Zohra Greenhalgh - TrickstersTouch.rtf

Trickster's Touch

by Zohra Greenhalgh

Panthe'kinarok Prologue

The Greatkin were a motley, passionate family of twenty-seven. Since they had all sprung from the Presence at the same moment, each Greatkin was exactly the same age. Still, the Greatkin loved to play elaborate, sophisticated games of dress-up which involved the full spectrum of aging. One Greatkin was particularly good at this. His name was Rimble. He was the face of the Presence which represented the impossible, the unexpected, and the devi­ant. A mischief-maker without peer, Rimble was also called Trickster by many members of his large family. A master of disguise, Rimble might appear as a toothless hag one moment and a youthful, perfumed fop the next. Rimble excelled at many things: one of these was the art of making himself completely irritating to everyone in his proximity. When that failed to amuse him, Rimble would cause mischief on some world or other.

At present, Rimble and his brothers and sisters were all seated at a round table which had been elegantly set for a dinner party serving twenty-seven. This was the Panthe'­kinarok feast where everything the Greatkin said and did translated instantly into the known universes. The most idle conversation could have the most far-reaching consequences here. Spats or intrigues between dinner partners might cause wars—not to mention indigestion for the Greatkin themselves. Fortunately, Rimble was fond of his dinner partners, Phebene and Jinndaven. His affection for his sister and brother had spared the family the worst of his unusually abominable table manners. At present, Rimble had punctuated six of the nine dinner courses with only thirteen belches, eight farts, and twenty-six yawns. Greatkin Phebene was especially grateful to Rimble for behaving so well and said so.

"When you're polite, Rimble, dear, it makes eating so much more enjoyable." She was the Greatkin of Great Loves and Tender Trysts and tended to be a little on the syrupy side. Spectacularly beautiful, Phebene wore a rain­bow-colored robe and a crown of green roses on her head. She beamed at Rimble now, her voice full of seductive pleasantries and good humor.

Rimble, who detested polite conversation, yawned for the twenty-seventh time and grinned as Phebene's smile turned into a reproving scowl. Picking his hooked nose (and eating its contents), Rimble said, "These Panthe'kinarok dinners go on forever. Hates them, I do. Boring, boring, boring."

Greatkin Jinndaven, who was seated on Rimble's right, groaned. If Rimble was feeling bored, he was apt to do something—anything—to relieve the tedium. Jinndaven tried not to think of all the ways Rimble might decide to entertain himself, but since Jinndaven was the Greatkin of Imagination he could not keep from imagining a thousand different scenarios, most of them disastrous. Dressed in mauves and small mirrors, Jinndaven literally sparkled when he moved. Leaning toward Trickster, the light of a nearby candle glinted off Jinndaven's robe and found an answering resonance in one of Trickster's pied eyes. Seeing this, Jinndaven hesitated.

"Well?" asked Rimble as nice as you please. "I just hope you don't plan to make the last three courses of dinner as interesting as the first six."

"You still sore about the Jinnaeon?" Trickster asked incredulously.

Rimble referred to a sudden period of transition, a tricksterish shifttime, he had named for his imaginative brother, Jinndaven. In certain terms, this transition period could be seen as a mutation in time. This mutation (or fluctuation) had been necessary to throw space and time off balance for a while. If reality had remained on its usual track, Rimble couldn't have triggered a quantum leap of consciousness that the Presence wanted implemented through all the known universes. The Presence was the one great being to whom the Greatkin owed their allegiance. It was the Presence that all the Greatkin served, even Rimble.

It seemed the Presence thought the two-legged races in all the known universes, especially the world of Mnemlith, were too concerned with their day-to-day lives. They were missing the larger cosmological dramas that developed and exploded around them on a constant basis. In the past millennium or so, the Presence felt the two-legged races had grown unbearably small-minded. It was Rimble's task to make them large-minded again.

This task proved more difficult than Trickster could possibly have foreseen. Not only were the two-leggeds of Mnemlith out and out resistant to change, some of the Greatkin themselves acted in like manner, a few of them consciously thwarting Rimble's attempts to do the will of the Presence. Rimble thought this very small-minded of them, and said so often.

When Jinndaven didn't answer him immediately, Trick­ster repeated his question, "You still sore about me calling it the Jinnaeon?"

"Well—I—" Jinndaven shrugged. "Yeah. I'm a little sore."

"Jinnaeon sounds better than Rimblaeon."

"That may be," Jinndaven admitted. "But look at all the trouble you caused on Mnemlith. All in my name. You said it would be a teensy-weensy fluctuation of consciousness. You had drugs, torture, insanity, civil unrest—"

"Yes, yes," snapped Rimble hastily. "Well, it couldn't be helped. That was the resistance to change. Mattie's fault entirely," added Rimble with a sideways glance at another of his brothers, Greatkin Mattermat. This Greatkin was the Patron of All Things Made Physical: of everything that "mattered." At the moment, the ponderous fellow had his mouth full of salad. Dressed in earth colors, Greatkin Mattermat smelled richly of caves and loam and fir trees. Rimble grinned and added, "Mattie hates quantum leaps, see. Hates them and blocks them."

Swallowing swiftly, Mattermat glared at Rimble and said, "Did I hear what I think I just heard? Did you blame me for all the trouble on Mnemlith?"

Jinndaven pursed his lips and muttered, "At least Rimble didn't name an age of transition after you. The Jinnaeon. The worst period of history that Mnemlith has ever known." Jinndaven put his head in his hands and rolled his eyes.

Rimble returned Mattermat's glare with one of his own. "Trouble? That wasn't trouble. That was an experiment. An improoovement. A remedy for a stagnant situation—"

"Mnemlith was getting along fine until you interfered!" retorted Mattermat. Among other things, Mattermat was also the Patron of Inertia. Being the personification of change itself, Rimble had long ago decided that his divine charge included the subversion of entropy—i.e., Mattermat—wherever he found it. As a result, Rimble had earned the displeasure of his heavyweight brother on countless occasions over the millennia.

"I saved that world!" cried Trickster, his boredom vanishing as he warmed to the idea of having it out with Mattermat once and for all. "Furthermore and most impor­tantly, I caused enough turmoil on Mnemlith to make folks start praying to us again. In order to pray to us, they have to remember our names. Remembering us makes them large-minded. And that, my dear brothers and sisters, is the point."

Moments before the Panthe'kinarok meet and feast were to begin, Rimble had decided that Mnemlith was the sleepiest world in the known universes. According to Rimble, only a quarter of that world's population could recite the names of all the Greatkin. Most had forgotten that the Greatkin had ever existed. And even less than a quarter knew which of the Greatkin lived in sunny Eranossa and which lived in the shadowy, subtle underworld called Neath. Can't have that, said Rimble. Such forgetfulness might spread to the unknown universes. It would be a veritable plague of oblivion. So Rimble had taken Mnemlith by the shoulders and shaken that world. Hard.

Mattermat sipped his wine, his eyes never leaving Trick­ster's. There was a short silence while he drank. The tension in the room increased. Mattermat put his wine goblet down carefully. Before he could speak again, Sathmadd, the Patron of Organization, Mathematics, and Red Tape, inter­rupted.

"Rimble, I've had my fill of your turmoil, as you call it. Chaos and havoc would be more apt," she said primly. She was a bustling sort of Greatkin, fastidious and orderly to a fault. "I, for one, hope you keep your meddling to a minimum from here on out. We've got three more courses to get through. I vote to have them peaceful."

Several Greatkin nodded and clapped their hands politely in favor of Sathmadd's suggestion. Rimble noted that all of them hailed from tidy, cheery Eranossa. "Where all the bright ones live," muttered Rimble sarcastically.

Troth, a dark-skinned quiet fellow, cleared his throat. Like Rimble, Troth resided in Neath. The beautiful glass beads that adorned his braided hair swung forward now as he changed position. Troth was the Greatkin of Death; when he spoke everyone listened.

"Nothing is permanent, Mattermat. Not even us."

"Besides," said Trickster, "the Presence told me to meddle."

Mattermat snorted. "A likely story."

"Once a liar, always a liar," chimed in Sathmadd, wagging a finger at Rimble sternly.

"I don't lie," yelled Rimble. "I'm Trickster. I live in Neath. We're not like you day types. We don't tell every­thing we know all at once. It's not our nature."

There was a long silence. During it, Rimble slumped in his chair. He crumpled the linen napkin in his lap with frustration. Would no one in Eranossa ever understand that he served the Presence same as the rest of them? He had a divine right to meddle; it was his job, for Presence sake.

Rimble licked his lips and whispered in a singsong manner, "Trickster's my name and change is my game. Trickster's my name and change is my game. Trickster's my name—"

Jinndaven interrupted his brother sharply. "Cut that out, Rimble. This is the Panthe'kinarok, when everything we say translates—"

"Yup," snapped Rimble, his pied eyes flashing with fury. "Trickster's my name and change is my game. Trickster's—"

Finally hearing Rimble's words, Mattermat jumped to his feet. "Shut up! You just shut up, Trickster! Don't you dare do one more thing to one more world! I tell you, I won't have it! I won't!"

Now Mattermat appealed to the Greatkin whom the rest of the family lovingly referred to as Eldest. Her real name was Themyth. She was the Greatkin of Civilization. No Panthe'kinarok could begin without her opening libation to the Presence. Her word was final in all disputes. Eldest, who had been Rimble's lover recently, was dressed in a brightly colored patchwork quilt, her gray hair tumbling free from its habitual, elegant bun. Under the quilt, Eldest wore loose mix-matched clothing. No one had ever seen Eldest attired in this fashion. It had been the silent conclu­sion at the table that Rimble's lovemaking had influenced the Greatkin of Civilization. Everyone hoped this influence would pass. It had been a great relief to some that the place cards on the table had been arranged in such a manner that sat Rimble next to Love and Imagination instead of Greatkin Themyth. The seating arrangements had been Themyth's idea. Bedding Rimble was one thing. Sitting next to him for a nine-course dinner was quite another. Making love with Trickster would give all the civilizations in all the known universes a small jolt; anything more extended might cause unwanted anarchy. Mattermat hit the table with his fist. "Do something, Eldest!" Fruit rolled out of a silver cornucopia and teetered on the table's edge.

Earthquakes abounded throughout creation.

"Mattie, dear, be careful," said Themyth as she deftly caught the fruit before it hit the floor. She replaced the apple and peach gently.

But Mattermat would not be calmed. "I want him stopped! I want him contained! I want him out of this council!"

Eldest grabbed the wooden cane that rested against her chair and thwacked it against the wooden floor. The sound resembled that of a very loud and very uncompromising thunderclap. Everyone jumped, including Rimble. Startled for the moment, Trickster broke off his litany for change.

"Now," said Themyth with great dignity, "we'll have no more of that at this table. From either of you. Clear?"

Neither Mattermat nor Rimble said anything.

Eldest eyed both brothers coolly. Turning again to Rim­ble, she studied his rather wild appearance. Rimble had painted his bare torso with yellow and black diagonals during the break between the fourth and fifth courses. He had pulled on fur pants made of the skin of coyotes and hung several gourd rattles from a braided belt. Incongru­ously, Rimble wore a black bow tie around his neck. Eldest cleared her throat. "Do you promise to leave Mattie's things alone for the rest of dinner?"

As if on cue, Trickster jumped on his chair, let out a bloodcurdling shriek, and yelled, "I don't have to stay here!"

When Jinndaven had recovered from Rimble's shout, he wiped his brow with a lavender handkerchief several times and said, "I knew this was coming. I just knew it. O sweet Presence preserve us—"

Eldest peered at Rimble. "Explain."

Rimble crossed his arms over his painted chest. "Ain't got nothing to explain, Eldest. Nothing to explain at all. You don't want me here? Fine. I'll go elsewhere."

Themyth frowned. "You can't go out of the universe, Rimble—"

Rimble snorted. "I got me the perfect antidote to Mr. Permanence and Resistance over there," he said, inclining his head toward Mattermat. Mattermat's face was scarlet with outrage. Trickster grinned and said, "I think I likes changing matter from the inside the best. It's so irrevocable—"

"Not in this universe, you don't!" yelled Mattermat.

"Exactly," said Trickster. "Not in this universe at all."

Greatkin Themyth was truly alarmed now. "Rimble—"

Trickster cut her off rudely. "And you know how I turns the inside inside out, hmm? Myth. That's how I does it. Myth. See, myth molds matter," said Trickster, making a pun on Mattermat's creative function. "Myth decides what matters and what don't."

"That's absurd, Rimble," snapped Mattermat, more fear­ful than he wanted Rimble to know. "We're the Greatkin. We're the ones who give myths meaning. Not the other way around."

Trickster sniggered nastily. "Just told a myth called Contrarywise. Told it in a Distant Place. And know what, folks? It's affecting us here."

"Nonsense," retorted Mattermat.

"Just where is this Distant Place?" asked Sathmadd. As the Greatkin of Organization, it was her job to know all the place names in the known universes. "A Distant Place" rang no bells whatsoever.

Trickster ignored Sathmadd's question. "Feel another one coming on. Think I'll call it Trickster's Touch. Might as well take all the credit for all the havoc—seeing as how you folks don't want any. Of course, if everything turns out well, I'll take the credit for that, too."

No one said anything.

Trickster went merrily on. "I wasn't finished with Mnemlith. Started the Jinnaeon with the shock of the New. Anchored it through Zendrak and then finally through Kelandris when she turned in Speakinghast town. But that's not enough. Got to do something with the New once it's there. Otherwise, it turns on itself. Especially if something gets to blocking it," he added, looking directly at Mattermat. "So we improvise a little. We take it elsewhere—where it isn't blocked."

"Im—im—improvise?" asked Jinndaven. He was so nervous about what he imagined Trickster might be up to that he stuttered.

"Yeah," said Rimble gaily. "Improvise. You folks want peace, so you say. Well, I'll give you peace. My way. And that's the way of Neath." He paused, his voice suddenly menacing. "In Neath, we're not always so nice. In Neath, things go bump in the night."

The residents of Eranossa, principally Mattermat, Sath­madd, and Jinndaven, paled.

The residents of Neath, however, chuckled.

The Greatkin of Death rubbed his dark hands together with undisguised glee. "This should be fun."

*1*

Unlike his less flexible brothers and sisters, Greatkin Rimble had long ago embraced multiplicity as part and parcel of his divine being. As a result he alone of all his family was able to exist in more than one reality at a time. So while Greatkin Mattermat, Jinndaven, and Sathmadd criticized Rimble for meddling in the known universes, Rimble defended himself vigorously and slipped out the back door of Eranossa. As the argument between the Greatkin raged, Rimble neatly materialized on one of the northernmost islands belonging to the Soaringsea archipel­ago of the world called Mnemlith. Here Rimble planned to indulge in one of his favorite pastimes, a game called "Messing with Mattie." In order to do it effectively, Rimble would need the help of the most fabulous race ever to walk the world of Mnemlith: the Mythrrim Beasts.

The Mythrrim of Soaringsea were long-lived and large. They resembled an uncomfortable mixture of falcon, hyena, spiked dinosaur, and lion. They had brindle bodies, mag­nificent wings, horns that ridged their backs, protruding eyes, and a wildly infectious laugh. They were carnivorous and very fond of storytelling. Indeed, the landdraw of this particular race had given them the gift of racial memory and mimicry. Possessing seven sets of vocal cords, the Mythrrim could imitate any sound in the universe. They were natural linguists, their native tongue called Oldspeech. It was the Mythrrim who had taught the two-leggeds about the world and about the Presence. It was the Mythrrim who had recited the names of the Greatkin to the cave dwellers at the beginning of time. It was the Mythrrim who had told the Great Stories, the myths, about each Greatkin and in­structed the two-leggeds in their rituals of remembrance for each Greatkin.

Then the Mythrrim had disappeared.

In their place the Mythrrim had left the Mayanabi Nomads, a body of people culled from all the two-legged landdraws of Mnemlith and entrusted them with the Great Stories the Mythrrim had once told. It was time, said the Greatkin, for the two-leggeds to grow up. They needed to be able to teach themselves now. The two-leggeds must make their own mis­takes and learn from them. The Mythrrim left sorrowing; they had come to love the two-leggeds as much as their own four-legged offspring. The Mythrrim, however, were ever obedient to the wishes of the Greatkin, and so did as they were bid. Centuries passed. In time, only the Mayanabi Nomads remembered that the Mythrrim Beasts had ever existed in physical reality. To most of the peoples of Mnemlith, the Mythrrim Beasts of Soaringsea were the stuff of fantasy.

Rimble appeared on the hillside of the tallest and most willful mountain in all Mnemlith. It was called Mount Gaveralin. Intelligent and dangerous, Gaveralin immedi­ately caused a blizzard to come out of nowhere and buffet Trickster. Rimble, who was still having an argument with the Greatkin of Matter in their ancestral home at Eranossa, scowled at the mountain and said, "I got rights here! I'm a guest of the Mythrrim—"

They know you're coming? I don't seem to recall any orders instructing me to let you pass, Greatkin Rimble.

Trickster scowled, wiping snow off his black hair. His bare upper torso prickled with goose bumps. Swearing at Mattermat—since the mountain was very definitely one of Mattermat's representatives—Rimble changed his costume. Now he wore furs and leather and snug boots. A multicol­ored woolen hat covered his small ears. Continuing to speak to Gaveralin, Rimble said, "Let me pass or I'll make you a mutant."

A mutant mountain? There's no such thing—

Rimble lost his temper. "I'll blow off your summit!" The snowstorm stopped instantly. Among other things, the mountains of Soaringsea were volcanic. Rimble could make good his threat.

"Thank you," said Trickster through clenched teeth, and stomped up the trail to a cluster of caves whose tunnels interconnected like the corridors of a labyrinth. Rimble, who had visited here many times before, headed for the opening of the largest cave and turned right, then left, then two rights, then a sharp left until he found himself in a large underground chamber.

You may wonder why Rimble didn't materialize directly into the chamber in the first place. Rimble loved the Mythrrim. He was the father of this particular race. Themyth was its mother. When the Mythrrim had retired to Soaringsea, they wished to prevent the two-leggeds from trailing them there. Gaveralin was their sentry. No one, not even the Greatkin, were allowed to reach the Mythrrim without their knowledge. Thus, by the time Rimble actually arrived at the place where the Mythrrim now gathered, everyone knew he was coming. He was met with a resounding chorus of hellos and wing-flapping. Rimble grinned at their obvious pleasure at seeing Dear Old Dad. Doffing his woolen cap, Trickster said, "I need your help."

The oldest and wisest Mythrrim was named Kindra. She had yellowed teeth and blue feathers that had turned white with age. She inclined her enormous, ugly head toward Rimble. "We're keeping kinhearth, Father. Care to join us?"

"Keeping kinhearth...