Since not everyone may have access to raac, and I'm not sure if they're 
on the remailer yet, I am reposting Ranma Monogatari parts 1-3, so that 
people can comment on part 4 (posted separately).  These are in 
effectively final form, but comments and criticism are still welcome.

From: b-engma@students.uiuc.edu (bridget ellen engman)

P
This is a potentially long fanfic that I will be posting in lots of
little teeny chapters; it grew out of a really weird semester of literary
studies.  Comments and criticism are invited.



Ranma Monogatari
by Bridget Engman

based on characters created by Rumiko Takahashi
and on the Heian works "Genji Monogatari" and "Torikaebaya
Monogatari," plus whatever else I felt like using.

"Tell me how long until I get it right?"
                            --Indigo Girls, "Galileo"

Part 1

     "Now, in this particular situation, we see that the author
has used the agglutinative subsidiary verb _mu_ to indicate the
speculative and desidatory nature of the action.  That auxiliary
verb has then been changed to the _rentaikei_ to facilitate its
attachment to the noun which follows.  The implications of this
structure are indeed profound, especially when one considers the
different effect that might have been achieved had the author
instead chosen to use the auxiliary _ru_ or _nu_, or perhaps some
combination thereof..." (1)
     Ranma glanced up briefly from the manga he was reading to
ascertain that a) the teacher had not yet moved on to the second
sentence of the Tale of Genji, and b) said teacher had also not
noticed his inattention.  He could not suppress a snort of
disgust. Classical Japanese had its uses, all right -- there were
always scrolls of martial arts techniques to decipher and battle
epics to read (though Kuno's endless quoting had spoiled his
taste for some of those), and even some of the joruri plays (2)
were good and gory -- but Ranma would rather be doing almost
anything than reading the Tale of Genji, which was really nothing
but a stupidly long soap opera about a stupidly wimpy guy and his
zillions of stupidly depressing and complicated love affairs. (3) 
If there was anything in the world Ranma needed to hear less
about, it was complicated love affairs.
     Akane, he could see out of the corner of his eye, was trying
to pay attention, but her eyes were beginning to get the glazed
look of a mind fleeing from harsh reality.  Ranma coughed to get
her attention and then yawned dramatically.  Akane glared back
and pointedly turned to the teacher.  Coughing again, Ranma made
another face, waggling his eyebrows.  Akane couldn't help but
giggle.
     She laughed harder when an eraser flew unerringly from the
teacher's hand into Ranma's face, sending a cloud of chalkdust
into the air.  "Saotome, if you're not going to bother paying
attention, go stand in the hall!"  the teacher barked, his gaze
sliding terribly to Akane.  "Miss Tendo, since you find it so
funny, why don't you join your *fiance*."  Her laughter died out
at that, and she sent Ranma a look that promised hell.

     The hall, like the halls of all the other high schools in
Japan, wasn't a particularly cheerful place at the best of times;
plain linoleum tiles, rows of lockers, and fluorescent lighting
combined with an unimaginative monochromatic color scheme to
create a blankly oppressive atmosphere that made students
positively *yearn* to be in class rather than loiter in the hall.
(4)  Ranma in particular had very few happy memories of that
hallway, mostly because he tended to see it when he was being
punished.  The true punishment wasn't missing class; he couldn't
care less.  Nor was it the dragging weight of the buckets he had
to hold; he was strong enough to hold those almost indefinitely,
if not comfortably, and if he got too bored he could always do
bicep curls.  No, it was the fact that those selfsame buckets
were usually filled with cold water.  Ranma knew quite well that
if there was any cold water within a three-mile radius, it would
inevitably end up splashed on him. (5)
     Luckily for Ranma, water was not currently a problem.  What
*was* a problem was the way in which the water had vanished. 
Akane, standing not two feet away from him, was exuding an aura
of pure, white-hot fury.  Already the water had evaporated,and
the hallway had gotten a bit muggy. (6)  Ranma's relief at his
relative safety from femininity was squelched by his dread of the
explosion he knew would come.
     Of course, it didn't hurt to look on the bright side of
things.  At least this way he wouldn't have to eat the lunch
Akane had fixed him, he thought.  Or thought he thought. 
Unfortunately, he never had quite realized that his mouth had a
nasty grudge against him (7) and tended to repeat aloud any
thought that might get him in trouble.  He realized his mistake
when Akane smashed her empty buckets into his head.  After that,
of course, he didn't think much at all.

---

     He stood beneath a cherry tree in the midst of an arbor in
full bloom; the heady scent of the cherry blossoms enveloped him
like a warm bath, while all about him flower petals fell like
snow.  Acting on some instinct, he turned and saw her.
     Her back faced him, shoulder-length hair gently brushing the
collar of her robe and parting slightly to reveal a glimpse of
the nape of her neck.  He must have made some sound, for she
lifted her head and gazed at him straightforwardly.  A wry smile
touched her lips.
     "You are so like him, and yet so different," she said in a
low voice.  "Of course, in a way, you and he are one -- but he
cannot help me now, and perhaps you can.  In a way, it is already
too late for me -- but when I look at you, I am filled with hope. 
Perhaps yours is the time things will go right for us."
     "What do you mean?"  Ranma was confused, and a bit worried. 
But she simply smiled again, turning away.
     "There is nothing more I can tell you, except that you must
discover the rest on your own.  You are the only hope I have." 
She began to walk away.  Ranma tried to follow her, but the
branches of the cherry tree had entangled him, and he could not
move.  He struggled frantically as she vanished into the veil of
falling blossoms, but all he could do was cry out her name.
     "Akane!!"
     He started awake, panting heavily as his eyes slowly
adjusted to the dark room. That had been a weird dream.  It had
almost seemed real.  But why would Akane need his help?  And who
was the "he" she had mentioned?  A momentary twinge of something
that he knew could not possibly by any stretch of the imagination
be called jealousy went through him like a scalpel.  Ranma closed
his eyes for a moment, then suddenly blinked them open and looked
around.  Something was wrong.  He was sleeping on the floor --
okay, he always slept on the floor.  He was wearing more clothes
than he usually did -- well, given how he'd lost consciousness,
someone else must have put him to bed.  Though it was odd that he
was wearing what felt like... silk?  He narrowed his eyes in
fury.  Nabiki must have been taking more pictures to sell to
Kuno. Strangely, though, he was still in his male form; maybe she
was planning on selling them to Kodachi instead.  Genma didn't
seem to be present, at least not in panda form, but that too was
not unusual; he often slipped down to the kitchen to sneak
leftovers.  So what was wrong?
     His eyes were adjusted to the darkness by now, though it
seemed all the lights in Nerima must have gone out; there was no
illumination but that of the moon, which mistily shone through
the open window, bathing the screens, the covers, the girl lying
next to him...
     Wait.  Girl.
     She was curled on her side, long dark hair obscuring her
face and trailing off into the shadows.  She was wearing a robe
similar to his own clothing, and she was covered by another robe
that, Ranma noticed in growing shock, had also covered him a
moment before.  She stirred sleepily, stretching like a cat and
snuggling closer.
     Only one girl he knew had the nerve to sneak into his bed. 
He angrily leaned over and shook her shoulder.
     "Oi, Shampoo!  Wake up, already!"
     The girl groggily pushed herself up to her knees, raising
her face to glare at him suspiciously.
     "What -- or should I say *who* -- is Shampoo?"
     Ranma stared at her, ignoring her question completely.  It
was Akane's face -- but the hair!  Why on earth was she wearing a
wig?  This baffled him so much that he couldn't stop staring,
though he failed to notice the way in which the girl started to
glow. She grabbed the front of his robe and pulled him so his
nose brushed hers and their eyes were inches apart.
     "WHO IS SHAMPOO?" she growled.  Ranma suddenly came to grips
with his imminent danger and desperately tried to talk his way
out of it.
     "Well, uh... Akane, it's like this..." he began, then caught
himself.  "Wait a minute, you know Shampoo, Akane!  She's that
girl from..."
     "And just who is Akane?" she shrieked in fury.  Ranma looked
at her uncomprehendingly.
     "Uh... you are?"  The girl suddenly grew very still.  Ranma
heaved a sigh of relief before he realized that she was still not
because she had accepted his answer but because she was too
furious to move.  He leaned in closer. "Akane?"  Slowly she
raised her head.
     "I am *AOI*," she said, ice coating each word. "Your *wife*
Aoi."  Ranma gaped in shock as she continued.  "And *YOU* are
nothing but a worthless philanderer!"  With a single movement she
brought her extradimensional hammer (8) down on his head, sending
him back to oblivion.
     As the hammer came down, though, Ranma noticed something
that would have sent him into a faint in any case.
     Aka... Aoi, his *wife*, was indisputably pregnant.

END PART 1

NOTES:
(1) This is, of course, just technobabble.  Or bungobabble, if
you want to get technical. The Tale of Genji was not consulted in
writing this paragraph, so don't go trying to figure out which
phrase I'm talking about.  God knows if Classical Japanese is
actually taught this way in high schools, but I thought this
method fit in with the Ranma 1/2... idiom.

(2)Joruri are plays written for the puppet theater that
flourished in Japan during the Edo period.  And yes, they can be
quite graphic -- great for vocabulary enrichment!

(3) In Ranma's mind, of course, not the mind of the author :)

(4) I made this up, too.  I have never been in a Japanese high
school.  So sue me.

(5) The First Law of Ranma Physics

(6) After Ranma started attending classes, Furinkan High School's
heating bill in the winter dropped drastically due to Akane. 
Unfortunately, whenever it was hot, the air-conditioning bill
went through the roof as often as Ranma did.  They eventually
solved the problem by not bothering to air-condition at all, a
technique used by many universities in the United States.

(7) Possibly due to the vast amount of Akane's cooking it was
forced to handle.

(8) It is a little-known fact that extradimensional hammers were,
in fact, in use during the Heian Period. Unfortunately, one
rarely finds illustrations of women with extradimendional hammers
in the Yamato-E tradition.  Perhaps because the artists were
mostly men, and they (with good reason) quaked with fear at the
very concept.
--
BENGMAN           * "There are three things I must have at all times: 
Bridget Engman    * the upper hand in a relationship, an agent who returns 
b-engma@students  * my calls, and an ample supply of chocolate."
    .uiuc.edu     *        --In the Kitchen with Miss Piggy





 
Ranma Monogatari
by Bridget Engman

based on characters created by Rumiko Takahashi
and on the Heian works "Genji Monogatari" and "Torikaebaya
Monogatari," plus whatever else I felt like using.

PART 2

     Ranma awoke with a killer headache; this was, of course, not
unusual.  The fact that it was almost noon when he awoke *was*
unusual.  Groggily he wondered why his father hadn't woken him up
for training at dawn, and whether there was likely to be any of
Kasumi's miso soup left in the fridge.  Then he came to full
consciousness and stared in shock at the room he was in.  It was
approximately the same size and shape as his room at the Tendo
Dojo, but there the similarity ended.  The glass window was gone,
and in its place was a strange set of shutters.  The room was
decorated with silky curtains and folding screens that surprised
him with their brightness -- he had never before seen a painted
screen that wasn't tarnished and faded with age.  Scattered about
on the floor were a number of colorful robes; several more robes
hung on a frame over a brazier and seemed to be steaming --
tendrils of sweet-smelling smoke curled lazily out of their
folds, and Ranma sneezed.
     At the sound, the door slid open to reveal a simply-dressed
man carrying a tray of food.  Ranma's stomach growled
frantically, and he quickly decided to save his questions until
after he'd eaten.
     While Ranma tore into the rice gruel, the man who had
brought it bustled around the room gathering up the scattered
clothing and putting things away in the closets.  Ranma eyed him
curiously over the edge of the green ceramic bowl.  He was
perhaps in his thirties, with a slight pot-belly that his dark
robes and _hakama_ were arranged to emphasize and a round face
that seemed absurdly childlike and merry above the somber
clothing.  From his actions he seemed to be some kind of servant,
though it baffled Ranma why the man would be waiting on *him*. 
Perhaps someone was playing a practical joke -- but Ranma
couldn't think of anyone who would go to all this trouble for a
joke.  To kill him, yes; for laughs, no. (1)  For that matter,
the only person he knew with the cunning to set up a ruse this
complex -- for the situation seemed authentic in every detail (2)
-- was Nabiki, and he could see no way she could possibly make a
profit from this.
     Quickly Ranma ran through his most recent memories.  Trouble
in school: normal.  Hit by Akane: normal.  Wake up next to Akane:
not quite normal, but plausible.  Hit by Akane: normal.  Scratch
that.  Hit by pregnant Akane with long hair: not normal.
     Ranma was well known for his mastery of logic.  Obviously
something was not normal.
     His pause for thought had evidently convinced the servant
that he was, if not finished, at least slowing down (3).  The man
took one of the fumigated robes off the frame and approached
Ranma with it, flapping the sleeves ostentatiously.
     "Chunagon, are you ready to dress now?" (4)
     Ranma eyed the robe warily.  It reeked of the incense that
still burned in the corner, and he fought back the urge to sneeze
again.  His first reaction was that there was no way he was going
to wear that, not if he had to go naked.  Then again, the last
thing he wanted to be was conspicuous.  To buy time, he stood and
strolled around the room.  There was no sign of the girl from the
night before -- had he dreamt her?  Or maybe he was just dreaming
now... Well, even if he was, that was a completely useless train
of thought; whether dream or reality, he had to deal with the
situation in some way.  The best he could figure, if he wasn't
dreaming, he had either been kidnapped by some nut of a martial
artist, or he had traveled in time.  Since no one (other than the
mysterious Aoi) had as yet tried to attack or marry him, and this
man acted as if he knew him well, he suspected the latter, crazy
as it sounded. (5)  He figured from the clothes that he was right
around the turn of the millenium, give or take a few centuries. 
It occurred to him that maybe he should have paid more attention
in History class, but he quickly dismissed that idea as not
fitting his particular idiom. <Like I could have guessed
something weird like this would happen to me anyway...> Well,
given that he seemed to be in some authority here, he quickly
decided that the best course open to him was to act arrogant and
pretend he knew what the heck was going on, at least until he
figured out exactly what that was.  Luckily, arrogance was just a
step up from self-confidence, and *that* was something Ranma had
in spades. (6)
     So -- the first step, he concluded, was to subtly grill
this... valet? manservant? whatever he was... about his life. 
Unfortunately, Ranma's usual modus operandi being about as subtle
as a hippo doing the tea ceremony, his thought process -- which
had already gone on much longer than was quite normal for him --
ground to a halt.  How exactly *did* you convince someone to tell
you all about yourself without seeming crazy?
     He needed to clear his head.  He also needed to clear his
lungs of that cloying incense.  The best way he could do both of
those was to practice kempo...
     "My lord Ranma...?"  the man interrupted his thoughts. 
Ranma realized he had been staring out the window for some time,
and hastily tried to allay the man's suspicions.  Not that the
servant looked suspicious; actually he looked confused, but it
was best to take preventive measures.  Ranma turned with an
overly bright smile.
     "Yes?... uh, wait.  What was the question?" he brilliantly
began, mentally kicking himself as soon as the words came out. 
Strangely, the man didn't look surprised at this; in fact, if
anything, he acted as if this were completely normal.
     "I asked if you wished to get dressed, Chunagon.  However,
perhaps I should take a look at your head first.  Did your wife
hit you again last night?"
     <Wife?  Again?>  Ranma's eyes glazed over as memories of the
previous night and an image of Ak... Aoi, her long hair flying
out as she smashed him into the floor, flooded his brain. <Oboy. 
I guess she doesn't just *look* like Akane, she's also just as
violent... For that matter, this guy called me "Lord Ranma."  So
at least I've got the same name... I wonder what else is the
same?>
     The servant approached him tentatively, a worried frown
creasing his smooth brow.
     "My lord?  Do you at least remember me, your faithful
servant Koremitsu?"  Ranma panicked at having to answer another
question, until he realized something: he now knew the man's
name.  A moment later, he realized something even more important:
he now had an excuse.
     "That's it!... uh, that's right, Koremitsu.  I have no
memory of my life.  In fact, I didn't even know your name until
you just told me..." He put his hand behind his head and laughed
heartily, if a shade hysterically.
     Koremitsu's round face lit up, and he joined in the
laughter.
     "Ah, Lord Ranma!  You have such a subtle and ironic wit!  Of
course you would not have lost your memory merely from being hit
on the head by your wife.  How silly of me to suggest such a
thing!"  Ranma's laughter died out, and he stared at Koremitsu in
disbelief, seeing his hopes for a quick resolution going down the
drain.  He really needed to hit something.
     "Uh, yeah, sure.  Anyhow, could I just go to the dojo now?" 
Koremitsu stared at him blankly.  "The dojo?... the practice
room?"  Still no response.  "Look, is there someplace I go to
practice?"  Recognition dawned on the servant's face.
     "Oh, you wish to go practice your art!  Why, naturally you
would wish to go there, it being the morning and all."  Ranma
nodded in relief.  At least he practiced martial arts, whoever he
was.  "And how splendid of you, doing your duty even after a blow
to the head!  Now, if you'll but allow me...?"
     Ranma had forgotten about the clothes.  The robe Koremitsu
held seemed to have aired out a bit, but the rest were still
smoking in the corner.  "Isn't there something else I can wear?"
he asked dubiously.  Koremitsu clicked his tongue in disapproval.
     "Now, Chunagon, this is the ensemble your wife prepared for
you yesterday.  It would insult her terribly if you were to
refuse it, and though I know this in itself does not disturb you,
might I suggest that another blow to the head this soon might
prevent you from going to court tomorrow, and therefore you
should simply wear this robe, which is, in addition to being a
gift from the Empress, already infused with your favorite
fragrance."  He waggled the sleeves invitingly and stepped
closer.
     <My *favorite*?  Boy, whoever I am, I have *no* taste.> 
Resigning himself to the inevitable, Ranma reached out to grab
the robe.  Koremitsu's eyes widened, and he pulled the robe back
a few inches before Ranma could take hold of it.
     "My lord, you need not dress yourself.  I will take care of
it, as I always do."  Grimacing, Ranma held out his arms and
allowed himself to be dressed, breathing as shallowly as
possible.  It felt incredibly strange to be standing still while
someone else put clothes on him, although Ranma soon realized
that this was a blessing, since he wasn't sure how the robes were
supposed to be worn in any case.  After what seemed like an
endless number of garments had been retrieved and precisely
arranged, Koremitsu finally brought out a circular mirror of
polished metal and tilted it in its frame so that Ranma could see
himself.
     What shocked Ranma was not the fact that the face reflected
in the mirror was indeed his own.  Nor was it the absurd
spectacle of himself in stiffened ankle-length bloomers and silk
robes. (7)  It was his hair.  Where was his braid?  His hair was
loose and tangled about his shoulders, and seemed to have the
remnants of some sort of slicked-back style.  Koremitsu's face
loomed over his shoulder in the mirror, and he spun around
belligerently.
     "Hey!  Don't touch the hair!"  He snatched the comb out of
the servant's hand and proceeded to reconstruct his usual rakish
style while Koremitsu looked on in horror.  When he tied off the
braid with a piece of thred, he turned and glared at the servant. 
"This is one thing I'm not bending on, got that?"  Koremitsu
didn't, but he had served Ranma for many years and was accustomed
to stranger things.  He heaved a long-suffering sigh and held out
Ranma's _eboshi_.
     "At least wear the hat!" he pleaded.  Ranma curled his lip,
but he allowed Koremitsu to put it on him.  He felt silly, but
just having his hair braided was oddly comforting.  He felt even
better as soon as they had left the room to go to the dojo,
although the clothes were strange to walk in.  Briefly he
wondered how the heck he was going to practice dressed up like
that, but he blithely figured he could shuck most of them when he
got started and make Koremitsu put them on again.  There were
benefits to servants, after all.
     After an absurdly long walk along shuttered walkways,
Koremitsu slid open a door to reveal a large room lined with
shelves.  Some of them were piled with scrolls; others held
stacks of colored paper and brushes.  Ranma narrowed his eyes. 
Although the room was certainly large enough to run through kata,
it didn't look like that was its main purpose.
     "Hey, I thought we were going to my practice room!" he
accused, whirling on Koremitsu.  The servant looked confused once
again.
     "But my lord, this *is* your practice room.  This is where
you practice the fine art of _musabetsu kakutou waka_!"  Ranma
listened in disbelief.
     <Anything-Goes Martial Arts... *Poetry*?> (8)
     Koremitsu opened a Chinese writing box and set out writing
utensils, taking a selection of papers off the shelves.  Ranma
was still mulling over the idea of martial arts literature of any
form.  Did he write the poetry on people's bodies in bruises?  Or
maybe arrange unconscious people in the shapes of kana?  Perhaps
he merely inspired poetry with his manly physique, not that
anyone could see it through the clothes he had on... He noticed
some samples of writing on another shelf and wandered over to
take a look at them.
     Ranma was far from an expert on poetry.  In fact, he was
about as unexpert as the Japanese school system would allow him
to be.  Which is to say he had written exactly one poem in every
year of school, usually about fighting.  Okay, always about
fighting.  This didn't leave him with much of a foundation for
criticizing poetry.  Luckily, he didn't generally find any need
to even read poetry, much less assess it, so this had never
caused him any problems.
     Nor did his lack of specific poetic knowledge cause him any
problems now.  It didn't take an expert to notice the one thing
all the poems stacked on the shelves had in common.
     They all stank.  Worse even than the incense of the clothes
he was wearing.  Verbs were conjugated impossibly, the syllables
were almost always miscounted, and the presumptive case had been
used far too often. (9)  The one he had written in first grade
was better than these, and it had been given a C- by the teacher. 
Ranma shook his head in disgust, placing the last of the poems on
the shelf and turning to Koremitsu, who held out a brush to him.
     "Are you inspired to compose a poem to the lady Aoi now?"
     "To that kawaiku..."  Ranma stopped himself.  Writing a poem
to a lady after spending the night with her?  That implied that
he... and she... His mind blanked out at the thought of what he
and his *wife* might have done the night before.  Besides the
head-smashing thing.  Whatever it was, he hadn't even been there
for it!  How was he supposed to write a poem to a woman he didn't
actually know, despite her uncanny resemblance to Akane, about
something he hadn't even experienced?  His mind couldn't deal
with this on top of everything else, so he changed the subject.
     "So, uh, just pretending I *had* lost my memory, why don't
you tell me where the martial arts part fits in?"  Koremitsu
stood and casually walked over to the other side of the room,
almost as if expecting an explosion.  Ranma narrowed his eyes. 
"Come on, just say it."
     "Well," Koremitsu began hesitantly, "on occasion you present
your poems at court, you know."  Ranma nodded.
     "Go on."
     "Well, you know what happens next."
     "Let's pretend I don't."
     "Well, the reception is... not always favorable."
     <That's a big surprise!> Ranma thought sarcastically. "And?"
     "And..."  Koremitsu heaved a deep breath before saying in a
rush, "And so you end up getting in a lot of fights defending
your poetry.  Which you know *I* find enchantingly original." 
Koremitsu bowed obsequiously, apparently hoping to escape Ranma's
wrath.  Which didn't exist, of course, but Ranma did note in the
corner of his mind that wasn't grappling with the idea of being a
poet that he was *expected* to get angry.  But then, since he
hadn't actually written the poetry that was being insulted, he
wasn't too offended.  He moved back to the matter at hand.
     "And now I have to write a poem to my" -- he winced slightly
-- "wife."
     "Well, you probably should.  Remember your head."
     Ranma sighed and took off his _eboshi_.  He was going to be
there a while.

END PART 2

NOTES

(1) A demon in my head told me to write "people got their kicks
by kicking him, not tricking him," but I squashed it before it
could do any more damage.

(2) Though this fanfic may not be... :)

(3) (a) Does Ranma ever *really* finish eating?

    (b) Obviously the concept of Ranma actually having stopped to
think never occurred to the servant.  He knows him well.

(4) I know I'm ignoring the language barrier, but work with me
here!  If I can send Ranma back in time, I can make him speak
classical Japanese, too.  Besides, it is important, so I'll come
back to it later.  Oh, and Chunagon means something like Middle
Counsellor.

(5) But then again, this is the Ranmaverse

(6) But not in trump :)

(7) (a) _sashinuki_ (worn over _ooguchi_) and _noushi_,
respectively.  Most of the details I use are from the Kodansha
Encyclopedia of Japan, which is embarrassingly technical about
these things.

    (b) "They're very tasteful, if you like bloomers on guys..."
--Rizzo the Rat, Muppets Tonight!  Garth Brooks episode

(8) _waka_ are poems with 31 syllables in a pattern of 5-7-5-7-7,
but we'll see plenty of these in the rest of the 'fic.

(9) This is a bit of an in-joke.  Don't sweat it.

--
BENGMAN           * "There are three things I must have at all times: 
Bridget Engman    * the upper hand in a relationship, an agent who returns 
b-engma@students  * my calls, and an ample supply of chocolate."
    .uiuc.edu     *        --In the Kitchen with Miss Piggy






Ranma Monogatari
by Bridget Engman

based on characters created by Rumiko Takahashi
and on the Heian works "Genji Monogatari" and "Torikaebaya
Monogatari," plus whatever else I felt like using.

PART 3

     Ranma set down the brush with a sigh, stretching his cramped
shoulders.  Koremitsu had fallen asleep propped up against the
room's corner post, looking for all the world like a six-year-old
kept up past his bedtime.  Through the open window, Ranma could
see the sun drawing close to the horizon -- it had taken him
nearly all day to write just the one poem.
     He hadn't noticed while he was only speaking, but it became
obvious when he sat down with an assortment of sample poems that
he wasn't using standard Japanese anymore.  However he had gotten
here, he had somehow adjusted his speaking automatically.  The
very concept of him speaking classical Japanese was so alien to
Ranma's brain that he simply blocked it out; it seemed to him
that he was just talking normally.  But writing was another
matter entirely.  There was a vast difference between
understanding classical speech and spontaneously generating it on
paper.
     But now, at last, he had finished.  He gazed at the drying
ink with pride.
          
          Oh, how difficult
          To wake up in the morning
          After such a night...
          It seems I only saw you 
          In a brief and fleeting dream. (1)

At least, that's what he thought it said; he couldn't be
absolutely sure.  He had a little trouble keeping track of the
auxiliary verbs.  The poem sure as heck sounded sappy enough, and
every word of it was true.  He'd definitely had trouble getting
up after that blow to the head, and his memories of the night
before were like a dream, albeit a nightmare.  Yup, he was pretty
clever.  And his calligraphy wasn't too bad, either -- he had
always done reasonably well with a brush when he simply imagined
the movements of his arm as a kempo technique.
     Standing up, Ranma lobbed a crumpled up piece of paper from
an early failure at Koremitsu, hitting him square on the nose. 
Koremitsu jerked awake, nearly tipping over.  Ranma grinned.
     "Yo, Koremitsu.  It's ready to send, old buddy."
     "Of course, Lord Ranma.  I will send it with a courier right
away."  Koremitsu took the poem from Ranma, folding the now-dry
parchment precisely and intricately as he scurried out the door.
     <It's a lot easier to get along with Akane -- sorry, Aoi --
from a distance...> Ranma mused as he put his brush and ink back
on a shelf.  Oddly enough, he now thought of Aoi less as someone
else's wife than as, well, not *his* wife of course, but a
version of the Akane he knew.  In the process of writing the
poem, the distinction between the two had grown hazy; for some
reason, when he thought of Akane, the poem had been easier to
write.  It took conscious thought to remember that he had sent
the poem to Aoi; he could almost picture Akane sitting at her
desk, reading it by her desklamp.  She would sigh, and turn to
him with wide, melting eyes...
     Ranma shook himself.  He had definitely spent too long
writing that poem; he was beginning to have sappy daydreams about
*Akane*, of all people.  If he wrote her a poem -- which he would
never do in the first place -- she would probably kick him
through the window.  
     Speaking of kicking... Ranma cleared the floor, stripping
off most of his clothes and tossing them over the back of the
screen in the corner.  Finally, time to work out.  He wished for
a moment that he had his _gi_ to wear; even the under-robe he was
wearing was of far too fine material to work up a good sweat in -
- it would be sticky and constricting five minutes into his
workout.  Shrugging, he finally stripped down to his loincloth
(which he had worn under protest, but was a bit better than no
underwear at all, and a lot better than some of the lingerie he'd
worn in his girl-form...) and began with a slow, precise routine
to stretch out his stiff muscles.  
     Koremitsu returned a few minutes later, bringing with him
another tray of food, which he promptly dropped when he saw what
Ranma was doing.
     "M...m...my lord?  Lord Ranma?"  he stammered in disbelief. 
Ranma, who had lunged for and caught the food before it hit the
ground, grinned cockily and handed the tray back, having already
emptied it except for the carafe of sake.
     "Don't worry, Koremitsu.  I've got to stay in shape if I'm
going to defend my poetry..." he joked, moving on to a more
vigorous exercise; a full stomach and a good warmup had put him
in a cheerful mood.  Koremitsu was still frozen like a statue;
apparently he wasn't used to "Lord Ranma" exercising.  After a
few minutes, Ranma began to worry.  Had the poor guy had a heart
attack or something?
     Hmmm.  If he was in shock, this was a perfect opportunity to
get more information out of him without the annoyance of
subtlety.  Ranma liked the simple approach.
     "So, Koremitsu, tell me about me," he said nonchalantly
while letting loose a flurry of punches.  Koremitsu shook himself
and looked even more dazed, his already confused mind moving on
to another source of confusion.
     "But... if it is not too impertinent to ask... why?"  Ranma
hadn't thought of an answer to that one. (2)  He tried a few
roundhouse kicks while he was thinking.  Somehow it just wasn't
the same without some sort of target; a few practice dummies
would really liven up the workout.  Even having Kuno to beat up
on would be.... Kuno!  That was it!  He paused and stared down
his nose at Koremitsu in his best imitation of the Blue Thunder
of Furinkan High School.
     "I merely wish to hear of my own greatness,"  he said
loftily, hoping against all hope that he looked regal despite the
silly-looking loincloth.  He wasn't sure whether he should be
pleased or offended when Koremitsu nodded in immediate
understanding.
     "Of course, my lord.  Where should I begin?  With your
amazing feats of Anything-Goes Martial Arts Poetry, or your
astonishing exploits with women?"
     Ranma didn't like the sound of either one.  From what he'd
read earlier, his poetic adventures were not likely to be too
interesting, and the phrase "exploits with women" was not
comforting.  "Exploits," being plural, generally implied more
than one woman, and from past experience he knew that that was a
less-than-auspicious situation.  Then again, if he had learned
anything at all from his past experiences (3), it was that it was
wise to know just where he stood with regards to any women he
knew. (4)
     "Why don't you start with Aoi," he grimaced, resuming his
exercises. <She seems like the most immediate threat...> he added
mentally.  "Don't hold back, either.  I need your honest
opinion."  Koremitsu shrugged and knelt by the wall, pouring a
dish of sake from the flask left on the tray.
     "Here, Chunagon," he said, proffering the dish.  Ranma was
taken aback.  Since he was a martial artist in training, he tried
not to pollute his body with alcohol.  Of course, recently his
body had been polluted by more mind-altering substances than he
cared to think of, thanks to Shampoo and Kodachi's plots and
Akane's cooking, but he still tried to stick to his policy. 
Especially since (he admitted to himself in some shame) the few
times he had imbibed alcohol, he had proven himself to be fairly
vulnerable to its effects.  He shook his head.
     "No, thanks... Why don't you drink it, since it's all heated
up...?" he suggested.  Koremitsu looked surprised, but he didn't
waste any time tossing back his first drink and pouring another. 
It had probably been a very stressful day.  He sighed with gusto,
settling down more comfortably.
     "So, what do you want to know about Aoi?"
     "Oh, I dunno... how did we meet, how do we get along... I'm
looking for your take on the situation."
     "Ah, well, the two of you were promised to marry by your
parents when you were but children, and a few years ago when you
both came of age, the marriage was made official.  Neither of you
was pleased with the arrangement, of course.  You had already
gained yourself quite the reputation with the ladies, you know,
and of course no one knew quite what to make of your wife."  The
alcohol seemed to have already made Koremitsu a trifle garrulous
and red-faced; Ranma wondered whether he would have spoken so
freely were he sober.  He made a mental note to get Koremitsu
drunk more often.  "Aoi was never like the other women.  When she
was very young, in fact, she was so rambunctious that most
visitors thought she was a boy.  Her father even encouraged her,
letting her play with bows and arrows and learn swordsmanship,
and since her mother had already passed on, there was no one to
temper this.  When she came of age, her oldest sister insisted
that she take on the woman's role she was born to.  But she still
refused to adopt many of the beautifying practices of the court,
and she insisted on continuing her training as well.  You were,
quite understandably, not pleased..."
     Ranma could see where this was going.  "Let me guess.  I
thought she was unfeminine."  Koremitsu nodded and, oddly enough,
giggled as he poured another drink.
     "And violent, and unattractive, and..."
     "I get the point."
     "Of course you do, those were your own words.  You have
quite a vocabulary, my lord."
     "Whatever, just go on."  Ranma moved from kicks to blocks,
since the ceiling was too low to get into the finer points of
Anything-Goes.
     "Well, she also objected to your lifestyle.  You were too
involved with women, and had been since your youth.  After your
father left you with your mother's family and went to China..." 
That stopped Ranma in his tracks.
     "What?  The old man left on his own?"
     "Why, yes.  Of course you recall the tale; your mother has
told it to you often enough.  When you were but an infant, your
father planned a trip to China to study the teachings of
Confucius.  Your mother objected, as was quite natural.  Your
father being a reasonable man..." --Ranma snorted in disbelief--
"...he decided to test your resolve.  He placed on a tray before
you an assortment of symbolic items, to determine where your
interests would lead you.  Had you chosen the brush, or even the
scale, he would have taken you with him to China.  However,
instead you chose a hand mirror, which your father deemed too
feminine for a son of his.  He left you, and you were raised by
your mother alone.  She worried that the mirror was a sign that
you would grow up to be an unmanly man, but when you came of age
it became obvious that it was more an indication of your...
strong interest in women. (5)"  Ranma passed on that one for the
moment, something having occurred to him.
     "Okay, so I've never been to China?"
     "Why, no.  Of course not."  The implications of that hit
Ranma like a brick. (6)
     "So when I'm splashed with cold water, nothing happens?"
     "Uh, you do get wet.  And angry."
     "But I don't change?" Ranma persisted.  Koremitsu blinked.
     "I'm not quite sure what you mean."
     <He's never even heard of my curse!  I'm cured!>  Ranma
exulted, letting his joy out in a series of spin kicks that
brought him in front of Koremitsu.  He cheerily balanced the sake
bottle on one finger for a moment before setting it atop
Koremitsu's head.
     "Never mind that, let's get back to Aoi."  Koremitsu shakily
retrieved the bottle.
     "Oh, yes.  Well, due to your father's leaving for China, you
were raised entirely among women.  You learned at an early age
how to get what you wanted from them, and you used this knowledge
at every opportunity.  Aoi thought this was..."
     "Perverted?"  Ranma interjected.
     "Why, no, she thought it was perfectly normal behavior for a
young nobleman.  However, that didn't mean she *liked* being an
abandoned wife.  You reside here, now that you are married, but
you spend the majority of your nights elsewhere, with your other
ladies.  Although the Lady Aoi's father hopes that the child your
wife bears will mean the start of a new relationship between the
two of you."
     <Fat chance!> thought Ranma.  From what he'd heard so far,
he had about the same relationship, or lack thereof, with Aoi as
he'd had with Akane.  Except for the fact that they had to have
done something to get that kid.  He really didn't want to think
about *that* right now.
     "You mentioned other ladies," he uneasily changed the
subject, moving on to some more complex combinations of kicks.
     Koremitsu thought for a moment, counting on his fingers.
     "Well, when you were twelve years of age, you met..."  Ranma
cut him off, wincing.
     "I don't need a complete history," he said, recalling that
he himself hadn't even known any girls at the age of twelve, much
less gotten involved with them.  "Why don't you just sum up my
current... entanglements."  Once again, Koremitsu counted on his
fingers.  Ranma sighed.  "Only the significant ones, please. 
Ones I visit often."
     "Ah, that narrows it down to... three."
     "Three?  Besides my wife?"
     "Yes -- many people at court have commented on your recent
restraint."  Ranma narrowed his eyes in thought.  If Aoi bore
such a resemblance to Akane, there was a chance that these three
could also be similar to women he knew in his own life.  The
thought was not comforting.
     "Oboy.  So what are they like?"
     "Well, the first one you met would be the Lady of the
Reikeiden Court."
     "Wait.  Doesn't she have a name?"
     "I don't believe you've ever asked."
     <Yeesh!  What kind of guy is this?> he thought angrily. 
<*I* may have multiple fiancees, but at least I know their
names.>  Aloud, he urged Koremitsu, "Well, go on.  Tell me about
her."
     "Well, according to what you have told me, she is a lady of
rare taste, skilled not only at calligraphy and the mixing of
fine perfumes and incenses, but also at poetry in Chinese."
     <Chinese?  That has to be Shampoo.>  Ranma finished his
final whirling combination and paused to stretch out his
hamstrings.  "Okay, how about the second one?"
     "Ah, your Lady of the Evening Faces.  It was a whirlwind
romance, you said.  She passed a fan out to you through her gate,
and you were smitten.  You know her house by the flowers that
bloom upon her fence -- flowers that remind you of her. 
Apparently she is a lady of a retiring nature, refined and
gentle."
     <That one has to be...> -- he shivered -- <...Kodachi.>  He
could envision the type of "whirlwind romance" *that* had been --
probably a whirlwind of poison-laced flower petals.  "And the
third?"
     "The third is a mystery in many ways.  She is said to be the
sister of your close friend To no Chujo, and he himself confirms
this fact; yet she lives in the unfashionable Rokujo district, in
the west of the capitol, and never appears at court functions. 
She wears her hair short, like a nun, and is otherwise
unfashionably attired.  Yet somehow, you have accorded her the
most of your evenings."
     That sounded strange.  The process of elimination would make
this one Ukyou; she even lived in the part of town her name was
taken from.  Yet the description didn't quite fit her... It
occurred to Ranma that okonomiyaki probably didn't even exist
yet.  He wondered what an Ukyou without okonomiyaki would really
be like.  Would she even be Ukyou at all?
     Ranma sighed.  He had no desire whatsoever to visit either
Kodachi or Shampoo, the former because she was a nutcase and the
latter because she obviously wasn't going to be cooking any
ramen.  Plus, she was something of a nutcase too, albeit a cute
one.  Ukyou he would like to see, but something in him balked at
the idea.
     It was hard for Ranma to deal with the concept of marriage. 
For most of his life, he had believed he would be training with
his father forever.  Then he had been bombarded with so many
fiancees and rivals that for the most part he ignored them, and
when he thought of marriage at all -- a rare event -- he thought
of it as something that would happen far in the future, to a
woman of his own choice.  To be quite honest, he had only the
vaguest idea of what marriage entailed, having never really been
exposed to a married couple himself, barring his own parents --
and he could hardly classify them as a functional family.  But
somewhere in his mind, he had built up an ideal of what marriage
would be like for him.  And though most of the details were
fuzzy, one facet of that ideal that had always been clear was the
significance of the vow of fidelity.  Honor was one thing Ranma
understood, and he could not reconcile it with adultery.
     No, it was best for him to stay away from these others, even
if he himself had no particular ties to Aoi.  He was playing the
part of a married man now.  Besides, if he went to visit any of
them, they might expect him to do just a tad more than chat.  And
while Ranma was certainly a red-blooded young man, he was a
martial artist in training, and it was his duty to avoid
temptation.  Really, that was it... Well, maybe he was a bit
nervous, too... but only a bit... In any case, there was just
something bothersome about the whole idea.  Not to mention the
fact that avoiding these others would make adjusting to his new
life far less complicated.  He hoped they wouldn't come looking
for him.
     Koremitsu had finished the bottle and was listing slightly
to one side, watching Ranma with a glazed look.  Ranma finished
stretching and brushed sweat off his forehead with the back of
his hand, sinking to the floor and lying on his back to let his
mind go.  He sighed.  The silence was calming, and despite not
knowing what was going on, or whether he would ever get back to
his own life, he relaxed.  The world seemed completely at peace.
(7)
     The door slid open and a small child dressed in bright silk
scurried in, sending Ranma an awed look as he ran over to
Koremitsu.  The child whispered in the servant's ear, handing him
a small bundle of cloth.  Koremitsu sat up straight, eyes wide.
     "Oh dear."
     That didn't sound good.  Ranma sprang to his feet and
crossed his arms, expectantly watching Koremitsu, who was
assiduously avoiding his eyes.
     "Well?  What's wrong?"
     Koremitsu laughed nervously; the boy slipped behind him,
wide eyes glued to Ranma.
     "Your wife has responded to your poem."
     "Oh, good.  Lemme hear her poem."  This distance
relationship was working out pretty well.  If he ever made it
back to his own life, he'd have to try this with Akane... not
that he wanted a relationship, of course, just the distance
communication part.  Maybe it would hurt less.
     "You can't."
     "What?  Why not?"  Koremitsu swallowed and tried a cheerful
smile that came out rather grotesque.
     "The Lady Aoi did not compose a poem."
     "Wait a minute.  She's supposed to, right?  That's how this
thing works:  I write a poem, she writes back, we don't see each
other very much..."
     "No, the Lady Aoi *refuses* to write a poem.  She says..."
Koremitsu giggled again, a bit of hysteria seizing him.  "She
says that she can't be expected to reply to a poem that you
obviously didn't write."
     "I... didn't write?"  Ranma felt fury beging to bubble up
inside him.
     "The Lady Aoi has received enough poems from you, she says,
to know your handwriting.  The poem you sent was in someone
else's hand.  Furthermore..."  Koremitsu trailed off.  Ranma was
in no mood to play around.
     "What else did my *wife* have to say?" he bit out.
     "Well... in her words... um... 'There's no way he could have
written that poem, it has the right number of syllables.'..." 
Koremitsu gulped shakily, holding out the bundle of cloth the
page had handed him.  Ranma opened it to find his carefully
crafted poem, torn into hundreds of pieces.
     He let the pieces flutter to the floor as a storm of emotion
swept over him.  There was a weird ironic humor to the situation,
he was to admit that later.  After all, this wasn't really his
Akane, was it?  But right now, all he could see was that his
gesture of lo... of friendly communication had been spurned.  He
began to tremble almost imperceptibly as his mind replayed the
moment.  By the time the last scrap of paper fluttered to his
feet, he had reached his boiling point.
     "Why, that... that..."  None of the insults he usually used
for Akane seemed strong enough for his offended fury, and he
wildly smashed his fist into the floor, smashing through the
tatami and the boards beneath and sending the paper scraps
flying.  Koremitsu shrank back, and the page ran out the door. 
Ranma pulled his fist out of the gaping hole, ignoring the
splinters as he looked for something else to smash.  The screen
looked like a good target; it had too much gold leaf on it
anyhow, the museums of the twentieth century would never miss
it.  He was winding up for a flying kick when an amused voice
broke in.
     "Marital problems again, I see."
     Ranma spun to see a young man in court dress lounging in the
doorway.  He looked dizzyingly familiar, and as Ranma's mind
grappled with the resemblance, his fury began to fade.
     "Ah, To no Chujo!"  Koremitsu gushed in obvious relief. 
"What a pleasure to have your company today!"  That was it!  It
was the strong resemblance to Ukyou that had struck him; change
the clothes and this To no Chujo could be her twin.  The Rokujo
Lady must be Ukyou after all...  He realized he had been silent
for some time, and guiltily looked up.  To no Chujo appeared not
to have noticed.  He was staring at Ranma's near-nakedness, two
spots of red high on his cheekbones.  Ranma belatedly recalled
the clothes draped over the screen.  Ranma was not normally very
self-conscious; nudity -- his own at least -- was a fairly
comfortable state. But he had to admit, Koremitsu and To no
Chujo's reactions indicated a less casual attitude in this
time... hadn't Dr. Kakeba mentioned that in class?  Besides that,
he had to admit that the loincloth looked silly.  Embarrassment
shoved anger aside in his mind, and he turned sheepishly to
Koremitsu.
     "Um... I'd like to take a bath now."  Koremitsu stared
blankly yet again.  Ranma sighed.  "Just bring me hot water. 
Lots of hot water."  Koremitsu left quickly.
     "Perhaps I should leave,"  To no Chujo said, flashing a wide
smile and backing towards the door.
     "That's okay, why don't you stay and talk a bit, since you
came all the way over."  Maybe he could get some more information
this way.  Ranma sat cross-legged on the floor; after a pause, To
no Chujo knelt across from him, staring distractedly out the
window.  Ranma ran his fingers through his sweaty bangs, flicking
them into place.
     "Man, I just do *not* understand women."  Ranma absently
pulled a few splinters out of his knuckles, flicking them across
the room.  "You'd think a sexless girl like her would be happy to
get *any* poem."  To no Chujo smiled wryly at that.
     "Well, we both know the Lady Aoi is uncommonly ill-tempered
and capricious.  You get along well with most other women.  Take
my sister for example."  To no Chujo stood and walked to the
window, studying the garden intently.  "She tells me often how
happy she is to receive a visit or a poem from you.  It is
unfortunate that you haven't visited her lately.  Perhaps you
should do so tonight."
     Ranma sighed, chin thumping into his hand.  "Believe me, I
don't need to deal with any more women right now."  To no Chujo
shrugged one shoulder carelessly.
     "As you like.  I merely wished to point out that a woman
more tractable than Aoi is waiting faithfully for you, instead of
picking fights and flirting with other men.  Why, you don't even
know if the child Aoi carries is yours."
     Ranma felt a chill.  "Other men?"  To no Chujo's back was
ramrod stiff as he answered.
     "Don't be a fool, Ranma.  Everyone knows about Aoi and Third
Councillor Saisho.  You told me about it yourself."
     Ranma twitched, a sardonic smile twisting his face.  "Of
course I remember.  It's not like I care what she does anyhow. 
After all, *we* never decided to get married ourselves.  Our
parents decided it all for us..."  He noticed detachedly that his
fingers were furrowing into the tatami mats.
     "True enough."  To no Chujo turned away from the window with
a composed smile.  "Well then, I have others to call on today,
and so I shall leave you for the moment.  But of course I will
see you at court tomorrow."
     "Yeah, whatever,"  Ranma muttered, barely noticing as To no
Chujo slipped out the door.  <I can't believe she's running
around on me... him... whatever!  Who the heck is she going to
find better than me anyhow?  She is just so... wait.  Why am *I*
mad?  She's not *my* wife, or even my fiancee... but still...> 
Ranma leapt to his feet and started violently shoving his hands
into the sleeves of a robe, not bothering to fasten it. <I'm just
playing a part,> he told himself as he stalked out the door,
narrowly missing Koremitsu and his bowl of water.  <Just
acting...>

END PART 3

NOTES

(1) Most of the poems in here will be reworkings (read:
mutilations) of poems from Japanese poetry collections; this one
is based on a poem by Monk Sosei that appears in the _Kokinshu_
as number 575.

(2) Other than the author's need for plot exposition...

(3) Not likely...

(4) This was, of course, only a theory; having never put it into
practice in his life, he could only attest to the fact that
without that knowledge life was pretty painful.

(5) This method of fortunetelling is mooched from a Chinese
novel, "Dream of the Red Chamber," with a few variations.

(6) And yes, Ranma knew exactly how *that* felt.

(7) This should have warned him.  


bengman           *"Jukai o kugutte, gezan shite, kirin ni deatta mori no naka 
Bridget E. Engman * Zou yara, kuma yara, rakuda yara -- fushigi ni kemono ga
b-engma@students. * takusan imasu" (Omee, sorya doubutsuen daro?)
   uiuc.edu       *   --Ryouga, "Haikei, Akane-san"