The outer fence and gate were draped with bands of black and white cloth. A narrow corridor of white led up the front walk, through the entrance passage, into the living room. Nabiki sat motionless at the table by the front door, rigid and formal, bowing to each guest, murmuring a polite phrase. One by one neighbors, acquaintances, students and their families, their teachers and classmates, came up the walk, signed the condolence book, and passed on into the living room where the shrine had been set up. The heavy, sick-sweet smell of incense hung in the air, like the sound of the priest’s droning prayers. Kasumi greeted each visitor with sweet, mechanical propriety. This ought to be Otousan’s place, but… it was almost as if he’d died too. He hadn’t spoken, hadn’t eaten, slept or bathed since Okaasan’s death. It had taken the combined efforts of the three of them to get him into his formal robes this morning. Kasumi’s persuasion hadn’t worked, and it had been Akane, flying into one of her rages, who had penetrated his depression just enough that he cooperated, just enough that they didn’t have to dress him like a doll. After that, though, he had spent the day staring at nothing, tears running down his face, scarcely moving. Akane sat very close to him, an angry and determined expression on her small face, glaring at all the visitors. As each visitor left, Kasumi guided them out through another white-draped corridor, murmuring formal phrases and handing out the mourning gifts from the steadily-dwindling pile. The ritual helped keep her from thinking about the terrible burdens she now faced. Keeping the house running. Looking after Nabiki and Akane. And Otousan. Dear kami, she didn’t know what to do about Otousan.
Help me, Okaasan, she prayed silently. I can’t let Nabiki and Akane see how scared I am.
The shadows were lengthening and there hadn’t been any visitors in a while. The undertaker’s men were stripping away the hangings and dismantling the temporary shrine. Nabiki came in with the condolence book and the bundle of incense-money envelopes. She set them on the table, went to her room for a notebook and pencil and her abacus, and began counting the incense money.
“Gomen kudasai,” came a woman’s voice from the doorway.
Kasumi looked up. Three strangers had come in: a pretty, motherly-looking woman, a stout bald man with glasses, and a little boy about Akane’s age. She didn’t know any of them, but the man looked vaguely familiar. “You must be Kasumi-chan,” he rumbled.
“Hai,” she began uncertainly.
He smiled. “My name is Genma Saotome. I used to train with your father.”
Of course, that was why he looked familiar! Otousan’s old photographs! This was Saotome-san, his best friend! “Please come this way, Saotome-san,” she said to the man and led him over to where Otousan was still staring vacantly in the general direction of the shrine. Kami, Okaasan, please let this help.
The big man laid his hand on Otousan’s shoulder, ignoring Akane’s protective glare. “Tendou-kun, I am so sorry. If there is anything at all I can do…”
To Kasumi’s amazement, Otousan turned toward the newcomer. “Saotome-kun!”
“Otousan!” the little girl exploded.
Otousan smiled, actually smiled, at Akane. It’s all right, Akane-chan. Why don’t you take Saotome-san’s little boy out into the garden?”
The little boy stepped behind his mother. She pushed him gently out of her shelter. “Don’t be so shy, Ranma-chan, it’s not manly. Kasumi-chan, is there anything I can do to help?”
The two children sat on the edge of the deck, fidgeting in their good clothes, staring straight ahead. “It’s too bad ’bout your mom,” Ranma said. “You can borrow mine if you want.”
“Baka! How can you loan somebody your mother?”
He tugged on his ponytail. “Touchan’s gonna take me on a trainin’ trip, an’Kaachan’ll prob’ly miss me. Women are like that. So if you borrow her she won’t miss me so much.”
“A training trip?”
“Yup. Touchan’s gonna train me to be the best martial artist in the whole world! He promised Kaachan.”
“I’m a martial artist.”
“You? Go on! You’re a girl!”
“So? I’m still a martial artist. Otousan teaches me.”
“Teaches you?”
“Mm-hmm. We have a dojo. Want to see?”
“Okay.”
Akane led the way across the garden to the dojo entrance, but the door was locked, a strip of paper with writing on it pasted across the door. Ranma looked disappointed.
“It’s going to be mine when I grow up,” Akane told him.
“No way! Girls can’t be martial artists! At least they can’t be any good at it.”
“I can do anything a boy can do!” she told him, and drew back her fist. “Die, baka!” Before the little boy could react, she landed a perfectly-executed punch that sent him sailing through the garden, to land with a splash in the exact middle of the koi pond.
“Hey, whadya do that for?!” demanded the little boy, but the girl was already marching through the house, nose in the air. Through the open shoji he saw her stomp up the stairs, and then heard a door slam.
“Oneechan,” Nabiki called from the kitchen door. “Akane hit that little boy and knocked him into the pond.”
Nodoka and Kasumi came running out. “Obasama, I am so sorry for my little sister’s rudeness,” Kasumi apologized. “She’s really a very sweet girl, but she’s also a headstrong, violent tomboy, and she has such a terrible need to prove she’s as good as a boy.”
“That’s all right, Kasumi-chan,” Nodoka soothed as she helped her son out of the pond. “I’m sure she’ll calm down as she grows older and realizes that boys prefer girls who are more… ladylike.”
At that point, the two fathers emerged, arms around each other’s shoulders, crying. They had obviously been drinking, but Souun Tendou was showing more life than Kasumi had seen in three days. “Everything will be all right, Tendou-kun,” Genma Saotome was saying. “You’ll see. I’ll bring Ranma to you when he is grown, a man among men, and our schools will be united.”
“But Saotome-kun, which of my daughters…?”
Genma waved his arm expansively. “They’re all lovely girls. Let’s give the lad some choice, na?”
Just then they saw Kasumi and Nodoka tending to Ranma, who was dripping wet and had a swelling bruise on his chin. “Ranma, what happened to you?” his father demanded.
“Dumb girl knocked me in the pond,” the little boy muttered.
“And why was that, son?” his mother asked.
“I dunno. Stupid violent tomboy.” He scowled in the direction of the stairs. “Boy, is she ever uncute!”
NOTES, EXPLANATIONS ETC.
An omiai (honorable see-meet ) is part of the arranged marriage process, the first meeting between potential spouses where they can give each other a once-over. This isn’t, of course, a formal omiai, but it is their first meeting… and in this alterniverse also they promptly get off on the wrong foot. Ah, the birth of true love…
I think I had this idea while watching one of the OAVs, but I forget which one now. It’s an alterniverse, of course, but I thought the idea was cute.
I stole the funeral from a novel called The Chrysanthemum Chain by James Melville. He is (or was, I’m not sure if he’s still alive) an Englishman who wrote police-procedural mysteries set in Kobe. I think his books are out of print now, but if you can track them down they’re definitely worth it.
I know that the older Ranma usually calls his mother Ofukuro (honorable bag – this is VERY rude). I don’t think he would have been that flippant at six. Remember, this is before everything happened – before the promise, before the Nekoken, before multiple fiancées and Jusenkyou, and I think he was probably a very sweet little boy, probably always more casual in his speech than a strict purist would like to see from a young child, but not deliberately rude.
Otousan, Touchan = father
Okaasan, Haachan = mother
Obasama = aunt
Na = sentence-ending particle, something like huh? Equivalent to ne, but used by men.
Gomen kudasai = excuse me. Used when entering someone’s home, particularly if they
haven’t answered the door.
Strip of paper pasted across the dojo door – my understanding is that death is ritually unclean in Shinto, and in houses where there is a death the kamidana, or Shinto altar, should be sealed. I took the liberty of extending that to the dojo as a whole, since it is a kind of sacred space and mostly I didn’t want the kids being able to get into it because I didn’t want to write a sparring match.