A note on hair color: It seems that the prevailing view in the
fanfiction world is that Ranma has red hair in girl form. I have no
real complaints with this view, as a general rule; the anime certainly
uses this as a standard, and I'm fairly mellow about these things.
However, I feel compelled to point out that in Monogatari (and in
my other fics as well, though it's not always important) girl-type
Ranma sports black hair. Why? Two reasons: (a) it's important for
certain aspects of the story, and (b) that's the way I think it
"really" is, per the manga. In my support, I offer the following quote
from Takahashi-sama, from the Ranma Memorial Book: "Although in
black-and-white, both (male and female Ranma) have black hair, when
using color, I tried making the girl Ranma's hair pinkish, to make
it easier to tell them apart." End of argument, as far as I'm
concerned. So there. :P
Ranma Monogatari
a Ranma 1/2 fanfiction
by Bridget E. Wilde
Part 6
Branches whipped at Ranma's face as she ran through the twilit
forest, dodging around tree trunks and over roots. The woods sloped
down to her left, and she angled her path in that direction, thinking
furiously that the valley meant civilization, and civilization meant
hot water, and hot water was the only thing she needed right at this
particular moment.
She could hear Yoshikichi crashing through the undergrowth behind
her, right on her trail. Just her luck that he had a sense of
direction. Once she had changed back, she'd show him who's king of the
forest.
That ki attack had been a shock, all right. Cho-ga-dan - probably
the "ga" was fang and the "dan," missile... She smiled grimly as she
realized what the "cho" must mean - boar. That sweeping movement of the
two arms _had_ been rather like the goring tusks of a wild boar. The
blast had been unusual, though - even though balls of ki had flown from
Yoshikichi's hands, the ki itself had not been what flung Ranma through
the wall; there had been heat, and force, but not the familiar spicy
tingling blast of ki coursing through blood and bone. So how did it
work?
Her loose outer robe caught on a bush, and she cursed as she ripped
it away, leaving a shred of fabric behind as she stumbled onwards. This
really sucked, and the worst part was that Ranma had, in a sense,
brought it on himself by assuming too much. He had assumed he had been
cured. He had assumed that Yoshikichi and Mokuito were easy marks.
Hell, he'd assumed just about everything, and this was the result.
Stuck as a girl, no hot water in sight, and a crazed poet with ki
attacks hot on her heels. At least she'd managed to escape the Retired
Emperor's pavilion before Yoshikichi had seen her. Somehow, she didn't
think having her curse broadcast around the eleventh century was going
to help - and in any case, she needed to regroup.
The dim blue light brightened abruptly as Ranma burst out into a
clearing of sorts, smashing headfirst into a dark wooden piling.
Shaking her head painfully, she gazed up at the somber wooden building
that almost seemed to grow out of the hillside on thick pilings.
The building was square, the walls entirely composed of sliding
doors of the same dark-hued wood as the pilings and the walkway that
surrounded it on all four sides. A tile roof spread out over the
walkway, curving up gracefully at the corners; from Ranma's vantage
point on the ground, she could see the numerous carved ribs that
supported it.
<Looks like a temple,> Ranma thought dizzily. <Oh, well.
Beggars can't be choosers.> She leapt lightly up to the walkway and
slipped around to the other side, farthest from the forest. As she
skulked past one of the open doorways, she glanced in and saw a Buddhist
priest, hands fumbling at prayer beads as he muttered prayers under his
breath.
On the other side of the hall was a steep staircase that followed
the slope of the hill downwards; Ranma hurtled down these, ears
straining for the sound of Yoshikichi's passage.
As she reached the foot of the stairs, she heard his crashing
progress halted by the hollow thunk of skull against wood. Not much
time to waste; from here, she could either head up another set of
stairs into near-blackness, or left along an open walkway, to a set of
buildings that looked out on a verdant garden. The garden was tranquil
in the dusk, the echoing grumble of frogs resounding off the wood.
Buildings seemed like her best bet; at this point, the chance of
locating hot water before Yoshikichi caught up seemed to be nil, so she
needed to throw Yoshikichi off her trail some other way. She felt the
glimmer of a plan rising up in her mind -- a brilliant plan, oh yes it
was. Of course, she would need a poem, but she'd been getting faster
at those, and now that the opportunity had arisen to use one
strategically, she was struck by sudden inspiration...
Tearing at the fastenings of her shredded outer robe, Ranma raced
down the walkway to her left.
*****
Yoshikichi rubbed his tender forehead as he stalked along the
walkway, casting his gaze about for some sign of his enemy. The temple
was quiet - not completely silent, of course, but the distant murmur of
monks at prayer and the hushed sounds of night creatures imbued the
temple with a sense of stillness that transcended silence.
Yet Yoshikichi was far from soothed by the surroundings. Ranma was
near, he could feel it. The coward. Running from their poetic
discussion like that.
He had traversed a steep flight of stairs and was following the
walkway alongside the garden when he sensed a nearby presence... there!
In the shadows behind that sliding door. He gathered himself for the
attack, one hand reaching out to slide open the door, the other poised
to strike...
Yet a voice from within froze him in his tracks - a voice low,
musical, and unmistakably female:
"Is this then love's path,
Entangled and confusing,
So painful and dark?
Departing the mountain's foot,
How clearly I go astray!" (Torikaebaya)
"What could bring such a fine gentleman to this place?"
A woman - here in the temple? How unusual... and yet, Yoshikichi's
interest was piqued, and he drew a bit closer, replying in a soft voice,
"To the newcomer
who ventures so deep within
the Mountain of Love,
How bewildering it is,
How easy to lose one's way." (Kokin Waka Rokujo, book IV, #19)
In the dimming light, he caught a glimpse of dark rustling robes, and
was inflamed with curiosity. She was obviously smitten with him, and
a sudden flare of interest took him by surprise. Had he ever had a
woman extend overtures to him? He could not recall such an occasion,
but now that it was happening, he felt his customary reticence fading
away, replaced by a surprising passion. Emboldened by his newfound
confidence, he slid open the door and slipped cautiously inside.
The woman drew back a bit into the shadows, sleeve coming up to
cover her mouth. She had to have taken vows of some sort, for her hair
barely reached to her shoulders, and though her underrobes seemed to be
of fine material, over them she wore the rough black robe of a nun. Yet
she was young - far too young to have renounced the world, he thought.
And her quivering, limpid eyes... the disarray of her hair, wavy and
roughly combed... Surely she must be some child of the nobility, hidden
away by a concerned parent?
"Sir," she said in a high, sweet voice. "It is most improper for
you to enter here."
"And yet, it was you who called out to me," he countered, taking
a step closer. "And your voice... it says to me that you but pretend."
She retreated further, stiffly. "Oh, really, my lord? How is it
that I pretend?"
"Pretend to be so shy. I sense that you are indeed truly drawn
to me, that you wished for me to enter here. Else you would not have
uttered your poem."
The girl muttered something that Yoshikichi barely caught.
"Casanova? What does that mean?" he said, frowning.
She laughed, a high, coy laugh. "Oh, my lord. It is but the name
of a bodhisattva, one of the lesser-known deities. I was merely
offering up a prayer of thanks that fate has brought you here... Wake
no Yoshikichi."
"You know my name?"
"Ah, who has not heard of the great Yoshikichi, renowned for his
skill at hunting pigs!"
"That would be wild boars, the great beasts of the forests."
"Oh..." she blushed charmingly. "I was so certain it was pigs,
little squealing pigs. How foolish of me!" She sidled away from the
wall. "Yet, I must ask again. What brings you to this, my lonely
retreat?"
"I come pursuing an honorless dog who has fled my poetic wrath.
Have you perhaps seen him?"
She replied in a strangled voice. "No... honorless dogs have
passed this way." She paused, and resumed in a lighter voice, "Of
course, there was that fine, elegant, manly nobleman who passed this
way not too long ago..."
"Did he have his hair knotted up ridiculously?"
"Indeed, no, sir, though his hair was styled unusually. I thought
it was quite striking."
"Hmmm... Perhaps it was not, then, Middle Counsellor Ranma..."
"Ranma! Yes, that was the name he gave. Such a tragic story as
he told... It seems he was engaged in a literary debate when, through
some mischance, his clothing became wet. Being a man of such
sensitivity, such delicate sensibilities, naturally he could no longer
show himself in public. When he passed by here, he was on his way home
to repair his toilette..."
"You spoke with him?"
"Through the door only, of course. Though he is indeed an amazing
specimen of manhood, all any woman could wish for, even so I felt myself
held back by something. And now I know. I was waiting for you." She
lowered her eyes adorably, a faint, pursed-lipped smile on her face.
It was dizzying to hear such words coming from a woman. Overcome
with emotion, Yoshikichi lunged forward to take her in his arms. Yet
she seemed more slippery than the boars he wrestled, ducking aside from
his advances with little effort. He lunged again.
Stars exploded in his head, and he crumpled to the floor beneath
the weight of a huge wooden mallet in the hands of his beloved. The
shards of his hat fell around him.
"Oh, dear," he heard her say. "Did that hurt?"
He pushed himself groggily to his knees. "Only... only with the
sweet agony of love..." he lied brokenly, resisting the crass urge to
rub the lump that had formed on his head. Such a shy one she was.
The maiden had seated herself a short distance away and was gazing
at him sidelong, mouth twitching slightly. He must have offended her,
he realized with chagrin. She was obviously no pampered beauty of the
court, used to intrigues and seductions, but a sheltered innocent - what
he had taken for blatant invitations were naught but the artless words
of an innocent. And he... he had blundered in like a rutting boar!
He felt his cheeks burning furiously, and he bowed before her,
forehead touching the rough plank floor between his hands. "Forgive
me," he said in a voice husky with penitence and shame. "I should not
have behaved so boorishly, especially when I have intruded upon your
solitude. I shall leave you to your devotions..." Yoshikichi sat up,
eyes fixed on the hem of her nun's robe, and continued with
determination. "Yet I cannot help but think it cruel that you be shut
away from society like this. Perhaps I could speak with your
father...?" With that, he turned his eyes up to her face hopefully.
She met his gaze steadily for a moment, then averted her eyes to
gaze forlornly at the door, biting her lip in grief. "Alas, my father
is out of the Capitol on a... long journey." She hid her face in her
hands, shoulders shaking. "Perhaps it is better that we part now,
before our hearts are torn by a hopeless love..."
Yoshikichi watched her in shame. Perhaps it would have been
better if he had never entered the room, if he had continued to follow
Ranma, for now he had made this woman - a child, really - utterly
miserable, and in the meantime had lost his chance to pummel Ranma for
his cowardice. His hands fisted by his side in reawakened anger.
Ranma. This was all his fault. At that moment, he vowed deep within
himself that he would make Ranma pay for this as well, for being the
primal cause of this girl's despair. Oh yes, Ranma would pay next time
he dared show his face...
***
Ranma couldn't possibly show her face again - not until she managed
to stop laughing. Her shoulders were shaking uncontrollably, and it was
all she could do to keep from bursting out in loud guffaws. What a
maroon! She had always been able to take Ryouga in with the lamest
disguises, but this had to be the easiest ruse of her life! Now all she
needed was to get the dork to take a hike, and she could get back to the
house - she couldn't bring herself to call it home, though it was
obviously that for Lord Ranma.
Yoshikichi was obviously at a loss for words, and needed a little
push before he would vamoose. Ranma sniffed loudly, forced a few tears
from her eyes, and looked up.
"Sir," she said as pathetically as she could, "My caretakers will
be returning soon. They would be appalled to find you here..." She left
the implied threat hanging - while she honestly couldn't think of
anything the mumbling monks who lived here could do to this bulldozer,
perhaps he could.
Indeed, his eyes narrowed, and he took her hand fervently in his.
"I shall return, and you shall be saved from this dark prison!" he
vowed.
His grip was crushing her hand, and with a great deal of effort,
she managed to free herself, surreptitiously feeling for broken bones.
"Oh, will you? Will you really?" she said coquettishly, batting her
eyes. "My hero!"
"Yes!" he went on. "And rest assured, I shall punish that vile
Ranma for what he has done to you!" He leapt to his feet excitedly,
hands balling into fists as he dashed for the door.
<What he's done... to ME?> Ranma frowned, opening her mouth to
speak, but Yoshikichi was gone, leaving behind him only the rustling
of the pines.
***
Ranma found her way back to the house with little trouble; once she
reached the valley floor, it was a simple matter to navigate the
rooftops until she found a familiar garden. Well, there were not quite
as many buildings as she was used to; she spent much of her time on the
ground running between the sparse houses, but at least from the rooftops
she could see far enough to find her way despite the darkness. Finding
hot water was another matter entirely. She circled the sprawling
building several times before catching the scent of food and following
it to the kitchen. She had to watch the kitchen for several more
minutes before an opportunity arose to fill a pot with boiling water,
which she judiciously cut with water from the garden's pond until it
was bearably hot. She poured it over herself with a sigh of relief.
The thought of entering the house, of continuing the charade,
suddenly exhausted him; he sank down on a boulder at the pond's edge,
moodily gazing at the clear water. The surface rippled with moonlight;
through the shifting ribbons of white he caught a glimpse of a carp, its
orange sides reddish brown in the water's nighttime shadows. It was
full dark now, the sky having completed its transformation as she
traversed the rooftops of Kyoto; Ranma was amazed at how black it was
with no streetlamps or neon signs, how huge and bright the moon was with
no lesser lights to steal its thunder. It was no wonder the Heian dorks
had written so many stupid moon poems, he thought absently. The light
on the water was mesmerizing, and as if in a trance, he heard his own
voice:
"The light of the moon �
does she watch it now as well,
in a distant sk..."
He cut off the sentence abruptly, nearly biting his tongue. What the
hell was he saying? He was going crazy. The time-travel had been too
much for him, that was it, and if he didn't get ahold of himself soon,
next thing you know he'd be passing out flowers in whatever the Heian
equivalent of the airport was.
With a grunt of determination, he leaped off the rock, popping
his neck. The moon was just the moon, after all. A big stupid rock
in the sky.
But as he stalked irritably towards the entrance to the house,
he couldn't help but wonder if Akane was looking at the moon...
somewhere.
*****
Koremitsu paced anxiously in the entrance hall, his jovial
round face creased with worry. Lord Ranma was late. On another night,
he would not have worried so; his charge was not a predictable man,
and would frequently spend his nights elsewhere. But Koremitsu had
specifically requested that he be here tonight, to be by Lady Aoi's
side - and, truth be told, he had been remaining in the Minister's
household more and more of late, roaming less and less. Some of the
other servants had begun to speculate on his increased attention,
and Koremitsu had heard from acquaintances in other households that
the lack of visitation was causing distress among his other women. No,
Lord Ranma would not have abandoned his duty for a tryst tonight, of
all nights.
He was jarred from his speculations by the distinctive sound of
the door opening. It had to be him! He sighed in relief, stepping
forward. "Ah, Chuna...gon." He stared in pained disbelief at the
tattered remains of Lord Ranma's contest robes, barely recognizable
as the glittering raiment Koremitsu had so carefully, so lovingly
arranged. His hat was gone, the carefully hand-embroidered sleeves
of his robe practically shredded; what remained of the silk was
puckered and discolored. Koremitsu bowed his head in a brief prayer
to any kami that might be listening that someday, someday Lord Ranma
would just settle down.
Ranma grinned at him, apparently unconcerned for his bedraggled
appearance. "Hey, Koremitsu. How's it hanging?"
Koremitsu almost asked him how WHAT was hanging, but decided
before the words left his mouth that he didn't really want to know.
Besides, there was really no time to waste. He told Ranma as much,
ushering him down the hallway towards the room chosen for the
ceremony. He noticed with a fatalistic grimace that the Middle
Counsellor smelled like pond water.
"What's the hurry? Don't tell me, there's a flower-picking
contest or something." Had Lord Ranma really forgotten in the heat of
battle about tonight's plans? He must be joking, Koremitsu decided.
Lord Ranma knew full well that the Iris Festival was not until later in
the year.
"The priests have been here since sunset for the exorcism," he
said with a touch of impatience. "I believe that they may have
already begun their ministrations."
"Exorcism?" Ranma stopped in his tracks. Koremitsu's eyes
narrowed as he regarded his face. Was that expression on his face one
of concern? Concern for Aoi... or...
"Yes, the exorcism," he said carefully, watching his Lord's face.
"The priests have come fully prepared to cast out any spirits that do
not belong in the bodies they inhabit."
"Don't... belong?" Lord Ranma's face went through a gamut of
emotions - from confusion, to elated relief, to thoughtfulness. Not
fear, though; Koremitsu felt somewhat relieved himself at that
particular lack. Surely a fox spirit would fear the pain of being
ejected from its host.
"For the Lady Aoi," Koremitsu reminded him. "To cure her
affliction." That certainly provoked a response; Ranma's face
hardened, and he strode forward with a speed more to Koremitsu's
liking, leaving the servant to flutter along in his wake.
*****
Casting out spirits that didn't belong. Ranma's mind kept turning
that over and over as he strode down the hall. Did that mean he would
be sent back to his own time? He hoped so, he was already sick and
tired of living in a time with too much poetry and not enough fast
food... but if he did get cast out and sent back to his own time,
what would happen to Aoi? He doubted seriously that she would be left
in peace simply because he was gone - unless the exorcism worked for
her as well... But what if the spirit returned?
And what if, instead of being sent home, he were simply... cast
out. Out of this body, but not into his own. He tried to imagine
being without a body, and failed miserably. If he were bodiless,
how could he practice martial arts? It was unthinkable... But, of
course, he still thought of it, as his feet pounded down the hallway
towards the exorcism.
He couldn't back down now, he thought grimly, his lips compressing
into a thin line. He recalled what Koremitsu had said to him that
morning: that his presence might mean the difference between success
and failure for Aoi. He had vowed to himself that he would save her
from the spirit, and he repeated it inwardly now, adding a small
caveat to the end:
Even at the cost of his own soul.
They were approaching what must be the room; there were a number
of people outside in various attitudes of concern. Ranma could hear
the sound of chanting from within, sonorous and urgent. Against his
will, his steps slowed, and finally stopped a short distance from the
door.
The gathered people grew silent as his feet remained still,
watching him with various degrees of interest and concern. Ranma
stared at the door, brow knotted. He would never admit it to another
living soul, and didn't want to admit it to himself, but he couldn't
deny it. He, Ranma Saotome, was afraid.
What surprised him was that he wasn't afraid of being cast out
into eternal formlessness, or even being... extinguished. He thought
numbly that he should be afraid of those things, but they were not
what stopped his feet in their tracks, froze him with trepidation. No,
despite all his wishes and expectations, he was afraid that he would
be sent home after all, and then Aoi would have nobody to protect her
in the night, nobody to find out who was trying to kill her, nobody to
sit by her side and argue with her and...
He was distracted from his thoughts by a familiar sound, the
sound of weeping - no, more like wailing - and the sensation of
hands clutching at his legs. There, prostrate before him, was Soun
Tendo - but no, he was the Minister of the Left, Aoi's father - tears
running down his cheeks.
"Ranma!" his father-in-law said between sobs. "You've come to
take care of my little girl, haven't you?"
Ranma grimaced. "Cut it out, already!" he said without thinking.
Aoi's father was not to be dissuaded. "I knew you loved her," he
sobbed. "I knew those other women could not hold you for long, that
you would come back to my little girl!" His wails reached a crescendo
again, and Ranma tried desperately to disentangle himself.
"Leggo, Mr... um... just leggo!" Ranma sputtered. "Look, how'm I
supposed to take care of her if you won't let me in the room?" That
got the man's grip loosened enough that Ranma could tear himself away,
and before he could be caught again, Ranma opened the door and slipped
in, followed by Koremitsu.
There were worse fates, after all.
*****
The chamber was an inferno, hot and red, lit by a number of flaming
braziers arranged haphazardly about the room. The largest of these held
a flame that reached more than a foot towards the ceiling, casting
grotesque, cavorting shadows on the walls. Kneeling before this flame
was a black-clad priest, rivulets of sweat trickling down his bald head
as he rocked back and forth, worn hands fingering a string of prayer
beads. As Ranma watched, the priest reached into a weathered clay pot
at his knees, scattering a handful of tiny black pellets like buckshot
into the brazier. The room was filled with a bitter, acrid scent as
a drift of black smoke dimmed the leaping flame for several seconds
before it returned to its prior fury.
"Poppy seeds," breathed Koremitsu. "They already burn poppy seeds
to hasten the exorcism. The spirit must indeed be strong if it yet
remains."
There was a bamboo screen that shielded one corner from sight;
the corner seemed unlit, though curls of fragrant smoke were visible
at the top of the screen. Just before it, a number of young women -
Ranma recognized them as some of Aoi's servants - seemed to be in
various stages of hysterics; some moaned terribly, while others
muttered under their breath, eyes darting frantically about. They
were all clad in white, their garb shadowed frighteningly by the
flames.
Koremitsu stepped over to an acolyte who stood near the door
watching. "How goes the ceremony?" he asked in a low voice.
"Poorly," the acolyte murmured back, dabbing at his own sweating
brow with the hem of his sleeve. Ranma leaned closer to hear him above
the priest's chanting. "There were a few minor spirits that were cast
out into the mediums with ease, but the most malignant of them clings to
her yet. No sutras have had effect..." There was a hoarse cry from
beyond the screen. Aoi's voice.
Ranma didn't remember deciding to move, but there he was behind
the screen, gazing down at Aoi's unconscious form. She was clad in
the same white robes as the mediums, and Ranma noted in shock that her
face was as pale as her robes, stark against her damp black hair. The
flickering light from the braziers barely illuminated her, reflecting
off the walls behind her in a maddening swirl of light; her personal
incense burner was beside her pallet, glowing with the scent he now
recognized as Lord Ranma's gift. Droplets of sweat lay like blisters on
her face and throat; her hair was draped across the floor behind her,
the strands edging her face tangled and wild from the humidity. Her
hands clutched spasmodically at the coverlet, twisting it until the
fabric seemed like to tear. As Ranma watched, she contorted in pain,
her back arching off the pallet as her mouth stretched in a silent
expression of agony.
That was all the impetus he needed to fling himself down by her
side, taking her hand in his. It was clammy. "I'm here, A... Aoi."
Her eyes were tightly shut, tears coming out like water from a
sponge, but she seemed to hear him; her body relaxed, and the horrible
expression of pain lifted for a brief moment. There must be more he
could do� His free hand stroked nervously at her damp, hot forehead,
feeling the tiny muscles knotted in pain.
From outside the screen, Ranma heard the hiss and sizzle of more
poppy seeds being cast into the fire. Simultaneous with the sound, Aoi
writhed again, her free arm flailing about. Ranma caught at it,
clasping both her hands firmly between his. The smoke from the poppy
seeds was wafting around the edges of the screen, making his eyes water
with its heady bitterness
"Aoi, it's me, Ranma," he said hoarsely, eyes searching her twisted
face, so frighteningly unlike any expression he had ever seen on Akane.
"Ran...ma?" she said in a voice barely above a whisper.
There was a leap of adrenalin in him at the sound of her voice,
pain-soaked and yet so very welcome just for its existence. "Yes,
Ranma!" he said quickly. "Your... your husband." It was only a little
lie, he told himself, bowing down over her hands and his. Nothing
compared to what he had already perpetuated.
"Ranma." Her voice was suddenly clear as a bell, and it made him
shiver. Aoi's eyes flew open; her trembling stopped, and she looked
about her with wide, staring eyes. "I must speak with Ranma."
"I'm here," he said hesitantly. There was something... not quite
right about her, about the way her eyes cast about the dark space. She
was undoubtedly feverish.
"Make them stop."
Ranma didn't hesitate. "Hey! Out there!" he yelled
unceremoniously. "Shut up for a minute, will ya? She's talking." The
chanting stopped abruptly; Ranma could hear mutterings between the
priest and his acolyte, but they were too low to understand, and he was
much more concerned with the woman before him, who sighed in intense
relief.
"Thank you...Ranma. It hurts so."
"Um, yeah." He supposed it would hurt to be tormented by a
malicious spirit in such a way. He had a sudden vision of Aoi's head
spinning around and around, and firmly cast it out. Aoi was feeling
better now... wasn't she?
Her eyes were still wide open, and her gaze wandered drunkenly
around their solitary corner before coming to a halt, abruptly, on
Ranma's face.
"Ranma," she said again, sitting up halfway. She was leaning on
her elbow, sweat-matted hair trailing across her face like jagged scars.
The expression on that face... it was somehow familiar, but not on the
face of Aoi. There was a hunger in those eyes, a desperation that he
could never have imagined.
"Ranma, help me..." Aoi lifted her face to his imploringly - but it
wasn't Aoi looking out of those eyes, he realized, the shock sinking
into his belly like a block of ice. Not Aoi. The other, the spirit.
HER. He could see it, it was there in the vague wildness of her eyes;
the way she moved, like a marionette; the low and halting intonation of
her voice. Ranma stared into those blank and miserable eyes, barely
able to breathe.
"Help me," the spirit said again through Aoi's lips, with her
voice. "I never wanted this, never wanted to come see you like this.
But... it is true. A troubled soul will sometimes wander..." Aoi's head
dipped low, nearly to the ground, and her voice recited slowly:
"Bind it well, the hem
of this, my tear-laden robe,
that it bind within
my grieving soul, wandering
through the dark and empty skies..." (Genji, chapter 9)
Ranma grasped Aoi's sleeves, gently bringing the face up to
his. "Who are you?" he asked, his voice edged with fear and fury. "Why
are you doing this to her?"
Aoi's hand came up to touch his cheek, wonderingly. It was cold,
like the white belly of a frog. "So worried..." the spirit said sadly.
Aoi's body quivered abruptly, as if doused in freezing water; then the
spirit gazed through her eyes with sudden fire. "You would not, I
think, be so worried for me." She pushed herself away, shaking as if in
a seizure. "Not for me, never for me..." Aoi's hands arched stiffly,
became claws; the sharp nails came up to rake her face...
Ranma snatched her wrists just before the fingernails dug into
flesh. "Who are you?" he repeated harshly, glowing faintly with ki.
"Tell me!"
Aoi moaned in response, her head rocking back, her back arching so
that her wide, staring eyes gazed at the ceiling. Her dry lips moved
faintly, breath barely passing them. Ranma let go of her wrists, arms
reaching out to support her; the muscles of her back were knotted
fiercely under his hands, while her arms hung limply from her shoulders,
hands trailing on the pallet as if forgotten. He leaned his ear close
to those trembling lips, closer and closer, until he could make out what
the spirit was repeating.
"Help... me..."
Aoi screamed - her own voice now, her own tortured eyes - and
collapsed in his arms.
*****
Ranma would have liked to get Aoi tucked into her own bed, but it
didn't seem wise to move her after the shock to her system, so when
he was certain she was sleeping peacefully, he finally left her behind
the screen, one of her ladies sitting by her side. Koremitsu was
waiting outside the screen, his face sagging with disappointment.
"It was not a success," he said, almost apologetically.
Ranma sighed and hunkered down to sit on his heels, running his
fingers through his bangs. "Nope. She's gone, all right, but she'll
be back." He felt drained by the experience, and somewhat guilty,
for his predecessor's sake. It seemed obvious to him that this was
the result of Lord Ranma's past infidelities, and that Aoi was the
one paying for them. "She won't give up easily."
"She?"
"You couldn't hear her, then?" Ranma didn't really feel like
talking about it, but at this point Koremitsu seemed like the only ally
he had - and he would definitely need his help to do what he needed to.
"She... she wanted to talk to me. I don't know who she was, but it
seems she's someone alive. Someone alive, and very jealous."
Koremitsu's face lit with sympathy. "One of your women."
"Probably. Though I suppose it could be someone I've never even
met..." It was beginning to feel strangely natural to discuss this past
he had never lived as if it were his own... Ranma sighed heavily,
resting his elbows on his thighs and staring emptily at the floor. He
had felt he needed to stay, but he could sense that the battle to save
Aoi would be an uphill one, and he was starting from scratch.
Why was it that he was supposedly better able to deal with this
than Aoi's husband, his other self? He had no knowledge of this place
and time, no real knowledge of the people involved, except for his
memories of their analogues in his own time. What they were like in
this time, he had no way of knowing. Why him?
He could feel Koremitsu watching him, waiting for him to speak.
He needed a plan. He needed to find something to do that could
possibly unearth Aoi's enemy, and he suspected he didn't have much
time to waste. He may already have wasted too much...
"Tomorrow," he said slowly, hands meeting between his splayed
knees and clenching firmly. "Tomorrow, I'll have to start visiting
them. One by one. And when I find her..." There his train of thought
ended. Would he... kill her? Could he? Against his will, he recalled
the look of utter misery that had shone from behind Aoi's eyes. The
tortured pleas for help.
But what if he had to kill her to make it stop?
What if even killing her couldn't end it?
"Lord Ranma?"
Ranma looked up wearily. "What now?"
"I must ask you... how did you feel during the exorcism?"
How was he supposed to feel when his "wife" was being tortured by
his "lover"? "Fine."
"No... headaches? Pain? Burning sensation?"
"Nope."
"No feeling like you were torn apart, like you were being beaten
with a brand of fire..."
"Koremitsu, what on earth are you..." The image of Aoi, thrashing
as the poppy seeds were cast into the fire, burst into his head. The
spirit using Aoi's voice, making him stop the ceremony. *It hurts so.*
"Koremitsu... were you trying to exorcise *me*?"
Koremitsu's reddening face was all the answer he needed. Ranma
smiled bitterly. Maybe the servant was more observant than he had
thought. But in the end, they both had their answer.
"Sorry, buddy. I guess I belong in this body after all."
The servant didn't smile at that. If anything, he looked more
concerned. Ranma could practically read his thoughts: If Lord Ranma
wasn't possessed, then why was he acting so oddly?
Somehow, Ranma didn't think he would figure out the truth.
Meanwhile, he had urgent business to take care of.
"Is there any food in this house? I'm starving!"
*****
She awoke from the dream with a start, her heart beating wildly,
like the swift feet of a rabbit in flight. She was sweating profusely,
though the breeze that swept in from her open window was still chilly
with early spring, and for several breaths her familiar room seemed
cramped, smoky, filled with the stench of sickness and perspiration...
Then with a gasp it became her room again, the rush of familiarity
filling her with relief.
Only a dream. She buried her face in trembling hands, the dampness
of her cheeks and brow seeping into the crevices between her fingers.
The sensation of heat would not leave her; she felt new beads of sweat
breaking out on her neck, trickling down between her breasts, and she
abruptly rose to her feet, tossing aside her bedclothes. She would
bathe in the clear, cool water of her garden pool; that would banish the
fever that gripped her.
Her private rooms opened out onto the garden, its trees and bushes
barely beginning to sprout leaves; it was a small matter to open the
sliding door and step out into the coolness of the night. Her bare feet
made no sound on the moss as she followed the worn path to the small,
secretive pond that shyly hid among the tall bamboo.
It was one of her few delights, this clear, rocky pool � fed by a
tiny spring that bubbled down from the rocks in tiny waterfalls and
rivulets, the foam of its passage pure and sparkling white in the
moonlight. At its edge, she paused in exhilaration, letting her robes
fall to the ground so that the moon shone on her nakedness. It was not
a luxury she permitted herself often � but it was night, no servants
likely to be about � and what if they were? she smiled to herself. They
were all loyal to a fault, hers body and soul. They had to be.
She stepped in quickly, knowing even before her toes touched the
surface that it would be frigid � and it was, setting her teeth to
chattering. She welcomed the water�s familiar iciness, leaned near the
waterfall to splash her hot face, her neck, her breasts. She was all
over gooseflesh, and she paused in her libations to gaze at the moon,
which to her seemed a handful of snow in the sky.
It had to be a dream, she assured herself, running her wet fingers
across her stomach thoughtfully. It was odd that it was so intense,
that it was nigh the same each night � but then perhaps not surprising,
for it seemed each night as she lay down to sleep, she felt the same
misery, and were not the dreams a response to that?
The same every night... For some time it had been thus, until now
she closed her eyes practically anticipating the dream that horrified
her so. She would wander in darkness, calling out to him, to her love �
until she would find herself in a bedchamber not her own, where a woman
lay in slumber. As if in a trance, she would watch her hands roughly
grasp the sleeping woman, shake her, strike her, consumed by fiery
jealousy � unable to stop her hands from the terrible thing they did �
until the woman cried out in agony... She would struggle against her own
hands as they struck and abused the woman, until at last the dream
ended, snapping her back to consciousness...
Tonight had been different, though. Tonight there had been pain,
tearing at her, tearing her apart as her hands did what they always did,
what she suspected they must do. And � she gasped in sudden remembrance
� HE had been there. Unexpected indeed...
She shook her head sharply. A dream, no more. Indicative of her
own troubled state of mind, certainly, but a dream. She inhaled the
night air deeply...
An acrid scent hit her nostrils, faint but distinctly present. She
knew that scent, the faintly seductive charred fragrance. Poppy seeds,
burning poppy seeds. But her pool was in the depths of her garden, far
from any sign of man; there were no sounds in the night to accompany
the scent. And there should have been; poppy seeds were only burned on
one occasion, the thought of which made her stiffen with fear.
Exorcisms, when spirits of all kinds were cast out from the bodies they
had invaded. She had been present at a few, as had most members of
court, and had been sick at the sight of the spirits that howled through
the mediums, unable to release their earthly lives. There could be no
exorcism going on here, no reason for the scent; yet it teased at her
senses, refusing to leave.
She turned slowly, trying to determine the source of the smell, but
no matter which direction she faced the scent was the same. Not carried
on the breeze, certainly not born from the garden itself... A movement
of her hand wafted the scent ever stronger, and she looked down in
horror.
The scent, the fragrance of exorcism, came from herself.
She sniffed at her hands, her elbows, her shoulders. All bore the
scent, as if it had been rubbed into her with an exotic oil. Her hair
swung across her face as she leaned over to check her knees, and the
fragrance from the silken black locks nearly overpowered her. She felt
sick from more than the scent. How could this be?
Slowly at first, then with increasing vigor she began to splash
herself with the spring water, scrubbing her thighs and arms and breasts
with her palms, then as the scent refused to fade, with her fingernails,
leaving stripes of white that quickly turned to red. She knelt in the
pool, her knees slipping on the mossy rocks beneath the water as she
rinsed her hair over and over again. And yet the smell of poppy seeds
burning surrounded her, suffused her...
She was freezing, her skin felt raw and she feared if she scrubbed
any harder she would break the skin, tearing at herself until she was
bleeding, until the water about her was red with her ministrations...
She refused to go that far; she scrabbled at the edge of the pool,
clutching at the bamboo to pull herself out, desperately gathering up
her discarded silk robes - and yet as she gathered them to her breast,
the fragrance again wafted up to her face, choking her, coming from her
clothing as well... She sobbed in disbelief, casting the robes away,
and fell to her knees by the side of the pool, shivering with a cold
that was more than the water, more than the breeze.
As she wept, naked and alone, she thought bitterly that now, now
at last he truly had a reason to hate her.
END PART 6
Author's Notes:
Thanks to Krista Perry and, of course, my wonderful husband for
prereading various scenes of this chapter and making sure I made sense
most of the time.
Those of you who are familiar with the Tale of Genji will find a great
deal of it in this chapter - and probably have a good guess at the
jealous woman's identity. All I can say is, you ain't seen nothin'
yet!
I did an outline not too long ago that detailed 22 chapters of
Monogatari. However, since I have combined the outlined chapters 6
and 7 into this chapter, and expect that there's another pair I
can condense as well, it will probably end up at 20 - a nice even
number, right, Krista? Things seem to be moving along faster now
that graduation and the wedding are both behind me, so expect the
next chapter relatively soon (i.e. this year :))
The Iris Festival was, in fact, something of a flower-picking
contest. _Awase_ contests, in which like objects were compared to
find the "best", were very popular in Heian times. The poetry
contest detailed in Chapter 5 was known as an _uta-awase_; there
were also comparisons of seashells, fans, birds, anything you
could possibly imagine. The Iris Festival was the date of one
of the more unusual ones; the participants would pull up iris
plants and compare the length of the roots. I am not making this
up.
