Naruto Fan Fiction ❯ Naruto: Genesis ❯ In the beginning... ( Chapter 1 )

[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]

Naruto: Genesis
By Lannon the Wizard

Author's Note: When I write a fan fiction, I like it to be a part of the universe that the original author hasn't explored. This story is about the First and Second Hokages and the origin of Hidden-Leaf village. Masashi Kishimoto at this point in time (January of 2004) has written very little about this era of the Naruto universe, and that's why I feel the desire to write a fic about it. I like to stay as true to the original story as possible, and I will stick with that premise as long as I am able to. But if Kishimoto ends up writing something completely contrary to what happens in these pages, just think of this story as an alternate universe fic and don't stop to wonder. With that out of the way, I hope everyone enjoys this story! If you have any comments, whether praise or criticism, please send them to lannon_the_wizard@yahoo.com. I'd love to hear from you!

Chapter 1: In the beginning...

The tent was dark inside. Shadows hang like cobwebs upon the cloth and the posts that held it up, strangling the small flicker of the candles that gave only the slightest amount of illumination to the otherwise abysmal hut. The man sitting cross-legged, head bowed, arms folded, in the center of the room had his eyes closed, and thus he could not see the visages of the seven men sitting around him as they flicked in and out of the weak, brown glow of candle-light. The incense burning in four bowls at opposite angles around the man filled the air with wisps of smoke so that all of the men felt as though they were choking on the darkness and the heaviness of the moment. A dark, guttural rumble sounded from the man in the center. His head snapped back and he breathed deeply and raggedly of the pungent air, as though he had emerged from a great depth of water. After several moments he had regained his breath, and a shuffle of cloth let him know that those sitting around him were impatient to hear what he had to say.

Matsushita Kazuo was one of the seven who had endured the heat and oppression of the hut for the last two hours to hear the oracle of the high priest. Like the others, he leaned forward eagerly, knowing that the ceremony was completed and the vision had been delivered. He focused on the bony, wrinkled face of the priest; the thin trails of graying hair; the blank, milky eyes; the paleness left over from the strain of listening for the ethereal voice of the gods. This was Hyuuga Furuzawa, the spiritual leader of the tribe, and as he lifted his arm and the long folds of his black robe followed, all present fell deathly still to hear his pronouncement. The long, bony finger pointed at some unknown spot that only the priest's unfocused eyes could see in the folds of time.

"The forest," the voice like gravel began, "It is quiet, green in the clear, crystal light of the day. A storm cloud from the East, darkness engulfing the sky, turning pale blue into the blackest of evils. Below, the voices of the women, the children, even the men, screaming. A fire from heaven, a spear from the skies, and the voices go silent. A light, but it is not the sun. From the earth, from the wound of the spear, the light brightens. It burns the sky; the clouds melt into blue once more." The voice halted, and the face of the priest twitched, as though his memory of the vision had suddenly surprised him. "The light multiplies. Tens, hundreds, thousands of them. The darkness returns, but it no longer encompasses the whole of the sky. The lights brighten, merge, and become a thousand fold the greatest glory of the sun. And--" the priest gasped and hunched forward. Several of the men jumped to their feet and tended to their elder. After a few moments he regained his composure and straightened himself. The men returned to their positions facing the old man. "I...do not know what happens next. I have heard the soundless voice of those beyond the pasteboard mask of this world and this is all they have told me."

The tabernacle returned to silence, but this time the men faced each other in deep thought. Their eyes flicked one to another, and as though each glance transferred a thought, they mused together as one consciousness, all knowing what to say but none daring to speak it. Matsushita Kazuo fought back the itch in the back of his throat that caused him to desperately want to cough. It was a brooding disquiet, and at its depth was a primal fear, not just of the message hidden in the vision gleaned from the high priest's ecstasy, but the stink of foreboding death. The discomfort of the assembly was potent, but no one said a thing. Finally, the elder spoke again. "We all know what this means. The unseen powers have heralded such portents since the days before my father's father, and each time the meaning has been unmistakable. Another One is coming, and we must prepare."

Furuzawa turned his gnarled hand toward one of the middle-aged priests to the left of Kazuo. "One of us must face the end of our lives so that the rest of the village can continue to live their own. The gods have ordained you to be the protector of the one who must perish. You will stay with him in this last day as his guardian, as his comfort. Allow the chosen one to do as he will; your only duty is to protect him from others and from himself, and to see that he remains loyal in his final hours.

"The spirits of earth, fire, lightning, water, wind, sound, wave, grass and rain unfolded the shrouds of our ancestor's eyes and have revealed our only means of salvation. Thus we do it today, and will do it forever. To save our tribe from the One that is coming, a sacrifice must be given. We are the holy ones, decreed to our offices by Those Beyond the Mist, through me and my father and his father, through the ages. Only the blood of a priest is of fit state to be shed for this purpose. In my dreams, I have seen he who is to die for the lives of all the families who are part of our tribe."

With this last pronouncement completed, the cold fear that had shrouded the eight people in the room became freezing pain. Kazuo could feel his heart beating faster. A cold sweat had sprung upon his skin, and he no longer breathed for fear of misunderstanding the priest's next words. The only person who did not fear, the only man in the small room who did not feel the same trepidation was the high priest Hyuuga, for he was the one who mastered all of their fates at this one moment. His voice cut the air like a spear driven through the flesh, and were it not for their trained bearing, each and every priest in the tent would have jumped at his voice. "You, Yoshida Hiroshi-san, are the blessed sacrifice for our lords."

The first thing Kazuo felt was a flooding relief that left him hot and breathless. He would not be the one to die for the village on this occasion. But then he caught sight of Hiroshi's pale, drawn face, and sorrow and shame filled the young man's heart at feeling relief at another man's loss. Kazuo could hear Hiroshi's children laughing in the pale sunlight through the forest leaves, could hear the tender voice of the man's wife, and for a split second he knew the horror of loss the man must be feeling at that moment. The priests who would continue to live their lives bowed their heads to Hiroshi, and he bowed back weakly. Then he and his protector stood up and left the tent. It would be the last day Yoshida Hiroshi would walk under the green leaves, smell the flowers of spring, and taste the love of his family, and so they let him go to do those things one last time.

"To protect the life of the one who must make the sacrifice, we have had Hiroshi leave before speaking the name of the one who will perform the ceremony. Matsushita Kazuo, you will be the priest who will spill Hiroshi's blood upon the ground and call forth our salvation. All of you leave and spread the word to the village to prepare to leave, then all of you ready yourselves both physically and spiritually for the trial that is to come."

The seven men filed out of the tent. The darkness that had enveloped them like murky water in the tent was banished outside. Here, the sun shined brightly upon a cool, cloudless autumn day, but Kazuo did not feel the air nor the sun. He did not see the green light filtering through the forest leaves above him, and he didn't smell the sweetness of kindled wood and cooking meat that filled the air. He walked dumbly forward and his black robes and long black hair flipped idly in the breeze, and the hot sun became hot on his back. He was a young man, old enough to be recognized for his maturity in the village, but not yet old enough to be considered wise or experienced. Yet, not a single villager could doubt his talent as a priest, which was nurtured in him from a young age, and that is why he was the most youthful priest in the Order. He had not been one long, and he had only partaken in two sacrificial ceremonies. And now, he was required to perform the sacrifice and conjure the spell that would take the life of one of his trusted friends. The last thing that Yoshida Hiroshi would feel would be the blade of his friend piercing his stomach and spilling his bowels upon the ground.

The trees that had canopied Kazuo as he walked disappeared as he entered the village. Tents and huts of many sizes and shapes reared up before him, all set in a rough circle in a large, man-made clearing. Misty streams of smoke curled up and dissipated in the sky from a dozen different fires, children worked by their parents' sides or else ran around playing in the dust of the village or the thick bed of leaves in the forest surrounding them. Men were skinning animals, chopping and carrying wood, and women were cooking or sewing and decorating furs and skins, or weaving strong, fine cloth. As Kazuo passed, many of the people called out to him in greeting or questioned him about the oracle they had received. In a voice that was bereft of life, he told them that they must pack up their things, gather their children, and prepare to leave on the morrow. Each priest moved through the village in this way, and thus a shadow fell upon the tribe as the priests passed through it like the heralds of Death on an unending mission of woe. The sounds that had made the atmosphere so light and carefree faded. Children quit laughing. Women quit talking. The men quit boasting. The people's cheerful movement became wooden and habitual. These people had done this before, many, many times in their lives. The danger no longer alarmed them. The threat of death no longer startled them. It was like a cloud of oppression that hang over their heads continually--brooding and charged with power--ready to strike with white fire at any time and sear everything into smoldering oblivion. But a people cannot exist when at every noise they flinch with expectancy of death. And so, they settled into the pattern and forced themselves to be continually braced for the strike, never able to let down their guard. When the bloom of happiness seemed to brighten the shadow of the cloud of oppression, the people knew that it would soon fade; a mere illusion of light in a darkness that would never fail. As the priests told what the gods had shown to their high priest in a vision, the bloom began to shrivel, and its pedals fell to the ground one by one, withered and brown.

Kazuo moved through this dark portrait and felt the pangs of hurt stabbing throughout his body as he watched men put down their tools and begin strapping their belongings together, grabbing items that were no longer essential for living. The women did likewise and the children solemnly helped their parents, eyeing their friends longingly, but knowing that such cheer as they had felt only minutes earlier wouldn't be felt again for many days. Like every person in the village, Kazuo knew that this was no longer their home, and it would be a long journey before they settled into another place of rest and relative joy.

Kazuo passed through it all and back into the forest on the other side of the encampment. By the time he had left the last tent, he was exhausted from the stress of telling the news to the people he passed that it was time for them to migrate once again. He didn't know if he could withstand another piercing gaze of worn resignation, of pleading helplessness. But the person he was searching for now would not give him that look when he heard the news, and that made Kazuo feel better, for what it was worth.

A large river wound through the forest just a short walk from the camp. Kazuo stepped up on the bank just shy of the water and looked out across its breadth, sparkling in the sunlight, oblivious to the oncoming danger, strong and mighty and resistant to the forces of the world. It did not cheer him. Mustering his breath he bellowed out to the wild, "Matsushita Kenjiro!"

From some distance off a similar bellow answered back. To most it was unintelligible, but Kazuo knew exactly what that particular sound meant. Several minutes of waiting later, a sturdily built canoe turned a bend in the river, bearing a white-haired young man in black clothes. The man's face, which was framed by a collar fringed by white fur, was sharp and angular. The man himself bore a sharp, serious look that was lightened by the man's eyes, which sparkled with an inner laughter that rarely showed itself. The canoe hit the bank and the man nimbly jumped out. He gave Kazuo a piercing look, and his neutral face fell into a frown.

"It's time again." Kenjiro did not have to ask; he knew. Kazuo nodded, but Kenjiro kept his eyes fixed upon the priest's wide face and broad features. "There's more."

Kazuo nodded and took a deep breath. He tightened his hand into a fist and lowered his eyes. "I am the priest that is to perform the ceremony. I must kill Yoshida Hiroshi..." He choked on his own words, and he ground his teeth together in an effort to keep the tears from breaking from his eyes.

Kenjiro nodded and put his hand on the other's shoulder. They stayed that way in silence for several moments, until Kazuo raised his head and Kenjiro let his arm drop. They looked at each other's eyes, each understanding the other without the need of words. Kenjiro broke the silence. "You know what must be done. This is how we survive. It has been this way further back in time than the oldest shreds of our knowledge reach. One must be sacrificed to save us. It's either that, or the whole tribe dies. I would die for our village."

The words that were left unsaid were the most potent. Kenjiro would give his life for his village, but unless war broke out between another tribe, that would not be necessary. Only the priests could give their lives to save the village from the evil that was approaching, and one day Kazuo might be the one chosen by the gods to pour the fluid of his life from his veins and be offered up for the salvation of those people who depended upon him. And he would do it willingly. Kenjiro knew this, and so did Kazuo.

The priest nodded. "I see you have done well today, little brother." He waved his hand idly to the canoe, which bore a load of fair-sized fish that had been drawn in by Kenjiro's net. Also decorating the boat was a spear upon which four three-foot-long fish were skewered. Kenjiro smiled and nodded. "I would rather be in the woods hunting elk, but these are edible."

"It's good that you caught so much today. It will be needed for the journey."

"What am I to do? We've talked enough, and the sun is falling to the west."

"Hyuuga-sama has appointed you as the guide of one of the scroll-keepers. You are to head to the village and there you will be paired with the group you are to lead."

Kenjiro shook his head and sighed. "Is it worth it, Kazuo? Ever since we were both kids running around together, our parents and all the priests told us that the scroll-keepers were the most important people in our village. But we're both almost twenty now and neither of us have seen them do anything for our village in all this time."

Kazuo knew that Kenjiro's words were said not out of practicality, not spite. Kazuo had often felt the same feelings toward the scroll-keepers, but he had never spoken his thoughts aloud. But, whether by stupidity or faith, he felt that their worth was yet to be shown. "The knowledge that they posses must be kept. It may not be enough to save us from what is coming, but if we can ever find a place where we can live in peace, the scrolls and their keepers will mean more than a hundred priests and a thousand hunters."

"Always the optimist, huh?" Kenjiro said, chuckling.

"And you're the best scop in our tribe."

They both laughed, each letting go of their circumstances for a moment, to let the flower bloom one last time before winter would freeze the last vestiges of life away. And that's when they heard it.

It was like the thunder of a distant storm, but it shook the ground and made the leaves quiver on their branches. It surged and pounded, never letting up, this thrashing torrent of sound and energy that caused the very air to shudder. Kazuo and Kenjiro froze, and cold sweat beaded on their bodies. Through heavy breath Kenjiro's panicked voice strained, "It's here! But it's too soon!"

The sound grew ever louder, quickly becoming nearly deafening. Then it was unmistakable what the sound was--destruction. It was the sonance of a multitude of tree-trunks being splintered and flung through the air, shattering against each other as they twisted through the sky. It was the feeling of the earth as its stone roots were cracked apart and ground into gravel. Kazuo and Kenjiro both gasped as they watched the level of the river drop and its steadily flowing force turn into a mere trickle of water.

A shadow fell upon the two tribesmen. They looked up, and what blood was left in their faces drained away. A maw the size of their entire camp was open above them and less than two miles away. The mouth was lined with teeth twice the height of a man, gleaming like pearls in the sunlight. The head that held open the gaping jaws was that of a crocodile that towered above hills. Its scales were sharp and bony, white below like bleached bone and green, gray and yellow above. Each was like a boulder of impenetrable might, gleaming with ages of hardened strength. And despite all of this, it was the eyes of the beast that gave it its terror. They stuck up above the head, bulbous and yellow, covered in a thick, filmy cover that gave the crocodile an undead, far-seeing look. But the malice, the hatred that burned within the creature still shone through, chilling the two men below to the marrow.

Kazuo whispered, unheard by all, only able to utter the obvious truth. "It is the Wani, the demon Toyotama, and we are unprepared."

The creature sounded its call of rage, shaking the ground with its unearthly growl, and Kenjiro and Kazuo fell to the ground in pain and panic.

The last pedal fell, and not was left but a rotten husk of what was once beauty.