Of course, not everyone learned of the arrival. Even on the docks, there was only 85% complete dissemination of the news before the clerks and other indoor workers broke for lunch and asked about the flambouyant vessels – some of which still floated somewhat clear of the admittedly dirty waters of Tokyo Harbour. (There was also the Gnomish Sidewheeler which had landed in the harbour, and was subsequently subject to a concerted rescue effort having promptly turned turtle.)
Elsewhere, it was a working day. Many employers frown on the practice of listening to the radio in the workplace, much less watching television on the job. Schools definitely and firmly prohibit both practices.
Others elect to watch television channels, or listen to radio stations, which decline to interrupt their programming for unscheduled news. There was a significant population of stay-at-home parents who mistook glimpses of newsflashes as some new programme on whatever channel their children happened to be watching – the flashing display of bright colours and heraldry were quite in tune with a pre-schooler’s tastes. Another group chose to listen to their own collections rather than share in the broadcast bounty.
Some spend their daylight hours at hobbies or activities for which great attention and concentration is mandatory, and so chose not to listen to broadcast entertainment of any description. Some others found employment leading or even teaching these hobbyists, and generally encouraged that avoidance of piped drivel by example.
As it happened, every member of the Tendo family fell into one or other of these groups, with two at school, one listening to classical music, and the last teaching a class of housewives and retirees basic self-defence. Events – indeed, history itself – would have fallen out differently if the same could have been said of all residents of Nerima.
At a school remarkable solely for spectacular disciple problems, massed battles, insane administration, prepubescent staff, collateral damage,
At a remarkable school (albeit not in a good way), a small figure scuttled out of his hiding place behind some cleaning supplies, leaving his ancient transistor radio plugged in behind him. He would report to his masters in order of seniority, which also happened to coincide with their order of proximity.
A fairly steady stream of figures descended the gangplanks of the moored ships (and popped up in the water around the Gnomish Sidewheeler), and the newscrews kept a weather eye on those disembarking. Those channels to have sent two or more crews kept one of them constantly focused on the gangplanks, simply recording the processions.
So far, they had recorded an amazing variety of beings, amny of them clearly not human, in an even greater variety of costumes and demeanours. The all but ethereal unicorns bearing elven bards had been but the beginning. The towering ogres in frankly brutal array, more elves in Lincoln Green bearing longbows, the mysterious ranks of robed dark-skinned beings most of whom bore a sword at each hip, the phalanx of dwarven axemen, the otherwise man-shaped beings with wings taking posts atop buildings up to three blocks inland (spooking their counterparts in the police overwatch teams to no end). Of dragons there were a multitude, including the four blues amusing themselves with some formation flying and the comparatively tiny black which descended the entire 15,000 feet from the airborne portal in a single stoop ending in an almighty splash – after preening like an oversized cormorant on a stump of disused quay, it was now helping to fish out the people previously riding the Gnomish Sidewheeler. There were figures wearing armour ranging from chainmail swimsuits up to full plate. There were warriors bearing weapons ranging from the root end of a smallish tree through gleaming swords to a multi-shot automatic arbalest (mounted on the deck of the Gnomish Sidewheeler and manned by a crew of twelve, nine of them pedalling to wind up the clockwork). There were dwarves, giants (actually half-giants, but the press could be excused the error), elves, humans and animated party balloons (actually beholders, but again the press didn’t know any better so they got away with it). There were catgirls, catboys, and three talking wolves.
The figure descending the gangplank of the apparent flagship was remarkable. He walked with the grace and power of a seasoned martial artist. His face bore a smile, confident and content but not arrogant. He was neither remarkably tall, nor remarkably short, although he was clearly comfortable with those who were both. He was dressed modestly, in white with a black belt. Cameramen, intent on the images they were sending back to their studios, reached over and gained the attention of the reporters they supported. The reporters, seeing him, made the quick decision to approach, because this man stood out in the stream of newcomers.
He stood out, not simply as a swan among parrots, but rather because of his normality; a simple, understandable, recognisable, clearly Japanese martial artist in a medieval European fantasia.
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(Posted Mon, 14 Dec 2009 21:37)
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らんま1/2 © Rumiko Takahashi
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