Trixter

by Alethea Kontis

  He did, however, feel cleaner, warmer, and well-rested. He was on a cot in some sort of bedchamber, covered in hand-stitched quilts and—blessedly—fully clothed in a fresh shirt and trousers. He put a hand to his chest and was relieved to find Wisdom’s Tooth still with him.

  “Did you know they separated the men’s rooms and the women’s rooms here?” Lizinia asked him. “It seems that a great deal more women than men visit this place, so the women’s rooms are much larger and grander.”

  “Why didn’t you stay there? Do some exploring?”

  Lizinia averted her eyes. “I find I don’t care for being alone.”

  Trix tried to imagine the days, months, years that Lizinia had been alone in the house of cats after the colony had perished. So much loss…it was no wonder she craved companionship now that she had escaped her prison. “I’m surprised they let you in the men’s wing, then. Places like this don’t normally do that.”

  “Oh, they didn’t want to,” Lizinia admitted. “Your aunt put up quite a fuss. But in the end she told me I was….very persuasive.”

  If the abbess was anything like Mama, Trix imagined that exchange had been quite a scene. He was almost sorry to have missed it. More immediately, his stomach was sorry to have missed whatever dinner had been served during his unexpected slumber. It caught the scent of food and growled with a tremendous ferocity that made Lizinia laugh.

  “You may not always want to eat, Trix Woodcutter, but your stomach certainly does.”

  “I’m a growing boy,” he said. It’s what he always said.

  “You don’t think you’ve grown enough already? Goodness.” Even as she teased him, she crossed the room to retrieve a covered silver plate. “The abbess sent this for you, when you awoke. I am to tell you that the deer was shot with blessed arrows, and that its soul was honored in the Hall of the Mother Goddess. She said it would matter to you.”

  “It does, thank you,” said Trix. When possible, Trix did not partake of the meat of his animal brethren, though he had done so when times were tight, food was scarce, and needs must. Knowing that this meal had been blessed by the Earth Goddess, that the animal had not suffered unduly and had gone on to serve his purpose in the cycle of life made Trix’s heart easier about sating the mad hunger within him. Servants of this goddess saw to the needs of all earth’s creatures, be they human, fey, animal or otherwise. Under this roof, Trix could be assured that none of this friend’s sacrifice had been wasted, and that the balance of the world had been maintained.

  Which was good, as he had witnessed too much unbalancing of the world lately.

  “The abbess said she was your mother’s sister,” said Lizinia. “Both of your mothers.”

  Trix nodded while shoving bread and meat and cheese alternately into his gob. If Lizinia minded his lack of social graces, she thankfully made no mention of it. “My grandmother had seven children, all girls.”

  “Goodness,” said Lizinia. “You all have such great, large families. Peppina was difficult enough—I can’t bear to think of five more like her.”

  “It’s a challenge and not without adventure. Much like living with cats, I imagine.” Trix reached down for more food and found that he’d already cleaned his plate. Lizinia handed him the rest of the loaf of bread from the table, but left the pretty bowl of apples there untouched. He might be sad not to see another apple again, but that wouldn’t be for a very long time.

  “My birthmother was the fourth born,” he told her. “The abbess was the sixth. Mama Woodcutter was the seventh.” Trix considered his own gaggle of sisters. Thursday had been the fourth born and she’d run away to become a pirate queen, much as Tesera had run off to become an actress. Saturday was sixth in line and Sunday was the seventh. Despite all her wishes to the contrary, Trix could see Sunday taking after Mama, given time. For the life of him, though, Trix could not imagine Saturday in the role of abbess. Saturday was far more likely to fight a god—or be a god—than she was to spend her life worshipping one.

  Once again, there was suddenly nothing left to eat. Trix sighed. “Speaking of my aunt, I suppose I better clean up and go see her.” His birthmother’s chant echoed in his ears: Earth breaks; fire breathes; waters bless. Fly to me, my son. “And get the rest of this over with,” he added. He walked over to the full-length mirror, but turned back to Lizinia before examining himself in it. “You don’t have to do that, you know. The acolytes will take care of it.”

  Lizinia fluffed up his pillow and straightened his rumpled bedsheets with a practiced hand. “This is something I know how to do,” she said. “Let me do it.”

  So he did. Trix shrugged and turned back to the mirror. Not that it was much help, as it seemed to be a Lying Mirror. The face inside its worn, gilded frame was definitely not his own. He lifted a hand and waved. The young man in the mirror waved back. Trix poked at the mirror—it seemed solid enough. Then he poked at his face. The image also poked his face.

  “This mirror is broken,” he said.

  Lizinia pulled the top sheet of the bed tight and walked over to stand behind him. “No, it’s not.”

  Trix pointed at the image before him. “Then who is THAT?” His shattered voice broke on the last word.

  Lizinia surveyed the young man in the mirror from head to toe. Matter-of-factly she stated, “It’s you.”

  Trix studied the image again in horror and fascination. The man in the mirror had his wild cinnamon hair, dark brows and dark eyes, but he was taller than Trix had ever been, and easily twice as wide. Not quite so broad in the shoulders as his woodcutter brother Peter, but still far more substantial than the boy who’d run from the towerhouse. Trix prodded his arms through the sleeves of his new shirt. There were muscles there, not spindly, breakable skin and bones. No wonder he’d been able to pull himself up so easily after that terrible wasp’s sting. Well, there’d certainly be no more shimmying into mole holes and rabbit warrens for him…but when had this happened?

  And then his attention shifted back to Lizinia’s reflection, staring at him again with that cockeyed, clockwork tilt of her head…the same look she’d been giving him since he’d left the cats’ house…

  Trix’s face flushed with fury and he clenched his fists. He could feel the muscles of his chest and stomach tense in response. “Papa Gatto,” he said deeply. He suspected the voice he’d lost during the fight with the wasps would never be his voice again, either.

  Lizinia’s eyebrows raised at his surprise. “I thought you knew.”

  Trix turned away from the distracting mirror and closed his eyes. He thought back to all of the odd comments Lizinia had made about him having grown or changed…of the times in the past few days when he’d half-caught a glimpse of his strange reflection but been too busy to study it at length…

  “I assumed it was his gift to you, like my gold, or Peppina’s humiliation.”

  Trix slipped back into the chair, leaned over the table and put his head in hands that now seemed overly large and foreign. “What kind of gift was this?” But as soon as he asked it, he knew. Papa Gatto did not trust his golden goddaughter with a scrawny scamp who survived by using his wits and his animal friends. Trix knew his fey blood would always keep him looking younger than his years. Somehow, Papa Gatto had forced Trix’s body to catch up.

  And that was it. Even more than looking older—being older—Trix was bothered by the fact that the image in the mirror looked…human. He’d had all of his life to come to terms with being fey. He was fine with the idea of being part animal. But he was not prepared to be human.

  A golden hand slipped into his, and golden fingers curled around his own. “One person walked inside that house, and one person walked out,” said Lizinia. “I was there, so I would know. It was the same person. And that person was Trix Woodcutter.”

  Trix raised his head and studied Lizinia in earnest. She was all too familiar with what it was like to survive a cat’s “blessing”, to come out on the other side completely changed on the outside, while
still completely the same on the inside.

  “What color was your hair?” he asked her.

  “Black.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  Lizinia ran the fingers that weren’t holding Trix’s through her golden tresses. The strands caught the lamplight. Trix had watched Sunday spin wool into gold once, but the result wasn’t as fine as Lizinia’s hair was now. “Sometimes I miss it,” she said finally. “But I think I like who I am now.” She squeezed his hand. “And I like who you are. You will too. You’ll see.”

  She was probably right, but even still… “It will take some getting used to.”

  Lizinia smiled. “Just think of it as another adventure.”

  9

  The Ghost of Rose Abbey

  Had he still been inside a boy’s body, Trix would have skipped merrily through the gardens of Rose Abbey. They were beautiful and full of colorful blossoms, even this far north and this late in the year. It was a proud foliage that deserved to be skipped through, but this man’s body—now that he was aware of it—felt heavy and awkward. He’d bumped into two doorways following Lizinia out to the courtyard. He was thankful for the abbey’s high ceilings, or he might have banged his noggin on those as well.

  Scattered throughout the gardens of greenery and late-blooming flowers were various topiaries and groups of white-robed acolytes. The topiaries fascinated Trix. Conversely, the acolytes seemed to be fascinated by him. Some even giggled in his wake as they passed. He knew why, of course—silly young girls had often giggled when Peter walked by. Some of them had even made fools of themselves by falling directly into Peter’s path, or pretending to faint so he would catch them in arms that chopped down trees all day and would one day be large enough to rival Papa’s.

  Thankfully, the acolytes here limited themselves to smiles and giggles. Trix made sure to keep Lizinia’s pace, in case he needed her protection.

  The gardens also housed various feeding troughs and sanctuaries for whatever beast happened to be passing through. Interspersed with the sanctuaries were acolytes communing—non-verbally—with the various groups of animals. For the first time, he realized just how exceptional it was, this gift he’d had all his life.

  And then, suddenly, the shadow of the great chapel loomed above them. They were here. Trix took a deep breath. There was only so long he could put off the inevitable. Together, he and Lizinia pushed open the carved wooden doors.

  The chapel itself was filled with archways, separating the smaller rooms from the larger area of worship. The late afternoon sun shone through the many-colored windows of the entranceway and splattered the floor with rainbows. The rest of the chapel was dark, however, and almost entirely made of wood. Stained benches like tree stumps rose up from the ground. A massive phalanx of grand beasts stood along the walls, watching over the room with protective eyes. Trix bowed to them each in turn: the Bear, the Cat, the Wolf, and the Serpent. Embracing the altar were more enormous and exquisitely detailed woodcarvings, the crowning glory of which was the Great Hart.

  Behind the altar, stood the abbess. She waited patiently for Trix to pay his respects to the Earth Goddess before addressing him. Her wine-red robes hung gracefully about her tall, thick body, emphasizing what little auburn remained in her mostly silver hair.

  “Trix Woodcutter.” She stepped down from the altar and approached him, holding him at arm’s length and studying him from head to toe. Mama often did the same, looking for scrapes and bruises after he’d come home covered in half the Wood. “It seems you’ve grown,” she said, as if she had not seen him for some time, though Trix doubted she had ever laid eyes on him at all.

  Trix was unsure how much of their adventure Lizinia had already shared with the abbess. “Most of it is a recent acquisition. I’m still getting used to it.”

  “Even late bloomers must bloom sometime,” said his aunt. “Take that from a woman who named herself after a flower.”

  “Yes, Your Excellence.”

  “Goodness.” She waved her hand at him. “None of that nonsense. Aunt, Auntie Rose, Rose Red…any of those will do nicely. I hear you’ve come to see your birthmother. Though why you’ve shown up at my door without any other family is a story whose details your lovely companion here doesn’t seem to know.”

  “Tesera herself told me to come,” he admitted. “I’ve been having visions of her for some time now. She’s very persistent.”

  “Is that so.” Rose Red tapped the ring of keys on her belt absentmindedly. “That does sound like my sister.”

  “And if I’d so much as hinted to Mama about my intention to leave, she would have forbade it. Nor did I want to ask her and risk the chance that she might say no.”

  “That sounds like a sister of mine, too.” Rose Red gave a half-smile, but it fell again quickly. “I should probably reprimand you, child, or at the very least give you a stern talking-to, but I’m afraid my heart just isn’t in it right now. You’ve come all this way; I’ll let you pay your respects.”

  She took Trix by the hand and led them into a small, gray room behind the altar. Where the chapel had been wood, this sacristy was stone. Thin shafts of light split the darkness like golden daggers in an apple, the beams falling upon two low oaken tables in the center of the room. A woman lay still upon each of them.

  Trix released his aunt’s hand. The family resemblance between the two supine women was unmistakable. Each wore a simple white dress and their bodies had been surrounded by flowers. Trix blinked his eyes rapidly as the smell of them rose up to meet him. It was a sad thing being in this place. It would have been a sad thing even if these women had been perfect strangers.

  Which they almost were.

  Slow step by slow step, Trix moved between the tables. The room was so quiet that Trix heard nothing but his breath and his heartbeat and the shuffle of his feet against the stones. The woman farthest from the door had silvery silken hair. There was kindness in her face and strength in the hands that clasped the lily at her breast. His own sister Friday possessed such kindness—this woman looked as Friday might look one day, when Lord Death’s Angels came for her. Trix surmised that this must be Teresa, master seamstress and the third Mouton sister. Rose Red had not mentioned her passing to him.

  Trix turned back to the abbess in confusion—she and Lizinia still waited politely by the entrance to the sacristy. He opened his mouth to speak, but the sight of his birthmother transfixed him.

  Tesera’s long, chestnut locks had been laid in graceful waves down her sides and sprinkled with vervain and bettany. There were laugh lines in the corners of her eyes and around her pale pink lips that, even in death, seem slightly curved upward as if at any moment she would break into a smile. Gently, he placed a hand atop the ones folded upon her gossamer dress. Her skin did not feel as cold as he imagined. Lizinia’s hands were far colder when not warmed by sun or exercise. Tesera’s large ring bit into his palm.

  “I just wish I had known her,” he whispered. More than that, he wished she had given him the chance to know her.

  “If you recognize her at all, then you know her better than you think, child,” said Rose Red.

  So many questions bubbled up inside Trix, he felt fit to burst with them, but none seemed worth saying aloud. There were no answers for him here in this tomb. A cloud went over the sun, shrouding the room in strange shadow. From somewhere, Trix could make out the sparkling notes of chimes in the wind. The scent of fading flowers shifted to that of rich earth after a rain.

  He looked up to find himself surrounded by a veil of indigo light. Beyond it he could see Rose Red and Lizinia, frozen like statues.

  "It's not a bad death, really, for all that it's a rehearsal."

  Trix jumped—on the inside, not the out—and turned his head slowly to see the ghost of his mother standing before him. She was the image of the body on the table with her gossamer dress and beflowered hair, only she looked old enough to be one of his own sisters. Another costume. Ever the actres
s.

  “You’re not that young anymore,” Trix said. “Cut it out.”

  Tesera hopped spryly off the table and turned a slow circle. When she faced him again she was a wizened old woman. Her clothes and skin both sagged on her frame, but her nose had grown to twice its original size. And had warts. Trix gave her his best look of disappointment.

  Tesera burst out laughing. “Oh, you get that from your mother, and no mistake. I’d recognize that face anywhere.”

  “You are my mother.” Her laugher annoyed him so much that he took her big blobby nose between his fingers and yanked it off.

  Only, it didn’t come off. “Ow!” she cried and slapped his hand away. For a frail old bat, she was quite strong. “You don’t get it, do you?”

  “What, that you may have given birth to me but Mama will always be my mother? Yeah. I get it.”

  Tesera stiffened, clasped her hands before her, and tilted her head to the side. Even in the old woman’s guise it was a perfect imitation of Lizinia. “You are lost in the dark, Trix Woodcutter,” she said. “Let me illuminate you.”

  Her eyes twinkled and the room went black.

  “Hello?” Trix’s call fell like a thud into the thick darkness. Where was he now? Where was Tesera? Where was anyone?

  Trix made out a sparkle in the black. The sparkle grew and became the indigo veil, floating just beyond him like a curtain. There was a figure upon the curtain, a graceful creature he had never seen before…it looked mostly like a large, white deer. The image of it waved as the curtain waved in the nothingness, and Trix moved forward to try and make it out. As he did, the creature split in half like an egg and a giant plume of black smoke rose up from the pieces.