The Feast of the Trickster

by Beth Hilgartner

  Vihena shrugged. "She is one of the gods."

  Do you think she will attack us? Iobeh signed.

  "No," Remarr said. "She will toy with us, as a leopard with its prey, until she tires of the sport; then she will strike."

  "And remember," Ychass cautioned. "She too is looking for 'Tsan. Our search will draw us ever closer to the Trickster."

  This is true, Iobeh signed. But we have allies—which the Trickster will not expect.

  ***

  The Trickster punched a fist into her palm. As long as she could see the Five, she might snare one of them, but with the scrying surfaces covered, she was barred. A mirror could not give her information—like where, in this miserable, crowded, gods-forsaken, filthy excuse for a world, they were!

  Her fist smacked into her palm again, but with less force. There was no doubt: the Minstrel was quick; and the others had hidden depths as well. It could be interesting, pitting her wits against the Five.

  With satisfaction in her smile, she began concentrating on the Wanderer. If she were near a mirror, why then, the Trickster would see what she could see!

  ***

  Angel stood before the bathroom mirror, fiddling with her hair. The bathroom made a haven—one place where she could be sure she wouldn't be interrupted. She squeezed a little styling mousse into her hand, then began working the front of her hair into spikes. Suddenly, her reflection rippled, then vanished. Looking out at her was a thin, red-haired woman whose eyes were the nearly colorless gray of Ychass's.

  Angel. The voice sounded in her mind, not her ears. I am the Namegiver. 'Tsan is in desperate danger. The Trickster is in your world, and 'Tsan has met someone who can strip away the things that make her "'Tsan." You must act. There is little time.

  "What should we do?" Angel demanded. "How can we find her?"

  Ohmiden dreamed of a place of learning, a vast school, the Namegiver responded, and the name: "Boston." Does that mean aught to you?

  "Boston is a city—south of here. There are lots of schools in that area," Angel replied. "What else?"

  The Namegiver's reflection wavered. As the mirror returned to normal, Angel swore softly. She rinsed the mousse out of her hair, while she tumbled the god's information about in her mind.

  ***

  For a blissful day, things returned to normal for Alexandra. She slept the night through without dreams. But the next morning, on her way through the Square, she caught a glimpse of an odd reflection in a storefront—not hers. She battled panic—so intent that she was nearly mowed down by a taxi.

  As Alexandra rushed to her German class, she ran headlong into her German teacher. He caught her shoulders, steadying her.

  "Why the hurry?" he asked her.

  "I—I didn't want to be late," she stammered.

  "It's Saturday, Alexandra," he told her in a doubtful voice that made her feel especially fragile. "There's no class today."

  "Oh God, how embarrassing!" she said, trying for a light tone. "I guess I've lost a day."

  "Or gained one. Listen, let's get a cup of coffee—since you have all this free time." He gave her an engaging grin. "I don't bite—I promise!"

  She could see no way to escape. It wasn't an unreasonable suggestion, after all. So she allowed Herr Bergemann to tow her toward his favorite coffee shop. As they crossed the street, Alexandra caught sight of a Harvard Square Character: a tall woman with impossibly orange, punked-out, spiky hair, a black leather jumpsuit, and mirrored sunglasses, who leaned against a massive Harley-Davidson motorcycle. "A Character," she whispered, with a slight gesture toward the biker.

  "She'd be hard to miss," Herr Bergemann agreed. "She must be seven feet tall, what with the hair and those boots." The boots were high black ones with four-inch spike heels. "I wouldn't want to meet her in a dark alley," he added.

  Alexandra had the uneasy feeling that the biker's gaze followed them until they disappeared into the coffee shop.

  Alexandra and her German instructor had a perfectly normal visit and then went their separate ways. She felt cheered until she noticed the spike-haired biker on a different street corner. Alexandra changed her route so she wouldn't have to pass the woman, though she railed inwardly at her own silliness. By the time she reached her room, she was so annoyed at herself that she immediately uncovered all the mirrors and raised the blinds.

  I'm getting better! she insisted. I don't need to obey such ridiculous whims. She even went so far as to leave a message for the Super asking him to repair her bathroom mirror.

  She spent what was left of the morning on her English Lit course, and managed to lose herself in the poetry of William Butler Yeats. But as she got up to go to lunch, her eye caught the mirror over her dresser. It was not reflecting the room; instead, she saw the face of the orange-haired biker—glasses and all. She stared at her own reflection in the woman's glasses. As the biker started to remove her sunglasses, Alexandra spun away from the mirror with such violence that she fell against her easy chair. The skidding chair collided with the table upon which she had precariously stacked her texts and notebooks. The whole toppled with a tremendous crash. Alexandra lay on top of the wreckage, gasping. Though she heard her neighbor's anxious questions, she couldn't answer. Suddenly, the alarm shrilled as Alexandra's neighbor came through the fire door.

  With a feeling akin to relief, Alexandra covered her face with both hands, and howled. None of her neighbors—nor, when she was fetched, the tutor—could calm her; so at last, the tutor sent someone after a car and they trundled Alexandra off to Health Services. The tutor was far too distracted to notice the biker—however flamboyantly dressed—who watched the commotion from across the street.

  ***

  By the time Isaac Marchbanks arrived at the infirmary, uprooted from his Saturday gardening like one of the weeds he had been after, one of his colleagues had sedated Alexandra.

  "Did she say anything?" he asked the man. "Any hint about what set her off? She seemed so much better on Friday."

  The other doctor shook his head. "She was completely hysterical, weeping and moaning. I knew you'd want to talk to her, but honestly, Isaac, she was totally incoherent."

  Stifling his irritation, Isaac retreated to his office. If he'd only known they were going to sedate Alexandra, he could have finished his weeding. Oh, well; perhaps he could use the time to catch up on some articles. He had barely started reading when one of the nurses tapped on his door.

  "Dr. Marchbanks, there's someone out here who wants to visit the new admission."

  "She's sedated. No visitors."

  "That's what I said," the nurse replied, "but I'm not making any headway. It's a real tough customer—dressed like a punked-out Hell's Angel."

  "Send him in and I'll talk to him."

  "It's a her."

  Isaac Marchbanks' eyebrows shot up. "Send her in then."

  A moment later, Marchbanks found himself looking up at an extremely tall, outrageously striking woman. Her wild hair, an improbable orange, sprang in spikes from her scalp. She wore clunky metal chains, her black leather jumpsuit was steel studded, and a pair of sunglasses hung around her neck. Her eyes were a blue so deep it was nearly purple.

  "I'd like to see my friend," she told him.

  "Sorry. She's sedated."

  "That's what the woman told me," she said contemptuously.

  "Come back tomorrow; then you can see your friend."

  "I want to see her now!" The crackle of anger made Marchbanks look up in surprise. Suddenly, he was drowning in purple eyes.

  "No." The word lacked the intended authority; he sounded dazed. But the suffocating sensation eased a bit.

  "What?" the woman demanded.

  "I said, no." His voice gained strength. "She can't have visitors now. Leave your name; I'll tell her you were here."

  The woman put her fists on her hips and glared at him. "I want to see her. NOW!!" On the last word, her hand snaked out and prisoned Marchbanks's wrist. Her touch made it hard to breathe.


  "I ... don't ... care ... what ... you ... want," he said, each word a nearly impossible effort. "You ... may ... not ... see ... her!"

  She touched his brow with her other hand. "Sleep," she commanded.

  "Sleep!" The outrageousness of her command would have brought startled laughter if he weren't already so angry and unnerved. Instead, a rush of rage burned away the feelings that hampered his mind and his breathing. Isaac Marchbanks leaped to his feet, shaking off her hand. "Who the hell do you think you are? I said no visitors, and that is exactly what I meant! Now, will you leave, or must I call Security?"

  She stared at him. Then her lips twitched in a one-sided smile. "I'll go, Isaac Marchbanks; but don't think you've won. Clearly, the Wanderer has powerful allies, but I have not yet plumbed the depths of my strength." Raising one hand in a mocking salute, she went out.

  Marchbanks watched to see that she got on the elevator and that the elevator did not stop at any other floors on its descent. He summoned it back to check that it was indeed empty before he returned to his desk. His hands shook as he picked up the article he had been reading. Concentration was beyond him. According to Alexandra, the people in her delusional world had referred to her as 'Tsan, the Stranger—and the Wanderer.

  FIFTEEN

  When Angel arrived at the stable, nearly bursting with her news, chores were in full swing. Each time she thought she had the Five, Brice, and Mark to herself, someone would wander in to interrupt. It wasn't until lunch, when they were seated around the big table in Kelly's kitchen, that she could report her exchange with the Namegiver.

  The others listened breathlessly. The Five were excited to have such a definite clue, but their allies counseled caution.

  "Boston is a big place," Mark said. "And there are a lot of schools there. It won't be a simple matter to find your friend."

  "But there is Directory Assistance," Brice put in. "We may be able to get her phone number."

  "It won't be that easy," Mark muttered direly.

  Angel leaped up and went to the phone. "Let's try it. What's Boston's area code? Six-one-seven?" She punched a string of numbers. "Boston," she said after a moment, "or greater Boston, anyway. Do you have a listing for an Alexandra Scarsdale?" There was a long pause. "Okay. Thanks." She replaced the receiver. "No good. She's not listed."

  "If she's at some college," Brice put in, "the school would have her phone number."

  Angel gestured to the phone. "Do you want to make a lot of unexplained long-distance calls on Kelly's phone?"

  Both boys made faces. The Five had been watching, mystified. Remarr voiced their puzzlement. "'Phone?"'

  Angel tried to explain. "Telephone. Phone. It lets us talk over distance. Calls to faraway places cost money. If there were a lot of extra calls on Kelly's bill, she'd get mad."

  The Five exchanged glances. Brice grinned suddenly. "You don't need to say it," he laughed. "'This is a strange place."'

  "Why are we bothering with 'phones'?" Vihena demanded. "We know where 'Tsan is. Let us go look for her."

  "The Boston area is a big place, " Mark repeated. "We couldn't find her by just wandering around. We need to know where to look."

  "Very well," Vihena said, reining in her impatience. "But what can we do?"

  "We can wait until Brigid gets out of work and then go use her telephone," Brice said. "We call all the schools and colleges we can think of, and see whether any of them has Alexandra Scarsdale as a student. Then, if we find her, we can call her, or at least we'll know where to begin looking for her."

  Vihena sighed. With pure mischief in his expression, Remarr said softly, "More waiting."

  She eyed him, but instead of exploding, she smiled. "You took my very words, Remarr."

  Late that afternoon, Brigid arrived. She looked worried. At the first opportunity she took Angel aside. "My parents will be home on Tuesday. We've got to get the Five out before then. How are you guys doing on getting them invited to your houses?"

  Angel bit her lip. "My folks are hovering on the brink. Mark thinks his mother will let Iobeh and Karivet stay. I don't know about Brice. I'll really put the push on my folks, but you know how they are."

  "I'll check with Brice," Brigid said. "Anything happening?"

  "Yeah—but here comes Kelly. Can we come over to your apartment this evening? Say yes!" Then, before Brigid had a chance to say anything, Angel sprinted off.

  Brigid's apartment was very small, and rather too warm as well. She poured tall glasses of iced tea while she listened to Angel's report and to the plan for locating Alexandra. Then she produced a pencil and a pad. The allies spent some time brainstorming; Mark proved invaluable, as he had already begun to research colleges he might want to attend. The Five listened, baffled. Finally, Brigid tore the page off the pad and gestured to the phone. "Go to it," she said, "whoever wants to be first."

  The calling developed into a ritual. The caller would pick a school, call Directory Assistance, ask for the number, call the school, ask for Alexandra Scarsdale, and then cross off the school's name. Then the list would pass to another caller. It was Brigid who called Harvard. With wide eyes, she wrote down a phone number, read it back, and hung up, excitement warring with disbelief on her face.

  "I've got it. I can't believe it. I've got it!" She looked around at them all. "So who wants to call her?"

  "Action at last," Remarr murmured. "Vihena should call."

  Vihena took phone. "Show me what to do." Brigid dialed, while everyone crowded around.

  "Is it ringing?" Angel asked.

  "Yes," Vihena answered. Then she shook her head. "Nothing else is happening."

  "She's not home," Angel moaned. "I can't stand it!"

  Vihena handed the phone back to Brigid, who hung it up. Fixing Remarr with a glimmer of malice, she said, "So now what?"

  Remarr met her gaze. Suddenly, they were both laughing. "Why, Vihena," he gasped, "we wait!"

  When they had laughed themselves out, Brigid took the Five back out to the farm while Mark ran Brice and Angel home. Each of them planned to sneak in one more try before bedtime, and they all swore to let the others know immediately, if anyone made contact. But bedtime came and went with no success.

  ***

  For the first time since he had grown into his spirit-gift, Ohmiden fought the dream he was given. It swept him into a swirling world of impossibilities and terrors; he was mired in darkness, imprisoned in a void that held him away from light, away from meaning. There were no beacons to guide him, just whorls of purple and scraps of conversation. The voices were unfamiliar: two or three men, speaking meaningless words.

  ". . . sedation . . . dose . . . see some reaction . . . "

  ". . . catatonic?"

  ". . . stimulate her . . . Adrenaline?"

  "A peculiar case."

  ". . . electroshock therapy . . ."

  Ohmiden struggled against the dream. He had the sudden conviction that he was being used, that this dream wasn't something given, but was instead being taken from him. As he struggled, a mesh of violet strands tightened around him. He was being strangled; mired, drowning—in his sleep, he cried out, but his own voice would not waken him.

  Somewhere, eons distant, his shell was shaken. Someone shouted. He could make no response. His inner self was barred from his body; his spirit was trapped, lost in featureless murk. The strength went out of his fighting.

  Then he was surrounded by light—wonderful, glorious golden light. His spirit surged with joy. The light came nearer. At its center was a woman, a figure robed in sunlight, with hair like a torch. In her hands she held a pair of silver shears.

  Ohmiden understood, and the welcoming fire of his joy damped a bit. This was the Harvester, who cuts the thread from the Loom at life's end. He framed a question: Is it my time?

  Her only reply was to hold the shears out to him.

  He tested his bonds; they were tight, strong. He sought for other guidance, but aside from the glory of the Harvester's presence, there
was no other beacon.

  May I not say farewell?

  The Harvester held out the shears.

  Time stretched endlessly. The Harvester waited. At last, Ohmiden took the shears. With his spirit-sight, he could see his thread trapped and tangled in the binding purple mesh. If he cut his thread, the entangling bonds could no longer hold him; and yet, he hesitated. The cords that bound him pulsed with power—and in their violet light, the glimmer of a plan came to life. Ohmiden shifted his grip on the Harvester's shears. He cut—not his own thread, but the cords that bound him. Searing brightness surrounded him; the old man heard the Harvester exclaim. Then the pain took him. It was worse than the binding; it was like breathing flames. It consumed him; he could not bear it. He could not bear it! Almost of their own volition, the Harvester's shears found his thread. Forgive me, Eikoheh, his spirit pleaded. I am not strong enough. Then he cut himself free. As the pain released him, he soared into the joyous welcoming light.

  ***

  The Trickster threw her head back and screamed. It had cost her power to use the old man's dreaming gift; as the Harvester's shears sliced through her bindings, the strength flowed out of her. While it did not render her helpless, it was a deep blow.

  She ignored her wounding. She was still ahead of the Five: she knew where 'Tsan was; and Marchbanks had said that she could see her on the morrow.

  Triumph flickered in her eyes. It would take a mere instant to wipe away all 'Tsan's memories of her time in the world of the Loom; and then the Weaver's hopes would turn to ash.

  The morn would see her triumph; the night would feel her hand. The Trickster mounted her mechanical steed and roared into the night, ripe for mischief.

  ***

  The Dreamweaver raised her head to find the Harvester on her threshold. Eikoheh felt nothing—neither joy nor fear—at her coming.

  "Have you come for me, too?" she asked, wary and bitter.

  "It is not your time. Dreamweaver, I bring you a gift." She held out her hand. Resting in her palm was a skein of silken thread. The silk captured light and cast it back in a rainbow of colors. The Dreamweaver caught her breath.

  "What is this?" the old woman asked.