by Kevin Hearne
“I will follow. Arigato gozaimasu.”
We trailed after the gray bow of her obi down to the bottom of the mountain, actually leaving the grounds of Fushimi Inari and walking a block away into the neighborhood surrounding the shrine. There were modest single homes with patios or gardens ringed by bamboo fences and tiny cars parked underneath overhanging second stories. During the walk, Oberon shared with me his musings.
It can’t?
What? Who’s been teaching you Zen?
I know what koans are, but I don’t follow.
Ohhh, yeah. You’re right, Oberon, that’s very Zen.
Fujiwara-no-Kuni took a right, leading uphill once more, and then stopped in front of an interesting building that did not look like a residence at all. It looked more like the walls of a compound. A rock foundation rose from the sloping sidewalk to provide even ground for the interior; above this, the walls were covered with thin wooden planks, stained brown and weathered with deep grooves. The canted roof was covered in gray tiles, but this covered only what amounted to a thick wall; the center was open, as the tops of trees could be seen peeking out from inside. The kitsune bowed to us and raised her right hand to indicate the structure.
“This is Ōhashi-ke Teien, the private garden of Ōhashi-san. My mistress awaits you inside. Enter, please.” She bowed again and backed away, and I ducked my head at her in thanks. A sign outside the door indicated that this was something of a tourist destination, originally built in the early twentieth century. We were entering far earlier than its posted hours, however, and, indeed, apart from our presence and the chirping of morning birds, the street still slept.
Step in quiet and careful with me, Oberon, ears and eyes open.
Pretty much all the time. It’s because I like to be surprised with peaceful welcomes.
This surprise proved to be an especially peaceful one. Ōhashi’s garden had twelve stone lanterns of differing styles in it, each nestled amongst carefully sculpted hedges and trees and flowering vines spreading their leaves along the walls; two suikinkutsu fountains provided a pleasant echo of falling water. Two gravel paths dotted with stepping stones wound through the garden, and where they intersected was a large round temple stone. A small shrine rested in one corner, and in another was a wee building constructed in the style of a teahouse but which was more of an arbor, a place where one could take shelter from the elements yet still enjoy the garden. It had a circular window with white paper and a fine network of bamboo over it.
A beautiful woman in a red yukata tied with a white obi stood on the opposite side of the garden. It was a bit late in the year for a yukata, which was normally a summer garment, but she seemed comfortable. She bowed to me, flicked open a fan in front of her face, and gestured to the arbor.
I know, buddy. It’s okay.
Inari waited inside the arbor, kneeling on a tatami mat. Though sometimes she manifested as a male, in this instance she had chosen a female form, resplendent in a kimono of lavender overlaid with a deep-blue floral pattern. I asked Oberon to wait outside the arbor and I entered, taking a place across from Inari on the mat. She beamed at me and bade me welcome, expressing gratitude for my time. We traded pleasantries, as custom demanded. Being a deity associated with rice, she did not have tea to offer but rather sake, and she wasn’t pulling any punches: It was the undiluted kind, called Genshu sake, 18 to 20 percent alcohol.
She noted that Granuaile and I had recently spent time in Japan to heal. That was only a few weeks ago, when we had spent time in a Tokyo ryokan—a more apt description for the traditional lodgings than hotel—and made frequent visits to the onsen. “Did you find the earth replenishing?” she asked.
“Yes, very much so. Thank you.”
After we both had taken a sip of our sake and the opening niceties had been thus punctuated, we could move on to business. The goddess adopted a posture of stillness, cup held in one hand and resting in the palm of the other. When she continued to speak, she switched from her native Japanese to English. “Ó Suileabháin-san, we have heard of your troubles with the Olympians and congratulate you on solving that particular problem.”
I liked how she phrased that. With the aid of Pan and Faunus, Artemis and Diana had hunted me across Europe, and I’d barely survived—hence the need to heal in Inari’s country—yet she presented it as if I’d solved a brainteaser in the Sunday paper. I wasn’t sure who we were, but maybe she had adopted the royal we.
“It is not entirely solved,” I said. “Diana still wishes to destroy me. But I suppose the rest of the Olympians are at least loosely allied with me now.”
“In truth, we are relieved. It is a fortuitous sign. But more must be done.”
I felt that I had better clarify the pronoun before I spent the entire conversation in uncertainty. “I’m sorry, but I do not understand. Who’s we?”
“All of us,” she said, which didn’t clarify at all. “But now the stakes are being reset. Our adversary is scheming in a more clever fashion.”
“Our adversary in Tír na nÓg?”
“I speak of the Norse god Loki. He is recruiting the darker figures of several pantheons to his side, and now you must actively recruit as well. You are a free agent, whereas most pantheons cannot act unless it is specifically in their purview to do so; they are reactive, in other words, to threats from outside their own belief system. Do you see?”
“No,” I admitted.
“If a boy in Bangalore asks Ganesha to intercede on his behalf, I cannot interfere, and Shango cannot answer the prayers of a girl in Osaka who prays to me. So while we are aware that Loki plots against us, we are largely powerless to act until he directly threatens our territory. Human agency—human urging—is necessary for almost any action we take. And most humans are not even aware of what is happening.”
“And yet you are permitted this meeting?”
Inari smiled primly. “I can share sake and converse with whomever I choose.”
“Why do you not choose one who worships you, then?”
Her smile widened. “I assure you that I have.”
“Fine. Where is your hero or heroine now?”
Her eyes flicked to the garden gates. “Nearby. Protecting this place. You would not have seen them coming in.”
Oberon overheard and spoke up from outside the arbor.
Shhh. I need to concentrate.
“All right,” I said. “Who is Loki recruiting?”
“He is speaking to the darkness almost everywhere. But before he acts directly, he begins with pestilence to weaken us. And if he cannot spread disease directly, he will do so indirectly. I am a scion of good health and prosperity in Japan; I am therefore a target. Removing me allows disease to spread more rapidly and creates instability. It is a prelude to more forceful maneuvers.”
Granuaile and Laksha were dealing with disease-spreading rakshasas in India, and the coincidence was worrying, because it might not be a coincidence at all. Was Loki’s hand involved there too? I recalled that when we were on the run from Artemis and Diana, he had shown up in Poland and shape-shifted into a blue-skinned Vedic demon. Why take that particular form unless it had been fresh in his mind? And if it was fresh in his mind, what had he been doing in India recently?
“I think I see what you mean,” I said, “but I am not sure what you wish me to do.”
Inari opened her mouth to reply, but angry shouting and the zing of drawn steel interrupted, followed closely by roars and a tremendous impact that shuddered the wooden floor. I stood and darted out of the tiny arbor, drawing Fragarach in an
ticipation of meeting something large and aggressive.
Probably the ambush I always expect.
Four huge, red-faced oni—horned, bearded, and tusked—tore through the walls of the garden, swinging spiked iron clubs to smash the puny critters drinking sake in serenity. Two black-clad swordsmen, presumably Inari’s chosen heroes, chased them in. I scrambled for the back wall and Oberon automatically followed me, but instead of focusing on the oni, he was riveted by Inari’s heroes.
Those aren’t really ninjas, Oberon.
Watch out for the red giants. I cast camouflage on my hound in hopes that they wouldn’t be able to target him. I also tried my best to focus on the oni rather than the show Inari was putting on. While I hoofed it to give myself some space and time to set myself, she barked a short command, as animal trainers sometimes do, something like “HUP!”—and then she erupted through the roof of the arbor, an effortless leap during which she drew her katana. At the zenith, she hovered impossibly for more than a second, long enough to make me think gravity had been suspended in her area. It was temporary, however, for a large white flying fox with nine tails materialized in motion underneath her and swept her away in a dizzying spiral of silk and fur that confused the oni even more than it did me.
Remembering the woman who had pointed me to the arbor, I glanced at where she had stood and saw her yukata puddled on the ground. Of course, she was now the flying fox.
The oni swung and whiffed as they tried to bat Inari out of the air, and that slowed their charge. That allowed the two swordsmen to close the distance and slice through the tendons at the backs of two of the oni’s knees. They made almost identical slashes, but the creatures fell very differently. One fell forward, doing no harm to anyone but himself as he was impaled upon a stone lantern, but the other collapsed backward, crushing the swordsman underneath him. The remaining two kept trying to track and lay into Inari, ignoring me altogether, and I felt a small tremor of existential vertigo as I realized that I wasn’t the target for once. The oni thought me insignificant, and as such it behooved me to make sure they dismissed me at their great peril.
Stay back, I told Oberon, and charged silently at the nearest oni as he twisted his neck around to follow the flight of Inari. These guys wore actual loincloths but apparently had missed out on decades of laundry commercials that shared the secret to keeping their undies stain-free. They were savage hulking brutes but still vulnerable to speed and steel. My attack wasn’t the sporting kind, but assassins rarely expect sportsmanship since they don’t practice it themselves. He never saw me coming, so the sword I thrust underneath his sternum and up into his heart was quite the surprise. He spasmed, dropped his club, and began to topple forward. I didn’t have time to yank out the sword, so I tumbled to my right and let him fall on it. Now weaponless, I looked up to see that the attention of the last oni standing had been drawn by my ambush on his comrade. His spiked club was already on its way down, aimed at my head. All I could do was throw up my forearms and hope he didn’t turn me into paste.
Something hit him in the chest, however, as he swung, and that caused his arm to jerk forward in reaction. The club crashed down next to my left shoulder, one of its spikes opening a gash there. I rolled away, pushed myself up, and played some parkour using the slain oni’s body as a launching point. I put the body between myself and the other one, then whirled around to check his position as Oberon’s voice said,
Yeah. Was that you?
Thanks, buddy, but get away and let Inari finish him. The goddess was circling around as if she was lining herself up for a strafing run.
Behind me, a roar of dismay heralded the end of the final oni who had been hamstrung by the black-clad warriors. The surviving swordsman had dispatched it while it was unable to rise from the ground. Wicking the blood away from his blade, he sheathed it and strode over to Inari, promptly falling to his knees before her and prostrating himself. A stream of profuse apologies flowed from his mouth, along with a demand that she take his head for his failure to protect her.
“Rise,” she said, and he did but kept his eyes lowered. “Which one are you?”
“This unworthy one is Tsukino Hideki.”
“No one survived outside?”
“Only myself, Radiant One. We killed two more oni out there.”
“You have done well, Tsukino-san. Resume your vigil.”
“Hai.” He bowed again and, silent and deadly, slipped outside the breached walls. The giant nine-tailed kitsune took up a position on Inari’s left, sitting up straight on the temple stone, much like the statues outside her shrine.
Oberon, come to my left side please, and do not even think of messing with that fox. That’s not merely a kitsune; that’s a tenko—more than a thousand years old.
I dispelled his camouflage, and the tenko watched him trot over to me. The poor hound’s coat was matted with blood.
“You see the problem, Ó Suileabháin-san,” Inari said. “I recognize these oni. They lived on the slopes of my own mountain in peace for centuries, out of sight of humans. It would have never occurred to them on their own to attack me here. Loki is whispering and giving the darkness ideas. But we cannot move against him based on whispers.”
“And I can?”
“Yes. It is time for you to act.”
“Act how?”
“As you see fit. Ganesha impressed upon you the need for circumspection years ago. There is no longer any need for such caution.”
“Why not? What’s changed?”
“The Olympians are engaged on our side. Had you acted earlier, they never would have been.”
“Are you saying you could not have recruited them on your own?”
“That is what I am saying. Again, human agency is required. For some actions we need a plea for intercession.”
“Forgive me, Inari, but that sounds faintly ridiculous. I now gather that you are part of a consortium of gods working together. Ganesha is one and I know there are others. At least one of them is omniscient and capable of finding me wherever I am, regardless of my cold iron aura.”
“Correct.”
“So then you are capable of acting together without human agency.”
“No.”
“Loki is hardly acting at the behest of humans. Nor is Lucifer or Iblis or any other deceptive deity you wish to name.”
“True, but that does not disprove my point. The darker powers are fundamentally different. They were conceived from the beginning as free agents to sow chaos and behave in their own self-interest. But about deities such as myself, humans believe differently. They believe that we follow rules and so it is true. Their faith is a fence we cannot climb. In the normal course of events we are confined to ministering to our own people. But, in this case, our collaboration was specifically urged by a singular human who has faith in us all. Someone you know.”
“Who?”
Inari tilted her head to one side and said, “Do you remember Rebecca Dane?”
Memories of warmth do nothing to combat the cold; they only distract me from the work that must be done to keep from freezing. Had Atticus not taught me the binding to elevate core temperature and do the same for Orlaith, we would have frozen to death by now.
The yeti are not in their cave when we arrive. Though we follow the directions Atticus provid
ed, I have to locate the cave using magical sight, since the yeti have thrown up a veil of snow over the entrance. To the naked eye, there is nothing to the mountain but snow-covered rock, but Fae eyes reveal the whorl of magic around an entrance ten feet tall and at least as wide. It lets Orlaith and me pass through, and what greets us inside is not a natural cave; it is more of an indoor palace—not hewn, but obviously made by the Himalayan elemental in accordance with Manannan Mac Lir’s instructions. I discover this once I cast night vision and see the stone table against the left wall with three candles and matches on it. I light them all and then take one with me as I step deeper inside, all the while calling out in Old Irish, “Hello? Anyone here? I brought you some bacon,” operating on the theory that there are few sentences more friendly than that.
The entrance opens onto a long rectangular hall with stone counters lining it on either side. These have plenty of additional candles on them, and I light them as I walk along the left wall. A rectangular fire pit, recessed in the ground but rimmed with a lip of stone, lies closest to the entrance. It has a spit crossed over it and various iron grills, pokers, and tongs arranged alongside. I would bet that those pieces were made by Goibhniu but Manannan never told him where they would be used.
On the counter opposite me, across the pit, five stone plates sit with a fine dusting of snow on them. There are also a couple of large serving bowls and a platter waiting to be filled with food. I see giant three-tined forks but no knives.
Proceeding deeper into the hall, lighting it as I go, I come to a beautiful five-sided oak table, carved with bindings of health and harmony around its edges. Creidhne’s work, no doubt. The high-backed chairs, too, are oak, no arms, but proportioned for very tall and very wide people. Something akin to a polished marble chess board sits in the middle of the table, but there are forty-nine squares instead of sixty-four. It’s a fidchell game, the old Irish version of chess, and the pieces are miniature ice sculptures of remarkable beauty. Parts of them are clear ice, parts are purposefully cloudy, swirling through the forms in thin ribbons, and parts on the surface are a frosted blue, creating additional depth and texture and reflecting light in unexpected ways.