Righter-of-Wrongs:
Radi Timbara's Story
By John Aridi
Prologue
Mount Fuji Area, January 9th 2000
Thunder rolled far above as the rain relentlessly fell on the small gathering in the foothills of Mount Fuji. And as, contrary to all known physics, the lighting flashed, whiting out the surroundings in a blaze of electrical fire...
Now, bodies can be seen. Some are men. Some are creatures approximating wolves. Two of the bodies are...different. Huge. Nine feet tall when standing, at an approximation. Massively distorted musculature. Dark green and brown fur. Wolfish features. And twisted insane eyes. Dark red, where present. Dark green blood coats the grass beneath the obvious battlefield. The bodies are sliced and diced, hacked and gouged and clawed.
Off to one side of the melee, now finished, there are laid three bodies in the soaking mud. One of them is a tiger, the body disfigured with claw marks. The other two are human; one is a man, his hands folded on his chest, blood staining his shirt which is covered with bulletholes. The other is a young girl of around sixteen years of age. She also has her hands folded on her chest, and a beautific smile on her face. There is no obvious wound on her young body, her dress still intact.
A semicircle of seven warriors stands around another. The semicircle is all in human form. Most of the seven carry swords, the katana of the samurai. One carries a massive polearm tipped with a curved blade, a naginata. The woman that carries this is tall, almost six feet tall. They stand, in the rain, ignorant (or maybe uncaring) of the storm they are in.
The last warrior is crying, his arms wrapped around a woman's body. The woman is crucified across a Tung wood cross. Another is next to it, with a man. The man is horribly damaged. His intestines are hanging from a gash in his stomach. His blood is still dripping to the grass under the cross. His bones are visible through the many hacks and gashes that tatter his clothing, the robes of a samurai warrior. The man looks to be in his mid forties and the woman in her late thirties. She is Bangladeshi, her heritage proudly worn like a medal of honour in her clothing and skin. The man is Japanese, his visage similar to that of the shoguns of bygone days. The rain soaks them both.
They are both wearing dark jade rings, almost exactly the same. They are husband and wife.
The wife is in the arms of her son.
Her son is massive. He is nearly seven feet tall, and massively muscular, his shoulders nearly four feet across. He is wearing a deep red karate gi, slashed open in places, blood visible. The rain is soaking it but he isn't mindful of that. The katana hanging by his side is in a dark red sheath, magnificently decorated. A single giant fang projects from the pommel of the weapon. It looks too big to be anything but fake. His dark brown hair droops down to the nape of his neck and across his eyebrows. A small ponytail is tied with something white. His face is a mask of suffering; if under normal circumstances he would be described as handsome. His startlingly green eyes, usually blazing with his inner fire and strength, are squeezed tight shut against the flood of tears, mingling with the rain. The scars that run down the left hand side of his face look like they were deep; they all look as if they passed straight over the eye, too. And he is crying.
A warrior in the semicircle turns to another, as another lightning bolt strikes somewhere near. He looks angry. His bald skull is oddly pale, a single oriental figure tattooed on the back of his head. He is wearing a dark leather trenchcoat over jeans and a blue shirt. He speaks in hushed, clipped Japanese.
"We have lost three this day. And still he weeps not for them, but for his parents. It is his fault that Michiro and Shiratoga and Ku are dead!"
A clap of thunder punctuates the statement.
The woman to his left turns and slaps him, across the cheek, hard. A thin line can be seen down her cheek, a tear trail barely definable in the rain. She is short, and wearing a white sleeveless shirt and combats. A brand on her shoulder marks her as Hakken and her sword is bare in her left hand.
"Shut up, Tomaru. Just shut up."
The man, although angry, does so.
And still, the man who lost his parents cries, the rain patterning his gi with dark polkadots.
Until he steps back, and falls to his knees, to the mud and the blood of the hill, and throws back his head and howls, long and low and loud, in a passable impression of a wolf.
The others watch. Until one of the warriors, a woman dressed all in black leather with long red hair, steps forward and places a hand on his shoulder, and takes up the howl herself. As does the man next to her. And the next. Until the entire gathering is howling, a mournful, haunting sound. Into the night, over the sound of the thunder, the lightning, the rain. Until the howl changes. It changes to a sharp, angry call for vengeance. And all at once, the howl broadcasts to all Hengeyokai that can hear that Mirumoto and Shiva Timbara met their deaths bravely, after resisting torture. And that now Radi Timbara is coming for the centipedes that did it.
The wrongs will be righted.
Chapter 1
Xia Dong Forest, China, 14th July 1975
The burning noonday sun glinted from the deep red blood that was being spilled in the small clearing in the forest. Glittering arcs of light were described by the katanas of the warriors as they struck and counterstruck, parried and dodged. There were three, and two of those were fighting against the other. There was no doubting who was the more proficient.
Mirumoto Timbara growled something inaudible as he hacked and sliced with his sword. The Bakemono he was facing were good, but they were hardly masters of the art of Kenjutsu. He was fending both off with the weapon of his ancestors, Puira-Dakat. It flashed as blow after blow ringed from its blade. Mirumoto's hands stung a little from the hammering assault. He didn't care. The foe was attempting to enter Timbara lands and he wouldn't let them live.
The first Bakemono fell. The hideous creature was about man-sized, with chitinous plates all over it, insect-like. Its three eyes were deep red. Mirumoto spun the sword in a tight arc, a flattened C, with his right hand. The thing barely ducked the right stroke and hadn't figured on the blade being so sharply drawn left. It's body clattered to the ground, the head landing several meters away.
"Keep at it, father, help is at hand!"
...and as if from nowhere, Mai was there. She rocketed out of a branch, her sword gripped tight in her hands, the indefensible arc it described slicing the hands from the other Bakemono. The look of surprise on its face was beautiful to Mirumoto. He loved seeing his enemies full of fear. It showed him the error of their ways. A true warrior shows no fear. No fear, no weakness. No regret.
Mirumoto reversed the sword in his grip and neatly sliced the thing in half.
He dropped to one knee, clutching a wound he had suffered taking the things on. An unlucky attempt at parrying two strokes at once had let the second blade slide off and stick him. The wound wasn't deep. Mai looked concerned.
"Don't rest too long, father..."
Mirumoto looked up at her. Mai was around six feet tall, and had flowing dark hair. She had an unnatural kind of beauty that seemed to project itself ahead of her. She moved like a true predator, even though she did not bear the changing gene. She was fifteen, and his best student. Her swordsmanship was stunning.
"Why, Mai? Why may I not rest too long?"
"Umm...because mother is giving birth. Right now. And she swears if you are no there that she will...umm...kick your ass. Is that no the right term? Sounds Gaijin, to me, father..."
Mirumoto stared at his daughter for a few seconds. And then he laughed, and turned and dove off into the forest, his form coalescing into the visage of a tiger as he ran, his daughter trying to keep up as he was running. Running toward the house he had built with his bare hands, running as fast as his four legs would carry him...
*
When he arrived, Shiva was on her back, her legs apart, her massive bump pointing to the ceiling, laid on their bed. Mark was by her side, holding her hand; he may have only been five years old but he was bearing the pain admirably, as any Timbara should. She was gripping like a vice. Hiroko was stood off to one side. He was pacing nervously, changing forms every now and then just so he could pace more. Hiroko was born at the same time as Mai; they were twins. Hiroko, however, was a Bagheera like his mother. He had been schooled in swordcraft just as his twin sister had, but he simply wasn't a fighter. Hiroko was more of a scholar; he could read by his 2nd birthday. His smallish stature when compared to the rest of the family made him look odd.
Mirumoto ran to his wife's side and took her hand, gritting his teeth as she dug her nails into his hand.
"I am here, my love...Mai, help your mother...and Hiroko, please go out to the kitchen and fix some hot water."
Hiroko looked up. He was in Sokto form.
"What for?"
Mirumoto thought for a few seconds.
"Just in case..."
Hiroko gladly retired to the kitchen. There would be blood, he knew it, and Hiroko hated blood. He paced in there instead. But strangely...although he felt he should feel something...he just felt...at peace. He knew it would turn out all right.
"Why the hell am I thinking like this?" he asked himself.
Until he heard his mother stop gasping and screaming. And his father gasped.
Hiroko ran back out. He was expecting the worst now; that gasp was never good. As he emerged he was thinking...
Metis born...dead, maybe...or worse...
But he stopped.
Shiva was laid there cradling a baby to her chest. The umbilical had already been sliced. And the baby was just laid there. It wasn't crying. It was laid there, watching people. Mai had a little blood on her hands, and she departed to wash it off. And Mirumoto was stood there, his arms gently around his wife, crying tears of joy. Little Mark was beaming.
"Itta boy, Hi'ko. Itta boy."
And Hiroko had to stop himself crying tears of joy. He was hit by what felt like a backwash of elation. And he was laughing. And smiling. And now, he knew that it was all going to be all right.
Mirumoto looked up at his wife, and stared deeply into her eyes, and whispered.
"What will you call our son, Shiva..."
She looked at him, the tears of joy coursing openly down her face.
"May I...give him an Indian name...?"
Mirumoto nodded, and Shiva gazed down at her newborn son. He looked up at her with ice-blue eyes, as she brushed absently at his hair. He had been born with a full head of hair.
"Then...his name will mean...strength...and honour...and courage...his name will be Radi..."
...and Hiroko knew it was the right name. He didn't know how he knew or even why he knew it, but he knew. And he knew well.
Mai walked back in and smiled at her new baby brother, holding a finger out to him. He took it.
"Hey there, little guy..."
But while Radi was holding her finger, he was reaching for his father's sword. And not one amongst them could think why. But no one cared. They were all awed by the wonder of this, the miracle of life.
Radi suckled on his sister's finger hopefully. He looked confused when nothing happened.
His mother chuckled, even in her exhausted, weakened state. And she fed him. And they fell asleep like that, mother and baby, even as the rest of the family looked on.
And they all noted how blissfully peaceful both looked.
Radi Timbara's Story
By John Aridi
Prologue
Mount Fuji Area, January 9th 2000
Thunder rolled far above as the rain relentlessly fell on the small gathering in the foothills of Mount Fuji. And as, contrary to all known physics, the lighting flashed, whiting out the surroundings in a blaze of electrical fire...
Now, bodies can be seen. Some are men. Some are creatures approximating wolves. Two of the bodies are...different. Huge. Nine feet tall when standing, at an approximation. Massively distorted musculature. Dark green and brown fur. Wolfish features. And twisted insane eyes. Dark red, where present. Dark green blood coats the grass beneath the obvious battlefield. The bodies are sliced and diced, hacked and gouged and clawed.
Off to one side of the melee, now finished, there are laid three bodies in the soaking mud. One of them is a tiger, the body disfigured with claw marks. The other two are human; one is a man, his hands folded on his chest, blood staining his shirt which is covered with bulletholes. The other is a young girl of around sixteen years of age. She also has her hands folded on her chest, and a beautific smile on her face. There is no obvious wound on her young body, her dress still intact.
A semicircle of seven warriors stands around another. The semicircle is all in human form. Most of the seven carry swords, the katana of the samurai. One carries a massive polearm tipped with a curved blade, a naginata. The woman that carries this is tall, almost six feet tall. They stand, in the rain, ignorant (or maybe uncaring) of the storm they are in.
The last warrior is crying, his arms wrapped around a woman's body. The woman is crucified across a Tung wood cross. Another is next to it, with a man. The man is horribly damaged. His intestines are hanging from a gash in his stomach. His blood is still dripping to the grass under the cross. His bones are visible through the many hacks and gashes that tatter his clothing, the robes of a samurai warrior. The man looks to be in his mid forties and the woman in her late thirties. She is Bangladeshi, her heritage proudly worn like a medal of honour in her clothing and skin. The man is Japanese, his visage similar to that of the shoguns of bygone days. The rain soaks them both.
They are both wearing dark jade rings, almost exactly the same. They are husband and wife.
The wife is in the arms of her son.
Her son is massive. He is nearly seven feet tall, and massively muscular, his shoulders nearly four feet across. He is wearing a deep red karate gi, slashed open in places, blood visible. The rain is soaking it but he isn't mindful of that. The katana hanging by his side is in a dark red sheath, magnificently decorated. A single giant fang projects from the pommel of the weapon. It looks too big to be anything but fake. His dark brown hair droops down to the nape of his neck and across his eyebrows. A small ponytail is tied with something white. His face is a mask of suffering; if under normal circumstances he would be described as handsome. His startlingly green eyes, usually blazing with his inner fire and strength, are squeezed tight shut against the flood of tears, mingling with the rain. The scars that run down the left hand side of his face look like they were deep; they all look as if they passed straight over the eye, too. And he is crying.
A warrior in the semicircle turns to another, as another lightning bolt strikes somewhere near. He looks angry. His bald skull is oddly pale, a single oriental figure tattooed on the back of his head. He is wearing a dark leather trenchcoat over jeans and a blue shirt. He speaks in hushed, clipped Japanese.
"We have lost three this day. And still he weeps not for them, but for his parents. It is his fault that Michiro and Shiratoga and Ku are dead!"
A clap of thunder punctuates the statement.
The woman to his left turns and slaps him, across the cheek, hard. A thin line can be seen down her cheek, a tear trail barely definable in the rain. She is short, and wearing a white sleeveless shirt and combats. A brand on her shoulder marks her as Hakken and her sword is bare in her left hand.
"Shut up, Tomaru. Just shut up."
The man, although angry, does so.
And still, the man who lost his parents cries, the rain patterning his gi with dark polkadots.
Until he steps back, and falls to his knees, to the mud and the blood of the hill, and throws back his head and howls, long and low and loud, in a passable impression of a wolf.
The others watch. Until one of the warriors, a woman dressed all in black leather with long red hair, steps forward and places a hand on his shoulder, and takes up the howl herself. As does the man next to her. And the next. Until the entire gathering is howling, a mournful, haunting sound. Into the night, over the sound of the thunder, the lightning, the rain. Until the howl changes. It changes to a sharp, angry call for vengeance. And all at once, the howl broadcasts to all Hengeyokai that can hear that Mirumoto and Shiva Timbara met their deaths bravely, after resisting torture. And that now Radi Timbara is coming for the centipedes that did it.
The wrongs will be righted.
Chapter 1
Xia Dong Forest, China, 14th July 1975
The burning noonday sun glinted from the deep red blood that was being spilled in the small clearing in the forest. Glittering arcs of light were described by the katanas of the warriors as they struck and counterstruck, parried and dodged. There were three, and two of those were fighting against the other. There was no doubting who was the more proficient.
Mirumoto Timbara growled something inaudible as he hacked and sliced with his sword. The Bakemono he was facing were good, but they were hardly masters of the art of Kenjutsu. He was fending both off with the weapon of his ancestors, Puira-Dakat. It flashed as blow after blow ringed from its blade. Mirumoto's hands stung a little from the hammering assault. He didn't care. The foe was attempting to enter Timbara lands and he wouldn't let them live.
The first Bakemono fell. The hideous creature was about man-sized, with chitinous plates all over it, insect-like. Its three eyes were deep red. Mirumoto spun the sword in a tight arc, a flattened C, with his right hand. The thing barely ducked the right stroke and hadn't figured on the blade being so sharply drawn left. It's body clattered to the ground, the head landing several meters away.
"Keep at it, father, help is at hand!"
...and as if from nowhere, Mai was there. She rocketed out of a branch, her sword gripped tight in her hands, the indefensible arc it described slicing the hands from the other Bakemono. The look of surprise on its face was beautiful to Mirumoto. He loved seeing his enemies full of fear. It showed him the error of their ways. A true warrior shows no fear. No fear, no weakness. No regret.
Mirumoto reversed the sword in his grip and neatly sliced the thing in half.
He dropped to one knee, clutching a wound he had suffered taking the things on. An unlucky attempt at parrying two strokes at once had let the second blade slide off and stick him. The wound wasn't deep. Mai looked concerned.
"Don't rest too long, father..."
Mirumoto looked up at her. Mai was around six feet tall, and had flowing dark hair. She had an unnatural kind of beauty that seemed to project itself ahead of her. She moved like a true predator, even though she did not bear the changing gene. She was fifteen, and his best student. Her swordsmanship was stunning.
"Why, Mai? Why may I not rest too long?"
"Umm...because mother is giving birth. Right now. And she swears if you are no there that she will...umm...kick your ass. Is that no the right term? Sounds Gaijin, to me, father..."
Mirumoto stared at his daughter for a few seconds. And then he laughed, and turned and dove off into the forest, his form coalescing into the visage of a tiger as he ran, his daughter trying to keep up as he was running. Running toward the house he had built with his bare hands, running as fast as his four legs would carry him...
*
When he arrived, Shiva was on her back, her legs apart, her massive bump pointing to the ceiling, laid on their bed. Mark was by her side, holding her hand; he may have only been five years old but he was bearing the pain admirably, as any Timbara should. She was gripping like a vice. Hiroko was stood off to one side. He was pacing nervously, changing forms every now and then just so he could pace more. Hiroko was born at the same time as Mai; they were twins. Hiroko, however, was a Bagheera like his mother. He had been schooled in swordcraft just as his twin sister had, but he simply wasn't a fighter. Hiroko was more of a scholar; he could read by his 2nd birthday. His smallish stature when compared to the rest of the family made him look odd.
Mirumoto ran to his wife's side and took her hand, gritting his teeth as she dug her nails into his hand.
"I am here, my love...Mai, help your mother...and Hiroko, please go out to the kitchen and fix some hot water."
Hiroko looked up. He was in Sokto form.
"What for?"
Mirumoto thought for a few seconds.
"Just in case..."
Hiroko gladly retired to the kitchen. There would be blood, he knew it, and Hiroko hated blood. He paced in there instead. But strangely...although he felt he should feel something...he just felt...at peace. He knew it would turn out all right.
"Why the hell am I thinking like this?" he asked himself.
Until he heard his mother stop gasping and screaming. And his father gasped.
Hiroko ran back out. He was expecting the worst now; that gasp was never good. As he emerged he was thinking...
Metis born...dead, maybe...or worse...
But he stopped.
Shiva was laid there cradling a baby to her chest. The umbilical had already been sliced. And the baby was just laid there. It wasn't crying. It was laid there, watching people. Mai had a little blood on her hands, and she departed to wash it off. And Mirumoto was stood there, his arms gently around his wife, crying tears of joy. Little Mark was beaming.
"Itta boy, Hi'ko. Itta boy."
And Hiroko had to stop himself crying tears of joy. He was hit by what felt like a backwash of elation. And he was laughing. And smiling. And now, he knew that it was all going to be all right.
Mirumoto looked up at his wife, and stared deeply into her eyes, and whispered.
"What will you call our son, Shiva..."
She looked at him, the tears of joy coursing openly down her face.
"May I...give him an Indian name...?"
Mirumoto nodded, and Shiva gazed down at her newborn son. He looked up at her with ice-blue eyes, as she brushed absently at his hair. He had been born with a full head of hair.
"Then...his name will mean...strength...and honour...and courage...his name will be Radi..."
...and Hiroko knew it was the right name. He didn't know how he knew or even why he knew it, but he knew. And he knew well.
Mai walked back in and smiled at her new baby brother, holding a finger out to him. He took it.
"Hey there, little guy..."
But while Radi was holding her finger, he was reaching for his father's sword. And not one amongst them could think why. But no one cared. They were all awed by the wonder of this, the miracle of life.
Radi suckled on his sister's finger hopefully. He looked confused when nothing happened.
His mother chuckled, even in her exhausted, weakened state. And she fed him. And they fell asleep like that, mother and baby, even as the rest of the family looked on.
And they all noted how blissfully peaceful both looked.