Shattered

Chapter 11

Back in 2010 I had sold Third Eye Books and Herbs to Rebecca Dane for the absurdly low price of $1.72, setting her up in pretty fine style with a functioning business, and I also gave her a first-edition copy of Leaves of Grass to auction off for a nice chunk of capital. The revelation that she was somehow responsible for the meddling of a multi-pantheon conclave in my life thus rocked my socks—or would have, if I had been wearing any. Inari refused to tell me anything more of substance beyond that, however, and I must admit that it tested my patience. Like many people, I don’t appreciate being manipulated so baldly that I can see the string of the puppeteer. Her entire conversation with me boiled down to, “Do something about Loki. Because Rebecca Dane,” and she wouldn’t tell me anything else about what had worried the gods so much that they felt they had to nudge me into action.

“The future is a many-forked path,” she said, “and only you can choose which one to follow.”

“I know that. What I don’t know is what waits at the end of those paths.”

“Victory or death. Choose well.”

She means I should choose my path well, Oberon, and the paths won’t be clearly labeled VICTORY or DEATH.

You do remember that the Sicilian who uttered the original version of that sentence died?

“Thank you for inviting me to speak with you, honored Inari,” I said, pressing my palms together and bowing. “It has been most enlightening. I will retrieve my sword and take my leave.” She didn’t reply but nodded her head at me, serene and still, as if posing for a portrait next to her kitsune.

Turning the oni over onto his back nearly tore a muscle in mine, and Fragarach, when I pulled it out of his guts, was fouled with juicy juices and in dire need of a de-goring. The Uncompahgre River near our cabin would get that started.

“Farewell,” I said, bowing again and receiving no reply. Oberon and I stepped through the ruined doors where Tsukino Hideki stood watch. The bodies of two more oni and four more swordsmen lay in pools of blood in a very public street. I cast an uncertain glance at Tsukino-san, and he bowed to me.

“Do not worry. Inari will not allow this to be seen. All will be hidden and the damage repaired before anyone walks this street.”

Thus reassured, Oberon and I trotted back to the top of Mount Inari, where we shifted to our cabin in Colorado.

I found a note from Granuaile dated October 25 waiting for me on the kitchen table. It was a couple of days old, but she didn’t mention her father and didn’t ask for help, and it sounded as if everything had gone well with the yeti, so I didn’t need to worry about her.

“Absolutely. Let’s go.”

“I’m not sure that’s a word, Oberon.”

“Your poodle addiction? Really?”

Oberon drooped both his head and his tail.

“That’s not even a thing!”

“Oberon, where are you getting this? You don’t have a problem.”

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Tell me where this is coming from.”

“All right, look, I promise never to tell Orlaith about your addiction. You’re over it now, right? No more poodles for you?”

“Okay, then, you are no longer a poodler, we don’t need to go to meetings, and you may consider your secret safe.” I turned the bathtub faucet on and placed the plug in the drain. “I won’t tell her you asked for this bath either.” Oberon hopped in and I searched for the liquid soap. He would need a good scrubbing to get all the blood out of his fur.

“I would love to, Oberon, but I never knew any ninjas, and they tend to keep their personal histories a secret.”

“True, but not those.” At one time I had been prepared to tell Oberon the story of a samurai I had met personally in the sixteenth century, before Tokugawa solidified his power, but decided against it because that fellow had met a bad end and Oberon tended to take these stories to heart. I could, however, tell him about another warrior who had lived and died with honor. “What would you say to a story about a real samurai sword master, perhaps the greatest who ever lived?”

“Miyamoto Musashi. Or, if you want the Western order for names, Musashi Miyamoto. In Japan they usually give the family name first.”

“Well, you can have mine, if you want.”