Disclaimer: The playground is by Rumiko Takahashi, I'm only swinging on the monkey bars. Remember to leave the grounds cleaner than you found them and please don't feed the Trolls. "The Enfolding" is copyright by Garnet Rogers. This story is archived at http://www.kawaiikunee.com/slp/ Release 1.2 (Dec. 04, 2000) ----------------------------------------------------------------------- Ranma and Akane: A Love Story Chapter 4: A Tapestry of Shadows Part B: Sunday Service ----------------------------------------------------------------------- It is sunday morning ... _early_ sunday morning ... the sky still dark, in the darkest hours before the light of the new day. Ranma's apartment, like all the others in her building, is dark; that should not, however, be construed to mean that Ranma is asleep. Contrariwise, she is wide awake, sitting seiza in girl form in the middle of her main room, surrounded by a litter of books, papers, vials, beakers, boxes, racks, small pieces of metal or wood or wire, and a great quantity of objects which can only be classified as miscellanea. No diagram hangs in the air before the window, no mysterious liquids drip in shadowed corners, no air of arcane secrets prevails. Nonetheless, magic is being made. Magic of the best and most useful sort: prosaic magic. In front of Ranma sits a pile of small pieces of rice paper; next to them is a set of inkstones, bearing ink of many hues, and a matching set of pens. To one side is a completed set of small origami geese, patiently waiting their time. Ranma's attention, though, is not on the geese; instead, she turns a small piece of jade over in her hands, staring at it with a faint air of puzzlement. It is carved in the likeness of a nightingale, but this has been the case for centuries, and would not seem to be cause for puzzlement. Casually, Ranma reaches her hand to the side and picks a scroll out of a pile of similar writings. She places the jade nightingale carefully in front of her and unrolls the scroll, skimming at first, and then carefully reading one section. Then she moves on in the scroll, skimming the rest before returning to several sections to scrutinize them closely, rolling the scroll back and forth several time to cross-reference some point or other. Then she rerolls the scroll and places it back into its place before rising quickly to her feet, rapidly gathering the litter from the floor and replacing it in the foot-locker. The geese she puts aside, laying them on the table in the kitchen. The jade bird remains sitting enigmaticly where she left it. Although, to be honest, sitting where you leave it can not truly be considered enigmatic behavior for a jade figurine. This is, after all, what they do all the time; inanimation is a hard habit to give up. Ranma finishes her clean-up and returns to sit seiza before the still immobile figurine. Then she reaches out and takes it into her hands, resting it in the valley of her cupped palms as she sinks deeply into trance. And the minutes pass, fleeing like frightened minnows, as Ranma adjusts her perception, looking Without, and then Within - Within the jade bird cupped in her hands, and Within herself as well. Before her inward turned gaze she sees a tracery of fire, outlining blocks of softly luminescent patterns; patterns that, for those with eyes to see them, set out the precise details of the existence of any given object. This one, for instance, tells of the details for the jade figurine in Ranma's hand. See the patterns that mark out its shape, and color; trace the lines that tell of texture, chemical composition, mass and density; observe the lack of any pattern that would indicate life, or growth, or change. It is not unusual for there to be such a lack; after all, the figurine isn't alive. And yet ... yet within its structure it still possesses the energies of life. And yet within its patterns it follows the living patterns of the bird which is its model. And yet, somehow, locked in never-living stone, there still exists a living bird: awaiting life, longing for freedom, patient as a stone. Patient, as it has had to be patient, since the day so long ago when it first was carved. Waiting, as it has had to wait since the day when first it coalesced from primordial ore and silicates. Longing, as it had longed since the first human hand had touched it, since its shape had taken form, since it had become like life, but not alive. And Ranma hears the longing in her blood, knows the waiting in her bones, feels the patience down all the endless years in nerves and heart and soul. And reaches out a mental hand, and presses a metaphorical button, because, sometimes, patience _does_ have its reward. And a spring wound by a thousand years of longing unwinds. And in her hand the nightingale shakes its carven feathers into place, and stretches and spreads its stony wings, and hurls itself into the waiting air, and raises its voice -- at last, at last -- in song. For a moment Ranma follows the jade bird's ecstatic flight with a proud smile, but then she notes the music the joyful bird is raising to heaven, a tune slower and simpler than expected, a tune, she suddenly realizes, that she knows. And her smile turns wistful, and a golden contralto softly joins a jade fountain of song. Deep within this softly moonlit night we awoke, to find our Loves' sweet expression unfolding of its own accord. A touch in gentle sleepiness, a fingertip, a pressing lip The kindness of our bodies, speaking softly in the dark. Our love began so tentative; a smiling eye, a voice soft-spoken Touching in a way our lives had never quite been met. The quiet grave acceptance of the truth within each other, The meeting of two people, man and woman for all time. So in this night our love unfolds, your body is akin to mine. Another half once left behind in generations long ago. To finally meet together, in a silent true immersion. The natural culmination of a love we can't define. And this loving is a drawing close, a turning in, an opening Until one perfect moment; but how can it be expressed? A receiving, and enfolding as I cradle you in my arms. Within my heart, within my soul, You are my true love. The nightingale circuits the room and lands on Ranma's outstretched finger, throat pouring forth a torrent of song. Ranma listens for a moment, still smiling wistfully, then chuckles. "It's all very well for _you_ to say. You don't have to deal with it." Music. "'Man and woman for all time', _that's_ the problem." Music. "Because she's straight, you silly bird. And she thinks I'm a girl." Music. "Yeah, that _could_ be done, I suppose. But there's one problem. _I_ want 'man and woman' too, and if you say anything about Nannichuan I'll ...." Music. "Be her friend. What else is there?" Music: a sharp, brief stanza. "Love is ... not a good idea. Besides, there's Oyaji, remember? If he hasn't found an engagement for me I'll eat my hat. It'll be enough of a miracle if she's at all suitable. Hell, it'll be something of a miracle if she's _human_. Love is too much to hope for." Music. "Because _it won't work_, damn it. It hurts enough as it is." Music: a rich tapestry of interweaving harmonies. "Oh _well_. In _that_ case, yes, _then_ it would work. Of course, that won't happen ... but _if_ it did, then yes." Music: a joyous trill, fading into a sleepy purl. A stretching, a shake, a nestling down to rest; and a small jade figurine, a nightingale asleep, is cupped in the hollow of Ranma's palm. Patiently waiting for a spring to wind itself again; content now, in a sense, but still longing for the day when it can again unwind itself ... and fly ... and sing. And Bushiko Ranma looks down into the hollow of her hand, and says, very gently, "Silly bird." ----------------------------------------------------------------------- Next: Ranma and Akane: A Love Story Chapter 4: A Tapestry of Shadows Part C: Sonata for Flute 'Til next, Eric Hallstrom, 01/16/2001