Ranma Monogatari
Part 5
***NOTE: This part contains lots of poetry, loosely adapted from
various sources. For simplicity’s sake, they are cited with the poem #
and an abbreviation. KKS = Kokinshu, ISE = Ise Monogatari. Whew!***
Ranma stood stock-still, arms outstretched, as Koremitsu applied
the finishing touches to his clothing. The sun slanted into the room
from a mid-morning angle, gleaming darkly off the corner incense burner
and catching golden glints in the embroidered robes. Koremitsu was
fussing far too much over the fall of Ranma’s sleeve; his fluttering
movements only added to Ranma’s own jitters.
Today he was going to court.
He couldn’t tell whether he was quivering from nervousness or from
anticipation. He was still uncomfortable in his new role, and despite
his success so far, there was always the chance he would be unmasked as
an impostor, with who knew what dire consequences. And yet, somehow he
sensed that this trip to court was the first step towards saving Aoi
from whatever specter it was that threatened her.
Despite the sunlight, a chill seized his spine at the memory of
the night before. He had stayed awake for some time after the
apparition vanished, waiting for it to return, but as Aoi returned to a
restful slumber and the moon rose beyond the window’s range, he had
drifted off into his own dreams. For some reason, he had dreamed that
he was lying in his own room, Akane bending over him with a damp
washcloth dripping in her hand, her eyes clouded over with worry. Her
lips moved soundlessly, and he saw his hand clasped in hers, felt a
slight dampness on her knuckles that he instinctively knew was the
moisture of tears ground in frustration from those eyes of hers... When
he had at last awakened, it had been to a room empty of everything but
the fading smokiness of incense. Within moments of his groggy rising,
Koremitsu had appeared, babbling like the moron Ranma suspected he was
about the big day, the day at court, oh what a thrill....! Whatever.
Ranma planned to spend it looking for that crest. Butterflies and
diamonds. With luck they weren’t a common motif -- he could just
picture himself nonchalantly trying to count the butterflies on some
chick’s robes.
Koremitsu stepped back and surveyed Ranma judiciously, his lips
pursing as his eyes passed over Ranma’s pigtail. But the servant had
learned his lesson from the day before, or else he recognized the gleam
of challenge in Ranma’s eyes, for he left well enough alone, leaning in
instead to tug at the corners of Ranma’s sleeves, eyes averted. He
seemed to be tugging the same corners over and over again, and Ranma
craned his neck to look down at whatever the heck he was doing, when he
was startled by a nervously squeaked “My lord!”
“Yaah!” Ranma jerked in surprise.
“P... pardon, my lord,” Koremitsu hastened in a lower tone. “It
was not my intent to startle you. I merely wished to inform you that I
have taken the liberty of calling in an exorcist... for the Lady Aoi, of
course.” Koremitsu studiously avoided Ranma’s eyes, a fact Ranma noted
offhandedly as his own rolled in exasperation. Apparently news of Aoi’s
affliction had spread like the plague throughout the household, but he
still thought that if there were any way the local yokels could do
anything for her, then he himself would be back at school.
“If you think it’ll help, pal, go right ahead.” Ranma shrugged
his shoulders under the oppressive weight of his clothing.
Koremitsu’s head jerked up, and he searched Ranma’s face as if
calculating. “You do realize, my lord, that the exorcism will be most
efficacious if you yourself remain in the room whilst the exorcism is
being conducted. It will bolster Lady Aoi’s spirit to have you present,
if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“Sure thing. Not like there’s much to do here, anyhow.” Ranma
muttered. He was unprepared for Koremitsu’s thrilled reaction.
“My lord! You don’t know how important this is! Though now that
you have consented, perhaps my fears are unfounded after all.”
“Koremitsu, what are you babbling about?”
“Nothing, my lord. Nothing at all. I’m so relieved.” Koremitsu
stepped back, beaming. “There you are. So very presentable. You will
be the toast of the contest. The Retired Emperor Go-Saiho is the judge,
and of course he has been known to grant a victory simply on the merit
of the poet’s sleeve, you know.”
Ranma froze. He hadn’t heard that, oh please no. “Contest?” he
said lightly, licking his lips. “What contest?”
“Ah, my lord, you are ever teasing me. The poetry contest, of
course.”
Ranma bared his teeth in a smile that was definitely not as light
as he’d intended it. “What poetry contest?” he inquired in a voice like
grated lemon peel.
Koremitsu’s smile died away. “Oh dear,” he said in a small voice.
“You cannot have forgotten.” Ranma’s expression gave him all the answer
he needed. “Oh dear,” he elaborated, then shook himself. “Well then,
we shall have to stop by your study, shall we not? How long can it take
you to write three poems?” As they started down the hallway, Koremitsu
not hurrying as fast as Ranma would have liked, he went on. “There is
one blessing in this, my lord. At least your first poem is also to be
the first of the competition, and so they cannot start without you.”
Ranma did not consider this a blessing.
***
Retired Emperor Go-Saiho drummed his fingers on his thigh. Where
could Middle Counsellor Ranma be? Late. That boy simply had no respect
for his elders.
He surveyed his court. Ah, yes. Though he had long since passed
the onerous duties of the throne to his distant nephew, he could still
command an impressive social gathering. All about his hall were court
beauties of the finest order, lounging on carved armrests, giggling
behind their sleeves, lazily fanning themselves, their bright silken
robes and long black hair -- finer than silk, he thought with a sigh --
flowing gracefully about them. It reminded him of the poem the great
Ariwara no Narihira wrote as he gazed through a fence at the unwitting
maidens of Kasuga:
Young lavender blooms
of Kasuga; lavender too
my bright-patterned cloak.
So my stealthy passion grows;
its limits can ne’er be known. (Ise 1)
Narihira had been a man after his own heart, indeed he had.
There was some sort of commotion outside the door -- running feet,
the murmur of voices. The Retired Emperor remained still as a Buddha
but for a slight narrowing of his eyes that belied his excitement. It
seemed his entertainment was about to begin.
*****
Ranma skidded to a halt outside the doors of the pavilion’s Great
Hall, only slightly out of breath. Koremitsu puffed up behind him,
gingerly holding Ranma’s poems apart with his fingertips. The servant
gulped in a huge breath and quickly leafed through the slips of colored
paper, ignoring the quizzical looks of the door attendant.
“We are in luck, Lord Ranma,” he wheezed. “The ink has dried at
last.” He gave the three strips of paper to Ranma and began to
rearrange Ranma’s disheveled clothing.
Ranma was in need of a few cleansing breaths himself; his stomach
seemed to be engaged in a battle royal with his lungs, and their
frenzied uphill carriage ride -- over roads Ranma could swear were paved
with boulders -- had given him a pounding headache.
“So, Koremitsu,” he said at last. “All I have to do is go in,
read my poems when the Retired Emperor calls my name, and let the pages
handle the rest, right? And you’ll be there, right?”
Koremitsu stepped back, judiciously scanning Ranma’s attire. “You
may also be called upon to debate the merits of your poems, and those of
your opponents,” he added offhandedly.
“Yeah, whatever. Like I’d have any constructive criticism to
offer.” He drew himself up in preparation. “All right. Let’s do it.”
He nodded to the doorman, who slid open the door.
*****
They were all in uniform.
That was his first thought, and it was followed by the realization
that he was in uniform too, and he didn’t like that one bit.
About half of the people in the room were wearing essentially the
same outfit as Ranma was -- an outer robe of maroon silk, embroidered
with gold thread in a bamboo pattern, with a number of underrobes
graduated in maroon shades down to a pale pink that was almost white.
The only differences were between the clothing of men and women, which
differed in design, but not fabric.
The rest of the people -- the other team, Ranma supposed -- seemed
to have orange as their dominant color, a garish orange that clashed
fiercely with the maroon; silver embroidery gave the robes a strange
moonlit glow. The end result of the maroon and orange was a blinding
mosaic that made Ranma’s headache much, much worse.
There was an empty space to his right, and he strolled over and
seated himself in studied nonchalance, painfully aware of the eyes that
followed his every move. He felt like Mifune Toshiro in that old movie
Cobweb Castle -- a man seeing things those around him did not, and
trying not to let on. Didn’t he die at the end of that movie? Or go
crazy? Maybe both.
Koremitsu knelt down to whisper in his ear. “My lord, it may be
too late, but... perhaps you should not have sat here.” The servant’s
voice was thin and fatalistic.
“Why not? Nobody else is sitting here.”
“Yes, but...” The servant paused nervously, finally screwing up
his courage. “The Lady Aoi...”
“She’s here?” Ranma’s eyes darted around the room, finally coming
to rest on that face that was all too familiar. Especially wearing that
expression. If looks could kill, he’d be a pile of ashes under a black
lacquer hat. Belatedly he saw the empty space beside her, and managed a
tiny, sheepish smile. In response, her eyebrows knit, fire gleaming at
the back of her eyes, and she deliberately moved, reclining so that she
took up the remaining space, her stiff back to Ranma.
There was another woman beside her who continued to gaze steadily
at Ranma. With a guilty start, he recognized her. Nabiki! But ye
gods, what had she done to herself? -- He thought back to their last
meeting when he had sought out Aoi in a rage, but the red haze of anger
overlaid his memory, and he could not remember seeing her face. He
couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed this. Her face was powdered a bone
white, her lips repainted much smaller than they really were. It looked
like her eyebrows had been shaved, and in their places there were two
dark smudges painted halfway up her forehead. Most frightening of all,
her lips parted in a sly smile, and it looked like she had no teeth.
Ranma recalled something about tooth-blackening being a practice of the
day, and shuddered. Nabiki looked like a doll -- and with that
expression on her face, like an evil demon doll from the pits of hell.
A doll had tried to kill him once.
Scanning the room, Ranma realized that every woman in the room,
except for the furious Aoi, was wearing the same getup. He was
surrounded by dolls. He fought down the urge to flee.
A quavery, aged voice rang out from the front of the room. “Well,
now that Middle Counsellor Ranma has graced us with his presence, we can
begin the contest. Present the _suhama_!”
Ranma froze like a rabbit hearing the howl of a wolf, watching
blankly as some of the pages scurried out of the room. Slowly his eyes
traveled up the dais to rest on the wizened, diminutive form that sat
there in regal splendor, purple robes lavishly embroidered with dragons
and phoenixes, a beatific expression upon his wrinkled face. No. This
could not be happening, it just could not be happening.
Happosai was the judge.
*****
The pages returned from their errand, accompanied by men laden
down with what looked like two huge TV trays; Ranma gratefully focused
on them rather than on the absolute last person he had wanted to see
here. The pages arranged the trays before the dais, one to each side.
Ranma craned his neck and saw that they were miniature landscapes,
rendered in fabric, precious metals, and jewels. Two of the pages stood
proudly before them and Ranma noticed that they were dressed in
miniature versions of the maroon and orange costumes.
The orange-clad page stepped forward and spoke in a high, singsong
voice. “The team of the Right presents the fair hills of Yoshino.” He
bobbed in a careful bow, and stepped aside so that the gathered people
could see the delicately-rendered cherry trees, blossoms carved of
mother-of-pearl, and a sinuous river of blue silk that wound luminously
through the brocade hills.
The maroon page likewise stood forward, and said, “The team of the
Left presents the lonesome shore of Suma.” This _suhama_ featured
elegant pine trees with jade branches and a rocky shoreline dusted with
golden sand and a scattering of polished semi-precious stones; craggy
bluffs receded into rolling hills, and in the farthest corner from the
shore bloomed a single cherry tree. The pages retreated to stand at the
outer corners, each reverently holding a small basket.
“Ooh, let me see!” Go-Saiho hopped down and over to the _suhama_
of the Right. Hands clasped firmly in the small of his back, he
strolled leisurely around it, toying with the cherry blossoms, which he
soon discovered spun around. With a childlike gasp of awe, he hunkered
down before the tray, busily setting the flowers spinning.
“Hey, I can get twelve going at once!” he announced to the
gathering at large. There was a smattering of polite laughter
throughout the room. Finally the Retired Emperor stood and nodded
decisively. “Yes, this one will do.”
He turned to the other tray, eyes glistening. “Ah, the distant,
mournful coast of Suma!” He sniffed, tears brimming to gleam in the
lamplight. “A lonely place of exile, where the wind howls through the
pines and the waves break shatteringly on the shore.” He leaned over to
the page who stood at attention, adding in a confiding tone, “There are
no women there. No women at all.” The page nodded in complete lack of
understanding.
“So!” Go-Saiho rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Very nice. Only
needs one thing. Allow me.” He reached over and deftly fiddled with
the pebbles on the shore. “There! Perfect.” Ranma had to lean a bit,
but he was able to see that the stones had been rearranged to form the
character for “woman,” and he sighed. It was going to be a long day.
Go-Saiho hopped nimbly back onto the dais and seated himself on
his crimson padded cushion, an anticipatory smile on his face that made
him look rather like a shark. “Well then, shall we begin?” He paused
for a rhetorical moment, then answered himself, “Of course we shall.
And so, for the first round of poems, from the Left side, we have Middle
Counselor Ranma. Come forward, boy.”
Ranma slowly rose to his feet, poem slips in hand, and wove his
way through the seated guests to the front. Glancing back, he saw
Koremitsu jerking his head to indicate the _suhama_, and so he stood
before the landscape of Suma, trying not to look at anyone. He couldn’t
resist a quick glance at Aoi, who looked, if anything, even angrier; she
was tapping a folded fan against her palm as if she wished it were his
head.
Go-Saiho’s voice rang out again, making Ranma wince. “And, of
course, presenting the poem for the Right shall be the sponsor of this
contest, the great Saisho.”
Saisho! Ranma’s head snapped up, and he scanned the room,
jealously judging each face. At first he though nobody was coming
forward, and his gaze was finally drawn to Aoi. There was a fleeting
instant when he expected some look of anticipation, hidden love, even
worship on that face, and the twinge of *something* that sliced through
his body nearly blinded him. But when he saw her eyes... Her facial
expression had certainly changed, and there was even anticipation of a
sort -- a sick anticipation, mingled with annoyance and resignation.
Not the expression of one about to see her lover perform, he thought,
and wondered at his relief.
Then there was a rustling of silk, and Ranma saw a figure who had
been seated in a shadowed alcove step forward into the light. His
orange robes gleamed with the fires of the sunrise; his step was firmer
than stone. And his face -- gazing upon that face, Ranma knew the truth
of the relationship between Saisho and Aoi.
Which was that there was no relationship at all. Ranma had only
to look into that face, and then he knew, without a doubt, that Aoi had
never been, and never would be, Saisho’s lover.
It was the face of Tatewaki Kuno.
Saisho took three measured steps and stopped to survey the room,
head high, a restrained half-smile upon his face. “So you have come to
listen with awe to the poetry which flows like the River of Heaven from
my brush,” he intoned weightily, fanning out several slips of paper.
“Indeed, I shall fulfil your every literary desire. I, whose words move
ladies to tears, whose grace is the envy of all, whose sensitivity is
such that I am moved by the merest hint of a sigh -- I, whom men call
the Shining Councilor, shall lead the team of the Right to victory!”
“Assuming you ever get around to reading your poem,” Ranma
quipped automatically.
A bare instant later, a folded fan wielded by Go-Saiho whacked him
upside the head. The Retired Emperor settled back into his regal
position, gnarled hands caressing his fan. “No respect,” he muttered
darkly.
Saisho was livid. “You dare to mock the great Saisho? Think you
that your paltry team can combat my brilliance? Nay, you think
wrongly.” He smiled sardonically. “But if you wish to try your mettle
against mine, bring forth your bits of doggerel, that I may teach you
how thou art mistaken.”
Ranma cocked his head to one side, sizing his opponent up
judiciously. “Y’know,” he said at last, “I thought that nothing could
make you look stupider than waving that wooden sword of your around, but
it’s worse when you’re waving pink pieces of paper. My mistake.”
A flush suffused Saisho’s neck. “What nonsense is this? I am a
sensitive lover, not a fighter!”
“Ah... yeah.” Ranma sniggered. “I bet you cry like a baby
whenever you step on a bug.”
“Why, you...”
“SILENCE!”
The voice of Go-Saiho boomed throughout the room, cutting Saisho’s
tirade short. Ranma folded his arms, leveling a smug, narrow glare at
his enraged opponent. Go-Saiho cleared his throat in the quiet, then
continued in a dignified voice, as if nothing had happened.
“The topic of our first poem is the cherry blossoms, poignant
harbingers of spring. Saisho” -- this in a quelling tone of voice --
“As sponsor of the poetry contest and leader of the team of the Right,
you may read yours first.”
Saisho drew himself up in offended pride. “Very well then.” He
struck a pose, one arm extended with the written copy of his poem, the
other in a beseeching gesture; his eyes were focused suspiciously in the
direction of Aoi. After a dramatic pause, he began to chant in a low
tone:
“Would there were no stream
wildly flowing o’er the rocks,
that I might then cross
and pluck some cherry blossoms
for the sake of my dear love.” (KKS 54)
Ranma watched every aspect of this performance with intense
concentration, absorbing every nuance of gesture and cadence of voice.
<Gotta make this look good,> he thought grimly. The cherry blossom poem
was the best of his hastily-written entries, which was unfortunately not
saying much. Luckily, Koremitsu had been able to offer a bit of
grammatical advice, and he had had fairly easy topics. So when Saisho
finished and Go-Saiho gestured to Ranma, he adopted an identical pose
and chanted his own poem back as best he could:
“Who could it have been
who sought for and who did pluck
the blooming flowers
of the mountain cherry tree,
when none yet deign to bloom here?” (KKS 58)
As the last note faded, he took a deep breath and realized he was
quivering slightly. Feeling oddly bereft, he lowered his arms, then
noticed a tugging at his wrist. Looking down, he saw the round, serious
face of the maroon page gazing intently up at him, with one hand held
out. Not knowing what else to do, Ranma handed him the slip of paper
with the poem written on it. The page strutted importantly over to the
_suhama_ and affixed the strip of paper to the single cherry tree with a
long golden pin. Glancing at the other landscape tray, Ranma saw that
Saisho’s poem had been similarly attached.
“Hmmm...” The Retired Emperor was clearly thinking, fingers
tapping on his knees, eyes closed beneath his furrowed brow. “I must
say, I like the romantic undertone of Saisho’s poem. But the image of
the wild stream is a bit inelegant. Also, the delicate meditative feel
and wonder in Lord Ranma’s poem is deeply moving. And I must add,
Ranma, the fall of your sleeve today is especially graceful. But of
course, I grant the win to the Right.”
Ranma, whose chest had begun to puff out with pride, deflated with
a sputter. “But... But you said you liked mine better!” Hadn’t he?
Go-Saiho bent a quizzical gaze down upon him. “I’m surprised at
you, boy. You know that since Saisho is the sponsor of the contest, I
am obligated by courtesy to accord him the victory in this first round.”
Ranma flushed. As a matter of fact, he hadn’t known. But he
probably should have. The smug look on Saisho’s face was infuriating,
and glancing to the side, he saw that Aoi looked utterly embarrassed,
her face plainly crimson under her light face powder. Oh well -- all he
could do now was brazen it out. One hand nervously going to the back of
his head, he laughed.
“I must have gotten... ah... carried away,” he said as sheepishly
as he could muster. “Heat of battle, and all that...”
Go-Saiho nodded sagely. “I understand completely. It is so easy
to become inflamed in the pursuit of one’s art.” He leaned in close,
speaking in a confidential whisper. “Don’t worry, boy. If that poem is
what you’re throwing out as a sacrifice in this first round, I’m looking
forward to your real entries later.” He punctuated this with a whack of
his fan on Ranma’s shoulder that deadened nerves. Then, in a louder
voice, he said, “Now then, for our second round, we have...”
Ranma smiled weakly, resisting the urge to punch the Retired
Emperor in his royal nose, and turned to make his way back to his seat.
He tried smiling at Aoi as he passed, but she avoided his gaze.
<Fine!> he thought grumpily. <If she’s going to act like this, when I
haven’t even done anything, then that’s just peachy. Honestly! She is
just so... so un...>
*****
<He is such an idiot!> Aoi thought as she watched her husband
trudge back to his seat -- his seat surrounded by lovely women, she
noticed. <Coming late, then annoying the Retired Emperor like that...>
Of course, she had to admit that she wasn’t too fond of the Retired
Emperor herself. He looked at the girls with such an odd expression on
his face -- and once, when most of her silk underrobes had gone missing,
she could swear she had seen his diminutive form escaping over the
garden wall. But Ranma had always taken the rebellion farther. It was
made more public by Go-Saiho’s attempt to take the young man under his
literary wing; Ranma had resisted, but each defiance just made him look
worse. <Idiot...> she thought gently, against her will recalling how
she had curled by his side last night.
The dream had come, of course. It didn’t care whether she was
with her husband or alone... But she tried not to think about the dream
when she was awake, because when she did, she began to think that
perhaps it wasn’t a dream, that she really was...
She shook her head and glanced down at the paper in front of her
sister, Teishi. Teishi had literary aspirations -- she had once said
that the only way to true power for women was to either write a novel or
mother an Emperor, and she wasn’t too interested in wiping any Emperor’s
nose. What had she written...? “... When Lord Saisho presented his
poem, all present wept with the beauty of it. The lowly Middle
Counselor was forced to admit defeat before his Shiningness. And even
the dragon and phoenix on the royal robes sang for joy.” Aoi shuddered.
Teishi had a painfully biting wit, though at times it was almost too
dry; you might think she was serious, if you didn’t know her.
“You like it?” Teishi leaned closer, speaking low enough not to
disturb the poets.
“It’s very nice,” Aoi said. “Except for the lowly Middle
Counselor part.”
“Oh, did I strike a nerve, dear sister?” Teishi smiled wryly. “He
really is in fine form today. The contest’s barely started, and he’s
already managed to make a spectacle of himself. Especially with that
hair.”
“I rather like his hair.” Aoi said casually.
“You would,” Teishi replied. “You probably don’t think he’s been
acting peculiar lately, either.”
“Peculiar how?” Aoi’s voice grew more heated, though it was still
quiet. “If you’re referring to the fact that he’s actually been
spending his nights at the house the past week or so...”
“Calm yourself, sister.” Teishi had an odd knowing smile on her
lips. She began to turn her brush in her fingertips, gazing at the
black end meditatively. “Do you know, he said the oddest thing to me
last night.”
“You saw him?” Aoi blushed slightly recalling their argument,
which surely everybody had heard.
“Oh, yes. I told him where to find you.” Teishi leaned in
closer, so close that Aoi could see individual specks of powder on her
face. “When I told him, he said something odd. Nabiki.”
“He said you were swaying?”
“No, he said it as if it were my name. It was most strange.”
Teishi pulled back slightly, keeping her eyes fixed on Aoi. “He doesn’t
speak quite like himself either. Hadn’t you noticed?” When Aoi
remained silent, Teishi continued. “I know you are pleased to have him
home, but...”
“Pleased!” Aoi hissed. “Why should I be pleased? That he
finally comes home to me only when proof of his virility swells before
him? That he still spends his days who-knows-where, with who-knows-what
women? That he...”
“That he shows interest in this child,” Teishi interrupted.
“That he sleeps by your side and revels in his coming fatherhood. That
he may even, you think, be beginning to love you.”
Aoi gazed at her hands, at her swelling stomach. People stared at
her, that she was out and about so close to her time, but she could not
miss today. Not when Ranma was...
“Aha,” Teishi smiled. “I see I am right.”
“You know nothing!” Aoi grumped.
“Then, I ask you, sister. How many of your poems tonight are
written to him?” Aoi could not answer; Teishi lowered her eyes in
triumph and turned back to her writing.
“Sister...” Aoi said at last. “I ask you, please do not speak of
this. He might not welcome such a thing...”
“Oh, indeed,” Teishi said without looking up. “It would ruin his
reputation, to be loved by his wife. A wife he never wanted. But...”
Nabiki looked up with an impish smile that recalled their playful
childhood. “...you are bearing a child, after all. Perhaps you
underestimate his affection.”
“I doubt that very much...” Aoi said quietly, but as the softly
chanted poetry washed over her, she imagined Ranma in his seat behind
her, perhaps watching her back, gazing at her hair, wondering, perhaps
even thinking that she was...
*****
<...cute. So very very...>
He cut off his own train of thought, reminding himself that Aoi
was not his problem, at least not for long. What *was* his problem was
finding Aoi’s tormentor. If he did that, maybe he could go home and
never have to write another poem again. That thought cheered him
immensely.
Of course, he still had to get through today. And after the
double whammy of both Happosai and Kuno having analogues in this time,
he didn’t want any more unwelcome surprises. So when he had seated
himself once more beside Koremitsu, he began scanning the faces,
searching for anyone familiar. Few people were paying much attention to
the poetry -- most were talking in low voices, or sipping from dishes of
sake, or eating... Food would definitely be a good thing; he sent
Koremitsu in search of some and kept looking, without much luck.
It was the hair, he decided after a while. All the men had their
hair slicked back under _eboshi_; all the women wore theirs long and
straight. He was so used to everyone having unique hairstyles that he
was at a distinct disadvantage in this situation.
Finally, he caught a flash of sharp teeth in a laughing mouth, and
narrowed his gaze in. No doubt about it -- those were Ryoga’s fangs,
and his thick brooding eyebrows.
“Lord Ranma...” Koremitsu came up beside him with a lacquer tray
of food -- _mochi_ rice balls, a selection of nutmeats, a dish of
mandarin orange slices, and some grilled fish on skewers.
“Hey, thanks!” Ranma wasted no time in getting down to business.
After a few mouthfuls, he indicated “Ryoga” with a cleaned skewer and
said through a bite of fish, “Tell me about that guy.”
“Ah, you wish my... take on the situation?”
Koremitsu was catching on fast. “Yeah. Gimme all the dirt.”
“Well...” Koremitsu daintily picked up a _mochi_ and took a
reflective bite. “As you know, that is Wake no Yoshikichi, a Middle
Counselor like yourself. His greatest renown comes from hunting wild
boars.”
Ranma nearly choked on a nut. “He hunts pigs?”
“Yes, it is said he falls upon them with great fervor and wrestles
them into submission.”
<Yeah, right,> Ranma thought. <Heian guys were all wimps. Crying
all the time and spouting poetry and stuff. He probably has some
footsoldiers chase some piglets down, then takes all the glory.> Aloud,
he said, “Does he like to be called Pig-boy?”
“No, he does not.” Koremitsu seemed oddly sure of this. “In
addition, he once showed some interest in the Lady Aoi, though of course
he is rarely public about it. Occasionally, there are rumors of
affairs, but little more than talk. It is generally considered that he
is most restrained.
<Tough luck, P-chan,> Ranma grinned to himself.
It was a good thing Yoshikichi wasn’t much of a ladies’ man;
Ryoga was just the type to let an old obsession overshadow the rest of
his life, and a jealous girlfriend would have a powerful motivation.
Jealousy was, he had decided, the most likely motive for Aoi’s haunting
-- assuming it was done by someone alive, which he might as well assume
because he could do diddly-squat if the culprit were already dead. So
far the only really likely suspects were Lord Ranma’s old girlfriends --
old because Ranma had no intention of getting involved with them now.
And with any luck, the villain would be someone totally different, and
he wouldn’t even need to see them...
While he was thinking about it... He glanced over the clothing of
the ladies nearest to him. Nope, no crests. Not on the sleeves, or on
the backs, or on the lapels... The chest he was looking at heaved in a
giggle, and glancing upwards he spotted a coy smile that was immediately
covered by a silk sleeve, so that all he could see were a pair of
narrow, sultry eyes -- thankfully unrecognizable. The girl stared at
him for a moment, then turned to whisper to the girl beside her, who
gave Ranma a long, assessing look, then whispered to another girl.
Ranma quickly jerked his gaze away, but the damage was done -- out of
the corner of his eye he could see the ripple of gossip spreading
outwards, heading with alarming speed towards -- of course -- Aoi.
He refused to look at her. He didn’t want to know how she
reacted. It never ceased to amaze him how he could destroy his own
reputation within mere seconds, and he comforted himself with the fact
that, in the end, it wasn’t his reputation on the line tonight.
The only thing that he deemed safe to watch was the poetry
contest, and he resigned himself to the prospect, gazing towards the
front of the room with a determinedly interested expression.
*****
Go-Saiho was announcing the twelfth round of poems, the topic
being spring, represented by Tsuru no Mokuito from the Right and the
Empress Kirishi from the Left, when Ranma noticed there was something
familiar about the two. He frowned, mentally attaching hairstyles and
erasing makeup, trying Kirishi first.
She chanted her poem in a clear sweet voice as he went through his
game of musical hair:
“When I came to see
the wild mountain cherries bloom,
instead I saw naught
but concealing haze trailing,
enrobing each peak and slope.” (KKS 51)
It was the poem itself that tipped Ranma off -- the haze of spring
was _kasumi_, and so was the speaker. <Empress, huh?> he thought with
an inward whistle. <Kasumi’s doing pretty good for herself... wait...>
“Koremitsu?” he said faintly. “When they say she’s the Empress...
that doesn’t mean she’s married to...” He swallowed. “... to *him*...”
“Go-Saiho? Why, of course not. Lady Kirishi is the beloved
consort of the current emperor, Go-Tofu.” Koremitsu indicated a
gentlemen clad in crimson, who gazed upon Kirishi with adoration. His
lacquer hat seemed to be steaming.
Kirishi’s opponent was a tallish man with slightly prominent
cheekbones; he had his eyes closed as he listened to her, then in his
turn recited:
“The sad questing cry
of new-hatched chicks, so forlorn
there in the mountains,
where none know which way to turn --
that call brings tears to my eyes.” (KKS 29)
With the final line, his eyes opened, and he turned to gaze out
above the gathering, as if searching the sky for wings. That voice, and
those blank eyes -- Ranma imagined them with glasses, just to be sure,
but there was no doubt about it. Mousse.
“Looks like the gang’s all here,” Ranma muttered under his breath.
He poked Koremitsu, who was cheerily drinking Ranma’s share of the sake,
and indicated Mokuito.
Koremitsu nodded and happily filled him in. “Tsuru no Mokuito is
a minor counsellor who works closely with the Minister of the Right, and
as such is one of your enemies at court. He is for the most part a
private man, and is primarily known for his skill at hunting with the
bow and arrow. He prefers to hunt waterfowl, as he claims they provide
the greatest challenge. His aim is legendary.” Koremitsu was babbling
again, and a few people nearby were staring; Ranma shushed him with an
elbow to the ribs.
So Mousse was a legendary marksman. Ha. Ranma wondered if he
wrote cheesy poems to this time’s Shampoo.
There was something that still confused him. “So, Koremitsu, you
said Duck-boy is in with the Minister of the Right. So that means I’m
associated with the Minister of the Left?” Koremitsu didn’t answer, a
peculiarly amused expression on his face. “Koremitsu?”
“Duck-boy?” Koremitsu finally giggled, a bit too loudly. And
little too long.
“Look,” Ranma finally began, but was cut off by a bellow from the
front.
“Lord Ranma! How many times must I call on you?” The shriveled
old man was heaving with annoyance, and Ranma seethed inwardly as he
came up to the front of the room. He noted in passing that the _suhama_
had several more poems attached, as well as a number of statuettes that
Ranma decided must be for keeping score -- tiny jade fish were arranged
on the sea at Suma, while onyx birds had been attached to one of the
trees of Yoshino.
Go-Saiho was tapping his foot with impatience when he arrived, but
instead of chastising him announced that the topic was travel, and
seated himself with a *humph*. Ranma sorted out his “travel” poem and
scanned it in preparation for reading before glancing up at the
competition.
His opponent was Wake no Yoshikichi.
“Hi, Pig-boy,” Ranma said in a murmur pitched for his rival’s
ears alone.
Yoshikichi narrowed his eyes slightly and smiled, replying in the
same tone, “Your poem must indeed be horrendous if you stoop to insults
before you even recite it.”
Ranma was stung, but smiled offhandedly. “Try me. Pig-boy.”
“Very well.” Yoshikichi raised his voice to address Go-Saiho. “I
believe it is now the Right’s turn to lead?”
“Indeed it is,” the Retired Emperor agreed, regaining his former
bonhomie. Ranma rolled his eyes as Yoshikichi began in a light tenor:
“It must be jealous,
the spring mist that hides the peaks
as I traverse them.
Ah, in which direction might
the capitol city lie?” (KKS 413)
Ranma choked back a laugh, the corners of his mouth twitching with
the effort to restrain himself. Finally, at a pointed throat-clearing
from Go-Saiho, he chanted his own poem:
“A traveler’s sigh,
the breathless sight of Mount Fuji.
Though he has come far,
he cannot help but believe
that here indeed is his home.”
<Choke on *that*,> he thought smugly.
But Go-Saiho was shaknig his head. “Ranma, Ranma, Ranma,” he said
at last. “Though it pains me to do so, I award the victory to the
Right.”
“But... but... how can Mount Fuji lose? Geez, his is about being
*lost*! How lame can you get?”
“Ha!” Yoshikichi rebutted heatedly. “A poem that mentions Mount
Fuji without speaking of the deathless fire that smolders within -- how
can such a poem be considered anything but inferior!” Yoshikichi’s
voice was patronizing and smug, and Ranma’s fists clenched.
“You moron!” he shouted. “Mount Fuji is *extinct*! There hasn’t
been any fire in there for centuries! It ain’t deathless, it’s *dead*!”
Go-Saiho’s fan smacked into Ranma’s nose. “Foolish boy, have you
learned nothing from me? Mount Fuji is not complete unless you pair it
with its inner flame. You cannot separate the two!”
Ranma put one hand over his face, massaging his temples. How
could he be losing? His poems didn’t suck *that* badly, did they? Okay, well, maybe they did, but still... *Losing!*
“Well, Ranma?” Yoshikichi sneered. “Have you anything more to add
to your poem’s defense? Or are you ready to admit defeat?”
<Like hell! I never admit defeat,> Ranma thought, sticking out
his chin. Sweeping a bow, he said in his most pompous voice, “Naturally
I accept the Retired Emperor’s decision,” --<even if he is a pervert
geezer with lousy taste>--”though it saddens me that my poetic
innovation is unwelcome. It seems that I am ahead of my time.” With
that, he turned smartly and returned to his place.
To no Chujo, dressed in maroon, was seated beside Koremitsu,
helping himself to what remained of the food. He greeted Ranma with a
brilliant smile that eased his wounded pride a bit.
When Ranma had seated himself, To no Chujo moved a bit to sit
facing him, a wry expression on his face. “So. I see you and Aoi are
getting along as well as ever.”
“As in not at all?” Ranma shrugged. “Eh, we’re doing fine.
She’s just mad I’m not sitting with her, but she’ll get over it... So
you’ve been here all along?”
To no Chujo nodded lazily. “I’ve been hiding in a corner, except
when I went up to do my only poem.”
“You get to do only one? Lucky bastard.”
“It only shows I am not as highly favored as you. Recall that I
am not married, least of all to the daughter of the Minister of the
Left.”
“Oh.” Ranma filed that bit of information away for later thought.
“So.” To no Chujo leaned closer, fixing Ranma’s gaze with his
own. “What did you think?”
“Think of what?”
“My poem. The one I read three rounds ago.”
“Oh... Sorry, man. I missed it.” To no Chujo looked so
disappointed that Ranma hastily continued. “But if you read it to me
now, I’ll... uh... critique it, or something.”
“My thanks!” To no Chujo cleared his throat, then quietly
recited:
“When I consider
learning to forget your eyes,
ah, then my heart swells
with unabated longing
such as I have never felt.” (KKS 718)
“Well,” Ranma said determinedly. “That was interestng.”
“Interesting? Is that all?”
“Um... yes?”
“But did you find it moving and affecting?” To no Chujo pressed.
“Sure. Of course I did. Very moving.” Out of the corner of his
eye, Ranma saw Aoi struggling to stand, overbalanced by her stomach.
“Excuse me, I’ll be back.” He started through the seated crowd and was
by her side in seconds, hand under her elbow.
“Need some help?” he said with a half-smile.
“Not really,” she said coldly, leaning heavily on him until she
was on her feet, then pulling her sleeve away. Her cheeks were crimson.
Ranma stiffened, eyes glittering. “Look,” he said in a low, hard
voice. “Can’t I even try to be nice without you snapping at me?”
She turned without a reply and began to make her way towards the
front of the room, leaving Ranma standing like an idiot next to her
empty seat.
The Nabiki-doll looked up at him slyly. “So, brother, are you
going to have a seat here or not?”
“Sit here?” Ranma’s face closed, and he turned sharply on his
heel. “Not on your life!” Eyes were on him again, and he ignored them,
stomping back to his seat and plopping down. To no Chujo was looking at
him strangely -- Ranma couldn’t quite place the expression, it was
somewhere between anger and yearning, but it vanished almost
immediately, replaced by a look of bored neutrality. Finally, To no
Chujo spoke.
“Why do you put up with her?”
Ranma shrugged, moodily watching Aoi as she drew closer to the
front of the room. “No choice, man. Besides...” Ranma trailed off; he
had been about to say he only had to worry about her for a little while
longer, but To no Chujo would undoubtedly want an explanation Ranma
wasn’t ready to give. “Uh... besides, Aoi hasn’t been feeling too well
lately. Bad dreams and stuff.” Aoi had reached the front, and was
being greeted far too warmly by Go-Saiho.
“Bad dreams?” To no Chujo said in an odd strangled voice. “What
kind of bad dreams?”
“They’re... I don’t know,” Ranma said without taking his eyes off
Aoi. “There’s some sort of ghost woman who’s trying to kill her. In
the dream, of course.”
To no Chujo was silent for a moment, then said in a light voice,
“Women and their fancies. She’s probably having hysterics because of
her pregnancy.”
“Maybe,” Ranma said absently. Aoi’s opponent turned out to be
Saisho, who was making eyes at her. Aoi was flushed and looked
incredibly embarrassed. The topic caused Ranma’s fists to automatically
clench on his thighs: secret love.
Saisho began, eyes fervently fixed on Aoi’s red face:
“It must be because
with each meeting I do yearn
to meet you again,
that you coyly hold me back,
and keep me far from your side.” (KKS 752)
<Either that, or she hates your guts,> Ranma thought in annoyance.
Aoi was pointedly gazing at a spot on the wall, her flush gone but for a
spot of red on each cheekbone. Head high, she chanted:
“Though no words will come
that express my longing heart,
like river water
gently flowing underground,
my secret love flows to you.” (KKS 607)
As she finished, her eyes flicked to Ranma’s face, then away, as if she
were looking at Ranma to see his reaction. <Nah,> Ranma thought. <This
is just a contest poem; no way it’d have anything to do with me.> He
squelched the tiny flare of disappointment that thought caused.
To no Chujo snorted, distracting Ranma from his thoughts. “A bit
blatant, aren’t they?”
Ranam tilted his head arrogantly. “Eh, he’s always like that,” he
scoffed. “Rebel without a clue, that’s him. Like Ak... Aoi would have
anything to do with him.”
To no Chujo raised one eyebrow. “That’s certainly a change of
opinion.”
“Well, just look at him? What girl in her right mind would choose
that twit over me?”
“Well,” To no Chujo said thoughtfully. “It’s been said that no
contest poem is without its hidden subject. I wonder who is the subject
of hers?”
Ranma almost said, “me,” -- but it couldn’t be, could it, and so
he changed the subject. “If that’s so, then who’s the subject of *your*
poem, huh?” He elbowed To no Chujo in the ribs chummily.
His friend smiled sadly, looking away. “Someone who doesn’t love
me,” he replied.
“Oh... uh... that’s too bad,” Ranma said lamely.
“But I still hope,” To no Chujo continued, gazing off into space.
“Hey, that’s good,” Ranma said hastily. “I mean, keep hoping,
don’t stop ‘til the battle’s won, all that stuff. Go for it. I’m sure
you can do it.” He punched To no Chujo in the shoulder. “Right?”
To no Chujo smiled, eyes lighting up. “You don’t know what it
means to hear that from you.”
“Sure, pal. What are friends for?”
*****
This poetry contest was just too damn long, Ranma decided. And
for the most part it was dull, dull, dull. About halfway through Ranma
had come to the bleak realization that the poetry and prose he had been
bored to tears by in school were dynamic and fascinating compared to the
schlock produced by the general public. Some of them even made his
poems look good, he noted with a tiny feeling of triumph.
To no Chujo had left shortly after their conversation, pleading a
headache and reminding Ranma yet again to contact his sister.
Koremitsu, after fetching another tray of snacks, had fallen asleep
curled on his side and was snoring lightly. Meanwhile, most of the
contestants were on the verge of tipsy, if not deep in the valley of
drunken revelry, and things were definitely getting loud. Ranma had to
strain to hear the poems at all.
Mostly, he didn’t bother. He was pretty much poetried out. The
only real point of interest had been when Nabiki -- whose name in this
time was Teishi -- had faced off against Saisho, with the topic of
“hopeless love.” Teishi had fixed Saisho with a gaze of sly amusement
and breathily chanted:
“He comes to the bay
Over and over, until
his legs grow fatigued;
Can this fisher not fathom
that no fish await him here?” (KKS 623)
Saisho had curled his lip and sneered:
“Just as duckweed sways
in shallow river waters,
So does my love float
in a river of sad tears
that you cannot comprehend.”
The supercilious look on his face as he directed that last line at
Teishi had been priceless, made more amusing by the fact that the win
was granted to Teishi. In fact, Ranma had noticed that Go-Saiho
invariably granted the win to whichever team fielded a girl. It
figured.
There were other poems, but they all blended together in Ranma’s
head, a goulash of auxiliary verbs and dopey symbolism, until he heard
his name and jolted to his feet. This was his last poem. His very
last.
The topic was love, for some annoying reason probably having to do
with the fact that Go-Saiho was an irrepressible pervert; Ranma’s
opponent was Tsuru no Mokuito, who glared at Ranma fiercely before
beginning his poem:
“You can know nothing
of my undying passion,
as wild and frothing
as the white waves of the bay
where the wild ducks do gather.” (KKS )
Ranma had had the most trouble with his love poem; something in him
balked at putting down Words Like That. For some reason, as he had
agonized over it with Koremitsu hovering anxiously in the background, he
had thought of Akane, and words had failed him. He had stared and
stared at the pale green paper, mind a complete blank except for a
fierce, inexplicable longing to be home, to be fighting with *his*
Akane, to be himself. It was that thought, piercingly lonely, that had
finally spurred him to write the poem that he now recited:
“Might it be because
I am no longer myself
that my yearning heart
seems powerless to govern
my body’s wild confusion?” (KKS 523)
He had congratulated himself on writing a poem that he could fool people
into believing was a love poem, without actually writing a love poem --
but as the words rolled off his tongue, he thought of Akane, his Akane,
his very own, and wondered deep down if maybe he was the one who was
being fooled.
He stood there in the midst of the raucous celebration, waiting
hollowly for the judgment to fall. He reminded himself that he really
shouldn’t care whether he won or not; it was obvious that the Retired
Emperor was basing his decisions on whatever rules he happened to like.
But even so there was a rawness to his waiting like an open wound
quivering beneath a salt shaker, and he admitted to himself that he did
care, though he told himself firmly that it was because this was Martial
Arts Poetry, and he never, never, never lost at anything with Martial
Arts in the name.
Go-Saiho was thinking hard, his brow furrowed as he glanced from
Ranma to Mokuito and back again. Occasionally he muttered something
under his breath, but he seemed no closer to deciding. Ranma exchanged
glares with Mokuito, feeling his battle-aura begin to flare up.
The suspense was killing him. Ranma twisted his nervous lips into
a smirk and muttered at Mokuito, “Nice poem, Duck-boy.” Why couldn’t
the old coot just play Eenie-Meenie-Miney-Moe or something?
Mokuito tucked his hands into their opposite sleeves, glaring down
his nose. “Certainly better than yours, Middle Counsellor.” His tone
was full of contempt for Ranma’s title. “At least it makes not such
clumsy use of the presumptive case.”
“Clumsy, huh?” Ranma rocked forward, putting his weight on the
balls of his feet. He’d been spoiling for this fight all night. “At
least I can find something better to write about than birds!” The
drunken guests were beginning to notice that something was amiss, but by
now Ranma was on a roll. “You’ve got birds on the brain, but maybe
that’s because you’ve got the brains of a bird. And what’s more,
*Duck-boy*, you couldn’t conjugate an auxiliary verb to save your life!”
That last vile insult must have been too much for Mokuito’s
enraged sensibilities, for he lunged at Ranma with an inarticulate cry
of fury. Ranma arched his body to one side so that his opponent rushed
past him and crashed headfirst into the landscape of Suma, sending stone
fish flying. Cockily glancing over his shoulder at the sprawled mass of
robes, Ranma grinned, “Who’s laughing now, huh? Serves you --*”
Ranma was cut off by an unnaturally fast foot sweep that came like
lightning from the heap of silk. Reacting just fast enough to keep from
being bowled over completely, Ranma was sent staggering into the hills
of Yoshino, which crumpled under his weight with a distinct crunch. His
stupid hat had fallen down into his eyes, and he pushed it back just in
time to see Mokuito’s foot about to connect with his nose. Rolling to
one side, he felt the impact inches from his ears, splintering
mother-of-pearl cherry blossoms. He snatched at Mokuito’s ankle and
yanked; Mokuito crashed down hard.
They rolled about on the splintered _suhama_, entangled in each
other’s robes. Ranma felt his outer robe go, the sleeve rent by a pull
from Mokuito. The fight was not nearly as one-sided as he had expected;
Mokuito had a vise-like grip, and soon Ranma found himself pinned on his
back, his head forced upside down over a remnant of a hill by his
opponent’s hand.
There was a doorway about thirty feet behind him, filled with the
swirling robes of onlookers making their getaway, and as he lay there
gurgling, he saw through the cage of Mokuito’s fingers Aoi leaning on
Teishi’s arm, heavily walking towards the door. As she was about to
leave, she turned her head and froze Ranma with a look of contempt.
<No, Akane,> he thought dizzily as she vanished through the doorway.
<I’m not losing. Not to this twit... I will... not... lose!>
With a desperate surge of his legs, he sent Mokuito flying over
his head and tumbled up to one knee, panting. <What the hell?> he
growled inwardly as he prepared for another assault, head clearing
somewhat. <These guys are supposed to be wimps, I should be able to
beat this Mousse-clone with both hands tied behind my back...>
Mokuito had come up to a ready position facing him, and they
circled slightly before lunging in to spar at close quarters again.
Mokuito had a slightly longer reach, and Ranma found himself dodging
more than he liked, sometimes unsuccessfully. Ranma kept expecting his
opponent to pull weapons out of his sleeves, and the slight hesitation
in his reactions was enough for Mokuito to slip in a few solid blows.
Ranma still had superior speed, and he used this to his advantage, but
the battle was not turning in his favor. After a particularly bruising
volley of kicks, he somersaulted backwards to give himself a little
space and regroup. He rolled to standing near one of the room’s support
pillars and prepared to dive back into the fray.
There was the faint whiz of something flying through the air, and
Ranma felt his right hand jerked back against the pillar and held there.
Glancing down, he saw a trio of metal throwing darts embedded in the
pillar through his sleeve, the formation perfectly aligned two inches
below his arm. He tried desperately to pull his arm away, but
unfortunately this sleeve was still firmly sewn to his clothing, and the
thickly embroidered fabric refused to give. Mokuito approached, a
condescending smile crossing his face.
“How fitting that our fight should end with the same technique you
mocked me for at its beginning,” he said with a chuckle. “You of all
people should know that the skill and aim I use in my hunting, however
you might look down on it, serves me as well in hunting you. But now,”
he sighed dramatically, “The game is over. This time, I win.”
As he drew closer and closer, Ranma tried to pull the darts out
with his free hand, but they were too deeply embedded in the hard,
nearly petrified wood of the pillar. Mokuito was winding up for his
final blow when Ranma felt the fabric of his sleeve finally beginning to
give. Exerting all of his strength, he pulled his arm downward, hearing
the fabric tear loudly, winding up his other arm for an uppercut that he
put all the power of his legs and back behind.
Mokuito reacted when he heard the sleeve ripping, but it was too
late to recall his blow; his hand punched loudly through the paper wall
that had been behind Ranma’s head as Ranma’s fist caught him smack on
the chin. He let out a small grunt at the moment of impact before being
thrown backwards, into a small knot of people that had been watching the
fight with interest. A few members of the group were bowled over by
Mokuito’s unconscious form.
Ranma dusted himself off, prepared to help them out from under
Duck-boy’s dead weight. Before he could reach them, though, Mokuito was
tossed aside like a doll and one of the bowled-over began to rise to his
feet, his anger a black cloud of doom over him. Wake no Yoshikichi.
“RRRRRANMAAAAAA!”
<Geez, not you too!> Ranma thought, glancing around quickly.
There weren’t too many people left in the room -- just a few groups who
had apparently stayed to watch, and Go-Saiho, still lost deep in thought
-- but in any case, the room was not really that ideal for fighting.
<Outside!> he decided. <Outside, I can really tear loose! All we have
to do is find the garden...> With this in mind, he cocked his head at
Yoshikichi and said, “Hey, man, if you want to fight, lets take this
somewhere less congested.” He picked a door and started out, Yoshikichi
hot on his heels.
Yoshikichi must have been a bit impatient for his fight, because
he barely waited for them to be out the door before he began throwing
punches. Ranma found himself grappling with him, only progressing down
the corridor in short backward leaps when the flurry of blows lessened
for a moment.
“I meant outside!” he finally shouted, jumping back to a distance
of about thirty feet. “Outside!”
Yoshikichi smiled evilly. “You want to continue outside?” he
said, baring his fangs. “Very well.” He planted his feet right where
he was, then brought his arms around in a wide scooping movement at each
side. As his arms came up in front of him, he screamed, “CHO-GA-DAN!”
Ranma barely had time to wonder what was happening when twin balls
of ki burst from Yoshikichi’s hands, moving in slight arcs to intersect
a few feet in front of Ranma. He felt himself blown backwards by a wave
of heat and pressure -- down the hall, into a room that flew past his
vision, through a wall that gave with a slight crunch, into the fading
light of the garden.
<Outside! At last!> he thought beneath the pain of the blast,
just before the heat was replaced by a sweet coolness. Water.
Good thing he didn’t have his curse in this time. He struggled to
the surface, prepared to fight on. “Come and get me, Pig-boy!” he
shouted in challenge.
Wait. That wasn’t the right voice. The hands fisted in front of
them -- they were too small. Way too small.
No.
Trembling in a sick feeling of deja-vu, he reached those too-small
hands up to the breast of his robes. Swallowing in anticipation, he
pulled the lapels open, staring downwards.
That was definitely not the chest he had wanted to see. She had
wanted to see.
She screamed.
*****
Go-Saiho stirred, as if a lantern had suddenly lit in his head.
“Of course! How could I have spent such thought on the matter! The
winning poem is obvious. The one which expresses the truest feeling,
the one which most closely captures the essence of the topic is...”
He glanced around the room, suddenly aware that nobody was
listening to him. In fact, nobody was there. The room was a litter of
abandoned cushions, cold food, and shattered architecture. There were
some shreds of fabric pinned to a pillar on one side of the room, and
Mokuito lay unconscious nearby.
“How could they begin the fight without me?” he pouted. “They
know I enjoy it so much.” He wandered over to inspect Mokuito, then
settled himself on the unconscious man’s stomach, once again lost in
thought. After a few moments, another lantern was lit in his wee little
brain, this one even brighter than the first. “I know! We’ll just have
another contest next week! Oooh, I’ll have to start thinking up topics
right now! And designing the costumes, and assigning the teams, and...”
He leaned over and peered at Mokuito’s blank, sleeping face. “Sounds
like fun, doesn’t it?”
Mokuito had nothing to say to that.
END PART 5
NOTES: I have taken a few liberties with the Heian poetry contest, for
the sake of the story. Two main things -- one, I’m pretty sure that
the women all sat behind screens so they couldn’t be seen. That’s just
no fun. Two, the poems were supposed to be read by a “reader” for each
team, but once again, no fun. Besides, this is the court of Go-Saiho --
you think he’d let all the women hide behind screens? Fat chance.
