Waters Under Earth

A Ranma 1/2 Fanfic by Alan Harnum - harnums@hotmail.com

All Ranma characters are the property of Rumiko Takahashi, first
published by Shogakugan in Japan and brought over to North
America by Viz Communications.

I am not subscribed to the FFML, so please direct any commentary
to my personal e-mail address.  Comments are welcomed,
appreciated and very helpful to the continued betterment of this
series.  

Homepage at:  http://www.geocities.com/Tokyo/Bay/9758

Chapter 7 : Revelations in Grey (2/3)

     The sky was a cerulean blue overhead, with only a few
strands of white clouds intruding like fingers.  Kasumi walked
down the streets, smiling at everyone she passed, whether it was
people walking the other way or standing outside their houses in
conversation with their neighbours.  They all smiled back; most
of them knew her, and those who didn't could help smiling back at
such a pretty smile as Kasumi's.

     It wasn't far to the market.  She liked to do her shopping
early and avoid the rush, although stopping to chat with people
was always a pleasure.  She pushed through the blue curtain that
Mr. Nishinaka always hung across the door of shop and stepped
inside, inhaling the smells of herbs, spices and vegetables that
permeated the crowded, homey market.

     "Hello, Kasumi," Mr. Nishinaka said from behind the counter,
looking at her over the top of his newspaper.

     "Hello, Mr. Nishinaka," Kasumi said with a smile.  "It's
nice to see you again."

     "We've got some fresh pineapples in, just this morning," the
grocer said.  "And some of that herb tea you like too."

     "How nice," Kasumi said, grabbing a basket from the pile
near the door and making her way into the mazelike collection of
tall, crowded wooden shelves.

     She extracted her list from her purse and looked it over,
grabbing what she needed from the shelves she passed.  Some
shredded ginger, a few packets of those instant noodles Nabiki
liked, a few onions...

     Mr. Nishinaka's voice rose through the shelves.  "Hello.
How n... nice to see you... I..."

     "Hello, Mr. Nishinaka," another voice said.  "Why are you so
nervous?  Are you sick?"

     Kasumi paled.  The glass bottle of saffron she'd been
holding fell to the floor and shattered.

     "No reason, no reason... I'll be in the storeroom if you
need anything, please feel free to call me..."

     His voice faded away.  A door banged closed.

     Soft, slow footsteps sounded on the floor of the market.

     Kasumi closed her eyes and stood rigid, her body tensed, the
basket gripped in one hand, her purse in the other.

     A strong, slender hand fell upon her shoulder.  "Hello,
K...Kasumi.  What a strange coincidence to meet you here..."

     It was in the voice, the subtle hint of mockery that no one
else ever seemed to hear.  She made a soft, whimpering sound in
her throat.

     "You stopped visiting, Kasumi.  What happened?  I haven't
seen you in a long, long time.  But Akane and Ranma knew who to
call when you got hurt, didn't they?  You got hurt, didn't you,
Kasumi?"

     "Not really," Kasumi whispered quietly.  "She just knocked
me out with a pressure point.  Nothing more."

     "But you could have been hurt."

     The hand moved slightly on her shoulder, warm against her
neck.  "You don't like being hurt, do you Kasumi?"

     She shook her head silently, and wished she could stop
trembling.

     "Why did you stop visiting?  That made me feel very bad,
Kasumi."

     "I'm sorry."

     "I hear Ranma's vanished.  Quite sad."

     She couldn't stop herself.  "How-"

     "You know how people talk."

     The hand moved again, fingers tracing lightly along her
collarbone through the yellow fabric of her dress.  There was
such an impression of strength in them, and she knew now that
they could hurt as well as heal.  "You know I'm always here,
Kasumi."

     "Thank you."

     "Hmm?"

     The hand slid down to brush, just for a moment, against the
upper swell of her breasts.

     "Thank you, I said."

     "Yes, yes, you're welcome."

     The hand withdrew, and the next words were whispered softly,
and his head was so close she could feel the heat of his breath
upon her neck.  "Don't ever forget you're mine, Kasumi."

     And then he was gone, footsteps retreating down the
corridors of shelves.  Kasumi stood there for a long minute,
taking deep breath after deep breath.

     A hand fell upon her shoulder again, and she shrieked.

     "Relax, Kasumi," Mr. Nishinaka said in a surprised voice.
"I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to scare you."

     She glanced back at the elderly grocer.  His eyes were on
the shattered bottle on the floor.

     "I'm sorry," Kasumi said.  "That was my fault.  I'll pay for
it, I'll clean it up..."

     "No, no," the grocer said with a resigned shake of his head.
"It's not your fault he acts that way around you.  Don't worry.
Get on with your shopping; I'll find a dustpan."

     He walked off, muttering under his breath.  "...one bottle
is pretty good considering..."

     Kasumi took another deep breath, and finished her shopping.
She followed her list rigidly, paid for the items with exact
change, and walked out of the store onto the streets.

     Slowly, her smile came back as she walked.  Other people
smiled back at her; it was a nice thing to see a pretty, smiling
girl who looked as if she had no troubles in the world at all.

**********

     Sweat bathed Tatewaki Kuno's chest in a thin sheen as he
moved.  He was stripped to the waist, wearing only a tightly
belted, dark blue hakima.  The pleated trousers swirled about his
legs as he moved in his bare feet across the wooden boards of the
vast underground training hall of the Kuno family.

     There were no windows here, no skylights.  Nothing to let in
the light of sun or moon or stars.  Illumination was provided by
bank after bank of fluorescent lighting tubes in the ceiling.  A
bright light, that left no part of the place in darkness.  It was
impossible to hide from the light down here.  It was everywhere,
glaring like eyes, caressing roughly upon your skin.

     He had a sword in each hand, both almost a mirror image of
the other.  The blades were the same, silver-bright and polished
till they shone, honed edges catching and splitting the light as
they moved.  The handle of the one in his left hand was wrapped
in red leather, the one in his right in black.  The small, round
handguard of the left-hand sword was black edged in silver; the
right-hand was red edged in gold.

     The swords spun in complex patterns, matched figure-eights,
parallel and vertical slashes.  They were actually only a
combination of dozens of very simple movements.  He'd found most
things in the world were; all complexities were only many, many
simplicities at their fundamental level.

     His thoughts turned away for a moment entirely from the
swords, but instinct and training took over and they still spun
as fast as lightning in front of him, blurred circles of steel.

     "All things are simple at heart," he said softly.  "It is in
the minds of mortals that they are made indecipherable."

     He liked the sound of it.  He'd have to write it down later.

     Pivoting slightly to the left, he launched a combination of
two head-height slashes, one after the other, following up with a
thrust at the midsection and a downward cut at shoulder level.
He had things to do today.  Not that he ever didn't.

     Mentally, he ran over his schedule.  He had a lunch meeting
with some businessmen.  They would tell him things, and he would
respond in a way that would make him look like an utter buffoon.
Then they would go off and make the Kuno family more money.  He'd
found it was best to leave well enough alone; the people who
worked for his family's myriad companies did their work well.  He
ensured that, at least.  Any who skimmed from the top, who were
incompetent, or who tried to cheat him got fired.  Not that it
ever looked like he actually did it, of course.

     He smiled.  After all, he was only the foolish son of a man
who'd always been a little unstable, and who had finally gone
insane three years ago.

     "Many masks we wear," he said.  "A different one to all we
know and one even to ourselves."

     He liked that one too.

     A soft beep echoed in the emptiness of the dojo.  He glanced
to his watch, where it lay atop his discarded shirt in one corner
of the training hall, a bokken leaning against the wall next to
it.

     "Three hours," he said, snapping the swords without flourish
back into their scabbards, hard carved wood covered in leather
matching in colour to the handle of each, tooled with gold on red
and silver on black.  The scabbards brushing against his legs, he
walked to where he'd left his shirt and pulled it on, carefully
tucking it into the waistband of his hakima.  That done, he made
his way to the north end of the hall and knelt down near the
plain sink.  He ran the water, a steady stream splashing down
into the basin.

     He rinsed his hands first, carefully scrubbing them against
each other under the cool, clear stream.  When he'd removed the
sweat and grime of his exercise from them, he cupped them
underneath the faucet and lifted them to his mouth, as if to
drink deeply.

     He did not drink, but rinsed his mouth and spat into the
basin of the sink.  Finished with the ritual cleansing, he
splashed a little water over his face to cool himself, and slowly
stood up.

     The underground training hall was not a secret.  There was
an concealed entrance from the grounds above, but also a door
inside the house that led down into the training hall, unhidden,
and with a sign indicating where it led.

     But all things hold secrets.  He stepped up to the plain,
northernmost wall and carefully sought the switch concealed
there.  It looked like nothing more than knot in the wood, and
depressed barely beneath his fingertips.  Three more switches he
touched, each as unnoticeable as the first.

     He waited, counting slowly to sixty in his head, and then
hit the switches in reverse order.

     Softly, slowly, with only a whisper of sound like leaves
scattering across ground, a small portion of the northern wall
slid back, wide enough to admit a single person.

     He stepped through, and the wall slowly slid closed behind
him.  It was dark in here, without natural or artificial light.

     His hands found the small niche in the wall and retrieved a
candle and a book of matches.  He struck the match, let it flare
briefly in the darkness, and touched it to the candle.  It caught
and began to burn with a soft light.  He blew on the match, and
left it sending a small smoky trail into the air for a moment
before he carefully snapped it between his thumb and forefinger
and placed the remnants back in the niche.

     Holding the candle in one hand, he made his way down the
narrow, wood-panelled hallway.  It was only ten or so feet to
where he needed to go, but he always walked them slowly,
preparing himself.

     He'd built the passageway and the room beyond three years
ago, working by himself, in the times he knew his sister would be
absent from the house.

     He didn't know what might have happened to him if he hadn't
built it.  He'd needed this place; he suspected everyone needed a
secret place, in their home or in their soul.  Someplace they
could go and be alone by themselves.

     Someplace where you didn't need to wear any mask at all,
even to yourself.  He always felt a peaceful emptiness in here,
in the long walk down the short hallway.  As if he was no one, a
man without name.

     Not Upperclassman Kuno, or Kuno-baby, or Tatewaki Kuno, or
Blue Thunder, or Tatchi, or anyone at all.  Just himself.  No
masks.

     The flame of the candle cast shadows on the walls, waving
silhouettes of himself and the candle, magnified or shrunken by
the second.  Up ahead, the last door appeared.  Simple and plain,
a sliding wooden screen really.  No locks upon it, because he was
past the threshhold now, past the concealment.  No need to hide
anymore.

     No masks.

     He slid the door open and stepped inside.  The room was very
small, square, each wall a little over six feet long.  One held
the door, the southern one, and he slid the door closed behind
him.

     The north was entirely occupied by a long shelf.  In the
centre was the elaborate wooden shrine that made up the
centrepiece of the kamidana.  The spirit shelf held more than
that, though.  Small plants to either side of the shrine, fresh
and green.  Three containers on the right, in front of one of the
potted plants; salt, rice and water, representative of the
elements that sustained life.

     At the front were five candles.  He lit them, one by one,
with the candle he held.  Slowly, slowly, like a mist, the soft
light filled the room, filtering around it gently, pushing back
the darkness.

     He blew out the original candle and put it down on the
floor.  Above and behind the kamidana were rice-fibre ropes, and
rice-paper streamers, soft white, crinkled into shapes like
lightning, hanging from them.

     And on the wall above it hung his mother's picture.  He
always looked to that last, because it was always when he looked
to it that he started to weep.

     He fell to his knees, bowed his head, tears streaming down
his face.  "Forgive me, spirits.  Forgive me, ancestors.
Forgive me, mother.  Another day goes by without vengeance."

     He wept for a long time, tears falling like rain upon the
wooden floor, sparkling in the light of the candles.

     No masks.

     When he was done, he looked up at his mother's picture
again, and did not feel he had any more tears to shed today.

     He stood, turned to the western wall, and seated himself
before the statue of the Buddha, legs crossed, the swords both
carefully held in his lap.  The statue was small and made of
dark grey stone, and on the chubby face was carved an expression
of utmost beneficience and wisdom.  Serenity and calm acceptance
of fate seemed bound up into the very being of it, as the image
of the Enlightened One smiled softly at him.

     "Forgive me, Lord Buddha.  Give me the wisdom to find what I
seek.  Give me the wisdom I need so that I may someday reach
enlightenment, so that when my mortal form passes I need not
again live the cycle of suffering that all life endures."

     He sat for a long time, meditating before the statue,
striving and mulling a hundred different thoughts over and over,
looking for answers.

     No masks.

     Finally, he stood and turned to the western wall.  The
crucifix hung there, with Christ upon it, arms outstretched to
his sides, affixed to the crude cross by nails through the
wrists.  It was simple and wooden, but exquisitely detailed.
The agony on the hanging man's face beneath the crown of thorns
upon his head seemed to tear at the soul, an agony deeper than
that of crown or of the wound of the spear upon his side or of
the nails that held him there.

     "Forgive me, Lord Christ.  Many are my sins.  I pray for
your forgiveness.  I pray for your light to guide my way."

     He prayed for a long time, silently, listing his sins and
asking that they be forgiven.  He understood this part the least,
but he had always done it all the same.  He needed all the
comfort that could be given, wherever it was it originated from.

     No masks.

     And finally, it was done.  He felt light, and cleansed, and
empty of all things that hurt.  He picked up the candle from the
floor, lit it with one of the five upon on the altar, and one by
one, blew those five out.  He slid open the door and stepped out
of his sanctuary.

     He slowly walked down the hallway, savouring the feeling,
ingraining it within his memory, letting it filter down
throughout his being.  Sword scabbards brushed against his hips,
and a small smile touched his face, still streaked with the
tracks of his tears.

     At the end of the hallway, he carefully looked out through a
concealed peephole.  His sister often used the training hall as
well, but they had an arrangement.  He had it in the mornings,
she in the afternoons.  But you could never be too careful.

     The training hall was empty.  He blew out the candle, and
placed it back inside the niche.  His finger found the switch,
and the door slid softly open.

     He stepped out, into the glare of the overhead lights, into
the vast empty space of the training hall.  Slowly, relaxation
slipped from him.  Slowly, he began to fill, simplicity upon
simplicity piling up into the complexity that was Tatewaki Kuno,
that was Upperclassman Kuno and Kuno-baby and Tatchi and Blue
Thunder, that was blustering arrogance and arrogant blustering,
blind stupidity and stupid blindness.

     He went to the sink.  He washed the signs of weeping from
his face, and with that action washed away the last of his peace.

**********

     "We've got over two hundred volunteers combing the mountain,
ma'am," the young policeman said as he poured tea into a cracked
ceramic cup on his crowded desk and passed it across to Nodoka.
"They'll find him, if he's there."

     "Thank you," Nodoka said softly, taking the cup and sipping
slowly from it.  "You've been very kind."

     "It's my job," the policeman said with a shrug.  He was a
skinny, plain-faced man with big hands.  He looked at Nodoka for
a moment, an uncomfortable expression on his face, and then spoke
again.  "Uh... about your husband, now..."

     Nodoka sighed and closed her eyes.  "Yes?"

     "The store owner doesn't want to press any charges.  He just
wants the money he's owed."

     Nodoka shook her head.  "I don't have it."

     The policeman frowned.  "Does your husband make a habit of
skipping out on his bills?"

     "I'm starting to think so," Nodoka said.

     "A money transfer shouldn't be hard," the policeman said.
"I can help you arrange it with the bank, if you like."

     "That would be best, I suppose," Nodoka said, finishing the
last of the tea and rising up out the chair with an almost
inaudible sigh.

     The policeman nodded and opened the door of his office for
her, following her out after she passed by him and shutting it
with a soft click.  "It's not far.  Nothing in this town is that
far from anything else."

     They made their way out of the small police station and onto
the streets of the town.  A few streets criss-crossed each other,
intermingled with houses and stores.  Off in the distance, a
small dirt road led off towards the village at the base of the
mountain, and finally, rising in the north, was the mountain
itself.

     It was small, as mountains went, which meant it was quite
large as anything else went.  Straining her eyes, she tried to
pick out any shapes that might be indicative of the searchers,
but there were none to find.

     She closed her eyes and bowed her head.  "Oh my son..."

     The policeman looked away nervously and scratched his arm.
"Bank's this way, ma'am."

     Nodoka looked up and smiled sadly.  "I'm sorry.  I just
realized I don't know your name."

     "Shinzo, ma'am," the policeman said with a nervous grin.

     "Let's go to the bank, Shinzo."

     "Will do."

     As he'd said, it wasn't far to the bank.  They were very
helpful there.  Everyone had been; news spread quickly in small
towns, and the outright sympathy everyone had been expressing was
almost becoming embarassing.

     There was no lack of money in her accounts, not anymore.
After the insurance settlement from the house being damaged,
there wasn't much more need for frugality.

     Genma had no idea of, course.  This little incident was just
one of the reasons, in her opinion, that the wife always handled
the finances.  He had no idea about the other surprise as well,
and the way things were going she wasn't sure she was going to
tell him.

     The teller clicked a few more commands into her computer,
nodded and smiled, then passed Nodoka an envelope full of cash.
She left the bank with Shinzo and stood out in the centre of the
street again, gazing off at the mountain, dotted with a
checkerboard of forests and patches of bare rock.

     "I'll get my car," Shinzo said, putting one of his broad
hands on her elbow.  "That'll get us to the town quick.  I'm sure
you're anxious to see your husband."

     After a moment, Nodoka realized she should nod.  She did so,
then followed the policeman to his car, unable to shake the
foreboding feeling that hung over her.

     It almost felt as if she were being watched.

**********

     Ranma watched his mother get into the car, pain tearing at
him inside.  It drove past a little over ten feet from where he
stood with Cologne in the alleyway between two buildings.

     Coming down the mountain had been easy; two martial artists
as experienced as he and Cologne had no difficulty avoiding the
searchers.

     He was just glad he hadn't seen any of his friends on the
way down the mountain.  That would have made it even harder.

     As if anything could be harder than this.  He watched the
car turn onto the road leading down to the village, carrying his
mother away, and his heart felt a heavy thing like a lump of
lead within his chest.

     "Mother..." he whispered softly, leaning against the wall of
the alleyway and sighing.  He blinked his eyes, forced the tears
back down.

     "Let's go, boy," Cologne said gently from behind him, the
tone at least still sounding like it always had.  Commanding,
imperious, and unused to being disobeyed.

     "Just another minute," Ranma said.  "I'm sorry, I..."

     "I know," Cologne said.  "It's hard."

     Ranma chuckled.  It was not a pleasant sound.  "How could
you know?"

     "I know more than you could ever imagine," Cologne said.

     He turned his head, his joints still aching from all the
injuries he'd taken yesterday, the pain still not entirely gone
even after hours of sleep.  "Hmm?"

     Cologne's old, dark eyes peered out at him from her young
face.  "What do you think I do now, Ranma?  You think I can go
back to the village as soon as I'm done with you?"

     She reached up a slim hand and tucked a few stray bangs
beneath her hairband.  "There are those there who are the allies
of the two we fought yesterday.  I must vanish as surely as you
must."

     Ranma slowly nodded.  "I still don't think it's the same."

     He pushed off from the wall, going from leaning to standing,
and looked at his right hand, slowly closing it into a fist and
standing there for a moment, eyes closed, a slight tremor running 
through his body.

     The sound of a woman's neck breaking.

     "Let's go," he said.  "Let's just get the hell out of here."

     So they went.

**********

     "Don't think I don't know what you're up to."

     Shampoo slowly opened her eyes and looked at Ukyou.  "Where
you come from?"

     Ukyou folded her arms over her chest and leaned back against
a tree, mirroring the position of the other girl.  "Where I come
from?  Hmm?  Spatula girl just want talk to you alone."

     Shampoo gritted her teeth.  "No start this again, Ukyou.  I
not in mood for it.  I beat you last time, I beat you again."

     Ukyou raised one hand and touched her fingers lightly to the
haft of her big spatula where it was strapped across her back.
"Well, I've got this now.  That puts us on about equal footing,
wouldn't you say?"

     Shampoo snorted softly.  "Why you trying to start fight,
Ukyou?"

     "I didn't start anything," Ukyou said.  "You started this
whole thing when your hag of a great-grandmother hatched this
plot to get Ranchan.  I didn't even think you'd sink as low as to
use his mother like that, but..."

     Shampoo turned and started to walk away, beginning to
realize the reason for all the glares Ukyou had been shooting her
since they'd come down the mountain yesterday.

     Without Ranma or her great-grandmother.

     Any other time, she would have risen to the challenge.  Not
now, though.  Now she felt like nothing inside.  Everything that
had happened in the last two days seemed like a dream; a very bad
dream, but a dream all the same.

     There was a certain detachment from the events for her; it
didn't seem to have been her hands holding a knife to her own
heart, or her voice saying words she'd never expected to say.

     She took two steps, and then Ukyou's hand fell on her
shoulder, the one that had been torn open in the fight yesterday.
Ukyou knew that she'd injured it, there was no doubt in her mind
about that.

     She winced and bit back a sound of pain.  "What?"

     "You look at me when I'm talking to you," Ukyou said.  "I
know this is all because of your stupid Amazon laws, Shampoo.
You put everyone in danger because you're so obsessed with having
Ranma for your husband..."

     Shampoo spun, eyes flashing.  "Yes, that right, Ukyou.
Great-grandmother and I arrange for two women to come and try to
kill us so I get Ranma.  How you find out?  You so very smart."

     She saw Ukyou's expression of righteous indignation waver
for a moment, but then it was back.  "I wouldn't put anything
past you if you'd kidnap Ranchan's mother like that."

     The careful hold Shampoo had held on her temper snapped
right then.  Ukyou tended to bring that out in her.

     "I not know why great-grandmother do what she do," Shampoo
said, in a very cold voice.  "I not know she going to kidnap
Ranma mother.  I not know why you trying to start fight with me
either, Ukyou.  I not want to fight you.  We all need work to
find Ranma.  Mousse and Ryoga, they not hate Ranma so much they
not helping.  You hate me so much you not going to help?"

     She smiled, without using her eyes.  "Or maybe you hate him,
because you know now you no can have him.  You want blame
someone, blame yourself.  No blame me for something I not do."

-Continued in [Ranma][Fanfic] Waters Under Earth - Chapter 7 (3/3)


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