Contrarywise

by Zohra Greenhalgh

  —not to dance for Greatkin Rimble. Sixteen-year-old Kelandris stared at the blood on her hands. «The blood has come on Trickster's Eve,» she whispered softly. «If I dance, I don't know what will happen. Something bad, say the Elders. But I am Rimble's chosen consort. And he is the Greatkin of Deviance. So, I must answer his call. I must be worthy of being his Revel Queen. I must not be afraid of the unexpected. Or the impossible. I must be Trickster's he,» she whispered, her green eyes frightened. «But I don't know what that is. I don't know what that means.» Kelandris swallowed. «Laws are made to help, not hinder. There must be a reason why the Elders say: No Revel Queen shall turn for Trickster on the night of her first blood.» Yafatah frowned. «But this isna' my first blood. It do be me third.» Yafatah looked at the Jinnjirri mist as it swirled around her thighs. «And Speakinghast be too far away. I canna go there alone. I should stay with me Ma—» Crazy Kel blinked. «Stay with my mother?» She laughed bitterly. «Stay with the one who would not speak a single word in my defense at the Ritual of Akindo?» Crazy Kel's expression changed from perplexity to contempt. «Coward,» she hissed at the voice in the mist. «You're not worthy to turn for Greatkin Rimble. Only women of courage are worthy. Only women of spirit. And such women do not stay home with their mothers.» «I have spirit,» said Yafatah indignantly. «It be just that I love me Ma. And I be all she has.» «Excuses,» muttered Kelandris. «Break the Blood Day Rule. It's the right of the Trickster's he!» «But I'm the Crossroads Child,» cried Yafatah. «I'm not the—» Fasilla glanced sharply at her daughter. «Doon't forget yourself, Ya! This be shadows, Ya. This be not real. And it will pass, child. Let it go. Let it pass over you. Don't get caught—» Yafatah clawed the air with her fingers. Six hundred feet away, Crazy Kel clawed the air with her fingers. The identities of the two Tammirring merged, their psyches tangling. Crazy Kel sat up abruptly, her mind clear for the first time in sixteen years. Yafatah stared wide-eyed at her mother. Then she announced, «I draw the Jinn-mist round about! That's my way to keep Trickster out!» Before Fasilla could wonder about her daughter's sudden drop of accent, Yafatah added in yet another voice, «Shifttime! Jinnaeon! End of the world! Big changes! Big doings!» Yafatah broke into wild peals of laughter. Fasilla forced the roan mares into a trot. They splashed through the shallow river and up the bank into Jinnjirri. Fasilla urged the horses into a canter, glancing at her Tammirring child whenever she could afford to take her eyes off the dirt road. Yafatah was sitting on the edge of the seat, kicking the air with her feet like a small child. Yafatah caught her mother's worried eye and winked. Fasilla said nothing, driving the mares northeast toward the house of the Jinnjirri healer. Without realizing that she was doing so, Fasilla now drove her daughter to the edge of sanity as well. This was a strange borderland of the psyche. Trickster territory. Unpredictable and fertile. Yafatah shivered as the Jinnjirri landdraw pried away her Tammirring defenses and set her adrift in space and time. Single identity ceased to exist for Yafatah. Guideless, she felt as if she were drowning. Yafatah's Trickster smile suddenly faded. «Help,» she whispered. «Help—» Kelandris stood up slowly, feeling herself and yet not herself. She was not aware of Yafatah or Yafatah's distress directly. However, she did notice a queer sensation of having been psychically buttressed in some unexpected fashion. She tested the strength of it and found it worthy. She was just about to laugh for joy when she saw the flash of something black and yellow off to her left. Kelandris crossed her arms over her chest. She grunted under her veil. «Don't expect me to welcome you with open arms, Rimble,» she muttered at the little four-feet-seven Greatkin peeking at her from behind a nearby tree. «You're a stinking sonofabitch.» «Charming sentiments,» he retorted. «And after all this time.» Kelandris scowled. «I should never have danced for you.»

  «But you did it ever so well,» replied Trickster, his pied eyes glittering in the light of the early morning sun. «And I was so proud.» «You made me crazy,» said Kelandris, looking around for a sizable stick or a good throwing stone. Trickster watched her warily. «Don't blame me for what Suxonli did to you, kiddo.» «You abandoned me,» she said calmly, grabbing a small boulder. She towered over Trickster by nearly two feet. «When I needed you most, too.» Still calm, she added, «You're not a Face of the Presence. You're Its ass!» Kelandris lobbed the boulder at him. Her aim was so true that in order to get out of the way of it, Rimble had to dematerialize. He rematerialized a few seconds later in the upper branches of a tree directly above Kelandris. Rimble looked down at her and said, «Well, we could do this all day. Or you could do something really useful—like make up for lost time.» «Me!» shouted Kelandris, her green eyes blazing under her veil. She grabbed the tree by its trunk and shook it. The trunk was narrow and supple, and she shook it with such vigor that she nearly managed to unseat Trickster. He swore, scrambling for a better perch. «Mortals,» he muttered under his breath. Then, looking down at Kelandris again, he said, «So?» «So, I hate you,» replied Kelandris, suddenly realizing that the psychic buttressing she felt was probably due to some trick of Rimble's. That meant it wouldn't last. That meant she would be crazy again. Anguished, Kel slammed the tree with her fist. Swearing at Rimble, she ran quickly away, her veil fluttering behind her. As she turned the corner, Trickster intercepted her. He jumped down from an outcrop of rock and prevented her passage. «Get out of my way!» she cried. «Kelanoorhin,» said Rimble softly. This was Kel's name in Oldspeech, the language of the Greatkin. Rimble had taught Kel its meaning as a child: «she who blooms in the wild light.» Kelandris had not heard the word spoken for sixteen years. Trickster had always used it as an endearment. The woman in black hesitated, all her rage losing its direction. She cleared her throat, reaching under her veil and savagely scratching the bloody scab on her forehead. «What do you want?» she asked hoarsely. «I want you to go to Speakinghast.» Kelandris snorted. «I'm Tammirring, Rimble. We don't do well in cities.» «I have a protected place for you. A safe house.» She shook her head, still refusing. Trickster hadn't expected it to be easy to convince Kelandris to travel to Speakinghast. He decided to try his next approach: compassion and curiosity. If that didn't work, he'd go for revenge. That one was a sure motivator in Kel's case, and Rimble wished to avoid using it if possible. For one thing, Zendrak would be Kel's target. And Zendrak just wouldn't understand or appreciate it. Understandable, thought Trickster. No one likes being the target for revenge. Especially if you're not the party who's to blame for the problem in the first place. And Zendrak was utterly innocent regarding Kelandris of Suxonli. Yonneth? And Elder-woman Hennin? Well, that was a different matter altogether. Trickster would get to them in due time. The little Greatkin grinned. In due time. Trickster picked up a few rocks and started juggling them effortlessly. «All sorts of legacies are passed from one generation to another,» he said conversationally. «Why not a killing spiritual loneliness?» «What do you mean?» she asked uneasily. «Oh, you know. That bottomless pit you wake up with every morning? Call it soul ache.» Rimble changed the direction of his juggling. «It's a feeling of being hungry for something that has no name. Can make a person real desperate inside. They'll do almost anything not to feel soul ache. Even go crazy,» he added softly, his eyes meeting her hidden ones for a moment. Kelandris stiffened. «I don't know what you're talking about.» «Then listen,» said Rimble. At that very moment the stifled, terrified scream of a young girl travelled on the wind to meet them. Trickster grunted. «The future can scream, Kelandris. It's alive, you see. Just like that young girl. Fortunately for her, the child's mother is taking her to a healer. So that child's experience of soul ache will be short. Perhaps.» Kelandris said nothing for a moment. Then she asked. «You gave the Tammirring girl my madness?» she asked. «You wouldn't let me in the front door, Kelandris. So I got creative.» The woman in black swore loudly. «You can't give that girl my madness, Rimble! I'm accustomed to it. I know why it happened. She won't understand. Her body won't understand. It's not her burden to bear. It's mine.» Rimble laughed harshly. «Are you sa
ying you'll go to Speakinghast for Yafatah's sake? That's her name, by the way. Yafatah. Means: opener of the door. Nice, don't you think?» «What're you getting at, Rimble?» «Only this: compassion becomes you, Kelandris, but we both know why you're following that child. Why you want her psyche left intact.» «Why?» Kelandris snapped. Trickster smiled. «You suspect Yafatah knows things. Spiritual things. Sees things like you did once. Makes you itch, doesn't it? You wonder why you don't remember your dreams? Why you never see me anymore, hmmm? You're the shut door, kiddo. And Yafatah is your key.» Kelandris swallowed. «How long will Yafatah be mad?» «You mean, how long will you be sane? Depends on you. Depends on if you go to Speakinghast or not.» Kelandris swore angrily. «What do you want me to do in Speakinghast?» «Just turn.» «Like I did in Suxonli!» she exploded. Trickster sniffed haughtily. «There's no reason to get sore about it.» «You tried to kill me!» «Not me,» said Trickster, his pied eyes turning hard. Then he added, «Sometimes you have to lose something in order to find it, Kelandris. Sometimes, you have to turn the inside inside-out. And enter through the exit. Sometimes, you have to turn contrarywise, Kelandris. Because nothing else will do.» «But why me!» she cried furiously. «Because you're still my Revel Queen,» said Trickster with unexpected affection in his voice. «Because you alone have tasted the poison of my sting and survived. Because you alone bore the full brunt of my touch at the Ritual of Akindo but were cheated of my true ecstasy.» Kelandris frowned, feeling confused. «I thought you said you weren't responsible for the Ritual of Akindo.» «The Ritual of Akindo was a potential.» «Of what?» «Of cruelty.» There was a long pause. Kelandris shut her eyes. She felt exhausted. She felt unsure of what Trickster was telling her. But it had always been like that. Even as a child, Kelandris had never been certain when Trickster was telling her something straight out or when he was simply hinting. The Ritual of Akindo was still too painful in her mind for her to want to dwell on it. She hoped in her heart that Trickster was not responsible for it. After all, he was a Greatkin. He was a Face of the Presence. Kelandris stared down at the ground. If Trickster was behind the Ritual of Akindo, she thought miserably, then that would mean Elderwoman Hennin had been right about the bandy-legged little Greatkin all along. «There's nothing nice about a wasp,» she muttered. Trickster grunted. «Some wasps kill off certain kinds of parasites. The Univer'silsila wasp does that. Pretty generous, if you ask me. So—will you go?» Kelandris shook her head. «No,» she said firmly. «I won't.» Rimble stroked his black goatee. «Well, then you'll miss out.» Kelandris said nothing. She had no intention of falling for such an obvious ploy. Trickster was clearly wanting her to ask him to explain the meaning of his statement. Kelandris tapped her foot. «You're out of practice, Rimble.» Trickster shrugged. «I'd no idea we were having a contest here,» he said disdainfully. «I was just trying to be helpful. Save you some revenge time. But if you're not interested—» «Revenge against who?» Trickster began picking lint off his black and yellow greatcoat. «That fellow.» When Kelandris registered a blank, Trickster added, «Oh, you know the guy. Real tall with dark hair. Smells funny—» «Zendrak!» she said, her heart starting to pound, her face paling. «Was that his name?» asked Trickster idly. «Well, whatever. I just thought you'd like to tell him a thing or two. About that night. Uh—just before you danced for me?» «You mean when I—» «Yes, yes,» said Trickster hastily, appearing not to want to discuss Zendrak and Kel's love-making on the eve of Trickster's Hallows. «That night,» he repeated, and folded his hands primly in his lap. Kel's eyes narrowed under her veil. «Zendrak's in Speakinghast?» «That's what I said, didn't I?» Kelandris suddenly straightened. «Wait a minute, Rimble. You're acting like you don't know Zendrak. He said he was your emissary.» Trickster pursed his lips. «Well, well. Mortals will say the damnedest things.» Rimble climbed up on a rock. «Just goes to show you can't believe everything you hear, hmm? And things did go so badly after he touched you.» Kelandris said nothing. She felt unexpectedly disappointed about Zendrak. She could hardly remember the few hours that she and he had spent together—the impact of it had been shattered by the Ritual of Akindo. Still, she was sure she recalled something special about that time. Something wild. Something powerful. Maybe even something good. Kelandris stared at the fall of a crimson leaf as it drifted lazily to the ground. Whatever had happened between herself and the man called Zendrak—she was sure it would never happen again. She was a convicted murderess now. «And I'm Crazy Kel,» she whispered. «Yes,» said Trickster unexpectedly. Kelandris glowered at him. Trickster shrugged. «It's not my fault. And neither will it be my fault if you keep being crazy. I've given you your way out. Your loophole.» «Speakinghast?» «Take it or leave it.» Kelandris hesitated. Then without even a backward look, Kelandris of Suxonli turned northeast heading for the route that would take her around Jinnjirri and through the southernmost tip of Tammirring via the Eastern Feyborne Mountains. The trip would take her about two to three weeks depending on the weather in the mountains. By Trickster's estimation, Kelandris of Suxonli would arrive at the Kaleidicopia just in time for the «K's» annual Trickster's Hallows. By then, Kelandris would also be quite mad again. And Zendrak's problem. Trickster watched Kel disappear over the next rise. Doing a small pirouette, he rubbed his hands together and said, «Perfect!» As it turned out, there were at least two people who didn't agree with this evaluation of Rimble's. The first person was Zendrak; the second was the Patron of Great Loves and Tender Trysts, Greatkin Phebene—Rimble's sentimental, rose-garlanded sister. The Panthe'kinarok Interlogue Themyth, the Greatkin of Civilization and Ancient Hospitality, eyed the place cards on the enormous round table sitting in the feasting hall at Eranossa. Sathmadd, the Greatkin of Organization, had invented the idea of place cards only that morning. Themyth leaned forward, slipping her wrinkled hand between delicate china and glassware to fetch the card resting directly to the left of her own place setting. She lifted it up and read the beautifully lettered script. The card said: Trickster. Themyth grunted. Considering what Rimble had in mind for the mortals—a new game he called «topsy-turvy"—Themyth wondered if this was the best seating arrangement for her little brother. Perhaps he should be put between Love and Imagination, she thought, rearranging five cards deftly. Themyth surveyed the new combination. Sathmadd on Themyth's right, Phebene on Themyth's left, and Rimble sandwiched between Phebene and Jinndaven. Much better, she decided and took a plum from the table's silver cornucopia. «Ooh,» she grunted, rubbing the small of her back gingerly, a strand of gray hair falling into her ancient face. Themyth wished Rimble had been a little less acrobatic in his love-making. Still, she mused with a naughty, pleased smile, Trickster's improvement had been most generous in both its size and effect. Themyth chuckled, instantly losing fifteen years off her apparent age. Two feet had been quite substantial—in more ways than one. She nibbled the soft, sweet fruit in her old hand. Still grinning, Themyth rematerialized herself at her proper age. Regaining her stately composure, she unbuttoned the top of her fabulous, colorful coat of tales, feeling daring. And uncommonly randy. Called Eldest by the other Greatkin, Themyth's name meant «great story.» It was she who chronicled all the histories of mortals and immortals alike. Her personal symbol was the blazing cave-hearth, and it was around the flame that Themyth's «memories» were most often shared. Themyth's word was respected in all things. She alone held the honor of presiding over the great meet of her ragtag family, that once-an-age council they called the Panthe'kinarok—that Divine Potluck Feast wherein the fate of a world might be decided by the choosing of Bordeaux over Burgundy, and the outcome of a hundred-year war might be reached through someone spreading butter sloppily on a steaming dinner roll. Nothing was too small to «matter» in the Everywhen of the Presence. Occasionally, however, the themes for the Age to Come were set into motion during the hours before the Panthe'kinarok. Under these circumstances, Themyth might be required to give counsel without benefit of long deliberation or sprawling family caucus. This was just the sort of situatio
n that presented itself to Themyth now. «Theeeemth!» cried the Greatkin of Love, running hurriedly toward the crone. «Oh, thank the Presence I found you!» «What's wrong?» Phebene was about to answer Themyth when her eyes fell on the newly arranged place cards. «Well, will you look at that? Maybe nothing.» The Greatkin of Civilization smiled. Phebene straightened the garland of wild green roses on her head, saying, «See, I just talked to Sathmadd, and the old crab said she wouldn't put Trickster next to me. She didn't want to have to listen to 'the jokes' during dinner. 'The jokes,' « repeated the Greatkin of Love, rolling her eyes. «Maddi is such an eternal prude. I don't know how Rimble ever got her in bed last Panthe'kinarok.» «With difficulty,» replied Themyth. «Believe me.» Their conversation was interrupted by a sleepy looking Greatkin of Imagination. Jinndaven walked toward his sisters slowly, his filmy robe of lavenders and mauves trailing gently behind him. He yawned as he reached them. His Primordial Face looked a little crumpled. Phebene put her hands on her hips. «Where have you been!» she demanded. «I've been searching for you high and low! Sathmadd nearly caused a doomsday scenario,» Phebene said, nodding at the large table behind them. «What?» asked Jinndaven stifling a second yawn, «did she sit Trickster next to Mattermat and Troth?» Mattermat and Troth were the Greatkin of All Things Made Physical and Death, respectively. «Almost,» replied Phebene. «Next to Mattermat and Themyth.» Themyth snorted. «Troth looks nothing like me. My wrinkles are better.» «Interesting,» said Jinndaven trying to imagine Sathmadd's combination. «Well, it certainly wouldn't have been fun!» retorted Phebene. Themyth interrupted here. «It's all been taken care of, Jinn. Trickster will be sitting between Phebene and you.» All trace of Jinndaven's sleepiness vanished. «Me!» he cried, aghast. «That's a rotten idea. Stinks of Trickster, too. I object. Vigorously!» «Why?» asked Themyth. «I just spent the last two hours sleeping off Trickster's latest improvement. Experiment is more like it,» he added with contempt. «The little rug-rat turned me inside inside-out. And I will not spend an entire nine course dinner seated next to His Short and Mighty!» Phebene's reaction was unexpected; she dissolved in tears. Themyth and Jinndaven both stared at the little puddle on the floor that was now the Patron of Great Loves and Tender Trysts. Neither of the two Greatkin knew what to say. Finally Themyth cleared her throat and mumbled, «She's such a sentimental lass. Terribly romantic, you know.» «Yes,» said Jinndaven still looking at his liquified sister. He bent close to the puddle and whispered, «What if Maddi comes in this room, Phebes? Only Rimble has the right to change his Primor—» Jinndaven broke off unexpectedly, his expression alarmed. Trickster's shift was translating! To everyone! And everything! Themyth waited for him to explain. «He shifted me, Eldest. Rimble's got this crazy idea about transposing all Reality—us, too—into a higher pitch. Says it'll make us 'loose' for a while! Just look at Phebene!» Themyth grunted. Jinndaven was such an alarmist. The crone squatted stiffly beside Phebene. «Phebes, it doesn't matter how much Jinndaven protests about the seating arrangements. Trickster belongs between you and the Greatkin of Imagination for this Panthe'kinarok. And that's my final decision.» Phebene instantly rematerialized as her lovely, radiant self. Throwing her arms around Themyth, Phebene said, «Good. That way there's hope.» «Hope for what?» asked Jinndaven dubiously. «Us?» «No, you ten-foot narcissist. For those lovers. That's who I'm crying for. Kelandris and Zendrak.» «The names are familiar,» said Jinndaven. «Of course,» replied Phebene indignantly. «Don't you remember that love story I started to tell you last millennium? We left off when Zendrak—» Themyth interrupted here, her expression astounded and dismayed. «Those two are lovers?» «Were,» corrected Phebene. «But that's all going to change,» she added, rubbing her hands together with pleasure. «True love to the rescue.» Themyth stared at Phebene. «You mean you really don't know?» Phebene shrugged at Eldest, straightening her garland for the countless time. «Know what?» Jinndaven rolled his eyes. «Why are there chills running down my back? Why do I have a bad feeling about this?» The Greatkin of Civilization put her bony arm around the slender waist of the Greatkin of Love, and said, «Phebes, we need to talk.» Phebene narrowed her eyes. «Now, Eldest, you know how I am about unrequited love.» «Hates it,» said Jinndaven nodding. «It's more complicated than that—» began Themyth, scanning her long coat to see if she could find a tale to illustrate her point. Phebene pulled away from Eldest, putting her hands on her hips. «I want a happy ending!» «Would you settle for deviant?» asked Themyth, looking up. «I will not! These two are mine, Themyth! Not Rimble's! He better stay