At thirty-four hours, Akira had consumed most of the drinking water, burned a reasonable amount of sage under supervision, and meditated for longer than I believed was healthy for anyone who had not been paid to do so.
The mountain lion had returned twice.
On the second visit, I found a dish towel lying neatly folded beside the back door.
I did not ask questions.
Akira considered this compelling evidence that his cultivation was recovering.
Mochi remained unconvinced. He had spent most of the retreat under the bed, emerging only to eat, use his litter tray, and glare at the lavender plants.
At thirty-five hours, Akira announced that he was ready to conclude the restoration.
I began packing.
The crystals went into their padded case. The feathers went into a small envelope. The remaining seawater was sealed in its bottle. I folded the rugs, collected the lighter, and loaded the water into the car.
The sage occupied so much space that I had to rearrange the trunk twice.
I placed the lavender plants in the back seat, secured them with a seat belt, and checked that Mochi's carrier was properly fastened.
The horse, as far as I could tell, had contributed nothing to the process.
I was beginning to suspect that this was the horse's fault.
Akira emerged from the cabin wearing his black coat, his silver jewelry, and the expression of a man who had completed an arduous pilgrimage to the edge of human comprehension.
He stood on the porch and gazed toward the lake.
I waited.
At last, he spoke.
“My spiritual cultivation has stabilized.”
I nearly wept.
“That's wonderful.”
“The disturbance has diminished.”
“Excellent.”
“The shivering is almost gone.”
I put the final box in the trunk.
“I'm very happy for you.”
Akira looked at me.
“Thank you for supporting me through this.”
For all the absurdity, all the expenses, all the phone calls and the horse and the scallops and the mountain lion with the dish towel, I felt my irritation soften.
He meant it.
He had been frightened, in his own way. Whatever he believed had happened, he had experienced it as something real, and I had tried to help him through it.
I loved him.
I also wanted to sell the rugs.
“Of course,” I said. “I'm glad you're feeling better.”
Akira nodded.
Then he paused.
His expression changed.
I watched him carefully.
“What is it?”
He turned his face toward the sky.
“I can feel something.”
I closed my eyes.
“No.”
“Daniel.”
“Please tell me it's not the cat.”
“It's a faint disturbance in the spiritual atmosphere.”
I opened the trunk and stared at the supplies.
“Is it Cassian?”
“No.”
“Did he message you?”
“No.”
“Did something happen?”
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
Akira looked toward the horizon.
“Mercury.”
I stood very still.
Behind me, Mochi began scratching at the door of his carrier.
The lavender plants trembled slightly in the breeze.
Somewhere in the trunk, a crystal shifted against another crystal.
I looked at the two hundred and eighty-eight bunches of sage. I looked at the aquamarine crystals. I looked at the three shamanic rugs, the three lavender plants, the bottle containing what remained of our seawater, and the empty space where a horse was supposed to have been.
Then I turned to my boyfriend.
“I'm blocking the planet.”
Akira considered this for a moment.
Then he said, “Triple the sage.”