"So?"
"So, she understands the importance of patience and timing."
"So what!"
Zendrak cursed under his breath. Glancing at Kelandris in the darkness, he said, "Don't you know who Hennin's really after, Kel? It's you. Suxonli was a political move, Kel. She didn't know what you were then, but she certainly suspected. Like I told you, Hennin is ambitious. Spiritually ambitious. Never forget that. She wants your power. Mine, too, if she can figure out a way to get it. You go to her now, and she'll break you like dry leaves in the wind.
Go to her now, and there will be no winterbloom."
Kelandris said nothing, holding her bathrobe close to her bosom again. The winter wind blew down her front and made her shiver. Seeing this, Zendrak offered Kelandris a hand up once more. This time she took it. The man in green guided her out of the brambles of the dark forest and gave her a leg up on Further. Then he pulled himself up behind her.
Kelandris turned to him and said, "We're going back to Speakinghast, aren't we?" She sounded disgusted.
"I think it's best at this time."
Kelandris shrugged. "But you do intend to do something about Hennin?"
"Presence willing, something will be done about Hen-nin."
Zendrak turned Further south with his legs, and they rode slowly back to the sleeping city. As they rode, Kelandris leaned back against Zendrak's chest and dozed off and on. Feeling Zendrak's belt buckle against the small of her back, she muttered: "How did you have time to dress?"
Zendrak smiled but said nothing. They rode in silence, both Greatkin too exhausted from fighting with each other to even speak. Their exhaustion had also dulled their psychic senses. Neither Zendrak nor Kelandris felt a bitter wind blast them from the north.
Nor did they sense the silent outcry of Speakinghast as Elder Hennin's Akindo entered the city limits.
Panthe'kinarok Interlogue
Rimble's indignant scream in the kitchen at Eranossa brought all conversation at the dinner table to a stop. The table, which was alive, quivered. Ice cubes in crystal glasses tinkled while fruit again poured out of the silver cornucopia in the middle. All the Greatkin present scrambled to keep things from falling to the floor, especially Sathmadd, the Patron of Organization. Fuming at Rimble under her breath, she straightened fallen place cards that she had so carefully calligraphied the evening previous to the commencement of the Panthe'kinarok. When she came around to where Themyth was sitting, Sathmadd grumbled at Themyth for her bad taste in bed partners, specifically Rimble. Themyth smiled enigmatically and poured herself a fresh glass of sweet black-currant wine. The wine had been a gift to Themyth from Phebene, the Patron of Love. As Themyth put her wineglass down on the now stabilized table, she turned to Sathmadd and said, "Relax, Maddi, dear. Everything will turn out all right in the end."
"Not so long as those Neathian nuts are in charge," snapped Sathmadd in a low voice. "Just look at them. Every face is smug—and not one of them has gone to find out what's wrong in the kitchen. Know why? Because they're waiting for one of us from Eranossa to walk in there with Rimble. What do they think we are? Stupid?"
"Maybe just compassionate," whispered Themyth, patting Sathmadd's hand like a favorite grandmother.
Sathmadd snorted and bustled off.
Themyth surveyed the twenty-six faces around the table in front of her.
Several of Rimble's brothers and sisters glanced nervously at the closed door to the kitchen. A few rolled their eyes. Others slumped in their chairs.
It was clear to Themyth that no one in the room relished the idea of playing the dupe to Rimble's crafty intelligence. Themyth listened as throats cleared and conversation resumed. Smiles were forced, she noted.
It seemed that all of them were trying to keep their eyes on their dinner partners and off the door to the ominously silent kitchen.
Themyth decided to help Rimble along with his schemes. Leaning toward Jinndaven, the Greatkin of Imagination, she planted an idea in his very fertile mind. "Jinn, sweetheart—you don't think Rimble is in real trouble, do you? I mean, I can't imagine what made your little brother scream like that."
"I know, I know," sighed Jinndaven. "I've been trying not to worry about it."
Looking heavenward, Jinndaven threw his linen napkin on the table and got to his feet.
Before Jinndaven could leave the table, however, Greatkin Mattermat intercepted him. Grabbing Jinndaven by the arm, the Greatkin of All Things That Matter asked, "Why do you always defend the little brat? Why do you always help Trickster?"
Jinndaven pulled his arm away from Mattermat's grip, his expression annoyed. Straightening his crumpled, filmy, mauve sleeve, Jinndaven shrugged defensively and said, "I don't know. I just do. I like Rimble, I suppose."
Mattermat and Nessi'gobahn, the Patron of Humor, roared with derisive laughter. Mattermat wiped tears away from his eyes and said, "Well, there's no accounting for taste, is there?"
Jinndaven crossed his arms over his chest and glared at his enormous brother. "Rimble uses my ideas," snapped Jinndaven. "Even the bad ones.
He can make a go of even my most mediocre creativity. That matters to me. Certainly more than it matters to you, Mattermat."
Mattermat helped himself to another serving of bread and butter.
"Fortunately for me, Jinndaven, I don't have to depend on anyone to exist. I simply am."
Conversation at the table came to an abrupt halt. Themyth was so shocked by Mattermat's statement that she began coughing and choking on the wine in her mouth. Phebene ran to the crone's side and patted her back vigorously. When Themyth had regained her composure, she thanked the Greatkin of Love for her assistance and turned to Mattermat, her expression hard. Then Themyth said, "We're all interdependent here, Mattermat. As Phebene has just illustrated by coming to my side when I choked on my wine, we're here to cooperate and help one another. Always."
Mattermat scowled at the cheery rainbow attire of Phebene. Then he said sarcastically, "I'm a realist. Not a ridiculous romantic—"
"Maybe I had better sit next to him," said Phebene to Themyth in a seductive voice. "Might improve his temper—
Mattermat got to his feet. "And listen to your sickeningly sweet conversation through the next three courses of din-ner? Not a chance of that, sister. Not a chance."
Jinndaven went quickly to Phebene's side and put his arm around her.
Materializing a handkerchief out of the air, Phebene began to weep copiously. "Boo-h oooooo," she cried, "Boo-h oooo."
Phebene made so much noise that she brought Rimble running from the kitchen, his plan to lure Jinndaven and ultimately Themyth in there completely foiled. The little Greatkin burst through the kitchen door, his expression one of genuine alarm. Seeing that Phebene was on the brink of dissolving into a literal puddle of tears for the second time this Panthe'kinarok, Rimble walked up to Mattermat and said, "What did you say to Phebes? What did you say to her?"
"Interesting how he always blames me—" began Mattermat, his posture defensive.
"Well?" retorted Jinndaven. "He's right to blame you, you big lout!"
During a disagreeable pause, Themyth nodded at Rimble, her voice jovial.
"Rimble, dear—what happened in the kitchen? Jinn was just on his way to find out. We were a little worried."
Rimble regarded Themyth with a mixture of affection and irritation. He knew Themyth was trying to be helpful, but he didn't need or want her help at present. His plans were going through Neath, not Eranossa. Trickster cleared his throat and smiled benignly at Themyth. "Why don't you come into the kitchen, then, Themyth? If you're so worried as all that."
No one thought this was a good idea, not even Themyth. However, Themyth thought it might keep the peace at the table if she humored Rimble at this point. The crone got to her feet stiffly, her patchwork quilt falling to one side of her body. She accompanied Trickster to the door of the kitchen, her aged hand held tightly by his strong fingers. This time when Trickster opened the kitche
n door, smoke billowed out, engulfing Themyth. Her eyes smarting, her throat burning, the Greatkin of Civilization staggered backward. Jinndaven and Phebene caught her as she started to fall.
Themyth blinked, her expression one of incredulity and betrayal. "What are you trying to do, Rimble?" she whispered hoarsely. "Destroy civilization?"
"Not at all," said Greatkin Troth, the Patron of Death, as he stepped out of the kitchen, the colorful glass beads in his dark hair glinting in the light from the candles decorating the table. "We're just trying to shake you up, that's all. Did we succeed?"
Themyth gave both brothers an exasperated look. "Yes," she snapped.
Now seated at the table, Sathmadd raised a gray eyebrow, folded her hands primly in her lap, and said under her breath, " Will everything turn out all right in the end? I wonder."
Rimble, who had uncommonly good hearing when he wanted to, grinned at Sathmadd. Realizing that Trickster had heard her comments, the Greatkin of Organization turned scarlet with embarrassment. Trickster continued to grin—leer, really—and said, "You're spozed to wonder, Maddi, dearest."
Suddenly changing his mood as quickly as he was apt to change his costume, Trickster bowed to the elite company assembled at the table and added, "Well, I'm off."
"Off where?" asked Jinndaven. He peered at Trickster, noting his brother still wore furs, gourd rattles, and black and yellow paint.
"To a Distant Place."
"What're you going to do there, Rimble?" asked Phebene between sniffles.
"I'm going to market my name."
Mattermat scowled. "Speak Oldspeech, will you? 'Market your name'—what in Neath does that mean?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?" sniggered Trickster.
"Yes, I would!" shouted Mattermat, rightly suspecting Rimble of some new mischief. "What's this Distant Place called? Is it on Mnemlith?"
"Nope. It's in Milwaukee."
There was a bewildered silence.
"Never heard of it," said Sathmadd, quickly scanning every place name in her prodigious memory. "Never heard of a Milwaukee."
10
As the residents of Milwaukee, Wisconsin, often said, this lovely city was the best kept secret in the Midwest. Made famous by the beer breweries that once heavily populated Milwaukee's precincts, in recent years Milwaukee had broadened its business base and begun attracting people interested in the computer industry. Influenced by its large German and Polish constituency, the city favored the ethic of hard work. Unlike its university sister city of Madison, Milwaukee excelled at being conservative—except in summer. In June, when native Milwaukeeans were digging themselves out of their six-month winter hibernation—and residual cabin fever—the city cut loose with fireworks. Literally. By the time the Fourth of July rolled around, the fireworks display held on the banks of Lake Michigan was almost anticlimactic.
Ethnic festivals abounded in Milwaukee throughout the summer. Each weekend hosted a different country. Bastille Day enlivened the downtown area in mid-July, culminating in the Great Circus Parade that strutted down Wisconsin Avenue complete with hundred-year-old wagons brought by train from Baraboo, Wisconsin, and unloaded by horses in the train yard to the delight of scores of cheering children and equally happy grown-ups.
Centuries ago, long before the Europeans set foot on the land, Milwaukee was famous for something besides beer and festivals; it was a peace center for many of the Native American tribes in the area. Many street names in the city were of Indian origin, Milwaukee itself meaning "at the gathering of the waters." In the 1980s Milwaukee had become more conscious of its Native American roots and had invited Indians of the area to host an early fall weekend entitled Indian Summer. The festival was well attended by local Indians and members of tribes living as far west as the Dakotas. In like spirit, when the city decided to reinstate the Great Circus Parade as one of its yearly festivals, local Indians were asked to join in the fun.
Trickster thought this was grand, and being partial to the Native Americans for giving him so many names—Old Man Coyote, Bluejay, Raven, Moon, Hare, Mink, Nanabozho— and remembering them even into the present day, Trickster decided to pay his respects to the Menominee in Milwaukee and make sure they made room for him in their part of the parade. The medicine woman of the Menominee was an elder in her seventies who invited Trickster into her house immediately, promptly cuffed the little rogue on the back of the neck, and offered him tobacco. Trickster grinned, then settled into her house until time for the parade in downtown Milwaukee to begin.
The day was sunny, the sky nearly cloudless. As Trickster danced and pranced his stuff—goosing and rattling the people lined up on either side of the street with great enthusiasm—he kept an eye out for someone he affectionately called "the Obstinate Woman of Park and Shepard." She was not Indian, but white—blonde and blue-eyed, as a matter of fact. Trickster had first made her acquaintance in California and had kept track of her changes of residence. You may wonder why? Well, in California Trickster had told this woman his Greatkin name, Rimble. Then he had asked her to write some books using that name. Being a contrary sort of person herself, the Obstinate Woman had refused. She said she didn't want any part of Trickster's doings. She was certain she would never be the same if she got involved with Rimble.
"Right you are, girlie. So what d'ya want to be the same for, anyway?"
argued Trickster, one rainy day in northern California.
"Don't press me, buster—"
Rimble winked at her and began humming to himself. After a few minutes, Trickster said, "I could make you famous."
"Not interested."
"Hey, hey—I'm a myth whose time has come. I'm telling you Coyote will be
'in' soon. Catch the wave, sweetheart. Catch the wave—"
"Nope."
Trickster pursed his lips. Then, giving the Obstinate Woman a sidelong glance, he said, "Why not?"
"I just told you why not."
"Tell me again."
The Obstinate Woman took a deep breath. "If I write for you, Rimble, my life will get turned upside down—"
"And inside inside out—don't forget that part."
The Obstinate Woman smiled thinly and went back to washing the dishes in the sink at her Berkeley duplex. When she didn't hear anything more from Rimble, she turned around to see if he was still there. He wasn't. The Obstinate Woman felt relieved at first. She congratulated herself on being wise. No one in his or her right mind would write for an archetype like Trickster, she told herself. She bit her lower lip.
"Then why am I standing here being disappointed that he didn't talk me into it?" she asked out loud. Rolling her eyes, the Obstinate Woman poured more soap in the sink and watched it bubble.
Of course, being Rimble (and absolutely ubiquitous), Rimble heard her final remark to herself at the sink. Cackling gleefully, he made plans for the marketing of his name through the Obstinate Woman's book publisher in New York City. Now, a few years later, Rimble had come to Milwaukee to check on the progress of this venture. Six months earlier, the Obstinate Woman had left California to return to an area of the United States which still believed in wholesome things like milk, mothers, and marriage.
Milwaukee had fit this description, and so the Obstinate Woman had settled there. At present, she was sitting high on a bleacher overlooking the circus parade, wearing mirrored eyeglasses and a silly straw hat. As the Native American segment of the Great Circus Parade marched by, the Obstinate Woman's jaw dropped. There in plain sight of thousands was Rimble weaving in and out of the crowd.
"Shit!" she said nervously, and looked for a convenient way to escape.
Unfortunately, the bleacher was packed and she sat at its highest point. In the street, Rimble waved gaily at her.
"Shit!" she repeated, and started climbing over people.
Scrambling between sunburnt children and beer-drinking college students, the Obstinate Woman made her way to the bottom of the bleacher. To her relief she saw that the Native American section o
f the parade was turning left on Water Street. Mercifully, Trickster was nowhere to be found.
Deciding that she must have seen a hallucination of Rimble—no doubt brought on by the searing summer sun and ninety-four-degree heat—the Obstinate Woman decided to go in search of a soda. When she walked up to a nearby concession stand on the corner of Wisconsin and Jackson streets, the soda man had his back to her. The Obstinate Woman cleared her throat.
"May I have a Coke, please? Not diet. I like my caffeine and sugar straight up," she added with a grin.
The soda man turned around, his swarthy face reflecting in her dark glasses. It was Trickster, of course, his Indian costume gone. In its place he wore a red bandana, a candy-striped shirt, rainbow suspenders, and baggy white pants. Trickster guffawed rudely and said, "Rimble-Rimble, girlie."
The Obstinate Woman rolled her eyes and grabbed the unopened soda out of Trickster's proffered hand. "This better be on the house," she snapped at him as she peeled off the aluminum sticker on the Coca-Cola can.
"But of course," said Rimble, adopting a French accent for the moment.
"Bastille Days," he added. "Zey bring out ze French in moi."
"What do you want?"
"Just checking up on the books. Where are they? Don't see a single one down at Webster's or Schwartz's—"
"They're not out yet, Rimble. Takes time to make a book in New York."
"Well, well. We'll just have to remedy that, won't we?"
"I should never have agreed to write for you. Never, never, never—"
"No whining. Makes you unattractive, you know. Ask Barlimo. She'd tell you that in a minute."
The Obstinate Woman took a sip of Coke and swallowed it. "Now I suppose you'll tell me my own characters get to boss me around?"
Trickster's Touch Page 9
