The cabin was located approximately two hours from home, depending on traffic and whether the mountain road had decided to become impassable.
It was exactly as Akira had requested: rustic, modest, and equipped with the atmosphere of a place where someone had once performed a ritual involving three ponchos and a woven rug.
There were, in fact, two ponchos hanging by the entrance.
I regarded this as a promising sign.
The cabin had a wood-burning stove, a narrow kitchen, a small bedroom, and a porch overlooking a lake. The furnishings were old but clean. The owner had assured me that the cabin was not haunted, although he had added that the previous tenant had once reported unusual noises coming from the pantry.
I decided not to share this information with Akira.
The sage arrived in three large boxes. The crystals occupied a separate parcel. The lavender plants had been delivered to our home, where they were currently receiving more direct supervision than either of us had ever received from our parents.
I had loaded the rugs, the water, the lighter, the feathers, the seawater, and the remaining supplies into the car.
The horse had not materialized.
Mochi was in his carrier on the back seat, expressing his displeasure through a continuous series of noises that sounded like a tiny, furious landlord explaining a lease violation.
Akira sat beside him.
“Please be calm, Mochi.”
Mochi screamed.
“He's sensing the transition,” Akira explained.
“He's sensing the fact that he's in a moving vehicle.”
“Both can be true.”
I did not have the energy to argue.
At the cabin, Akira immediately began arranging the supplies. The sage went into a corner. The crystals were placed on a low table. The rugs were laid out in a configuration that Akira adjusted several times before declaring it acceptable.
The lavender plants were positioned near the windows.
The seawater was placed on a shelf.
The feathers were arranged beside the lighter, which I had already informed Akira must be used with sensible fire precautions.
He nodded.
“I understand.”
I had learned that Akira's understanding was not always an indication of agreement, but in this instance, I chose to be optimistic.
Mochi was released from his carrier and immediately walked beneath the bed.
He did not emerge for the next forty minutes.
Akira began meditating.
I unpacked the car.
By the time I had finished, he was seated on the rug, his hands resting on his knees, his eyes closed, his black hair falling around his face in a manner that suggested a tragic protagonist awaiting the final revelation of a thousand-year curse.
I watched him for a moment.
He was beautiful.
He was also costing me an extraordinary amount of money.
I sat on the porch and opened my laptop.
The spreadsheet had grown to four tabs.
The first tracked supplies. The second tracked costs. The third contained the names and telephone numbers of the various vendors who had become unwilling participants in the restoration.
The fourth was titled Potential Future Requirements.
I had not created that tab.
Akira had.
I was considering whether I could claim the entire experience as a charitable donation when I heard a noise from the kitchen.
I looked up.
A mountain lion was standing beside the sink.
It was a large animal, tawny and muscular, with a long tail and the relaxed expression of a creature who had never once been required to submit a receipt.
For several seconds, neither of us moved.
Then the mountain lion picked up a dish towel in its mouth.
I stared.
It turned toward the counter.
The towel dropped.
The animal nudged it with one paw.
I looked at the sink, where several plates were waiting to be washed.
I looked back at the mountain lion.
“Absolutely not,” I said.
The mountain lion blinked.
From the meditation room, Akira called out.
“Daniel?”
“There is a mountain lion in the kitchen.”
A pause.
“Is it aggressive?”
“I don't know. It appears to be considering the dishes.”
Akira emerged from the bedroom.
He took one look at the animal and clasped his hands together.
“Oh.”
I had never heard anyone say oh with such profound spiritual satisfaction in the presence of a large wild predator.
“It has arrived,” he whispered.
“What has arrived?”
“The guardian.”
I looked at the mountain lion.
The mountain lion looked at me.
“That's a wild animal.”
“Perhaps.”
“It is not a guardian. It is a mountain lion.”
“Daniel, please.”
“I'm not trying to be difficult, but I don't think we should allow it to remain inside the cabin.”
The mountain lion picked up the dish towel again.
Akira's eyes filled with quiet wonder.
“It is helping.”
“It is carrying a towel.”
“An act of service.”
“An act of service would be washing the dishes.”
The mountain lion dropped the towel and wandered toward the back door.
Akira watched it go.
“My cultivation is responding.”
I considered explaining that wild mountain lions should not be encouraged to enter occupied cabins, that we should contact the property owner, and that the local wildlife authorities might have opinions about the arrangement.
Instead, I closed the kitchen door and made a note in the spreadsheet.
Mountain lion: do not encourage. Secure food. Contact property owner if repeated.
Mochi emerged from beneath the bed.
He saw the mountain lion through the window.
His expression changed.
I had seen Mochi look annoyed. I had seen him look hungry. I had once seen him look genuinely betrayed when I bought a different brand of cat food.
I had never seen him look as though he were preparing to contact an attorney.
He turned around and went back beneath the bed.
The guardian, it seemed, had failed its first spiritual test.