Contrarywise
Zohra Greenhalgh
Contrarywise by Zohra Greenhalgh With Love To the Deviant Denizens of Lytheria: Past, Present, and Future Especially to Lee Schneider Who Provided the Refuge in the First Place Acknowledgments Hearty thanks to my mother who provided my Big Brother (typewriter) in the nick of time; to my father for his gracious grant in 1984; to Jean Marie Stafford for an early vote of confidence and those wild family dinners which first inspired the Panthe'kinarok; to the late Jane Roberts—teacher, mystic, and pioneer—her husband Rob Butts, and the rest of the regular class rowdies for their blessed spiritual irreverence (especially the «Boys from New York»), to Seth himself for his disarming and devastating model of the Tricky Teacher, to the Sumari for ancient songs that linger just out of mind, to Pir Vilayat Inayat Khan for reminding me of Splendour; to the generous Yellow Springs of Ohio for iron medicine and the concept of landdraw; to my editor Terri Windling for early morning coffee and spirited courage; to the countless musicians to whose work I listened while writing—especially to those gentle heretics Ron Romanovsky and Paul Phillips; to my agent Val Smith who has a «soft spot» in her heart for Trickster; to Karen Pauli for Utter Chocolate Decadence; to David Bowie (whom I've never met) for his pied-eyed Jinnjirri visuals; to Professors Bruce Stark and Harold Scheub of the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee and Madison respectively for Tricksterish lectures on Loki and Uncle Tompa; to Keith Stafford for his insight regarding artistic sketches and his gift of Everywhen; to the Room 9 Hearthhags for their female presence and creative heroism; to the Hearth for messages; to Midori Snyder for fight scene specifics; to Charles and Mary Ann de Lint for writerly support when it was sorely needed; to Stephanie for tea; to my sister Sarah for fierce faith; to Kato Hayden for sheer exuberance; to David Piselli for being absolutely Contrary; to Anja for ambulatory walking sticks; to the Coffee Trader of Milwaukee for many hours of conversation and livelihood; to J.D. LaBash for impromptu talks on molecular biology and «selfish DNA»; to Marjorie Shyne and her daughter, Patti, for introducing me to the East Coast ditty «Dicky Dunkin'»; to Judy Frabotti for bringing me the concept of «the group» at the right moment; to Ardvesura Krafft for sounding my heart during a stolen, fierce week in August; to Kathe Ann for the storyteller's perspective; to the scattered cast of The Seven Rooms for patience; to Grace Daley for the pun on her name; to the seen and unseen participants in my Lake Michigan Naming Ceremony for that new dawn; to my Grandmother Marie Walbridge Greenhalgh for «trust fund» teaching; to Mark Arnold for rampant tomatoes and solitude when it was needed; to my gray-haired, gold-eyed cat, Rimble—for his impossible, four-legged displays of claiming affection; to Gary Cone for the meaning of Podiddley; to the outraged, young Afghan woman on the cover of National Geographic, June 1985—may you be answered; to my beloved kin, Desiree Luena Bell, for embodying the sweet trueness of friendship; and finally to that irrepressible rogue, Trickster—here's to your great, wild heart and endless Improoovements on my life. Better known as Divine Meddling… The Trickster's Touch PART I He came to her when her world was frozen And the dormant dreamed of Spring; He came to her on her own asking Her need his open door. His ways cut deep, His smile sly And forged in some ancient, secret place— His black eyes exacting. He was a summer wind in autumn, Circling the stillborn house of her soul, Prying and piercing Until she reached weeping-blind For the promise of his unknown. Stark and hungry for essentials, Seeking bone and sinew Under layers of wool and homespun chatter, He shattered her at Trickster's Hallows And left, The wild poison of his thaw An aching kiss upon her lips, His touch Searing. He was the invited stranger, The masked reveller of the street. And she? She was the Great Fool's common ground; She was Greatkin Rimble's He.
—Kelandris of Suxonli circa Jinnaeon The Panthe'kinarok Prologue In truth, there was no eldest or youngest among the Greatkin for they had all emerged from the Presence at the same moment. However, they were a playful family who loved games of pretend almost as much as they loved to create worlds, each of the twenty-seven Greatkin adopting and discarding an endless array of shifting physical forms with exuberant abandon. In time, the Greatkin became such skillful masters of disguise that they confused even themselves. One day, in a fit of pique, Sathmadd, the Greatkin of Organization, Mathematics, and Red-Tape protested vigorously. Her exasperated outburst earned her a moment of unprecedented silence—which she promptly filled with her own opinion. Wagging a finger at her boisterous brothers and sisters, this tidy-minded Greatkin proposed that each of them chose a favorite persona, a single Primordial Face that would be immediately recognizable to each other and to all the peoples of their worlds. «There now,» finished Sathmadd, folding her old hands primly in her lap. «Isn't that a lovely idea?» «Nope,» retorted the youngest and most wily Greatkin of them all. Sathmadd peered at him over her bifocals. «What do you mean nope!» «Just nope,» he replied, sticking his chin in the air. The name of this Greatkin was Rimble. Called Trickster by his family, this little maverick was the Greatkin of Deviance, the Unexpected, and the Impossible. Currently, Rimble appeared as a cross between a French fop, a griot, and an urban bagman. Rimble was also uncommonly short. And glib of tongue. Sathmadd gave her little brother a wary look. «Would you to explain yourself?» «Oh, Maddi,» cried another Greatkin with alarm, «don't give Trickster a lead-in like that! He'll have us here all day!» The speaker's name was Jinndaven. He was the Greatkin of Imagination. Rimble smiled serenely at Jinndaven and got to his feet. «On the contrary, dear brother. What I have to say is brief.» He grinned as Jinndaven stared at him in surprise. «Just keeping you on your jingle-toes,» replied Trickster nodding at the silver, upturned slippers worn by the Greatkin of Imagination; they were rimmed with tiny, tinkling bells. «No point in doing the Expected,» Rimble added with a sly wink. «Now where was I? Oh, yes—Sathmadd's proposal.» Rimble eyed his older, gray-haired sister with weary patience. «Maddi, dearest—» he began. «Uh-oh,» she grumbled. Rimble batted his' long eyelashes at her. «Maddi, dearest—a single persona is a Boring Idea. Think of what the mortals will do with it.» Sathmadd looked unconvinced. Rimble paced. Then he stopped abruptly and said, «Mortals enjoy mental boxes more than you do, Maddi. They delight in trying to explain us away. Give them the idea that they can recognize us by one Primordial Face, and you'll have them calling us things like Muses, Archetypes, and—» «Goddesses,» said Sathmadd dreamily. Rimble hesitated, stroking his black goatee. «Well, there is that.» Trickster considered the matter from this angle and said, «All right, Maddi. I accept your proposal. But only on one condition.» «What is it?» asked Sathmadd suspiciously. Trickster grinned. «That you let me make one teensy, weensy, Improoo vement—» «Oh, no you don't!» snapped Jinndaven. A chorus of protests from the rest of the family backed up Jinndaven. As far as the Greatkin were concerned, Trickster's improvements were a euphemism for nothing more than thinly disguised Divine Meddling. And everyone, Jinndaven included, had been turned inside-out by one of Rimble's famous remedies at some time or other. Not that the effects of these remedies, these Improoovements, were necessarily bad—at least, not in the long run. They were, however, always extreme; even the most innocuous appearing ones could turn out to be shake-you-to-the-foundation radicalizing. And everyone knew it. Adoring all the consternation he was causing, Rimble circled his seated family, his footsteps echoing throughout the great hall of Eranossa, the home of the Greatkin. Most of the twenty-seven Greatkin lived at Eranossa all the time. The exceptions to this were the members of that portion of the Presence called The Fertile Dark, or Neath. Rimble himself, being a most subtle and shadowy fellow, hailed from this Divine Down-Under. And it was Rimble's great pleasure to make the shining denizens of Eranossa nervous whenever possible. Like now. Doing a sauntering little jig in
his yellow boots, Rimble walked over to the Greatkin of Imagination and, smiling broadly, said, «I'm only suggesting a small Improoovement, dear brother. So relax.» Jinndaven rolled his eyes. «Only you could make the word 'relax' sound alarming.» «Naturally,» replied Rimble, giving his family a small bow. «As always, I'm at your service. And at yours,» he added to the enormous hearth at the end of the great hall. The flames leapt high and crackled loudly. Trickster grinned, turning back to his brothers and sisters, his pied eyes—one black, one yellow—glittering. «You see,» he said slyly, «even Trickster has an ancient loyalty to the hearth.» No one cared to debate this; the hearth at the end of the great hall was intelligent. It was also a direct manifestation of the Presence, the Great Being who had given birth to them all. And according to Themyth, the Greatkin who tended the hearth, Trickster had as much right to serve the Presence as the rest of them. Galling, but true. Jinndaven pursed his lips. «All right, Rimble. Let's hear this small improvement.» Arguing eloquently, Trickster made his point. He explained that as he was the Patron of all Exceptions, it was his right—indeed his very nature—to gleefully disregard this Single Face Thing. Furthermore, since he was the literal embodiment of Divine Shiftiness, the rest of the family couldn't expect to box him in. In fact, they simply had to let him get on with his work in the known and unknown universes—namely that of keeping creation moving. After all, he was change personified. Sathmadd, who also happened to be the Patron of Logic, winced. She saw where Trickster was leading the family. She saw it all too clearly. Sathmadd slumped in her chair and put her gray head in her hands. Jinndaven turned to the youthful, lovely Greatkin seated to his right. Her name was Phebene and she was the Patron of Great Loves and Tender Trysts. «I don't know, Phebes,» Jinndaven muttered. «I don't like it when Maddi gets worried. Means Trickster is up to something.» «But, of course,» replied Phebene, her voice sweet and musical. She wore a gown of gossamer, rainbow hues and a garland of wild, green roses on her head. «He's always up to something,» she added with undisguised affection for pied-eyed Trickster. Jinndaven rolled his eyes. «You just like him for the weird sex.» Phebene grinned demurely. «Deviance can be fun,» she whispered in his ear. «You should try it sometime.» The Greatkin of Imagination grunted. «Who do you think Trickster gets his ideas from?» he scolded. «Then hush, dearest bother, and let's see what Trickster had in mind.» Jinndaven crossed his arms over his chest and turned his scowling attention back to Rimble. «As I was saying,» continued the little Greatkin. «If you should find yourselves boxed in someday—stuck with only one identity as it were—then I suggest you provide yourselves with a way out of this difficulty. Me. Some body has to embody the Primordial Multiple Personality. For Presence sake,» he added coquettishly. Then looking insufferably pleased with himself, Trickster added, «Oh come on, you guys—you've got to admit, I'm a great loophole. And Presence knows,» he said pointedly to the Greatkin of Red-Tape, «every system needs a loophole.» Sathmadd looked dubious. «And how do you propose to do this?» Rimble grinned broadly and played his trump. «By retaining my changeable form, of course. By being the exception to the rule,» he added while doing a small contrariwise turn. «By creating the First Loophole in the First System!» Then he began laughing uproariously. «Hoo-hoo!» he chortled. «Gotcha!» There was a stunned silence. Rimble's logic was brilliant. The Greatkin groaned, swore, and conceded. In this way did Greatkin Rimble retain his changeable guise (and create the First Loophole in the First System). From that day forth, no one—neither Greatkin nor mortal alike—could ever predict Trickster's next form. He might appear as a crooked stile, a dance of autumn leaves, or the sensual smile on a stranger's face across the room. Trickster could be anything and anywhere at anytime. Take this morning for instance: this morning Greatkin Rimble was busy impersonating a small rock on the side of the mountain path that led to their ancestral home, Eranossa. Rimble literally sat in plain view, but everyone at Eranossa was so accustomed to Trickster's subtlety that no one could find him when it came time to call everyone for the great potluck feast of the Greatkin, the Panthe'kinarok. Themyth, the Greatkin of Civilization and the Greatkin who presided at the Panthe'kinarok, sent Jinndaven after Rimble. She reasoned that only the Greatkin of Imagination would come up with the creativity to locate the little rogue. And she was right.
After an hour's fruitless search for Trickster, it finally occurred to Jinndaven to try the obvious. So he looked right in front of his nose. Not ten feet from him sat Rimble. «There you are!» cried the Greatkin of Imagination in an exasperated, out-of-breath voice. Dressed formally for the upcoming Panthe'kinarok dinner, Jinndaven wore a filmy robe of lavenders riddled with small round mirrors. The bells on the tips of his silver slippers jingled as he trudged through the fresh fall of snow on the mountain's trail. As Rimble did not appear to have heard him, Jinndaven knelt beside the small, asymmetrical rock and whispered, «I see you.» Rimble immediately changed into two-legged form. Like Jinndaven, Trickster wore his best clothes for the great meet of his ragtag family, that once-an-age council they called the Panthe'kinarok. However, Trickster's version of Best Clothes was a little different from Jinndaven's—or that of anyone else in the family. To begin with, nothing matched. Furthermore, each article of clothing on Trickster's person hailed from cultures representing every corner of the known universes. The effect was Positively Ubiquitous—and just slightly unnerving. Naturally, thought Jinndaven as he eyed his bagman brother with a patient expression. He sighed, wiping the sweat of the mountain climb off his brow with a silk handkerchief, thinking that sometimes even the Greatkin of Imagination had trouble keeping up with Trickster. Jinndaven studied the lower half of Rimble's harlequin costume then pulled back warily. «What's that big bulge under your—» «Shhh!» said Rimble, waving Jinndaven silent with a sharp gesture of his small hand. Everything on Rimble was small— except that bulge, thought Jinndaven. Rimble now pointed to a thick tangle of black briars growing a few feet off the snowy mountain trail. Jinndaven stared at the dark briars in silence, wondering what Trickster was seeing that he wasn't. Jinndaven cleared his throat uneasily. «Uh, what exactly are we doing?» Trickster grinned. «We're considering ecstasy.» «We're considering what?» Jinndaven asked, staring even harder at the thorny labyrinth of brambles in front of him. «Ecstasy,» repeated Trickster. «Only I'm renaming it Contrarywise—that's with a 'y' not an 'i.' One of my Improoovements, you know.» Jinndaven looked unimpressed. «Changing the spelling of a word hardly merits the term 'improvement,' Rimble. I mean, how strictly small-time.» «Ha,» replied Trickster with a meaningful shrug. «That's all you know, big brother. That's all you know.» Jinndaven, who was generally fond of Rimble for the most part, gave his sibling a withering smile. Rimble could be so arrogant at times. «I suppose you plan to explain the meaning behind your cryptic remarks?» said Jinndaven. «In due time,» replied Trickster. Jinndaven's eyes narrowed. «Not even a hint?» Trickster pursed his lips. «All right, a hint. Contrariwise with an 'i' is a direction, is it not? The opposite way of things, yes?» «Yes,» agreed Jinndaven. «Utterly contrary.» «Well,» said Trickster rubbing his hands with glee, «Contrarywise with a 'y' is a direction, too. Transposably speaking, of course.» There was a short pause. «That's it!» asked Jinndaven with irritation. «That's the hint?» Rimble rolled his pied eyes. «You're not trying.» «That's because I'm hungry,» said Jinndaven starting to get to his feet. «Which is what I came to tell you: Dinner's almost on.» Rimble grabbed Jinndaven's arm and pulled him back to his previous squatting posture in the snow. «Okay,» said Trickster. «I'll give you a bigger hint.» «Oh, Rimble—I'm hungry!» «Yeah,» snapped Trickster, «and you don't even know what for!» «What?» Trickster let go of Jinndaven's arm and folded his hands primly in his lap, his nose in the air. «Tell the others I'll be along.» Jinndaven eyed him warily. «When?» «When I finish completing the greatest experiment of all time.» Jinndaven bit his lower lip, his curiosity aroused. «Surely you're exaggerating.» «Nope,» said Trickster and went back to wa
tching the tangle of black briars. «But what do you care? You're hungry,» he said in perfect whining mimicry of the Greatkin of Imagination. Jinndaven swore under his breath. His curiosity had just gained on his hunger. And Rimble knows it, too, Jinndaven thought sourly. Calling on the Presence to protect him from Rimble's meddling—a prayer that had yet to be successful—Jinndaven took a deep breath and said, «All right—I'll play. What's the difference between contrariwise with an 'i' and contrarywise with a 'y'?» Trickster turned to look at him, his smile broad. «That's my boy,» he said nodding enthusiastically. «The difference is a teensy, weensy psychic shift. Which translates into Reality as a genetic transpositional element.» There was dead silence. And shock. Jinndaven stiffened so sharply that he fell over in the snow. He scrambled to his knees, took Rimble by the shoulders and shook him. «A mutation on the eve of the Panthe'kinarok?» he cried. «Have you forgotten the mortals? Have you?» Trickster extricated himself from Jinndaven's strong grasp gingerly. «I haven't forgotten anything,» he retorted. «Least of all the mortals. In fact, it's them I'm thinking about.» He grinned. «I've finally found a way to motivate their 'selfish DNA.' We're talking Fundamental Change. Big Time. Very big time.» Rimble shrugged. «One or two more psychic adjustments here, and my latest Improoovement will be ready to fly.» Jinndaven frowned, then seeing the look of absolute mischief in Trickster's pied eyes, Jinndaven paled. «What kind of adjustments, Rimble?» «Well, I just need a little help—» «What kind of help?» asked Jinndaven, wishing fervently that Themyth had sent someone else to find Greatkin Rimble. Trickster winked at him; then before Jinndaven could bolt, Trickster began humming an entrancing little tune, purposefully punctuating it with explosive laughter and drunken smiles. Jinndaven's breathing turned shallow. He made a hasty ball of his lavender handkerchief and began dabbing frantically at his brow and neck. He tried to get to his feet but was swiftly prevented from doing so by Greatkin Rimble. Grabbing Jinndaven's arm with his strong, claw-like grip, Trickster grinned seductively at the Greatkin of Imagination. Then Trickster farted. The sound of it was so loud that the hapless Jinndaven lost his balance and fell backwards into a snowdrift. This sent Trickster into hyena-like giggles. Then, still sitting cross-legged, Greatkin Rimble began to rock from side to side singing the following verse in an unexpectedly pure tenor, the quality of his voice as sweet and piercing as that of a young boy: Will you turn the inside inside-out, And be sanely mad with me? Will you master the steps of my turnabout, And come to my ecstasy? When he finished, Trickster met Jinndaven's eyes briefly, his expression suddenly wistful. «It's a reel,» he said, his voice full of yearning. Jinndaven, who was used to Trickster's quick changes of emotion, (and terrible puns), replied drily, «A real what?» Trickster instantly shrieked with laughter, threw open his harlequin greatcoat, and exposed a gilded penis sheath two feet long. Pretending to masturbate, Trickster moaned and said, «It's a real hard! Care to come? No? But why not? My ecstasy is sobering.» Jinndaven turned scarlet. Well aware that any portion of Trickster's anatomy was subject to change without notice, he stared bug-eyed at the length of Trickster's penis sheath. «I hope you don't intend that thing for me!» Trickster sniffed haughtily, and covered the gilded penis sheath with the black and yellow front of his greatcoat. «Don't be absurd, Jinn. You've neither the courage or capacity.» Jinndaven scowled, his pride stung by his brother's waspish tone. Still, he had to be careful how he responded to this jab of Rimble's. He didn't want to find himself in bed with Trickster. At least not right before the Panthe'kinarok. It would cause talk and there were the mortals to think about. Jinndaven bit his lower lip and shook his head. Tonight of all nights—on the evening of the Panthe'kinarok, he thought raggedly—when the Presence opened the Everywhen, and all things that the Greatkin did and thought translated into Reality! Jinndaven swore. Leave it to Rimble to speak of transposition and «selfish DNA» at such a time. Trickster, who was watching Jinndaven closely, whispered, «Change can be inconvenient.» Jinndaven snorted. «Inconvenient or no, I'd like to point out that my 'courage and capacity» are both substantial. For whatever you have in mind. I am the Greatkin of Imagination,» he added with bruised dignity. Trickster smiled. «I'm sorry, dear fellow,» he said patting the bulge under his coat, «but this insertion is not for you.» Jinndaven peered at Rimble's black-bearded face, trying to read the truth or falsehood in Rimble's pied eyes. «So, I'm not the dupe? I'm not the help you need?» Trickster chuckled. «You sound almost disappointed.» A chill slipped up Jinndaven's spine. «And you're hedging—» Before Jinndaven could press Rimble further for an answer, Trickster snapped his attention back to the tangle of dark briars before them. Pointing excitedly, Greatkin Rimble cried, «At last!» Jinndaven looked past Rimble's small hand, his eyes widening with wonder. Rimble's briar patch was suffused with a soft, blue-white light. As the light intensified, the briars turned a blood-brown and gave way, their thorny mesh slowly pulling back to reveal a delicate, crystal-stemmed flower, its white petals still shut. Jinndaven's jaw dropped in astonishment. «Was this one of my ideas? I don't seem to remember creating any flowers with crystal stems—» «Will you lower your voice?» hissed Trickster. Then he added proudly, «This is the Wild Kelandris. Also known as the Winterbloom. It's a weed. And it can grow in the worst of conditions. It can even bloom in the dead of winter. Hence the name, you see.» «Yes,» whispered Jinndaven. «But who's idea was it?» Trickster grinned. «It's an Improoovement—on one of yours. A rose, I think you called it?» Jinndaven's eyes blazed with indignation. «Whatever happened to creatorly consideration?» he muttered under his breath to the twilight and snow and winter wind rustling in the pine trees above him. Then he turned to Trickster, but before the Greatkin of Imagination could tell his little brother what he thought of his meddling, the Wild Kelandris began to emit a powerful pulsing red light. Startled into silence, Jinndaven stared at Rimble's improvement with grudging awe. The crystal stem of the delicate flower filled slowly with crimson liquid. It seemed to be boiling. Jinndaven wondered if the heat or pressure building inside the stem would shatter its crystalline structure. As the molten liquid continued to bubble, a light snow fell softly on the unopened bud. When the large flakes touched the white petals of the Winter-bloom, they melted. «They look like tears,» mumbled Jinndaven. Trickster rolled his eyes. «Sentimental dope. You've been hanging out with Phebene too much.» Jinndaven shrugged. He couldn't help it if the Greatkin of Great Loves and Tender Trysts was his favorite sibling. He liked being around her influence. Phebene made him feel. Jinndaven slid his hand over his heart. He frowned. «Seems you're making me feel, too, Rimble. Very strange, in fact.» Trickster beamed. «I always feel strange.» «No, I mean it. I feel very strange.» «Is that bad?» Jinndaven swallowed, starting to sweat again. «Well, I don't know exactly. I feel—uh—pierced.» He winced, pressing against his heart with his hands. «Pierced,» he repeated in a whisper. Rimble pursed his lips, looking very much like a scientist examining his laboratory results. He reached for Jinndaven's handsome face, took it in his small hands and peered intently into Jinndaven's eyes. «Anything else? Any other sensations?» Jinndaven nodded slowly. «It's almost sexual,» he added, glancing nervously at the two-foot bulge under Rimble's greatcoat. «But it's inside, Organic-like—more fundamental somehow. Inside inside. And intelligent.» «Presence directed?» asked Trickster. «Yes. Very—uh—natural. Once you get the rhythm of it. Of the pulse, I mean.» «Ah,» said Trickster, and smiled. Then he went back to watching the Wild Kelandris. Jinndaven did so as well, his body straining against the shock of the New coursing through his system. When he could match the greater rhythm of Rimble's improvement, he felt light-headed and free-wheeling. Almost weightless, he thought. Jinndaven grinned unexpectedly. Won't Mattermat be sore when he finds out about this, he thought drunkenly. Mattermat, who was the Greatkin of Inertia and All Things Made Physical, generally scoffed at anything that guaranteed escape from gravity. Jinndaven giggled, his gaze on the flower intensifying. The crimson liquid inside the Wild K
elandris darkened and thickened. The force of the pressure against the unopened bud of the white flower was so extreme now that Jinndaven gasped against the answering resonance inside his own body. Individual rhythm strained to encompass the universal. Jinndaven took an uncomfortable breath, wishing the Wild Kelandris would hurry up and bloom. He winced. He was beginning to feel disturbed in some way. Deeply disturbed. Maybe even a little crazy. «Rimble?» he said hoarsely.
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