Contrarywise

by Zohra Greenhalgh

  «Oh, it's all right. I kind of wish it were a little more private.» She shrugged. «But I've only been at the House three months. Maybe I'll get used to it. Having my personal life be of interest to all of you, I mean.» Mab smiled as diplomatically as she could. Barlimo chuckled. «What a nice way of putting it, Mab. Listen, girl, you have the right to tell anyone at anytime in that house to butt out. And in no uncertain terms, either. That's why all the bedrooms have locks on them—to insure that you can and will be left alone.» «Does it work?» asked Mab dubiously. «Telling people to butt out?» Barlimo said nothing for a few moments. «Well, okay—let's be honest. Locks on doors—or on hearts—only work minimally at a place like the Kaleidicopia. Don't get me wrong. No one will come bursting into your room without your permission. Despite outward appearances, we're a pretty civilized lot. However,» she continued, «in the long run, it's impossible to keep secrets when you're rubbing elbows with six to eight people on a daily basis. The Kaleidicopia is a kind of two-legged hothouse. Spend some time in the domed gardens on the third floor and you'll see what I mean. They're even warm in winter. Which is what we should be.» «Our tempers or our skins?» asked Mab wryly, recalling the argument Tree and Timmer had about Po's dishes this morning. Barlimo nodded. «Tempers will do for starters. Passionate feelings let us know we're alive,» said Barlimo. «Especially we Jinnjirri. And sometimes, Mab, the people who come to the 'K' can't feel anymore. Life's knocked them down too many times, or they got badly scarred once and they couldn't find the courage to try again.» Doogat's words at the previous night's house meeting echoed unexpectedly in Mab's mind. What had the Mayanabi said? Something like, «All that Trickster wants from you right now is that you try again.» Mab touched the strand of hair that Doogat had pulled out of her face. She stared at the playbill in her lap, thinking about what Barlimo had said about passion—that it was a good thing. A kind of thaw maybe. Mab pressed her lips together, wanting to go to the Jinnjirri cast party after all. She wanted to feel what she felt toward Cobeth—she wanted to feel it with all her heart and soul. Mab took a deep breath. What if her «passion» landed her in bed with him? She let the breath out slowly. «Then, so be it,» she whispered. Timmer returned to her seat at this point. The undaunted Dunnsung nudged Mab's arm. «So did you reconsider about the party?» To Timmer's surprise, Mab smiled at her. Out of Barlimo's hearing, Mab said, «I've decided I'd like to come.» The musician laughed, looking about herself at the Jinnjirri. «Oh believe me, Mab—we'd all like to do that!» Chapter Twenty-One Up in the box seats of the playhouse. Master Curator Sirrefene turned to Professor Rowenaster and asked, «So how's your survey course going? Have you flunked half the class?» «Not yet,» replied Rowenaster, his gray eyes twinkling. «But he will,» retorted Guildmaster Gadorian, pulling out a handful of theater nuts and offering some to Sirrefene and Rowenaster. Unlike his wife, Guildmaster Gadorian was a corpulent fellow of short stature and many chins. By contrast, Sirrefene was lithe and physically animated. Both of them wore white velvet tonight, the brightness of the color startling against their dark brown Saambolin skin. Both officials were in their mid-forties. Sirrefene shook her head at the peanuts. «I don't want to spoil my appetite, Gad. Remember, we've still got the opening night party to attend.» Gadorian shrugged, popping more nuts in his mouth. «Theater groups are notoriously impoverished. What food they'll have will be on loan.» He glanced over at the professor. «Are you going?» «I wasn't invited,» said Rowenaster, munching nuts. Sirrefene pulled her gold-rimmed glasses off her nose. «You weren't invited? After all you did for the Pricksters? Why you practically wrote the play!» Rowenaster pursed his lips. «Rumor has it that the original script suffered severe alterations in the past two weeks.» He patted the playbill in his old hand. «Nonetheless, I see I have been generously provided with a quarter page of acknowledgments.» He sounded skeptical. «They're probably meant to placate you,» muttered Sirrefene. «Then Cobeth's a bigger fool than I think he is, Sirrey. He lived with me for five years at the Kaleidicopia—he ought to know better.» «Thinks you're senile,» said Gadorian. «Most draws do when we Saams reach your age, Rowen.» «Too bad Cobeth never took my class,» said the professor cooly. Gadorian poured Rowen another handful of peanuts. «Speaking of the Kaleidicopia—I don't know why you do it, my friend. Surely with your salary you could afford to live alone.» Rowenaster met Gadorian's eyes evenly. «We've been through this many times, Gad. And as always, I say the following to you: I don't want to live alone; I like the diversity of draws at the 'K'; and I continually learn there—day and night.» Remembering his promise to Barlimo to get the Saambolin Housing Commission off her back, he said, «You should drop by sometime—and not in an official capacity. You might find that we aren't the rogue's gallery that you so fondly imagine us to be while you sit far above us in your ivied, administrative towers.» Sirrefene grinned. «Watch out, Gad—Rowen's up to something.» «I am indeed,» replied the professor. «And so are you, Gadorian. The answer to your unspoken question is: yes, I intend to keep living at 'that house' on Wise Whatsit Avenue. So you better rethink any Housing Commission coups that involve the 'K.' It could look very bad for you on the Hill, Gad.» He paused. «This being an election year and all.» «I see,» said the Guildmaster, his expression far from pleased. Rowenaster ignored Gadorian's bad humor, and turning to Sirrefene, he said, «Master Janusin's almost finished with his statue of Greatkin Rimble. You know,» he added, glancing in Gadorian's direction, «the one the Library Museum commissioned? Sirrey's new project, isn't it?» Gadorian scowled. «What're you getting at, professor?» «Me? I'm just making polite conversation,» he said, giving the Guildmaster a broad smile. Continuing to speak to Sirrefene now, he said, «For a while there, none of us at the house were sure if Jan would make the museum deadline. He's had some bad luck in love recently.» He winked at Gadorian. «And we all know what jolts of that nature can do to an artist at work. Of course, being evicted from one's own home would be even more traumatic than a lovers' quarrel. Might stop the creative process altogether. What do you think, Gad?» Gadorian said nothing for a few moments, his expression disgruntled. Finally, he muttered, «The Guild paid a hefty sum for that statue. Indeed, for the whole 'Panthe'kinarok Series.' « «Yes, it did,» agreed the professor. «And the studio in back of the 'K' is such a nice place to work.» There was a short, thoughtful silence between the three Saambolin. «Oh look, Gad,» said Sirrefene unexpectedly. «There go the house lights.» Outside in the street, bells rang the quarter hour; the show was fifteen minutes late starting. Gadorian rolled his eyes. «Jinnjirri,» he muttered. Below the box seats, the red velvet curtain of the stage moved sideways. A shrouded figure in a zigzag black and yellow cape and cowl stepped out, his yellow boots noiseless on the stage floor. The figure raised his arms. As the room quieted and oil lamps were extinguished, Cobeth addressed the audience, his voice calm and authoritative: «For all you good folk who're regular supporters of our playhouse, we have a surprise for you. This theater season, The Merry Pricksters are going to be doing something a little different. A little daring.» He paused dramatically. «We live in a time of alienation and spiritual decay. How many of you know all the names of the Greatkin? Until I started working on this play, I didn't.» Cobeth glanced in the direction of the box seats. «Not all of us are lucky enough to endure"—he mimed the buffoon—"I mean, take the good professor's survey course.» The room clapped its appreciation for Rowenaster. Cobeth chuckled. «After all—we shifty types can't always get into the celebrated University of this fair city.» The audience hissed and booed at the box seats above them. Master Curator Sirrefene turned to her husband, her voice terse and unamused, «You know who that was meant for, don't you?» «You and me, dearie. You and me.» Rowenaster said nothing, his expression strained. Cobeth continued his monologue. «Well, good friends—The Merry Pricksters are coming to your untutored rescue. As you know, this troupe has been famous in the past for its bawdy humor and gentle political satire—hence our name. We propose something a little
more radical now. We propose an out-and-out confrontation with the soul ache of our age. We call on the power of Greatkin Rimble to 'remedy' our situation.» The gels on the oil lamps in the theater changed from yellow to an eerie blue. Cobeth removed his cowl and cape, handing it to someone standing in the wings. Cobeth walked to center stage. He was wearing a full face mask of hand-woven, dyed materials. One side of the face was striped with diagonals of yellow and black. The other side was a caricature of a young female fool's face. It was studded with shining bits of black mirror. The rest of Cobeth's costume was a mismatched mix of yellow coattails, striped harlequin pants, and a leather dildo hanging over his own genitals. The dildo was a foot and a half in length and resembled a gorged wineskin more than a functional penis. Cobeth raised his arms, again—the gesture one of summoning and supplication. Then Cobeth spoke the following, his voice filling the playhouse with the power of the priest speaking directly to Goddess, God, and Trickster: Hail, O Thief, of the black-eyed night. Aid me now with slippery tongue To tell the tale sweetly and beguile them all, And hide the meaning in the rushes. Sting now, sting the despair! Bring the world's soul ache to air, And while away my mortal hours With the salt-humored hiss of your Art. Hero-heroine quicken once more, For civilization falters And markets her lifeblood on altars Of dead-ending devotions. Holy Heretic return now To speak your truth with a clean whistle And a wise-rhythmed breath. Come inspire me and say of sacred joy! Trickster true, many taled, and sane. Come love this telling to life. Greatkin Rimble of the Thousand Names: I will speak for you again. The reactions of the people who knew Cobeth well were predictably mixed. Down in the third row of the main house, Timmer reached over Mab to tug Barlimo's magenta sleeve again. «Rowen wasn't kidding when he said this play was about religion. And where did Cobeth ever learn to write like that?» Timmer sounded impressed. Mab smiled triumphantly to herself—one for you. Cobeth, she thought. Barlimo stroked her chin. «It's not his,» said Barlimo. «What?» asked Timmer and Mab together. The architect shrugged. «I've no proof. But I'll wager you both a lot of silivrain that that poem was written by someone else.» Mab rolled her eyes. Up in the box seats, Sirrefene regarded Rowenaster with surprise. «What do you mean, you don't think The Merry Pricksters wrote that invocation? If they didn't write it. and you didn't write it—who did?» Rowenaster steepled his fingers. «Don't know, Sirrey. But I'd like to meet him. Or her.» Chapter Twenty-Two Kelandris can't possibly be my sister,» said Zendrak cautiously, his black eyes never leaving the face of the Greatkin sitting in front of him. He met Phebene's smile with suspicion, still certain that the Greatkin replenishing his empty glass of black currant wine was not the Patron of Great Loves and Tender Trysts, but was actually Trickster himself beautifully disguised as rainbow-robed Phebene. «To begin with, Rimble—the arithmetic is wrong Need I remind you? I'm five hundred and twenty-seven years old. Kelandris of Suxonli is a mere thirty-three.» Greatkin Phebene laughed merrily. «You're not using your imagination, Zendrak. Themyth and Rimble made love in the Everywhen. Thus, it was a simple 'matter' for them to deposit you and Kelandris in different times and draws. Perhaps the drink has gone to your head, my friend.» Zendrak frowned, looking at the crystal glass he held in his hand. Come to think of it—he was feeling rather intoxicated. Unduly so for a Mayanabi Nomad, too. Zendrak held the glass up to the candlelight, trying to see the color of the wine. The sun had long since gone down, and although Zendrak had the nagging sense that he was supposed to be somewhere other than where he now was, he made no move to leave. Zendrak sniffed the contents of his glass. «What have you done to me, Rimble?» Phebene smiled, ignoring his question. She offered Trickster's Emissary a slice of chocolate cake from the picnic hamper. The piece was large and covered with a thick fudge-like frosting. It was a chocolate lover's delight. Zendrak shook his head, pushing the cake away. «I don't like sweets,» he mumbled, trying to get to his feet. Too drunk to stand, Zendrak quickly sat down again, holding his head in his hands. He felt giddy and disoriented. He peered at the night. What time was it? Zendrak blinked. Meeting Phebene's sympathetic gaze, he muttered, «What were we just talking about?» «Your dislike of sweets,» replied Phebene. «Which must change.» «It must?» «Trickster's orders,» she lied. «We think your disposition needs a little impr oooving, shall we say?» Phebene winked at Zendrak and offered him the cake again. Zendrak took the plate from her hand gingerly. He assumed that when Rimble said «we» he was referring to his Multiple Primordial Face. It never occurred to him that Greatkin Phebene might be the genuine article, or that she might be one of a conspiracy of three—herself, Jinndaven, and Themyth. Had Zendrak known, he would've refused to participate. As much as he complained about Rimble, Zendrak still honored the foppish little Greatkin—and, in fact, loved him. «Take this cake, for example,» continued Phebene. «It was just an ordinary chocolate confection until your good buddy, Rimble, spit cherries into the batter. Complete with saliva. Right in front of Jinndaven, too.» Zendrak winced. «And I thought Podiddley was disgusting.» Phebene nibbled on the piece of cake on her plate. «On the contrary. I think it was an improvement.» She sighed. «Jinndaven, poor dear, has yet to be convinced of this. You see the cake was his dessert contribution to the Panthe'kinarok feast. He's calling it 'Utter Chocolate Decadence.'» She motioned for Zendrak to try a bite himself. Thinking that Rimble was ordering him to do so, he complied. To Zendrak's surprise, the cake was delicious. Particularly the frosting. He took another bite, smiling at Phebene. Phebene nodded. «It's a certain ecstasy, you see,» she said softly. «A certain ecstasy?» Phebene reached over and touched his forehead. Zendrak yawned sleepily. Phebene blew on his face, saying, «Love always is.» Zendrak blinked. «What did you say?» Phebene cleared a place for Zendrak to lie down. Pulling a comforter out of her seemingly bottomless picnic basket, she draped it over Zendrak's broad shoulders. It was made of gossamer rainbows. As Zendrak closed his eyes, Phebene whiskered, «A friendly piece of advice. Beware the boy who expects his just desserts. He's ravenous, Zendrak.» Zendrak nodded, drifting into a sweet sleep. Meanwhile, Cobeth's play in Speakinghast ended with a triumphant curtain call. Rimble's play, however, had barely begun. And one of his leading Nine had just missed his cue… Chapter Twenty-Three The entire theater was empty now save for one seat up in the balcony. Professor Rowenaster sat in silence, his fingers steepled, his gaze distant. Only moments before, he had sent Gadorian and Sirrefne off to find a late night snack without him. Cobeth's play had so enraged both Saambolin officials that neither Sirrefene nor Gadorian had felt like attending the opening night cast party of Rimble's Remedy. Cobeth had continued to make indirect slurs against the Saambolin Guild throughout the play, and the predominantly Jinnjirri audience had cheered him on. Rowenaster grunted; he hoped Cobeth's political attacks would not jeopardize the Kaleidicopia. It would be just like the scrawny sculptor-turned-actor to try to make trouble for the Kaleidicopia by irritating Gadorian. A kind of parting shot at Janusin. Cobeth was fully cognizant of the artistic deadline Janusin faced with the Great Library Museum; Janusin had used Cobeth's face as his model for the sculpture of Greatkin Rimble. «And a very great pity that is,» remarked the professor, preparing in his mind what he intended to say to Cobeth about the play and about the tiny postscript on the playbill's last page. Rowenaster reread the words: « Rimble's Remedy is the first in a new collection of plays written by Cobeth of Shift Shallows entitled The Panthe'kinarok Series.» Rowenaster shook his head, his contempt for Cobeth bristling anew. It was hard to believe that even Cobeth could sink so low as to steal the name of Janusin's commissioned work for Master Curator Sirrefene. Rowenaster got slowly to his feet, muttering, «What are you playing at, Cobeth?» Staring at the empty stage below him, the professor decided to go find out. As Rowenaster descended the stairs to the main seating area of the playhouse, he swore at Cobeth softly for acknowledging him as the «guiding inspiration» for the play. Four of Rowenaster's academic colleagues—all of them Jinnjirri and none of them particularly prejudiced against t
he Saambolin—had confronted Rowen during the play's intermission, each of them complaining about the poor scholarship evident in the writing of the script and questioning his involvement in the project. At the time, Rowenaster had made excuses for Cobeth's sloppiness. But now, he thought coldly as he strode purposefully toward the backstage door of the playhouse, it's time to have a little discussion with my ex-housemate. Ducking through the door, Rowenaster removed his maroon travelling cloak. He folded it over his right arm. A small clump of mud from the hem fell to the dirty floor. Despite the Saambolin's great age, Rowenaster had ridden by horse to the theater district of Speakinghast. The professor was seventy but spry. Rowenaster knocked loudly on Cobeth's well marked dressing room door. A few Jinnjirri stagehands moved props and costumes off the stage behind him. Fearing that Cobeth might have already ieft for the opening night party, Rowenaster knocked again. The door flew open. «I said come in!» cried Cobeth with exasperation, his Trickster costume half-on and his makeup half-off. When the actor saw who it was, he added with hypocritical gallantry, «Do, do, do, come in, professor.» He bowed. «Thank you,» said Rowenaster cooly. He was used to Cobeth's fluctuations of mood and his caustic humor; he had spent the last five years living in the same house with the fellow. Cobeth returned to his makeup table and continued swabbing his neck and arms with a Piedmerri cold cream. «What can I do for you?» «I have a request.» «Which is?» «Next time you decide to bastardize a religious rite,» said the professor calmly, «leave my name out of it.» Cobeth raised his eyes to meet Rowen's in the mirror. «Bastardize? Don't you think that's a little strong, old man?» The professor chuckled quietly. «I'm a deeply religious man. Did you know that, Cobeth? No? Well, I am. I began teaching my Greatkin survey course forty-five years ago because I loved the Presence—not because I needed to make a good living as a Saambolin academic. You see, I really believe there is a Presence, Corbeth. And, therefore, a Greatkin Rimble. Furthermore, when I was but a youngster of ten, my Saambolin parents took me to see Rimble's Remembrance in Suxonli. My parents were scholars themselves. Suxonli was a field trip, one I was privileged to join. And while there, Cobeth, I understood something.» Cobeth turned around to face the professor, his smile skeptical. «And what was that, professor? Even if I don't ask,» he added silkily, «you're bound to tell me anyway. You're so fond of lecturing.» Rowenaster pursed his lips, wishing very hard that he were Master Doogat. In Rowen's opinion, Cobeth was sorely in need of the Mayanabi's famous «Podiddley Punch.» The professor took a deep breath and decided to keep to the point. «I learned this, Cobeth: the Trickster's Hallows of Suxonli Village is not a dead religious ritual, its origins lost in antiquity. Rimble's Remedy, as you call it, is nothing less than a literal passion play—Greatkin for mortal and mortal for Greatkin. Done right, the ritual can produce a certain ecstasy of spirit. Done right,» he repeated for emphasis. Cobeth folded his hands on his knee. «Oh—I see. You're implying I didn't do the rite 'right.' « He smiled at Rowenaster icily. «And you're Speakinghast's resident expert on Rimble. So I'm told.» He leaned forward. «Do you know what an expert is, professor? An expert is someone who knows more and more about less and less. You're an academic, Rowen.