by Dan H Kind
Chapter 51
A Rain of Tricksters
All over Eden, Tricksters fell from the sky like cats and dogs. In fact some were cats and dogs, and mythological beings of all shapes, sizes, and descriptions. The once-in-a-lifetime sight was colorful and beautiful, the best fireworks display ever. If it weren't for the horrible shrieks of the falling ones, it may even have been mesmerizing.
The companions watched from underneath the dogwood tree as the Tricksters dropped from the sky by the hundreds. Everybody kept an eye out for Jack, Tom, Promo, and the rest.
Iktome hit dirt first, crash-landing near the dogwood tree and leaving an eight-legged depression in the Earth. The spiderman was helped from the makeshift grave by many kind arms. Before long Hermes, Coyote, Old Man, Rabbit, Raven, Masaaw, Prometheus, and Tom Sawyer had landed, each leaving different-shaped craters around the monastery grounds.
And then Trickster, the One Thousand and One Tricksters, came tumbling from space, a fiery speck burning upon reentering the atmosphere, smoke billowing behind him. He screamed like a missile as he landed atop the 'Toys and Games' tent.
Everybody rushed over. It took a few minutes of digging through stuffed animals, model airplanes, coloring books, board games, and mountains of little green army men to reach the wriggling mass of mythical flesh called Jack Whiskey.
When he was finally reeled in and deposited on his feet, he received a deep kiss from Stephone that left him grinning from ear to ear. Then he was mobbed and carried across the monastery grounds atop a horde of cheering people. They set him down at the Meditation Hall's steps.
Farmer John quieted the boisterous masses with upraised arms, then turned to Jack. “So how'd ya do it, Jack? That was some mighty powerful ken ya just unleashed on ol' Shiva.”
Jack thought about it for a moment. “As far as I understand it, a Trickster's essence is a contrast. We run and play in realms beyond such concepts as good and evil, human and divine, god and man, creator and created, chaos and order. We shatter the false mirror of dualism”—Jack winked at Master Mirbodi, who grinned—“upon which no dust can collect.”
Master Mirbodi hooted in approval and pointed around as if to say, “That what I been trying to tell you lot all along!”
Jack looked from Farmer John to Stephone, then back again. “Say, John, why did Steph call you 'brother' earlier? And I seem to recall you calling her 'sis.' If you're Johnny Appleseed, a homespun American legend, and she's Persephone, the Queen of the Dead of ancient Greek mythology . . . how is it you're related?”
Farmer John clapped Jack on the back. Stephone laughed, and everybody else grinned.
“I go by and have gone by many different names, Jack,” said Farmer John. “I was born when the first sip of alcohol passed a human being's lips, and I shall be around until the last sip of that sweet nectar that brings on drunkenness passes a human being's lips. Just as Johnny Appleseed brought the gift of the apple—and applejack, of course—to the American frontier, I brought the gift of the grape to the ancient Greeks, and many more.”
Jack recalled how Farmer John had been in a trance when the Bacchic frenzy had been underway. His eyes alighted in understanding. “You are . . . Dionysus, is it?”
Farmer John's eyes twinkled, and he cracked a sly smile. “I am the God of Drink—all of them, wrapped up into one being.” He shrugged. “But these days I like to go by John, as he is my most recent incarnation. Or avatar, depending how ya look at it.” He shrugged again. “Whatever floats yer boat.”
Jack shook his head. “Sheesh. No wonder your beer's so damn good.”
“Aye.” Farmer John grinned. “The best stuff in all the Worlds.”