hosokawa herself. “Grace! Grace Hosokawa, I call you back from death. I bring for you, a new body in which to dwell.” So did Shiro speak to the dead noblewoman, whilst Mori snapped his fingernails: to signal the two servants he had told to wait and remain hidden outside. They were similar to his two earlier servants, wearing black robes and bringing with them the freshly slain body of a local prostitute. “Place the body right over there, before the remains of Lady Hosokawa!” Mori commanded, at which the two men obeyed. A terrible wind began to echo throughout the long abandoned mansion, causing the tiles of the roof to crack and fly from their places. After tonight, it would no longer be a sacred resting place for the dead. The wind caused Grace’s bones to topple over and to shatter into pieces upon the broken stones of the floor. “Now, Mori! We need blood, to work this form of necromancy.” Shiro commanded, at which Mori leapt forth with his dagger and slashed the throats of these two servants in exactly the same way he had done with the first two when he resurrected Shiro Amakusa from death. He poured their blood over the body of the prostitute, whose dead eyes then began to open once again. Shiro laughed, gloating over her and saying: “Lady Hosokawa… welcome back to the world of the living! This is your reward, for a lifetime of service to God.” But rather than feel horrified, Grace began to laugh herself, her laughter mingling with Shiro’s in a sinister harmony. She then felt her cold face and body, and was horrified by her appearance. “This whore’s body is nothing compared to my old, beautiful form!” she stated imperiously and dejectedly. “Restore to me my former beauty, and I will serve you and whatever devil or demon it is that has brought you to my home.” That was her price for service to Shiro Amakusa, who agreed. He then walked over to the skeleton and picked off of it the once-beautiful silken garments, placing them upon the prostitute’s form. Now Grace’s new form! Shiro chanted in some ancient and guttural language that not one present had ever heard before. Perhaps it had been Aramaic, maybe even Sumerian. Only Shiro himself knew for certain. He then pulled the garments away from Grace’s body, and upon doing so she appeared exactly as she had when still she lived. She was no longer a soul in a new body… she was herself once again, or so at least it appeared. The old garments then crumbled to dust. “Just as well, I will need them no longer.” Grace giggled, touching her face and feeling familiar features there once again. Shiro had used a similar spell to alter his new body to appear as once it had. The Devil had given him great gifts indeed! “Where shall we go next, my lord?” Mori asked, cleaning his dagger with a cloth as he stomped his right foot impatiently. Shiro thought about it for a moment, and then decided on their next destination: “We will go to the tomb of Musashi, I think, on Mount Iwato. The old wanderer’s regret was strong when he died, and I think we can use the power of it to raise him back to life once again… in service to us.” Grace knew what it was she had regretted in the hour of her death: not having had the courage to take her own life as she truly desired to. And: having never truly lived her life fully, before tragedy caused her to desire death so strongly. “Let death be gone from my thoughts now and forever more!” She screamed at the moon as she and her new companions fled into the night. “I shall sing, dance, laugh and love. I shall be the woman I had not the courage to be when I lived before.” And so she skipped about childishly, twirling and dancing as she went along. She was totally naked, but she did not care. “We will have to find for you some suitable clothes, my lady.” Shiro commented. “If only for the sake of modesty.” Mori laughed at his master’s jest, noticing that Shiro’s old sense of humor was returning. After the events of that night, a Catholic priest who operated in secret in Osaka happened to chance upon the desecrated mansion. Lady Hosokawa’s old remains were taken from there at long last and buried in a cemetery in Sakai. Later, Lord Tadaoki would have the bones removed from Sakai and taken to Sokenji Temple in Osaka for proper interment as befitted a noblewoman such as she. It did not matter any longer to her, however… for she had new friends, a new life, and a new body. All it cost her was her soul, and for her that was a small price to pay for a second chance at getting life right. Like three immortals out of ancient legend, Shiro, Grace, and Mori set out from Osaka on a mission of dark and terrible destiny. And wherever it was they traveled, the Devil went with them if only in spirit, empowering them with the ability to raise the dead as they had been raised… for the dead awaited them.
Part Four: A Swordsman Reborn
The trip up the slopes of Mount Iwato was cold, but to the three undead souls who now traversed that way there was no sensation of chill whatsoever. Just to be safe, they wore enough furs to keep a living person warm… though this was out of old habit more than it was necessity. Old discomforts no longer seemed to be of any bother to them, and this pleased the three greatly. Mori was the first to spot the tomb, and he pointed to the gray structure. Bleak and gray against the white of snow… gray and white against a bleak gray sky. All in all, it was a gloomy place for a gloomy undertaking. “He was said to be the greatest swordsman who has ever lived, either in the east or the west of the world.” Mori explained. Shiro remembered what part Musashi had played in the Shimabara Massacre. What he had not known back then, he had learned now since his rebirth. Secrets and truths gleaned from the fearful few whom he had compelled to divulge it using both magical arts, and the arts of torture, which Mori often tutored him in. “It will be a pleasure to recruit one who was once so bitter an enemy, to our eternal cause.” Shiro said, laughing sinisterly. Grace cared not in any case… she was merely along out of the debt she now owed to Shiro Amakusa for her new life. “I will just be happy to be out of this miserable weather, so that we can go someplace more cheerful.” She stated honestly. “First things first, my dear.” Shiro replied, as they made their way into the tomb, which was itself carved into a cave set into the side of the mountain. The great stone slab that covered the entrance was simple enough for the three to move together, but they were surprised to see that inside was not the dead corpse of the great swordsman, which they had been expecting. Rather, an old man who was still very much alive, surviving on rats and insects, and half-mad from so long in isolation. Musashi was no longer the man he had once been. “Why do you three come here to disturb the rest of the dead?” He asked as one in a trance might. “You still live!” Shiro loudly stated, astonished. “Would that I could die!” Musashi explained. “I went into a coma and my retainers believed me to have died. The fools buried me alive, but so strong was my will that I have managed to survive all of this time… even here, even in these unspeakable conditions. So many times, I cheated death… yet behold! I have escaped nothing.” Seeing him thusly, Shiro was moved to pity for the man who had once been such a bitter foe. “Do you not recognize me, Musashi? It is I, Shiro Amakusa! I have been reborn.” At which the old man very much recognized the one who now stood before him, like a dark ghost from out of his past. “Your death was my greatest regret.” Musashi said, troubled tears forming in his aged eyes. “Yours, and all those innocents who perished because of the aid I gave to the Shogun’s general. I cannot bear it… any longer.” And the years finally took their toll upon old Miyamoto Musashi. He grasped his heart, which attacked him, and so he had collapsed into death at long last. The shock of seeing this specter of the past was the final straw for the old swordsman, who quivered and breathed his last on the floor of his own tomb. Old Musashi looked like a wild man in death, his long beard matted and his balding hair ragged and unkempt. How could he shave or bathe, trapped all this time as he had been? He died a foul wreck of a man, only a shell of what he once had been. Shiro could not allow such a dishonor to befall one so legendary as Musashi! “Return to life, old man. Your body has not yet begun to wither, and by my powers I can restore to you your youth and your strength! Through blood, I can grant life anew.” And Mori did produce his cruel dagger, plunging it into the fallen Musashi’s heart. Blood oozed forth, and then a terrible wind from outside blew through the interior of the tomb. The wind entered the dead swordsman’s mouth, pushing breath back into his lungs. The blood which only moments before had oozed from his breast, so retreated now back into his heart, the wound sealing itself up. Mori withdrew his dagger to allow the wound to close and heal over. The years retreated from Musashi, as he grew younger. At length, he was back in his prime again… dead but alive as he had not been in a very long time, to say the least. He sat up, felt his face and body, coming to realize that some dark power had given him a second chance that he knew he did not deserve. “Why? Why did you bring me back!” he shouted. Shiro calmly explained: “I was once taught to be merciful even unto my enemies. That this is the way of Christianity. Were you not once my enemy, Musashi? Now, you owe me your life and will serve me accordingly! Your code of Bushido demands no less than such a debt of honor.” In that moment, the swordsman knew his soul was lost to him. Yet, he relished the chance to serve the man he had most regretted bringing about the demise of. “I will honor my debt to you, Shiro Amakusa. And I shall travel wherever it is you lead me, fight in whatever battles you wish, and die again if that is what it takes to put right what I once did so very wrong.” At which Shiro smiled serenely. “I know you will, my friend. I know you will.” Was all he said, as the four made their way from the tomb and down the slopes of that mighty mountain, where the greatest swordsman who ever lived had been given one more chance: at glory. “I have heard tell of a place not far from here, where a man long held to be a warrior monk seeks death. Perhaps we should pay him a visit.” Mori offered. “A splendid idea!” Shiro excitedly said. “We could always use the aid of a holy man in our growing company.” What bothered Grace the most, what that nobody thought to ask why it was that they were doing all of this at all… and that question was the only one nagging at her from the back of her mind. Then, just as suddenly as the thought hit her, she shrugged it off and decided not to pursue the matter further. “Very well, let us seek out this supposed holy man. If only to see if we can persuade him to enter death, so that we can raise him back to life again.”
Part Five: The Monk of Madness
“Long ago now, or so it seems, I fought against Inshun Hozoin. He was a master of the spear, and devoted more time to perfecting his techniques with it than he did contemplating the principles of Buddha.” Explained Miyamoto Musashi to his new friends as they entered a quiet place in the local hills, where a great roaring could be heard. A lofty waterfall crashed down to feed some small pond, whereon lily pads could be seen amidst the chirping of songbirds. It was a peaceful place, one to which a holy man might retreat, seeking inner peace. But today, Inshun Hozoin would find no such peace… for Hell was coming for him. Shiro watched the warrior monk as he practiced on some small trees with his spear, striking here and there and smashing branches to splinters effortlessly. A great statue of Buddha stood by a shrine nearby, and the monk often cast a sad look towards it. A look filled with regret! Inshun was getting on the years, and his bald head would have betrayed the gray or white customary with age… had he not kept it shaved, more out of vanity than the piety of the Buddhist faith. He wore some simple brown robes, and from his neck hung a necklace of large prayer beads. He was large, strong, and powerfully built… but his bones ached at times and he knew that he was becoming more: frail each year… a thought that made him think deeply about all the things he longed for out of life yet which he had denied in the name of his religion. “Is that he, the man you said we would find?” asked Grace of Mori. “Yes, that is the one who seeks oblivion perhaps more so than any other man.” Replied the necromancer, with a look on his face that betrayed the pity he felt towards Inshun. Shiro looked deeply into the monk’s troubled eyes and then stepped forward to greet him. Inshun had never seen such a man before, as was Shiro Amakusa. Shiro wore such beautiful, silken garments and had such angelic features… made even lovelier with the addition of makeup normally reserved for noblewomen… that at first the monk took him to be a woman indeed. Even Shiro’s voice had a certain sultry, effeminate tone to it, and his hair was long and cascaded about his shoulders and back in full, soft waves. In reality, this was a wig, purchased from a Kabuki actor Shiro met in Osaka. And so, Inshun said unto him: “Lady, whomever you or your peculiar companions may be… I wish only to be left alone at present. Honor that, and depart!” At which Shiro surprised him by saying: “But Inshun, you do not truly want to be alone do you? You long to live, as you have never lived before. To live, love, and break the strict rules that have governed your entire life. Break them, Inshun, and set yourself free! Be freed, and live eternally.” Thus hearing this, the monk began to weep bitterly. Grace stepped forward and offered her shoulder for him to cry on, but he stepped back at the sight of her beauty. “No! That would be too much for me to bear without breaking my will further.” For he desired her! He desired to embrace her, as well as to embrace Shiro, whom he now realized was a man of some sort, much to his confusion. And because he desired to do this in so carnal and primal a way… if only to let himself go after years of restraint and vows of chastity as well as poverty… he wanted to kill them, in order to make that desire vanish. “Yes, Inshun! You want me, and because you want me, you would slay me in order to satisfy your faith.” Taunted Grace, who then exposed her breasts for the monk to see. “You want to touch these, do you not? Then touch them, and if you must then pierce my bosom with your spear. Surely in killing me, you will be killing your faith in Buddha!” Which caused Inshun to stare at her bosom wildly, his tongue salivating like a wild dog. How he wanted to lick them, to suck them, and to break his every vow thereby. In rage, he howled like a wounded animal and struck her with his spear, piercing her heart. But no blood issued forth from that wound, and when he withdrew the spear he saw the wound close immediately, as if he had never struck her at all. “You cannot slay death, Inshun Hozoin.” Stated Shiro. Inshun’s eyes then fell upon Musashi, whom he recognized from their fight long years before. “You are supposed to be dead! I saw your tomb at Mount Iwato.” He hollered, at which Musashi smiled knowingly, but remained silent. “You must all be ghosts, come to take me to the underworld for my sinful heart.” He muttered. “But you shall not have me! I will give myself wholly to Buddha.” Which he did scream out at them as he ran and scrambled up some nearby rocky crags that loomed above, by where the waterfall came down. Shiro and his companions did not attempt to give chase, for they knew what the monk intended and that very soon he would be theirs no matter his protestations. Grace kept yelling out taunts to him, reminding him of how much he desired her… and this drove him more and more insane until at last he had climbed to a great height up the cliff he was ascending. He looked down from the cliff, and he saw where the statue of Buddha sat serenely below. He tried to smile with equal serenity as he cast himself down from that cliff, falling to his death on the rocks below. As he struck them, the nearby statue broke apart from the force of his landing. Or perhaps, from his damned soul, which in no way entered Nirvana on that day. Shiro stretched forth his hand, and he denied Inshun’s soul any passage beyond, whether to the underworld or to any divine paradise. Just as the monk was in the process of breathing his last, he realized he could not die because of whatever it was the beautiful man had done to him. He got up from the rocks upon which his broken body lay, and his body was seized by some great force that healed every injury the fall had inflicted upon him. He got up, he retrieved his spear, and he cried bitterly. “When you are finished pitying yourself, you may come with us.” Shiro said, his voice as cunning as a serpent’s hiss.
Chapter Three – The Devil’s Disciples
Part One: Blade of the Yagyu
Beneath a lone cherry blossom tree, Jubei Yagyu had fallen asleep whilst meditating on the meaning of life. He was not a tall man, nor overly muscular, but rather he was lean and strong in much the same way as a large cat is lean and strong. He typically wore his dark brown hair in a high topknot upon his head, tied with extreme care. The patch he wore over his left eye: was crafted by him from a sword guard that he had wrapped some leather through. He had lost that eye when just a boy. His father had been training him hard in the art of the katana, and for a single moment he was not paying enough attention to his father’s movements. To pay so little heed in true battle could mean the death of a swordsman… so his father decided that he would teach him a lesson that he would not soon forget. With a lightening fast swipe of his blade, his father took out his son’s eye both cruelly and dispassionately. His mother had some skill with healing arts, and she nursed her son back to health following a fever he contracted from so much blood loss. “You should be ashamed of yourself for harming our son like this!” she scolded the older man. But stubborn, selfish, and sometimes cruel to a fault was Munenori Yagyu. “How could I know the boy would take sick merely from losing an eye?” the father defended using his typically detached sense of logic. Jubei had never forgiven his father for taking his eye, but it did teach him the needed lesson, as well as one other that was even more vital: never trust anyone with a sword in their hand… even if that person is your own father. He was dreaming about that very incident, when suddenly the sound of several feet approaching awakened him. At first, the travelers took him for a vagrant and thought to warn him away from Yagyu territory. He wore a simple white shirt under a leather vest, and a pair of baggy black trousers. The sword belted at his waist could have been stolen, for all the travelers might know! It was late afternoon, and the shade of the tree obscured Jubei’s face just a bit… so that with him underneath the tree, they could not even see his features very well. “Get up, you lousy vagrant! Be off with you. Can you hear us, or are you drunk or something?” they shouted, the men shaking their fists angrily. “So this is how the men my father pays to protect our lands treat one of the Yagyu clan’s own?” Jubei said, laughing just a little at the joke being at the expense of the men. He looked them over: a scruffy lot of peasants carried whatever improvised weapons they could bring to hand. “Come to think of it, you aren’t members of my father’s guard at all, are you? How do I know you yourselves are not the vagrants!” he added, and then he stepped from the shade and they could see perfectly clearly that this was none other than the clan’s heir. “Our pardons, lord Jubei! We meant no ill, we simply thought… oh, never mind, it matters not. Why not accompany us back to the village? Unless of course, there is a reason you are here on the outskirts of the territory.” Jubei then rubbed his clean shaven chin in thought, then replied as best as he could: “You know, I have no idea what I am doing out here. I was supposed to meet someone, a man who claimed he had a job for me to do…something for my blade, if you take my meaning… and I have waited all day for him to show up. So far, all I have met out here was you sorry lot.” They all had a good laugh and parted amicably, with Jubei remaining by the cherry blossom tree to wait for the man who sought to commission his sword. After some time more, the man did show at last. He was a tall man, wearing the traveling garb of a Samurai. His hair was done up much like Jubei’s, except that his topknot was messy either by design or from a hard day’s journey. His face was neat, clean shaven, and by the scent of it perfumed. “One of the Shogun’s fops.” Thought Jubei, and smiled at the jest that he dared not speak aloud. The man smiled back, assuming Jubei was simply happy to meet him at last. “Ah, Jubei Yagyu! My name is Jushin. Jushin Sagoguichi. I am an envoy of the Daimyo that lords it over in the province beyond this one’s easternmost borders. I come bearing some strange tidings, and possibly a task only you night accomplish for us.” Jubei put one hand on his sword hilt, an instinctive reaction when meeting a stranger, and the other at his hip. “I am listening, Jushin. Do go on.” And the man continued: “Several days ago, the tomb of the man known as Araki Mataemon was broken into, his body stolen. Not long after the incident, a man matching Araki’s description was seen in the company of several strange individuals…one of whom is said to be Miyamoto Musashi himself, if the reports are to be believed.” Upon the hearing of which, Jubei broke out laughing, before excusing himself and explaining the reason for his humor. “Jushin, I am not a man who is easily amused, but you come here telling me a dead man is traveling in the company of another dead man and expect me not to laugh? Tell me this is a joke!” but the man was serious. Dead serious! “Jubei, I come to you with these tidings earnestly. The blade of the Yagyu clan is honored, feared, and respected by all in both your lands as well as my own. I would never dare to insult you by telling you something false in such a manner. These dead men walk the land of the living again… and what they intend may prove ill. Araki was once something of a hero, and one well acquainted with you and your family. He died in the same year that the very first stirrings of what became the Shimabara Tragedy began to take shape. I find that strange, and would prevail upon you to investigate the doings of these undead individuals. Will you do it, at least for the pay?” Naturally, Jubei would not turn down even such a mission as this for pay. “Make it worth my while.” He requested.
Part Two: Harvest of Blood
The old temple had been abandoned for some time, which made it the perfect meeting place for those who wish to conduct their doings in secret. Six people were gathered there, one woman and five men, to meet a seventh. An intricate hexagram was drawn on the floor, and a nearby statue of Buddha was smashed to pieces. “Quite the gathering we have here! Shiro Amakusa, Mori Soiken, Gracia Hosokawa, Miyamoto Musashi, Inshun Hozoin, and Araki Mataemon. It seems that I am the only living soul present. Ironic, since the Shogun would prefer me dead.” So spoke the nobleman to the six undead whom he had hired to act against the Shogun in the near future. The noble’s name was Yorinobu. Tokugawa Yorinobu… and he wanted Tokugawa Iemitsu out of the way so that he could become the new ruler of the land in his place. “I am the current head of my family in almost all respects, even though the Shogun rules all of Japan with absolute power. His power restricts my own, and with each new barbarity his regime enacts the peasants cry out all that much harder for freedom, justice, or revenge. Iemitsu fails to see that his actions are the cause of the rebellions that keep cropping up here and there. And, if we are to avoid another Shimabara Massacre then the time to act must be soon! I wish nothing obvious or overt. I simply want you six to stir the pot, keep the chaos going in the land, and keep the pressure on the Shogun so that the people want to rise up more and more… until they finally act. When they come calling for the Shogun’s head, I will be there to save them from him. My reign will be one of mercy, and through mercy I will rule the people more firmly than that fool Iemitsu ever could through terror. Will you do it, then? I can pay you…” but Shiro held up a slender hand and shook his head, saying: “My lord, the dead do not need money. We can take whatever we want, and we do. We will do as you wish, but only because it suits us and our own plans that we act in this manner: at this time. Rest assured, we will cause the chaos you long for!” Smiling, the nobleman was pleased with the answer he was given. “Excellent, Amakusa! You shall have your revenge, and I will have Japan itself. I bid you all farewell! I must return to Edo in order that I might inform the other lords who wish to be a part of our little conspiracy. Soon, I will send word for you to act.” Upon which being said… Yorinobu bowed and then left out the main entrance of the temple. “He is a fool… a child in a man’s robes. But we can use such fools, even so.” Stated Mori, and Shiro nodded his head in total agreement. “For now, we will split our forces. Inshun, I want you and Araki to remain here at the temple whilst the rest of us proceed with the things we discussed before the nobleman’s arrival.” And so they bid their companions farewell, leaving the two men behind to keep an eye on things. “Why is this temple so important to our lord Shiro?” asked Araki of Inshun, and the undead monk calmly explained: “You are the newest member of our sect, so you do not understand the workings of arcane power as employed by our lord… but the hexagram he has sealed here can be used to raise others from death just as we were raised. It is a focus by which the art of demonic resurrection can be worked with greater ease. You see…” but just then there was a large crashing sound, as if someone had tried to break their way into the temple unannounced. Araki was a large man with massive muscles, and dressed in all of a Samurai’s finery. His face was wide, his mouth was large, and his eyes were constantly looking about him, expecting trouble at any moment. His shoulder-length hair was a tangled mess, but otherwise he was neat, his face was closely shaven, and he was exceptionally well groomed. His manners, however, were those of a brute and a lout… in complete contrast to his finely polished appearance. He was known for his brutishness, and did not frighten easily. He heard the men who entered the temple even before they heard him. Ninjas, from the look of them, clad all in black from head to toe so as to move undetected in the night. It was late, one hour after midnight in fact, and these Ninja were hardly trying to be silent, despite their vaunted stealth abilities. “I think there are at least ten of them, by the sound of their footsteps.” Araki whispered to Inshun, and the monk smiled. “Good! Let them come, so that my spear can harvest their blood.” No sooner was this said, than come they did. All ten Ninja leapt into the chamber, where they drew swords against the two undead men who awaited them there. The fight was bloody, and over quick. Arms were severed, spraying blood upon walls that once were sacred and holy. Legs were chopped out from under men. And heads were separated from their bodies! Such was the work of Araki’s blade. Inshun’s spear drank deep that night… and pierced man a man’s heart, as well as their eye sockets, their necks, and other vital places. With the dull end of his spear, the evil monk smashed skulls and broke bones with many a sickening cracking sound. When all was finished, nine of the ten Ninja lay dead with only one escaping. “I am disappointed, Araki.” Inshun laughed. “They did not even bother to tell us which lord wanted us dead, or how they even knew we were meeting here tonight.” An irony that did not escape Araki’s notice! “I suspect they followed that nobleman here and waited for him to leave before acting. They probably watched our entire meeting with him, learning whatever they could, before doing as they did. The one that got away will have much to report, to whomever his true master might be.”
Part Three: Flight of the Ninja
The Ninja raced as far as he could, having witnessed Hell itself being unleashed upon his brothers. “They are all dead!” He thought to himself… “At the hands of two dead men, nonetheless.” But he dared not allow that realization to get to him. He remained calm, centered, and recalled all of his training. “I must go quickly, and reach our home village. I must report what I have witnessed. I must not fail.” Such were his thoughts as he ran, as fast as his trembling legs could carry him. The night seemed to grow cold as he journeyed on… and as he approached the high wooden stockade fence that marked the outer bounds of his village, he knew that something wicked was at work. He heard the two men giving chase, knew they had not given him up, and then put them out of his mind. Hours so passed without a sound. Had those two monsters passed him and then arrived here before he did? No, that would be impossible, even for such as they! But somehow, his very worst possible fears were realized… for there, in the heart of one of the most secluded sanctuaries of the Iga Ninja… the two undead men were engaged in yet another slaughter. Men, women, and children alike were slain without mercy… with the most horrifying fate befalling the fleeing Ninja’s sister, who was unlucky enough to be caught alive by Inshun. Her delicate garments were torn from her body as the unnaturally strong monk held her pinned to the ground, his spear through one of her arms. Thus immobilized and stripped, she was violated slowly by the creature: who delighted in her every agony. Araki was in the process of finishing off his victims, setting fire to the houses of the village using a makeshift torch. The fleeing Ninja ran forward to rescue his sister from Inshun, but Araki spied him and cut him down before he could act. He died without ever having had the chance to divulge what he had learned of the enemy. He died hearing his sister’s screams and moaning, in harmony with Inshun’s beast-like grunts of pleasure. Finishing his ravishment of the young girl, Inshun savagely squeezed her breasts and then bit down hard on her nipples, drawing blood. He then tore her breasts apart with his hands and teeth, leaving her to bleed to death as her village burned around her. She cried horribly as she expired, and Araki was disgusted with what his companion had done to her. “What that truly necessary, Inshun? You could have just simply killed her, without resorting to that level of atrocity!” the undead Samurai chastised, but the evil monk laughed wickedly and said: “Come now, Araki! I know your sort all too well… you have done deeds no less heinous in your time. Tell me you have not raped and murdered your fair share of women, eh?” But Araki had not ever done anything quite this savage, even in the midst of war. “I would prefer to kill a rat then to behave like one.” He stated honestly. “Come, Inshun, clean yourself up and let us get on our way… before some passing militia or another spots this fire and comes after us, thinking us bandits or worse.” At which the monk grinned widely, chuckled, and replied: “Very well, Araki… I will come along soon enough. But, you do realize: we are something worse!” Later, as Araki and his wicked companion made their way through the forest that surrounded the village on all side, the two of them seemed lost in thought. Both men hated each other, and yet respected everything about one another enough that they kept silent as to what their true thoughts actually were. Hours passed, and a single individual chanced upon the scene of the fire. That individual: was Jubei Yagyu, who had come hoping to visit his old friend… the Ninja Kirimaru, who had in fact been the one who had fled, and whose sister fell to Inshun’s perverse lust. Seeing the carnage, and finding the bodies of Kirimaru and the girl, Jubei was furious and vowed revenge on whoever was responsible for this horror. “I do not care if this was done by the living or the dead… if these fiends be living, I will kill them. If they be dead, I will kill them and send them to death again!” Then, he set about the hard task of burning or burying the dead. He picked up his slain friend’s lifeless form, and swore he would not weep, even as a single tear fell from his one good eye. Fireflies, like the spirits of the dead, filled the woods that night. “I arrived too late. Only by a few hours! But still, too late to help prevent this from happening. I heard that Kirimaru had been hired: by my own employer, to spy upon the supposedly dead men I am myself here to investigate. Whatever it is he learned, he took it to the underworld with him.” Such were Jubei’s thoughts as he walked away from the village after having done all he could for the victims therein. It would be dawn soon, and the sun would rise. He had gone a full night without sleep, and he did not care. His rage blazed within his breast, and he refused to stifle it. At that time, an old man was walking along and chanced upon him. “I was watching when Hell came to this place.” The old man said to Jubei, his tone grave. “The men who did this deed were both dead men. Inshun Hozoin and Araki Mataemon. Tell me, Jubei Yagyu… do you believe in the Devil, as do the Christians?” And Jubei looked at the old man strangely. The elderly stranger had the look of a hermit. He wore shabby white robes… prayer beads around his neck… and a wide straw hat upon his head. He walked with a bent and crooked staff. “Who are you, old man?” Asked the swordsman. “Come with me, and see.” Answered the old man, who led him off down very obscure paths that perhaps had been made by animals in times past. Jubei was wary, and kept alert at all times.
Part Four: The Road to Hell
The old men led Jubei down dark and twisted paths where few living souls dared tread. Before long, they came to the ruined temple that was still being guarded by Inshun Hozoin and Araki Mataemon, who by this hour were totally drunk and not paying very much heed to the very real possibility of being spied upon. The old man showed Jubei a low window, and he looked inside. At once, the Yagyu swordsman recognized the two men within. “So, do you believe in the Devil now?” the old man whispered inquisitively to Jubei, who replied equally quietly: “I did not, until this night. But on seeing two dead men drunk in a ruined temple after raiding a village and leaving my best friend dead… I will concede the Devil’s existence after all.” At once, Jubei was of a mind to surprise the two fiends and send them back to the underworld once again. He sprang through the window and rolled across the inner temple’s floor with all the grace of a tiger, drawing his sword in the same motion, and then leaping to his feet before the two startled guardians. He swung his katana at Inshun’s neck, but Araki was quicker and parried the swordsman’s blow with his own blade. “Rouse yourself, Inshun!” the undead Samurai shouted, and the monk suddenly realized his danger, readying his spear. “You will die for what you did to that village!” Jubei declared in a deadpan tone that was most sinister. He broke free from clashing swords with the undead Samurai and hacked at the monk’s spear, testing its’ strength. The wood was strong indeed, and would not break easily. Inshun chuckled in his typical lusty manner, then swung his spear upward, trying to make Jubei loosen his grip upon it. Yet somehow, the swordsman kept his hands firm upon his katana… and prepared for another swipe at one of his foes. The old man watched the fight from the window, with great interest. “How did you two manage to cheat death?” asked Jubei of his enemies, whilst dodging out of the way of their deadly attacks. Araki laughed, then: with a clean slash of his razor sharp sword, he cut the bottom half of his own face off, revealing a bloody, skeletal jaw with rows of fanged, demonic teeth. His upper face was unharmed, and the effect was unsettling to Jubei. The undead Samurai, this disfigured, laughed again, explaining: “We did not cheat death! We are both quite dead men, raised back to a semblance of life by our master.” Noticing Jubei was taken unaware by this hideous display, Inshun stabbed his spear at the swordsman’s left leg… but Jubei was alert despite his lack of sleep and managed to evade the monk’s efforts to jab him. The battle went in much this way for several hours, and the sun was rising whilst dawn approached. “We must finish him quickly!” the monk yelled, feeling frustrated that this living man had not yet fallen to his spear. Araki too, was tiring of this game and grew more desperate in his movements. “You are both dead, I am dead tired, and the sun itself wishes to know the victor of our struggle! Shall we clash swords all day now, or will you part with your heads now so that we can get this over with?” jested Jubei, which irritated the two undead warriors even more. Inshun grew reckless and tried to bull his way into the swordsman, who ducked and sent the evil monk tumbling across the floor… to strike his head upon some rubble, knocking him senseless. Jubei laughed at the clumsy maneuver, whilst Araki savagely struck at him again and again. “Just die already!” the undead Samurai panted, through his exposed teeth. But the Yagyu swordsman was no fool… and as soon as he saw Araki’s open and lipless mouth, he drove his sword into it as quick as a lightening strike, which caused Araki to panic and drop his own sword to instinctively try to claw at his enemy’s hands in an attempt to get Jubei to remove the blade from his face. But the swordsman’s grip was like iron, and with a great effort he twisted the blade and cut upward, cleaving Araki Mataemon’s head in two from the mouth upward… destroying the monster’s brain and thus depriving him of his life. Araki died for the second time, and as a distant rooster crowed… Jubei looked about him for the fallen monk. But Inshun was nowhere to be seen, having escaped during the final moments of the combat. “Old man…” the swordsman called out, noticing the old man was still watching through the window… “I suspect this road I am on may lead me to Hell before we are through! Is there anything further you have neglected to tell me?” At which the old man walked into the ruined temple, his eyes falling on the now truly dead Samurai at Jubei’s feet. “No, my son. This was worse than even I expected.” Suddenly, Inshun’s spear struck out of nowhere and impaled the old man through the right eye, entering his brain, and killing him almost instantly from the force and lethality of the blow. The monk withdrew his weapon as the old man crumbled to the floor lifelessly. Somehow, the undead monk snuck back into the temple when Jubei was busy talking to the old man. “That is one more life you must pay for!” the swordsman vowed, preparing to duel with the monk one final time. But Inshun’s feet were touching the hexagram on the floor, and he seemed to be drawing power from it, becoming stronger with each passing moment. “So that is the source of your power…” Jubei thought, not betraying that he had noticed this. The hexagram was drawn with human blood, and pulsed with some unnatural energy that crackled audibly. In the center of it, was a crystal sphere that was also filled with blood, giving it the appearance of a large red bubble of blood itself. Jubei knew what had to be done with that vile object.
Part Five: Red Sphere of Hell
“When I have destroyed you, I will place my fallen comrade in this hexagram and restore him to life with our master’s power.” Boasted Inshun, noticing how Jubei’s eyes gazed: at the design at his feet. But the swordsman was cunning, and rolled past the larger man’s legs, grabbing the red crystal sphere with his free hand, whilst clutching his katana in the other. The monk struck down at him, attempting to skewer Jubei through the back… but the Yagyu was quicker and dove out of the way of that desperate strike. Without taking the time to think about what he was doing, Jubei threw the crystal unto the ground at hard as he could, shattering it and thus spilling the blood it contained… all over the floor. The glass went everywhere, and Inshun watched in horror as the power went out of the hexagram, which was at best only a design now and nothing more. He roared like a bear, twirling his spear in the air above his head, preparing to deliver a mighty deathblow to his enemy. Jubei acted before the monk was ready, slashing at the tendons on the backs of the larger man’s ankles. With a second slash, aimed at the huge monk’s knees, the swordsman cut through Inshun’s kneecaps and then all the way beyond that… severing the legs out from under him and knocking the undead monster unto his back. The spear fell out of the undead fiend’s hands, and finally he was at Jubei’s mercy. “I told you, that you would pay.” He said calmly, in a matter of fact sort of tone. Then, the Yagyu swordsman cleaved the monster’s skull with one blow and then decapitated him with a second blow. Having dispatched both of the undead who had guarded the ruined temple, Jubei then set about to search the place for any valuables that might compensate him for the trouble he had gone through to liberate the place from their presence. Going through the fallen monk’s garments in search of money, he found instead a sealed parchment on which was written some very specific instructions on how to reach a very specific location. It was signed with the names of Shiro Amakusa and Mori Soiken. Names that, to Jubei, were like the ghosts of a distant past, one he had heard about but never imagined might affect him in so direct a manner. “Two more dead men.” He muttered. “Perhaps the old man was right and the Devil is at work here after all!” he thought to himself, a smile forming on his lips unbidden. Of course the notion was ridiculous! But he could not deny what he had witnessed here this day. “Before I go chasing more ghosts, I am getting some sleep.” He promised himself, lying down in a corner of the old ruined temple. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to enter a deep slumber, and to dream. In his dream, he saw that red sphere change into an eye. The red eye stared at him, studied him, and glared at him hatefully. He could hear several voices chanting: “Satan! Satan! Satan! Amakusa! Amakusa! Amakusa! Lord Shiro, we give our lives and souls for you!” Whilst he thought for certain he sensed another’s thoughts above theirs, thinking: “Was this what I truly wanted?” and Jubei knew that those were Shiro Amakusa’s regretful thoughts. The eye changed into a skull, a bloody skull that grinned with a mouthful of fangs. It was the skull of the dead Samurai Araki Mataemon. The skull was trying to bite his hand off, and Jubei felt the pain of it as though it were real… this pain caused him to awaken and when he did so he noticed he had fallen asleep lying on his hand, which caused it the pain he had noticed in his dream. He breathed a sigh of relief, and then set about making a pyre on which to burn the bodies of Inshun Hozoin and Araki Mataemon. Just to make certain their master could not resurrect them again. He decided to add the old man’s body to the pyre as well, as it was the only kindness he could do for the poor fellow now. He walked away from the temple hours later, as it burned to the heavens behind him. Having read the monk’s scroll, he knew where he had to go next… and what he would face when he finally got there. It was midday by the time he got going, and he wondered what evil Shiro Amakusa and Mori Soiken were up to at the moment. He looked behind him and shuddered at the thought of facing more undead monsters. “I have seen men bleed out their guts.” He admitted to himself in his thoughts, brooding for a moment. “But I have never seen such savagery in an enemy, nor such witchcraft as was employed in this place. That was true horror!” And as he walked along, trying his best to think of anything else but that… he heard the sound of a black raven descending towards a line of trees in the distance. An evil omen, since that was the direction the swordsman was set on traveling in. The parchment said nothing of his enemy’s goals… only how they could be found: by their allies, in case of an emergency. “I will bring them just such an emergency.” Thought Jubei, and that thought brought a smile to his face. He tapped his eye patch: an instinctive reaction whenever he imagined the eye that was no longer there was itching. Noticing he was doing that again, he stopped and steadied his nerves. He had not seen Musashi at the temple, and so the old master must be with Amakusa and Mori… if he was indeed still allied with these people. He was not looking forward to facing an undead Miyamoto Musashi. Such a prospect was the stuff of nightmares in and of itself, for it was said that Musashi had never lost a duel with a single opponent. “I will end this nightmare with my sword.” The swordsman swore, and even should he have to face the Devil before he was through, he would find a way to slay such an enemy. If only: for the promised payment.
To be continued in Legend of the Undead Samurai - Part Three
Part One: The Devil’s Blessing
It was exactly six years after the Shimabara Massacre, in the early summer month of June. It was, in fact, on June 6th… when the first stirrings of darkness began to manifest itself upon the land. It was popularly believed that the great warrior known as Mori Soiken was slain during the Shimabara Rebellion, in defense of Harano Castle. In reality, he had suffered grievous wounds and lay near death for a full year after the final battle was fought. He wanted to stand at the side of his great lord, Shiro Amakusa, the Tenshi. But when the Ninja attacked and the Shogun’s forces breached the gate, he could not reach Shiro in time to save him. It was all he was able to do, to slip out a window and allow himself: to fall to the ground below, hoping for a swift death not at his enemies’ hands. But he survived, by landing in the back of a passing farmer’s cart, which was filled with hay and soil. He had been struck through the abdomen by a soldier’s blade, and bullets from their rifles were lodged in six places in his chest, none of them anywhere near his heart. The farmer took him all the way to the province of Edo, where a great healer was alleged to live. There, with Mori near death at last, the healer worked his art and saved the man’s life. However, it was said that Mori’s soul did not return from death though his body did. Instead, some demonic entity had decided to inhabit his body, merged with his soul and fed on the bitterness of his regret at not having been able to save Shiro’s life. The man he had loved more than life itself. Now it was six years later, and Mori stood before the wooden stake upon which Shiro’s skull was still mounted… before the great cross at Harano, where the bones of the dead still lay heaped all about, and all around, the site of their demise. Mori caressed the skull with a gentle hand, imagining the face that had once been there. That beautiful face! “I am not so lovely as were you, my lord.” He admitted. For indeed, Mori was a short man with a broad mouth, a flat nose, and rather sorrowful looking eyes. His mane of coal black hair was streaked with white on either side since he returned from death, and his voice was hoarse from being damaged after all the smoke he inhaled during the fall of Harano Castle. He wore black robes, and slung over his back was a large sack. “You were too young to perish so cruelly, great Tenshi… and so, by the power that brought me from death I shall restore you to life once again!” Thusly, Mori slung his sack upon the ground and opened it, producing a wand made from a crude stick and topped with a gemstone shaped like an amber eye. He also produced a wicked looking dagger with a curved, serpentine blade and a twisted hilt. He slashed his own palms with the dagger, coating the wand in his blood, and then anointed the skull with the blood in much the same way that holy water might be used to anoint the heads of the faithful during a Christian mass. “With my blood, I call for you to rise again! Remember your oath to return, and though it is not one hundred years later… you are needed now, more than ever. I have brought the vessel for your rebirth hither. Look upon it, and be pleased to inhabit… your new body.” Mori snapped his long fingernails together loudly, and two black robed servants brought forward a familiar young lady. It was Ocho, who had been gone from Shiro’s life for so long. “You do realize, of course, that in doing this… you give up your own soul to death, so that his might inhabit your body to breathe and live once again.” Stated one of the two servants. “Yes, I really do understand… and I hope that my sacrifice will help to ease my regret at having not been able to steer him away from the course that led him to his end.” So she replied to the servant, who nodded his head gravely. Ocho had grown into a lovely young woman, but one who always looked a bit on the masculine side. A better term for her would be androgynous. She had dressed for this occasion, wearing the same white garments Shiro himself had worn on the day of his death. Out of her deep piety for him, she had shaved her head after the fashion of Buddhist monks. “I give up my soul, for him. For the Tenshi! Let Hell itself now take heed, and seal this, my pact with darkness. Let it be sealed, in blood!” so spoke Ocho, and with that Mori Soiken cut the throats of both of his servants, so spraying Ocho’s white garments scarlet. It was the second hour after midnight, and until the third hour nothing happened. But then, six minutes after the third hour… the skull that had hung there for so long fell to the ground. Thunder rumbled in the heavens, and lightening struck the great cross, cracking it down the middle and breaking it asunder. The shattered wood splintered here and there, whilst smoke came up from where the lightening had scorched the rubble whereon the cross thus stood. Ocho’s eyes did seem to stare dead and vacant, as if beholding some terrible sight far distant that no one else could see. Mori was trembling, for even he had not anticipated so very strong a reaction from the dark powers he had come to revere. He started to back away from the site, but Ocho did not move from where she knelt upon the rough ground. Indeed, she knelt as one lost to life itself and bound for some world beyond! Ocho was fully gone… her soul willingly traded away to the Devil for that of another. And that other, began to manifest his influence. “You longed for my return, Mori.” Said Shiro’s familiar voice, coming from Ocho’s mouth. “I am here! Let me thank you for this blessing.” Mori knelt as Shiro walked over to him in his new body: Ocho’s body. Black clouds covered the stars, casting the sky in darkness.
Part Two: Grace and Death
In 1645, one full year following the resurrection of Shiro Amakusa, Miyamoto Musashi died. He was sixty-two years old when he perished, of nothing more it said than old age and weariness from having fought so many battles. His biggest regret, in the hour of his death, had been his involvement with the Shimabara Massacre. It had been his dark secret, that the massacre could never have taken place or had any hope of succeeding, without his having aided the Shogun’s general. The great Musashi was buried in a tomb that had been erected on Mount Iwato. Most mysteriously, is that the tomb had been constructed with aid from the family of a certain Lord Hosokawa, whose family had met with tragedy due to his wife’s conversion to Christianity. Her name had been Tama, the daughter of the nobleman Akechi Mitsuhide. Her husband’s full name was Lord Tadaoki Hosokawa, who sat in great esteem in the Imperial Court. Upon her conversion to Christianity, she took the Baptismal name Gracia, and so became known as Gracia… or Grace… Hosokawa. Her marriage to Tadaoki had been arranged when she was only fifteen years old. The same age as Shiro Amakusa when his full rebellion began, ironically enough. In all, she bore her husband six children before swearing a vow of chastity. Many believed she swore this because of a hearty dislike for the man whom she had been wed to, and this fed all manner of gossip about the perhaps violent nature of their relationship. In the sixth month of the year 1582, Grace’s father betrayed his master, the lord Oda Nobunaga. This branded her a traitor’s daughter, marking her as such for life. Not willing to grant his wife a divorce, Tadaoki eventually had Grace sent in confinement to his family’s ancestral mansion in: Osaka. It was in fact there, where Grace learned a new kind of suffering: loneliness. And it was during this period that she had first converted to Christianity, following in the example of her maid, who was secretly also a Christian. It was in the spring of the year 1587 that she finally decided to attend a Christian church in Osaka, and there she felt a certain abstract sense of peace. Months passed, after which she began to hear tell that a new proclamation was issued which made it a dangerous thing to practice Christianity openly. Fearful for her soul, she decided to be baptized immediately and that is when and how she came at last to take the name Grace as her own. It had, up until then, been her nickname only… spoken only by her Christian friends. It came to pass that in the year 1595, Tadaoki discovered his life was in danger due to various associations and alliances he had made. Dangerous ones, which those in power were not pleased with. He once told her, that if their lives should ever be in danger, or if she were ever in any danger of being violated… that it would be her duty to take her own life rather than subject herself to such shame. She gave the notion of suicide much thought, and she came to dread it even as it secretly fascinated her, in a morbid sort of way. The danger to their lives passed, and all had been as it was before, as though nothing out of the ordinary had ever occurred. Even so, death continued to fascinate Grace much. The death of the man who was then Shogun, Toyotomi Hideyoshi, in the year 1598… created an unstable political climate in which rivals clashed to obtain the fallen lord’s powerful title. It was the year 1600, in which Lady Grace Hosokawa would come to her end. For during the struggle for the Shogunate, the warlord Ishida Mitsunari attempted to take her hostage, besieging the Hosokawa family mansion in an attempt to force her to come out so that he could seize her. He had already taken the castle in Osaka itself, and saw claiming her as the more pleasurable prize. Remembering her husband’s words, that if ever she were to be violated she was to take her own life… she now faced her end and found that her Christian faith prevented her from going through with it. “Suicide is against God’s will. I cannot damn myself, not even to save my honor!” This she spoke to her family retainer, Ogasawara Shosai, whilst dressed in her finest silken robes. He looked at her great beauty, and could not bear the thought of the myriad ways the warlord Ishida might despoil it. Thus, he was moved to pity for her plight. “God is not without mercy, my lady. I will take your life so that it will not damn you to die! In slaying you, I will thusly save your honor and your soul. May God forgive me for doing this.” He then sliced her stomach open with a blade before gathering the other members of the household so that they could all commit seppuku together. Only the cowardly Lord Tadaoki could not be found, and so he had escaped the end that claimed everyone else who had been in his family’s mansion on that fateful day. The outrage over Grace’s death and the family’s suicide was so great, that Ishida was forced to abandon his plans of conquest. Thus allowing his rival, Tokugawa Ieyasu, the chance to become Shogun… a rise to power that would change the political and religious landscape of Japan from that time onward. Such was the sordid history of the family of the man who had helped to raise the tomb of the great, fallen swordsman Musashi. Many claimed that his brutality had made his wife crave death, and that his cowardice had doomed his entire household. In secret, many Christians whispered that the Devil would soon exact from the house of Hosokawa a terrible price indeed, for Grace’s death.
Part Three: Hosokawa’s Reward
Shortly after the burial of Miyamoto Musashi, Shiro Amakusa decided to pay a visit to the ancestral mansion of Hosokawa in Osaka. The building had been totally sealed and boarded up, left as a tomb for the lady whose bones still lay within its’ walls. Rather than purchase a tomb for her, the house itself had been converted into her tomb. No one ever ventured near it, and many believed it to be haunted by the ghosts of those who perished within. It was at the stroke of midnight when Shiro decided to enter the building, his faithful servant Mori at his side. The old door creaked open at the touch of Shiro’s delicate hand, for the wood was rotten with age and many years of neglect. Within, all the skeletons of the dead lay where they had fallen… exactly as the tales told. The saddest of all, was that of the once beautiful Lady Hosokawa herself. “Grace! Grace Hosokawa, I call you back from death. I bring for you, a new body in which to dwell.” So did Shiro speak to the dead noblewoman, whilst Mori snapped his fingernails: to signal the two servants he had told to wait and remain hidden outside. They were similar to his two earlier servants, wearing black robes and bringing with them the freshly slain body of a local prostitute. “Place the body right over there, before the remains of Lady Hosokawa!” Mori commanded, at which the two men obeyed. A terrible wind began to echo throughout the long abandoned mansion, causing the tiles of the roof to crack and fly from their places. After tonight, it would no longer be a sacred resting place for the dead. The wind caused Grace’s bones to topple over and to shatter into pieces upon the broken stones of the floor. “Now, Mori! We need blood, to work this form of necromancy.” Shiro commanded, at which Mori leapt forth with his dagger and slashed the throats of these two servants in exactly the same way he had done with the first two when he resurrected Shiro Amakusa from death. He poured their blood over the body of the prostitute, whose dead eyes then began to open once again. Shiro laughed, gloating over her and saying: “Lady Hosokawa… welcome back to the world of the living! This is your reward, for a lifetime of service to God.” But rather than feel horrified, Grace began to laugh herself, her laughter mingling with Shiro’s in a sinister harmony. She then felt her cold face and body, and was horrified by her appearance. “This whore’s body is nothing compared to my old, beautiful form!” she stated imperiously and dejectedly. “Restore to me my former beauty, and I will serve you and whatever devil or demon it is that has brought you to my home.” That was her price for service to Shiro Amakusa, who agreed. He then walked over to the skeleton and picked off of it the once-beautiful silken garments, placing them upon the prostitute’s form. Now Grace’s new form! Shiro chanted in some ancient and guttural language that not one present had ever heard before. Perhaps it had been Aramaic, maybe even Sumerian. Only Shiro himself knew for certain. He then pulled the garments away from Grace’s body, and upon doing so she appeared exactly as she had when still she lived. She was no longer a soul in a new body… she was herself once again, or so at least it appeared. The old garments then crumbled to dust. “Just as well, I will need them no longer.” Grace giggled, touching her face and feeling familiar features there once again. Shiro had used a similar spell to alter his new body to appear as once it had. The Devil had given him great gifts indeed! “Where shall we go next, my lord?” Mori asked, cleaning his dagger with a cloth as he stomped his right foot impatiently. Shiro thought about it for a moment, and then decided on their next destination: “We will go to the tomb of Musashi, I think, on Mount Iwato. The old wanderer’s regret was strong when he died, and I think we can use the power of it to raise him back to life once again… in service to us.” Grace knew what it was she had regretted in the hour of her death: not having had the courage to take her own life as she truly desired to. And: having never truly lived her life fully, before tragedy caused her to desire death so strongly. “Let death be gone from my thoughts now and forever more!” She screamed at the moon as she and her new companions fled into the night. “I shall sing, dance, laugh and love. I shall be the woman I had not the courage to be when I lived before.” And so she skipped about childishly, twirling and dancing as she went along. She was totally naked, but she did not care. “We will have to find for you some suitable clothes, my lady.” Shiro commented. “If only for the sake of modesty.” Mori laughed at his master’s jest, noticing that Shiro’s old sense of humor was returning. After the events of that night, a Catholic priest who operated in secret in Osaka happened to chance upon the desecrated mansion. Lady Hosokawa’s old remains were taken from there at long last and buried in a cemetery in Sakai. Later, Lord Tadaoki would have the bones removed from Sakai and taken to Sokenji Temple in Osaka for proper interment as befitted a noblewoman such as she. It did not matter any longer to her, however… for she had new friends, a new life, and a new body. All it cost her was her soul, and for her that was a small price to pay for a second chance at getting life right. Like three immortals out of ancient legend, Shiro, Grace, and Mori set out from Osaka on a mission of dark and terrible destiny. And wherever it was they traveled, the Devil went with them if only in spirit, empowering them with the ability to raise the dead as they had been raised… for the dead awaited them.
Part Four: A Swordsman Reborn
The trip up the slopes of Mount Iwato was cold, but to the three undead souls who now traversed that way there was no sensation of chill whatsoever. Just to be safe, they wore enough furs to keep a living person warm… though this was out of old habit more than it was necessity. Old discomforts no longer seemed to be of any bother to them, and this pleased the three greatly. Mori was the first to spot the tomb, and he pointed to the gray structure. Bleak and gray against the white of snow… gray and white against a bleak gray sky. All in all, it was a gloomy place for a gloomy undertaking. “He was said to be the greatest swordsman who has ever lived, either in the east or the west of the world.” Mori explained. Shiro remembered what part Musashi had played in the Shimabara Massacre. What he had not known back then, he had learned now since his rebirth. Secrets and truths gleaned from the fearful few whom he had compelled to divulge it using both magical arts, and the arts of torture, which Mori often tutored him in. “It will be a pleasure to recruit one who was once so bitter an enemy, to our eternal cause.” Shiro said, laughing sinisterly. Grace cared not in any case… she was merely along out of the debt she now owed to Shiro Amakusa for her new life. “I will just be happy to be out of this miserable weather, so that we can go someplace more cheerful.” She stated honestly. “First things first, my dear.” Shiro replied, as they made their way into the tomb, which was itself carved into a cave set into the side of the mountain. The great stone slab that covered the entrance was simple enough for the three to move together, but they were surprised to see that inside was not the dead corpse of the great swordsman, which they had been expecting. Rather, an old man who was still very much alive, surviving on rats and insects, and half-mad from so long in isolation. Musashi was no longer the man he had once been. “Why do you three come here to disturb the rest of the dead?” He asked as one in a trance might. “You still live!” Shiro loudly stated, astonished. “Would that I could die!” Musashi explained. “I went into a coma and my retainers believed me to have died. The fools buried me alive, but so strong was my will that I have managed to survive all of this time… even here, even in these unspeakable conditions. So many times, I cheated death… yet behold! I have escaped nothing.” Seeing him thusly, Shiro was moved to pity for the man who had once been such a bitter foe. “Do you not recognize me, Musashi? It is I, Shiro Amakusa! I have been reborn.” At which the old man very much recognized the one who now stood before him, like a dark ghost from out of his past. “Your death was my greatest regret.” Musashi said, troubled tears forming in his aged eyes. “Yours, and all those innocents who perished because of the aid I gave to the Shogun’s general. I cannot bear it… any longer.” And the years finally took their toll upon old Miyamoto Musashi. He grasped his heart, which attacked him, and so he had collapsed into death at long last. The shock of seeing this specter of the past was the final straw for the old swordsman, who quivered and breathed his last on the floor of his own tomb. Old Musashi looked like a wild man in death, his long beard matted and his balding hair ragged and unkempt. How could he shave or bathe, trapped all this time as he had been? He died a foul wreck of a man, only a shell of what he once had been. Shiro could not allow such a dishonor to befall one so legendary as Musashi! “Return to life, old man. Your body has not yet begun to wither, and by my powers I can restore to you your youth and your strength! Through blood, I can grant life anew.” And Mori did produce his cruel dagger, plunging it into the fallen Musashi’s heart. Blood oozed forth, and then a terrible wind from outside blew through the interior of the tomb. The wind entered the dead swordsman’s mouth, pushing breath back into his lungs. The blood which only moments before had oozed from his breast, so retreated now back into his heart, the wound sealing itself up. Mori withdrew his dagger to allow the wound to close and heal over. The years retreated from Musashi, as he grew younger. At length, he was back in his prime again… dead but alive as he had not been in a very long time, to say the least. He sat up, felt his face and body, coming to realize that some dark power had given him a second chance that he knew he did not deserve. “Why? Why did you bring me back!” he shouted. Shiro calmly explained: “I was once taught to be merciful even unto my enemies. That this is the way of Christianity. Were you not once my enemy, Musashi? Now, you owe me your life and will serve me accordingly! Your code of Bushido demands no less than such a debt of honor.” In that moment, the swordsman knew his soul was lost to him. Yet, he relished the chance to serve the man he had most regretted bringing about the demise of. “I will honor my debt to you, Shiro Amakusa. And I shall travel wherever it is you lead me, fight in whatever battles you wish, and die again if that is what it takes to put right what I once did so very wrong.” At which Shiro smiled serenely. “I know you will, my friend. I know you will.” Was all he said, as the four made their way from the tomb and down the slopes of that mighty mountain, where the greatest swordsman who ever lived had been given one more chance: at glory. “I have heard tell of a place not far from here, where a man long held to be a warrior monk seeks death. Perhaps we should pay him a visit.” Mori offered. “A splendid idea!” Shiro excitedly said. “We could always use the aid of a holy man in our growing company.” What bothered Grace the most, what that nobody thought to ask why it was that they were doing all of this at all… and that question was the only one nagging at her from the back of her mind. Then, just as suddenly as the thought hit her, she shrugged it off and decided not to pursue the matter further. “Very well, let us seek out this supposed holy man. If only to see if we can persuade him to enter death, so that we can raise him back to life again.”
Part Five: The Monk of Madness
“Long ago now, or so it seems, I fought against Inshun Hozoin. He was a master of the spear, and devoted more time to perfecting his techniques with it than he did contemplating the principles of Buddha.” Explained Miyamoto Musashi to his new friends as they entered a quiet place in the local hills, where a great roaring could be heard. A lofty waterfall crashed down to feed some small pond, whereon lily pads could be seen amidst the chirping of songbirds. It was a peaceful place, one to which a holy man might retreat, seeking inner peace. But today, Inshun Hozoin would find no such peace… for Hell was coming for him. Shiro watched the warrior monk as he practiced on some small trees with his spear, striking here and there and smashing branches to splinters effortlessly. A great statue of Buddha stood by a shrine nearby, and the monk often cast a sad look towards it. A look filled with regret! Inshun was getting on the years, and his bald head would have betrayed the gray or white customary with age… had he not kept it shaved, more out of vanity than the piety of the Buddhist faith. He wore some simple brown robes, and from his neck hung a necklace of large prayer beads. He was large, strong, and powerfully built… but his bones ached at times and he knew that he was becoming more: frail each year… a thought that made him think deeply about all the things he longed for out of life yet which he had denied in the name of his religion. “Is that he, the man you said we would find?” asked Grace of Mori. “Yes, that is the one who seeks oblivion perhaps more so than any other man.” Replied the necromancer, with a look on his face that betrayed the pity he felt towards Inshun. Shiro looked deeply into the monk’s troubled eyes and then stepped forward to greet him. Inshun had never seen such a man before, as was Shiro Amakusa. Shiro wore such beautiful, silken garments and had such angelic features… made even lovelier with the addition of makeup normally reserved for noblewomen… that at first the monk took him to be a woman indeed. Even Shiro’s voice had a certain sultry, effeminate tone to it, and his hair was long and cascaded about his shoulders and back in full, soft waves. In reality, this was a wig, purchased from a Kabuki actor Shiro met in Osaka. And so, Inshun said unto him: “Lady, whomever you or your peculiar companions may be… I wish only to be left alone at present. Honor that, and depart!” At which Shiro surprised him by saying: “But Inshun, you do not truly want to be alone do you? You long to live, as you have never lived before. To live, love, and break the strict rules that have governed your entire life. Break them, Inshun, and set yourself free! Be freed, and live eternally.” Thus hearing this, the monk began to weep bitterly. Grace stepped forward and offered her shoulder for him to cry on, but he stepped back at the sight of her beauty. “No! That would be too much for me to bear without breaking my will further.” For he desired her! He desired to embrace her, as well as to embrace Shiro, whom he now realized was a man of some sort, much to his confusion. And because he desired to do this in so carnal and primal a way… if only to let himself go after years of restraint and vows of chastity as well as poverty… he wanted to kill them, in order to make that desire vanish. “Yes, Inshun! You want me, and because you want me, you would slay me in order to satisfy your faith.” Taunted Grace, who then exposed her breasts for the monk to see. “You want to touch these, do you not? Then touch them, and if you must then pierce my bosom with your spear. Surely in killing me, you will be killing your faith in Buddha!” Which caused Inshun to stare at her bosom wildly, his tongue salivating like a wild dog. How he wanted to lick them, to suck them, and to break his every vow thereby. In rage, he howled like a wounded animal and struck her with his spear, piercing her heart. But no blood issued forth from that wound, and when he withdrew the spear he saw the wound close immediately, as if he had never struck her at all. “You cannot slay death, Inshun Hozoin.” Stated Shiro. Inshun’s eyes then fell upon Musashi, whom he recognized from their fight long years before. “You are supposed to be dead! I saw your tomb at Mount Iwato.” He hollered, at which Musashi smiled knowingly, but remained silent. “You must all be ghosts, come to take me to the underworld for my sinful heart.” He muttered. “But you shall not have me! I will give myself wholly to Buddha.” Which he did scream out at them as he ran and scrambled up some nearby rocky crags that loomed above, by where the waterfall came down. Shiro and his companions did not attempt to give chase, for they knew what the monk intended and that very soon he would be theirs no matter his protestations. Grace kept yelling out taunts to him, reminding him of how much he desired her… and this drove him more and more insane until at last he had climbed to a great height up the cliff he was ascending. He looked down from the cliff, and he saw where the statue of Buddha sat serenely below. He tried to smile with equal serenity as he cast himself down from that cliff, falling to his death on the rocks below. As he struck them, the nearby statue broke apart from the force of his landing. Or perhaps, from his damned soul, which in no way entered Nirvana on that day. Shiro stretched forth his hand, and he denied Inshun’s soul any passage beyond, whether to the underworld or to any divine paradise. Just as the monk was in the process of breathing his last, he realized he could not die because of whatever it was the beautiful man had done to him. He got up from the rocks upon which his broken body lay, and his body was seized by some great force that healed every injury the fall had inflicted upon him. He got up, he retrieved his spear, and he cried bitterly. “When you are finished pitying yourself, you may come with us.” Shiro said, his voice as cunning as a serpent’s hiss.
Chapter Three – The Devil’s Disciples
Part One: Blade of the Yagyu
Beneath a lone cherry blossom tree, Jubei Yagyu had fallen asleep whilst meditating on the meaning of life. He was not a tall man, nor overly muscular, but rather he was lean and strong in much the same way as a large cat is lean and strong. He typically wore his dark brown hair in a high topknot upon his head, tied with extreme care. The patch he wore over his left eye: was crafted by him from a sword guard that he had wrapped some leather through. He had lost that eye when just a boy. His father had been training him hard in the art of the katana, and for a single moment he was not paying enough attention to his father’s movements. To pay so little heed in true battle could mean the death of a swordsman… so his father decided that he would teach him a lesson that he would not soon forget. With a lightening fast swipe of his blade, his father took out his son’s eye both cruelly and dispassionately. His mother had some skill with healing arts, and she nursed her son back to health following a fever he contracted from so much blood loss. “You should be ashamed of yourself for harming our son like this!” she scolded the older man. But stubborn, selfish, and sometimes cruel to a fault was Munenori Yagyu. “How could I know the boy would take sick merely from losing an eye?” the father defended using his typically detached sense of logic. Jubei had never forgiven his father for taking his eye, but it did teach him the needed lesson, as well as one other that was even more vital: never trust anyone with a sword in their hand… even if that person is your own father. He was dreaming about that very incident, when suddenly the sound of several feet approaching awakened him. At first, the travelers took him for a vagrant and thought to warn him away from Yagyu territory. He wore a simple white shirt under a leather vest, and a pair of baggy black trousers. The sword belted at his waist could have been stolen, for all the travelers might know! It was late afternoon, and the shade of the tree obscured Jubei’s face just a bit… so that with him underneath the tree, they could not even see his features very well. “Get up, you lousy vagrant! Be off with you. Can you hear us, or are you drunk or something?” they shouted, the men shaking their fists angrily. “So this is how the men my father pays to protect our lands treat one of the Yagyu clan’s own?” Jubei said, laughing just a little at the joke being at the expense of the men. He looked them over: a scruffy lot of peasants carried whatever improvised weapons they could bring to hand. “Come to think of it, you aren’t members of my father’s guard at all, are you? How do I know you yourselves are not the vagrants!” he added, and then he stepped from the shade and they could see perfectly clearly that this was none other than the clan’s heir. “Our pardons, lord Jubei! We meant no ill, we simply thought… oh, never mind, it matters not. Why not accompany us back to the village? Unless of course, there is a reason you are here on the outskirts of the territory.” Jubei then rubbed his clean shaven chin in thought, then replied as best as he could: “You know, I have no idea what I am doing out here. I was supposed to meet someone, a man who claimed he had a job for me to do…something for my blade, if you take my meaning… and I have waited all day for him to show up. So far, all I have met out here was you sorry lot.” They all had a good laugh and parted amicably, with Jubei remaining by the cherry blossom tree to wait for the man who sought to commission his sword. After some time more, the man did show at last. He was a tall man, wearing the traveling garb of a Samurai. His hair was done up much like Jubei’s, except that his topknot was messy either by design or from a hard day’s journey. His face was neat, clean shaven, and by the scent of it perfumed. “One of the Shogun’s fops.” Thought Jubei, and smiled at the jest that he dared not speak aloud. The man smiled back, assuming Jubei was simply happy to meet him at last. “Ah, Jubei Yagyu! My name is Jushin. Jushin Sagoguichi. I am an envoy of the Daimyo that lords it over in the province beyond this one’s easternmost borders. I come bearing some strange tidings, and possibly a task only you night accomplish for us.” Jubei put one hand on his sword hilt, an instinctive reaction when meeting a stranger, and the other at his hip. “I am listening, Jushin. Do go on.” And the man continued: “Several days ago, the tomb of the man known as Araki Mataemon was broken into, his body stolen. Not long after the incident, a man matching Araki’s description was seen in the company of several strange individuals…one of whom is said to be Miyamoto Musashi himself, if the reports are to be believed.” Upon the hearing of which, Jubei broke out laughing, before excusing himself and explaining the reason for his humor. “Jushin, I am not a man who is easily amused, but you come here telling me a dead man is traveling in the company of another dead man and expect me not to laugh? Tell me this is a joke!” but the man was serious. Dead serious! “Jubei, I come to you with these tidings earnestly. The blade of the Yagyu clan is honored, feared, and respected by all in both your lands as well as my own. I would never dare to insult you by telling you something false in such a manner. These dead men walk the land of the living again… and what they intend may prove ill. Araki was once something of a hero, and one well acquainted with you and your family. He died in the same year that the very first stirrings of what became the Shimabara Tragedy began to take shape. I find that strange, and would prevail upon you to investigate the doings of these undead individuals. Will you do it, at least for the pay?” Naturally, Jubei would not turn down even such a mission as this for pay. “Make it worth my while.” He requested.
Part Two: Harvest of Blood
The old temple had been abandoned for some time, which made it the perfect meeting place for those who wish to conduct their doings in secret. Six people were gathered there, one woman and five men, to meet a seventh. An intricate hexagram was drawn on the floor, and a nearby statue of Buddha was smashed to pieces. “Quite the gathering we have here! Shiro Amakusa, Mori Soiken, Gracia Hosokawa, Miyamoto Musashi, Inshun Hozoin, and Araki Mataemon. It seems that I am the only living soul present. Ironic, since the Shogun would prefer me dead.” So spoke the nobleman to the six undead whom he had hired to act against the Shogun in the near future. The noble’s name was Yorinobu. Tokugawa Yorinobu… and he wanted Tokugawa Iemitsu out of the way so that he could become the new ruler of the land in his place. “I am the current head of my family in almost all respects, even though the Shogun rules all of Japan with absolute power. His power restricts my own, and with each new barbarity his regime enacts the peasants cry out all that much harder for freedom, justice, or revenge. Iemitsu fails to see that his actions are the cause of the rebellions that keep cropping up here and there. And, if we are to avoid another Shimabara Massacre then the time to act must be soon! I wish nothing obvious or overt. I simply want you six to stir the pot, keep the chaos going in the land, and keep the pressure on the Shogun so that the people want to rise up more and more… until they finally act. When they come calling for the Shogun’s head, I will be there to save them from him. My reign will be one of mercy, and through mercy I will rule the people more firmly than that fool Iemitsu ever could through terror. Will you do it, then? I can pay you…” but Shiro held up a slender hand and shook his head, saying: “My lord, the dead do not need money. We can take whatever we want, and we do. We will do as you wish, but only because it suits us and our own plans that we act in this manner: at this time. Rest assured, we will cause the chaos you long for!” Smiling, the nobleman was pleased with the answer he was given. “Excellent, Amakusa! You shall have your revenge, and I will have Japan itself. I bid you all farewell! I must return to Edo in order that I might inform the other lords who wish to be a part of our little conspiracy. Soon, I will send word for you to act.” Upon which being said… Yorinobu bowed and then left out the main entrance of the temple. “He is a fool… a child in a man’s robes. But we can use such fools, even so.” Stated Mori, and Shiro nodded his head in total agreement. “For now, we will split our forces. Inshun, I want you and Araki to remain here at the temple whilst the rest of us proceed with the things we discussed before the nobleman’s arrival.” And so they bid their companions farewell, leaving the two men behind to keep an eye on things. “Why is this temple so important to our lord Shiro?” asked Araki of Inshun, and the undead monk calmly explained: “You are the newest member of our sect, so you do not understand the workings of arcane power as employed by our lord… but the hexagram he has sealed here can be used to raise others from death just as we were raised. It is a focus by which the art of demonic resurrection can be worked with greater ease. You see…” but just then there was a large crashing sound, as if someone had tried to break their way into the temple unannounced. Araki was a large man with massive muscles, and dressed in all of a Samurai’s finery. His face was wide, his mouth was large, and his eyes were constantly looking about him, expecting trouble at any moment. His shoulder-length hair was a tangled mess, but otherwise he was neat, his face was closely shaven, and he was exceptionally well groomed. His manners, however, were those of a brute and a lout… in complete contrast to his finely polished appearance. He was known for his brutishness, and did not frighten easily. He heard the men who entered the temple even before they heard him. Ninjas, from the look of them, clad all in black from head to toe so as to move undetected in the night. It was late, one hour after midnight in fact, and these Ninja were hardly trying to be silent, despite their vaunted stealth abilities. “I think there are at least ten of them, by the sound of their footsteps.” Araki whispered to Inshun, and the monk smiled. “Good! Let them come, so that my spear can harvest their blood.” No sooner was this said, than come they did. All ten Ninja leapt into the chamber, where they drew swords against the two undead men who awaited them there. The fight was bloody, and over quick. Arms were severed, spraying blood upon walls that once were sacred and holy. Legs were chopped out from under men. And heads were separated from their bodies! Such was the work of Araki’s blade. Inshun’s spear drank deep that night… and pierced man a man’s heart, as well as their eye sockets, their necks, and other vital places. With the dull end of his spear, the evil monk smashed skulls and broke bones with many a sickening cracking sound. When all was finished, nine of the ten Ninja lay dead with only one escaping. “I am disappointed, Araki.” Inshun laughed. “They did not even bother to tell us which lord wanted us dead, or how they even knew we were meeting here tonight.” An irony that did not escape Araki’s notice! “I suspect they followed that nobleman here and waited for him to leave before acting. They probably watched our entire meeting with him, learning whatever they could, before doing as they did. The one that got away will have much to report, to whomever his true master might be.”
Part Three: Flight of the Ninja
The Ninja raced as far as he could, having witnessed Hell itself being unleashed upon his brothers. “They are all dead!” He thought to himself… “At the hands of two dead men, nonetheless.” But he dared not allow that realization to get to him. He remained calm, centered, and recalled all of his training. “I must go quickly, and reach our home village. I must report what I have witnessed. I must not fail.” Such were his thoughts as he ran, as fast as his trembling legs could carry him. The night seemed to grow cold as he journeyed on… and as he approached the high wooden stockade fence that marked the outer bounds of his village, he knew that something wicked was at work. He heard the two men giving chase, knew they had not given him up, and then put them out of his mind. Hours so passed without a sound. Had those two monsters passed him and then arrived here before he did? No, that would be impossible, even for such as they! But somehow, his very worst possible fears were realized… for there, in the heart of one of the most secluded sanctuaries of the Iga Ninja… the two undead men were engaged in yet another slaughter. Men, women, and children alike were slain without mercy… with the most horrifying fate befalling the fleeing Ninja’s sister, who was unlucky enough to be caught alive by Inshun. Her delicate garments were torn from her body as the unnaturally strong monk held her pinned to the ground, his spear through one of her arms. Thus immobilized and stripped, she was violated slowly by the creature: who delighted in her every agony. Araki was in the process of finishing off his victims, setting fire to the houses of the village using a makeshift torch. The fleeing Ninja ran forward to rescue his sister from Inshun, but Araki spied him and cut him down before he could act. He died without ever having had the chance to divulge what he had learned of the enemy. He died hearing his sister’s screams and moaning, in harmony with Inshun’s beast-like grunts of pleasure. Finishing his ravishment of the young girl, Inshun savagely squeezed her breasts and then bit down hard on her nipples, drawing blood. He then tore her breasts apart with his hands and teeth, leaving her to bleed to death as her village burned around her. She cried horribly as she expired, and Araki was disgusted with what his companion had done to her. “What that truly necessary, Inshun? You could have just simply killed her, without resorting to that level of atrocity!” the undead Samurai chastised, but the evil monk laughed wickedly and said: “Come now, Araki! I know your sort all too well… you have done deeds no less heinous in your time. Tell me you have not raped and murdered your fair share of women, eh?” But Araki had not ever done anything quite this savage, even in the midst of war. “I would prefer to kill a rat then to behave like one.” He stated honestly. “Come, Inshun, clean yourself up and let us get on our way… before some passing militia or another spots this fire and comes after us, thinking us bandits or worse.” At which the monk grinned widely, chuckled, and replied: “Very well, Araki… I will come along soon enough. But, you do realize: we are something worse!” Later, as Araki and his wicked companion made their way through the forest that surrounded the village on all side, the two of them seemed lost in thought. Both men hated each other, and yet respected everything about one another enough that they kept silent as to what their true thoughts actually were. Hours passed, and a single individual chanced upon the scene of the fire. That individual: was Jubei Yagyu, who had come hoping to visit his old friend… the Ninja Kirimaru, who had in fact been the one who had fled, and whose sister fell to Inshun’s perverse lust. Seeing the carnage, and finding the bodies of Kirimaru and the girl, Jubei was furious and vowed revenge on whoever was responsible for this horror. “I do not care if this was done by the living or the dead… if these fiends be living, I will kill them. If they be dead, I will kill them and send them to death again!” Then, he set about the hard task of burning or burying the dead. He picked up his slain friend’s lifeless form, and swore he would not weep, even as a single tear fell from his one good eye. Fireflies, like the spirits of the dead, filled the woods that night. “I arrived too late. Only by a few hours! But still, too late to help prevent this from happening. I heard that Kirimaru had been hired: by my own employer, to spy upon the supposedly dead men I am myself here to investigate. Whatever it is he learned, he took it to the underworld with him.” Such were Jubei’s thoughts as he walked away from the village after having done all he could for the victims therein. It would be dawn soon, and the sun would rise. He had gone a full night without sleep, and he did not care. His rage blazed within his breast, and he refused to stifle it. At that time, an old man was walking along and chanced upon him. “I was watching when Hell came to this place.” The old man said to Jubei, his tone grave. “The men who did this deed were both dead men. Inshun Hozoin and Araki Mataemon. Tell me, Jubei Yagyu… do you believe in the Devil, as do the Christians?” And Jubei looked at the old man strangely. The elderly stranger had the look of a hermit. He wore shabby white robes… prayer beads around his neck… and a wide straw hat upon his head. He walked with a bent and crooked staff. “Who are you, old man?” Asked the swordsman. “Come with me, and see.” Answered the old man, who led him off down very obscure paths that perhaps had been made by animals in times past. Jubei was wary, and kept alert at all times.
Part Four: The Road to Hell
The old men led Jubei down dark and twisted paths where few living souls dared tread. Before long, they came to the ruined temple that was still being guarded by Inshun Hozoin and Araki Mataemon, who by this hour were totally drunk and not paying very much heed to the very real possibility of being spied upon. The old man showed Jubei a low window, and he looked inside. At once, the Yagyu swordsman recognized the two men within. “So, do you believe in the Devil now?” the old man whispered inquisitively to Jubei, who replied equally quietly: “I did not, until this night. But on seeing two dead men drunk in a ruined temple after raiding a village and leaving my best friend dead… I will concede the Devil’s existence after all.” At once, Jubei was of a mind to surprise the two fiends and send them back to the underworld once again. He sprang through the window and rolled across the inner temple’s floor with all the grace of a tiger, drawing his sword in the same motion, and then leaping to his feet before the two startled guardians. He swung his katana at Inshun’s neck, but Araki was quicker and parried the swordsman’s blow with his own blade. “Rouse yourself, Inshun!” the undead Samurai shouted, and the monk suddenly realized his danger, readying his spear. “You will die for what you did to that village!” Jubei declared in a deadpan tone that was most sinister. He broke free from clashing swords with the undead Samurai and hacked at the monk’s spear, testing its’ strength. The wood was strong indeed, and would not break easily. Inshun chuckled in his typical lusty manner, then swung his spear upward, trying to make Jubei loosen his grip upon it. Yet somehow, the swordsman kept his hands firm upon his katana… and prepared for another swipe at one of his foes. The old man watched the fight from the window, with great interest. “How did you two manage to cheat death?” asked Jubei of his enemies, whilst dodging out of the way of their deadly attacks. Araki laughed, then: with a clean slash of his razor sharp sword, he cut the bottom half of his own face off, revealing a bloody, skeletal jaw with rows of fanged, demonic teeth. His upper face was unharmed, and the effect was unsettling to Jubei. The undead Samurai, this disfigured, laughed again, explaining: “We did not cheat death! We are both quite dead men, raised back to a semblance of life by our master.” Noticing Jubei was taken unaware by this hideous display, Inshun stabbed his spear at the swordsman’s left leg… but Jubei was alert despite his lack of sleep and managed to evade the monk’s efforts to jab him. The battle went in much this way for several hours, and the sun was rising whilst dawn approached. “We must finish him quickly!” the monk yelled, feeling frustrated that this living man had not yet fallen to his spear. Araki too, was tiring of this game and grew more desperate in his movements. “You are both dead, I am dead tired, and the sun itself wishes to know the victor of our struggle! Shall we clash swords all day now, or will you part with your heads now so that we can get this over with?” jested Jubei, which irritated the two undead warriors even more. Inshun grew reckless and tried to bull his way into the swordsman, who ducked and sent the evil monk tumbling across the floor… to strike his head upon some rubble, knocking him senseless. Jubei laughed at the clumsy maneuver, whilst Araki savagely struck at him again and again. “Just die already!” the undead Samurai panted, through his exposed teeth. But the Yagyu swordsman was no fool… and as soon as he saw Araki’s open and lipless mouth, he drove his sword into it as quick as a lightening strike, which caused Araki to panic and drop his own sword to instinctively try to claw at his enemy’s hands in an attempt to get Jubei to remove the blade from his face. But the swordsman’s grip was like iron, and with a great effort he twisted the blade and cut upward, cleaving Araki Mataemon’s head in two from the mouth upward… destroying the monster’s brain and thus depriving him of his life. Araki died for the second time, and as a distant rooster crowed… Jubei looked about him for the fallen monk. But Inshun was nowhere to be seen, having escaped during the final moments of the combat. “Old man…” the swordsman called out, noticing the old man was still watching through the window… “I suspect this road I am on may lead me to Hell before we are through! Is there anything further you have neglected to tell me?” At which the old man walked into the ruined temple, his eyes falling on the now truly dead Samurai at Jubei’s feet. “No, my son. This was worse than even I expected.” Suddenly, Inshun’s spear struck out of nowhere and impaled the old man through the right eye, entering his brain, and killing him almost instantly from the force and lethality of the blow. The monk withdrew his weapon as the old man crumbled to the floor lifelessly. Somehow, the undead monk snuck back into the temple when Jubei was busy talking to the old man. “That is one more life you must pay for!” the swordsman vowed, preparing to duel with the monk one final time. But Inshun’s feet were touching the hexagram on the floor, and he seemed to be drawing power from it, becoming stronger with each passing moment. “So that is the source of your power…” Jubei thought, not betraying that he had noticed this. The hexagram was drawn with human blood, and pulsed with some unnatural energy that crackled audibly. In the center of it, was a crystal sphere that was also filled with blood, giving it the appearance of a large red bubble of blood itself. Jubei knew what had to be done with that vile object.
Part Five: Red Sphere of Hell
“When I have destroyed you, I will place my fallen comrade in this hexagram and restore him to life with our master’s power.” Boasted Inshun, noticing how Jubei’s eyes gazed: at the design at his feet. But the swordsman was cunning, and rolled past the larger man’s legs, grabbing the red crystal sphere with his free hand, whilst clutching his katana in the other. The monk struck down at him, attempting to skewer Jubei through the back… but the Yagyu was quicker and dove out of the way of that desperate strike. Without taking the time to think about what he was doing, Jubei threw the crystal unto the ground at hard as he could, shattering it and thus spilling the blood it contained… all over the floor. The glass went everywhere, and Inshun watched in horror as the power went out of the hexagram, which was at best only a design now and nothing more. He roared like a bear, twirling his spear in the air above his head, preparing to deliver a mighty deathblow to his enemy. Jubei acted before the monk was ready, slashing at the tendons on the backs of the larger man’s ankles. With a second slash, aimed at the huge monk’s knees, the swordsman cut through Inshun’s kneecaps and then all the way beyond that… severing the legs out from under him and knocking the undead monster unto his back. The spear fell out of the undead fiend’s hands, and finally he was at Jubei’s mercy. “I told you, that you would pay.” He said calmly, in a matter of fact sort of tone. Then, the Yagyu swordsman cleaved the monster’s skull with one blow and then decapitated him with a second blow. Having dispatched both of the undead who had guarded the ruined temple, Jubei then set about to search the place for any valuables that might compensate him for the trouble he had gone through to liberate the place from their presence. Going through the fallen monk’s garments in search of money, he found instead a sealed parchment on which was written some very specific instructions on how to reach a very specific location. It was signed with the names of Shiro Amakusa and Mori Soiken. Names that, to Jubei, were like the ghosts of a distant past, one he had heard about but never imagined might affect him in so direct a manner. “Two more dead men.” He muttered. “Perhaps the old man was right and the Devil is at work here after all!” he thought to himself, a smile forming on his lips unbidden. Of course the notion was ridiculous! But he could not deny what he had witnessed here this day. “Before I go chasing more ghosts, I am getting some sleep.” He promised himself, lying down in a corner of the old ruined temple. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to enter a deep slumber, and to dream. In his dream, he saw that red sphere change into an eye. The red eye stared at him, studied him, and glared at him hatefully. He could hear several voices chanting: “Satan! Satan! Satan! Amakusa! Amakusa! Amakusa! Lord Shiro, we give our lives and souls for you!” Whilst he thought for certain he sensed another’s thoughts above theirs, thinking: “Was this what I truly wanted?” and Jubei knew that those were Shiro Amakusa’s regretful thoughts. The eye changed into a skull, a bloody skull that grinned with a mouthful of fangs. It was the skull of the dead Samurai Araki Mataemon. The skull was trying to bite his hand off, and Jubei felt the pain of it as though it were real… this pain caused him to awaken and when he did so he noticed he had fallen asleep lying on his hand, which caused it the pain he had noticed in his dream. He breathed a sigh of relief, and then set about making a pyre on which to burn the bodies of Inshun Hozoin and Araki Mataemon. Just to make certain their master could not resurrect them again. He decided to add the old man’s body to the pyre as well, as it was the only kindness he could do for the poor fellow now. He walked away from the temple hours later, as it burned to the heavens behind him. Having read the monk’s scroll, he knew where he had to go next… and what he would face when he finally got there. It was midday by the time he got going, and he wondered what evil Shiro Amakusa and Mori Soiken were up to at the moment. He looked behind him and shuddered at the thought of facing more undead monsters. “I have seen men bleed out their guts.” He admitted to himself in his thoughts, brooding for a moment. “But I have never seen such savagery in an enemy, nor such witchcraft as was employed in this place. That was true horror!” And as he walked along, trying his best to think of anything else but that… he heard the sound of a black raven descending towards a line of trees in the distance. An evil omen, since that was the direction the swordsman was set on traveling in. The parchment said nothing of his enemy’s goals… only how they could be found: by their allies, in case of an emergency. “I will bring them just such an emergency.” Thought Jubei, and that thought brought a smile to his face. He tapped his eye patch: an instinctive reaction whenever he imagined the eye that was no longer there was itching. Noticing he was doing that again, he stopped and steadied his nerves. He had not seen Musashi at the temple, and so the old master must be with Amakusa and Mori… if he was indeed still allied with these people. He was not looking forward to facing an undead Miyamoto Musashi. Such a prospect was the stuff of nightmares in and of itself, for it was said that Musashi had never lost a duel with a single opponent. “I will end this nightmare with my sword.” The swordsman swore, and even should he have to face the Devil before he was through, he would find a way to slay such an enemy. If only: for the promised payment.
To be continued in Legend of the Undead Samurai - Part Three
Published 18th Aug 2012
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Anonymous
27th Jan 2013 7:14am
This is truly the greatest written Samurai epic I've ever read by someone who is not in print as a published author! And to think, this is all based on your past-life memories of that era. Incredible! I have much respect for you, Jessica.
Yes, this all IS based on my past-life memories. I only took very slight liberties with certain events to add a more supernatural flare to things, since the legends they tell of me from that life contain those supernatural elements. So to keep tradition, I left those elements in when writing this. Who is to say those elements are not also true? The truth IS always far stranger than any fiction, after all! And this is a work of fact, for the most part. I am honored at your respect, Laurie! It does you great honor, in return.
