“I see,” Biku murmured, letting his hands drop, “after you if you please, Mr. Kumon,” Biku continued. He raised his hands before his chest and clenched his right hand into a fist. He extended his index finger and wrapped his left hand around it. He had bound them together in the seal of the Kongokai--the Diamond Realm-- referred to as Chiken’in in the world of esoteric cults. Biku maintained the position and closed his eyes.
The two men stood without moving; the breeze gust through their hair, carrying the salt of the ocean. No one spoke. Neither was willing to commit to the first action. They held their respective stances for fifteen minutes.
“Ach,” Gensai finally spoke, muttering, “that’s enough. Just how long were you planning to keep that up for?” His tone broadcast his disappointment.
“Intriguing, indeed.” Biku unwound the seal.
“Hehe.” Hosuke scratched his head.
“I feel like I’ve been duped somehow,” Gensai clicked his tongue and sauntered back to where they stood. “Still, that was a good display, I haven’t seen anything like that in a while.” Gensai pulled the sheet of paper from his back pocket and handed it to Biku. “Take a read of that. It’s all about Panshigaru.”
4
Panshigaru, derived from Phansigars: a mysterious fraternity also known as the Thugs.
Emergent in India between the twelfth and thirteenth century, the fraternity ritualized attacks on travelers, its members killing through a rite of strangulation. The term became popularized throughout Europe, and later the world, after Lord Conwallis’ occupation of the Mysore State in 1799. The word ‘phansigar’ has its origins in the Hindustani term ‘phasi’ (a snare, or noose), while ‘thugs’ is derived from the northern-Indian word for ‘deceiver’ or ‘con-artist’. The ‘Phansigars’ came to be referred to as ‘thugs’ due to their common use of deception to infiltrate groups of travelers. They would kill by wrapping a ‘phasi’, or snare, around their victims’ necks.
The Greek historian Herodotus described a people that would fight using only a dagger and a looped braid of wrought leather, Persians from the Sagartii who were (later) recorded to have entered India during the Islamic conquest. They moved in groups, killing their prey before looting the bodies. When planning their attacks, the Thugs--or Thugees--would dispatch scouts to ascertain the location of well-to-do travelers and prepare. The main group would then pretend to be travelers that had lost their way, entreating the travelers to allow them into their ranks; the Thugees would assume positions ahead of and behind the group. Those trailing the group would then wrap a strip of cloth called a Ruhmal around the travelers’ necks and pull. Another would push the traveler’s head forward while the third took hold of the legs. This is how they would manhandle their victims to the ground before killing them. Each time they killed, they would perform a ritual called the Tapoonee over the victims’ graves. Various estimates calculate that no less than a million people died at the hands of the Thugees. The Thugees worshiped the Hindu goddess Kali, one of the principal Hindu deities, the wife of Shiva and the goddess of death.
As Britain consolidated its hold over India and the various spoils of civilization such as railroads and telegrams began to spread across the country, the basic infrastructure that had supported the Thugees’ modus operandi began to crumble. In 1830 the Governor General of India, Lord William Bentinck, issued an edict for the total extermination of Thugees throughout the country. In the modern day, the Thugee cult is claimed to have been either completely wiped out or reduced to a mere handful of followers.
That was the extent of information contained in the copy Gensai had handed them regarding the Thugees and Phansigars.
“Okay then,” Gensai began, “perhaps there is a link between the Phansigars and Panshigaru.”
“It’s difficult to be sure, but that is most likely the case. I can’t imagine a word like ‘Panshigaru’ has many other meanings. And Hanko, the beast I mentioned, used something like a leather noose as a weapon.”
“Ahh,” Gensai made a child-like noise. He was beaming at them. “The author of ‘The Secret Sangha of India,’ the book I took the copy from, was a woman.”
“A woman, I see.”
“I took the liberty of copying her details. It seems the book was autobiographical, based off of her own walking expeditions across India and the Middle East. Her name is Miwa Ishibashi.”
“Ishibashi!?”
“Aha, that sounds like it rings a bell.”
“Had I not mentioned? We know that the Shinmeikai is somehow related to Panshigaru, and Shutaro Toyama’s secretary has the surname Ishibashi.”
“Indeed?”
“Feels like we’re closer to solving the puzzle,” Hosuke said.
“Then let me share another nugget with you, the extra-special bit I mentioned earlier. Have you heard of an organization called the L.L.S., ‘The Life & Light School’?”
“No,” Biku answered.
“It’s a new cult religion, they also call it the ‘Life & Light Sangha’. Miwa Ishibashi is the founder. Knowing this, I guessed that you might like to meet her so I took the liberty of doing a little more research. She runs the school with a partner, someone called Geshin.”
“Geshin!” Biku said, his voice suddenly sharp.
“Ah, you know him?”
“If it’s the same Geshin, he used to be in Mt. Koya. I’ve come across him before.”
5
I don’t want to die.
Senkichi Fuminari ground his teeth noisily in the dark. His arms and legs had been bound by thick strands of mountain rope. The rope was 8 millimeter thick nylon, the type used by rock climbers. They had forced him into a heavy wooden chair and twisted his arms around the back before using the rope to bound him. The rope was too strong, even for the considerable strength of his arms. Climbing ropes are placed under a staggering amount of stress when a climber falls. The exact levels of stress vary depending on the distance fallen, but generally the rope could be subjected to a force measured in tons. A climbing rope with a thickness of only 8mm is strong enough to weather this. Fuminari knew his attempts would be futile the moment he first tried to tear through the rope.
Hours had passed since he had been brought into the building. During the first hour or so he had been under the scrutiny of Enoh, Renobo and six other people; now he was alone. He had been lifted to another room while strapped to the chair. The new room was underground, the floor concrete. They had locked the heavy, iron door shut. There was nothing else in the room; Fuminari had noted this when they had left him here, before they had plunged the lights into darkness. The same darkness through which he had heard the lock click shut.
Even if he could get free of the ropes, there was no way he could break through the iron door. And even supposing it was possible, such a feat would take hours. The gunmen would be on him before it gave. Why didn’t I fight harder? He had been presented with a chance, the knife hidden in his pocket. That was the move he should have made, back at Ishibashi’s house, in the sights of the three gunmen. He felt sick with self-reproach. Now they had taken his knife and he only had his body as a weapon. The only reason he was still alive was because they wanted to know more about him and why he was so interested in Panshigaru.
He knew he would be tortured. There was no chance these kind of people would want a civilized discussion. If he confessed he would be killed on the spot. If he refused, he would either die from continued torture or they would give up on him; either way he was dead. Enoh had said someone called Kurogosho would be arriving the next day...no, it was already after midnight--Kurogosho would arrive before the day was out. Fuminari’s torture would begin after they met. His mind conjured up the image of someone cutting through his penis, forcing the chunks of meat into his mouth.
“Shit!” Fuminari shouted. He wrenched his mouth tight and began to shake his huge frame. The cut where Renobo had bitten down on his lips re-opened. He flicked his tongue over it and tasted warm, salty blood. He spat it t
o the floor, mixed with phlegm.
Panshigaru. Fuminari had nothing on it. Ryoko had talked about them just that morning, after his fingers and tongue had brought her time and again to climax. She told him that Munakata had brought up the subject the last time they had met: “Have you heard of an organization called ‘Panshigaru’?” Ryoko had told him that she hadn’t. Munakata had given her a furtive smile; it was only natural she hadn’t, it was best that way. She had asked him about the organization afterwards, but Munakata had said nothing else. Then she had told Fuminari of the L.L.S., the pamphlet that had gone missing from her room, and of Akio Ishibashi.
Fuminari wanted to wring his own neck for having come so far only to walk blindly into a trap. In the beginning, Fuminari had no interest in learning about the L.L.S. or about Panshigaru. His motivation had been limited to putting an end to the abomination that had deprived him of his fingers.
But if the people that had captured him were somehow linked to the beast, they would only need to see the three-fingered hand under his gloves and they would know who he was. They would put two and two together, kill him there and then. Knowing the secret of his fingers would be enough, they would probably kill him without even bothering to torture him for information. Fuminari groaned. He felt blackened, charred under a flame of burning regret.
Just then, through the darkness, he heard a slight noise. The sound of a key being inserted into the door’s lock. The iron door opened, someone came in. Fuminari’s nostrils reacted to the scent; strong, female. With it, the stifling odor of blood--lots of it. The light came on. The bitch Renobo stood directly before him, her lips formed a thin, bewitching smile. She was in a white gown, belt draped loosely around the swell of her buttocks. The front of the gown hung open to one side to expose a pale breast, the apparent source of the female stench. A smooth leg was visible through the slit of the dress below the belt. There was something staggering about the woman’s brazen sexuality. Her appearance alone would have been enough to overload any teenager with a hunger for women and an overabundance of lust.
She was holding a white vessel in one hand while the other played underneath the gown around her chest, openly massaging the breast underneath. The sight of her hand rising and falling under the gown was vastly more erotic than seeing it bare. Her lips were a bloody red. She brought the vessel in her left hand to her mouth and lavishly supped at the liquid inside, washing it down her pale throat. Some trickled over the edges of the vessel, staining her gown red. It was blood; Renobo was drinking someone’s blood. She strode closer and leant over him until her obscene features were inches away. She opened her red lips and laughed, blowing her breath over him. The fishy stench of blood was overpowering.
“Want to try some?” Renobo spilled some of the thick blood from the vessel over his face. The blood was cold. His face stained red, became demonic. “Should I let you in on what happened of Munakata?”
Fuminari glared, saying nothing. Renobo let out a high-pitched laugh and gulped down the remaining blood from the vessel before holding it out for him to see. Fuminari noticed that the rim was not perfectly round. Instead, it followed an unsettlingly sinister curve.
“This is him,” she said. “What you’re looking at now, this is Munakata. This is a kapala, cut from the man’s skull.” She let out a horrific, screeching howl. Fuminari felt the tiny blood-soaked hairs on his flesh stand on end.
Renobo slipped the belt from her gown, still holding the kapala in her left hand. It fell to the ground, exposing everything underneath. She had absolutely nothing on. Her nipples were erect like red berries. He saw the blackness of her groin and the open petals of flesh underneath. Still standing directly in front of Fuminari, Renobo opened her legs wide and thrust her hips forward.
“Take a good look. You can see, right? I’m dripping wet.”
Renobo used a pale finger from her right hand to part the red flesh before slipping it inside. She began to massage herself, working her fingers slowly. Within moments her hand was soaked, glistening with viscous liquid. “It’s just like you said, I’m always thinking of what men like to ram in here. Of letting them have their way with me until they’ve had their fill.” She squirmed and coiled like an albino snake, drunk on her own flesh. Her skin was abnormally white. Flawlessly white, like a dark cave-dwelling invertebrate that had never seen the light of day.
Her fingers picked up speed as her groaning increased in volume. She poured the remaining blood from the kapala over her groin and her fingers flicked with a renewed vigor. Both her groin and her fingers were stained red from the blood. She lowered the kapala to the floor and reached down between Fuminari’s legs, her other hand continuing to massage herself; she undid the zip on his trousers, her white hand plunging into his jeans. Fuminari let out a groan. The movement was almost unbearably carnal.
There are two types of sexual allure -- that which is learned and that which is present from birth. Renobo’s was clearly of the latter class. Her particular flavor of sexual abandon was congenital, fundamental to her flesh and blood.
Fuminari’s lips contorted as he groaned again, swallowing air. He shook his hips in an effort to free himself, but there was nothing he could do. He cried out, humiliated. He could feel the sensations, but his penis stayed limp. His forehead had become slick with sweat. He was getting turned on, despite remaining as soft as ever between his legs. His limp cock ejaculated copiously over Renobo’s hand. Her hand came to a halt. At the same time, she paused the movement of the hand between her own legs.
“Well well!” Renobo gave him a blood-curdling smile, bringing her face up to meet his own; she glared into his eyes. “What’s wrong with it?” She reached down to his still soft cock and shook it with her hand. Fuminari turned away, grinding his teeth loudly. “Hmmm.” Renobo’s crimson tongue snaked over her lips. “Your proud little viper is no good for pounding cunt after all.”
Fuminari howled in shame. Renobo let go of him and waved her hand in front of his eyes for him to see. Her fingers were covered with his semen. He had responded to her stimulation and ejaculated, even without an erection. Renobo’s blood-red tongue slithered over her fingers, lapping up the white liquid. She rubbed the remainder over Fuminari’s face, bursting into a sudden, high-pitched laugh.
“I see, I see.” She glared into his eyes, then laughed again. She recovered her belt and the kapala from the floor, then turned out the light and left the room, closing the door behind her.
The laughter rang in Fuminari’s ears long after he heard the quiet click of the lock in the darkness.
6
It was roughly an hour later when Fuminari heard the sound of the lock again.
He heard the door being opened, slowly this time, and sensed someone enter the room. Again, he smelled the scent of a woman, but different from Renobo earlier. The woman held her breath, as though terrified of making a sound.
“Who’s there?” Fuminari asked, keeping his voice quiet.
The woman said nothing. There was a nervous perspiration in the darkness. She made no attempt to turn on the lights. The woman marshaled a few breaths in the dark then moved closer behind him, hesitant. She placed something metallic, cold, between his fingers. He immediately recognized it as a knife.
“What the...” Fuminari whispered, his voice tight.
“Use this, get out of here,” the woman whispered back, even quieter than Fuminari. There was something odd about the voice; it was accompanied by a rasping noise, a scraping of air. “Take the stairs outside the door, I left a window open to the right. Use it. Steer clear of Panshigaru in the future.” She said nothing more, leaving the room as quietly as she had entered. There was no sound of the door being locked.
Was it a trap? That was Fuminari’s first thought. But he would not allow himself to hesitate. This was his only option.
7
A window had been left open at the end of an L-shaped corridor
Outside, Fuminari could see the expansive grounds of the residence,
only dimly visible in the moonlight. There was a wall ten meters away, two meters or so meters high. He knew then that the building he was in was sizable. He also knew that if he jumped from the window, he would make a sound on the grass when he landed, possibly loud enough for that old man, Enoh, to pick up on. Still, it was possible; he could jump down, make a run for the wall and vault clean over it.
But who was she? His thoughts returned to the woman. Why help me? He could worry about that later. He hardened his resolve and reached out to the window. It was a little too narrow to let his huge frame out easily. He heard footsteps from the darkness to the right. Someone was walking his way from the other side of the corridor--a single pair of footsteps, and close enough that he would be discovered before he could get clean of the window. Fuminari’s decision was instantaneous; he concealed his frame against the corridor’s edge. As long as it wasn’t Enoh, he knew he could dispose of whoever it was before they could even make a sound. The footsteps were too clumsy for Enoh. Whoever it was held a torch, the beam directed towards the floor near the turn in the corridor. The footsteps drew nearer, then came to a sudden stop. They had noticed the open window. Footsteps again, the shape of a man came into view next to the window. The man was looking at the window, standing now with his back towards Fuminari. Fuminari moved stealthily behind him before wrapping a thick arm around the man’s neck, tensing with explosive power. At the same time, he grabbed the torch with his other hand; the last thing he wanted was for the man to drop it. The man’s legs hung suspended as Fuminari lifted him into the air while he crushed the man’s neck. The sound of his feet shuffling on the floor would probably be enough to alert Enoh.
The Psyche Diver Trilogy: Demon Hunters Page 21