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.”
"Does anybody really need to think that one over?"
She means I should choose my path well, Oberon, and the paths won’t be clearly labeled VICTORY or DEATH.
"Never go in against a Druid when DEATH is on the line! A-ha-ha-ha-ha!"
You do remember that the Sicilian who uttered the original version of that sentence died?
"Oh, yeah. I withdraw my ill-chosen pop-culture allusion."
“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.
"Atticus, I kind of feel icky. Can I have a bath?"
“Absolutely. Let’s go.”
"But you can’t ever tell Orlaith I asked for a bath. It would be unhoundly."
“I’m not sure that’s a word, Oberon.”
"It is now. And you also have to promise never to tell her about my poodle addiction."
“Your poodle addiction? Really?”
Oberon drooped both his head and his tail. "Yes. I am a poodler, Atticus."
“That’s not even a thing!”
"Is too. And the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem, and I have a problem. With poodles."
“Oberon, where are you getting this? You don’t have a problem.”
"Oh, see? Right there! You’re enabling me, Atticus! We both have to stop. We should go to meetings."
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Tell me where this is coming from.”
"People in crime dramas are always being ordered by judges to go to meetings about their addictions. So there has to be a Poodlers Anonymous meeting somewhere."
“All right, look, I promise never to tell Orlaith about your addiction. You’re over it now, right? No more poodles for you?”
"That’s right!"
“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.
"Will you tell me a story about ninjas this time, since we almost saw one?"
“I would love to, Oberon, but I never knew any ninjas, and they tend to keep their personal histories a secret.”
"But you know lots of secrets."
“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?”
"That sounds good! What was his name?"
“Miyamoto Musashi. Or, if you want the Western order for names, Musashi Miyamoto. In Japan they usually give the family name first.”
"They do? What’s my family name, Atticus?"
“Well, you can have mine, if you want.”
"I don’t know if that would be right. We are not related. Didn’t I ever have a family name?"
“No, I don’t think you did.”
"Does that mean I can make one up?"
“Sure.”
"I want my family name to be Sirius!"
“So when I introduce you to people, you want me to say you’re Oberon Sirius?”
"No, I want you to do it the way they do it in Japan. I am Sirius Oberon. But they can just call me Oberon."
I stifled a snort of amusement. “Got it.”
I turned off the water and dug into Oberon’s fur with soapy hands. I had to keep him occupied until I was finished or he would shake himself and soak me.
“Miyamoto wrote The Book of Five Rings,” I began, “and before you ask, no, one ring did not rule them all. It was a collection of instructions on swordsmanship and musings on strategy, spirituality, and life, which people still study today. And he’s considered an authority because he defeated at least sixty men in personal duels and even more in war. He began his violent life at age thirteen and died an old man at peace.”
"How was he at peace?"
“It was common for samurai to try to balance their violent lives with art and meditation. Miyamoto enjoyed painting and calligraphy and even architecture. He urged people not to study the sword only, because there is so much more to life than learning how to end it. There was a certain fatalism to the samurai way of life and an emphasis on dying well.”
"Dying well? I don’t get it. If you are already dead, how do you know you did a good job getting that way?"
“Dying well actually meant that you had lived well, because few samurai believed they had rewards waiting for them in the next life. Regardless of whether they were Shinto or Buddhist, they knew they would pay a price for killing others. So it was necessary in their eyes to make their lives as beautiful as possible to balance the ugliness. They wished to die with honor. They lived according to a code called bushid?.”
"What was that like?"
“They valued courage, of course, but also loyalty and honesty and benevolence, among other noble values.”
"Were they vegetarians like those people in India?"
“No.”
"Okay, then, that’s noble."
“But Miyamoto Musashi was not the typical samurai. For many years he was ronin—masterless—and remained outside service for much of his life, pursuing excellence in strategy and the art of the sword. He even invented his own style of fighting, called Niten Ichi Ryu—fighting with two swords. He became so good at what he did that he changed martial arts forever.”
"So he’s kind of like you!"
“What?” I have been called many things but never an influence on martial arts. The idea was so novel that I stopped scrubbing in surprise.
"I mean he invented new stuff and nobody could beat him. You made up that amulet and no one can beat you."
“Oh. I … Well, I’m not unbeatable, really.”
"Man, this tickles!"
“No, Oberon, wait—”
Too late. He shook himself and sprayed the entire bathroom with nasty, bloody, hound-flavored water and soap. I took the brunt of it.
“Auuggh!”
"Sorry. I thought you were done."