The Feast of the Trickster

by Beth Hilgartner

"We are figures out of legend in a land where legends have stayed safely dead for many long years," Remarr added.

  They each fell prey to their own thoughts and doubts. Remarr looked sharply at Vihena. "You look weary. Go to bed; there's no sense in tiring yourself."

  "Don't mother me." Vihena's voice lacked the usual spark of indignation. "I'm going."

  "So am I," said Karivet. "Do any of you remember how to extinguish these lamps?"

  ELEVEN

  Ychass woke at dawn. From the window she saw, through a shrouding mist, webs of silver threads and dew that decorated the grass. The air was sweet, rich with birdsong. Ychass went outside. She yielded to a sudden urge to run; she took her horse shape, and set off at a reckless pace through the orchard. As she neared the hilltop, she heard hoofbeats, and the horse part of her neighed greeting. There were three ponies in a pasture, trotting along the fence. Ychass watched them for a moment before she angled back through the orchard toward the road. She sailed over the stone wall bordering the road and pounded off at a canter. Suddenly, she became aware of another noise: a familiar roaring growl. As she halted in the middle of the road, a magic cart bounded around a curve, then shrieked to a stop in a scatter of grit. Brigid Chandler leaped out, her face white.

  "Easy there, big guy," she soothed, approaching the horse. "What are you doing so far from home?"

  I rose early and went out to explore, Ychass replied in her mind. Did I do wrong?

  Brigid looked sharply at Ychass, then her expression eased. "Oh, it's you. I thought we had a loose horse. You shouldn't run around like this. You might have been hit by a car."

  Ychass shifted back, sensing that her thought-voice made Brigid nervous.

  "Hop in," Brigid suggested. "I'll give you a ride." The vehicle was full of odd, somewhat unpleasant smells that made Ychass's nose wrinkle.

  "You make a beautiful horse," Brigid remarked. "Are you always a gray, or could you be any color?"

  "I suppose so; I can make myself take the coloring of other people, though I cannot change my eyes. But gray suits me."

  "Why can't you change your eyes?"

  "My eyes are who I am. I can change myself so much—beast, fish, bird—but something besides my mind must remain constant."

  "And you talk with your mind when you're in a beast shape?"

  Ychass nodded. And other times as well.

  Brigid started. "Someday I may get used to that—in about six million years. But here we are," she added as she coasted to a stop. "I came along early to see whether I couldn't help you all get breakfast."

  "Without burning down the house," Ychass added, voicing Brigid's thought aloud.

  Brigid blinked. Goes both ways, does it? she thought clearly.

  Ychass smiled with approval. You're no fool.

  They found the others in the kitchen, trying to produce breakfast by trial and error. Ychass watched as Brigid moved in and took over. In no time, she conjured up a skillet, found some butter, and began cooking scrambled eggs and cheese. In short order, they were gathered around the large dining room table, stuffing themselves. Brigid stirred a spoonful of sugar into her coffee, took a long swig, and steeled herself for explanations.

  "After we've eaten, we'll leave for the stable," she began. "I had a long talk with Angel last night, and the plan is that you will pose as a bunch of my foreign friends." She looked at them dubiously. "We had a bit of a time deciding where you are from, since you're all so different looking."

  "Get to the point," Vihena suggested.

  "The problem is languages," Brigid replied. "In our world, different peoples speak different languages; some people speak more than one. We tried to pick a country whose language very few people here speak. You can say you are from Greece—and if anyone asks you to say something in Greek, just speak in your own language. You are from Athens and I met you when I was visiting my cousin who works at the American Embassy. Can you remember that? I'll try to get it all out for you when I introduce you to people, but you'd better know the story." She collected somber nods, then went on. "Okay. The next problem was names. In this world, most people have at least two names. Your names don't sound very Greek, but they'll have to do—it's too much to expect you to remember a lot of new names; but you need last names, too. Vihena, you, Iobeh, and Karivet could pass as brother and sisters so we thought we'd call you Marakis; that's Vihena Marakis, Iobeh Marakis, and Karivet Marakis. Is that clear? Remarr Papadopoulos and Ychass Zaousis. Your last names won't be used much, I hope, but you need to remember them. Another thing—maybe the most important thing: there's a lot you don't know about our culture. If anyone starts asking hard questions, just look confused and say, 'I don't understand,' or 'I beg your pardon,' and stick with that. They'll assume you don't understand the language. Okay?"

  Karivet delivered his best puzzled expression and said, "I beg your pardon?"

  Laughter eased the tension. "Today," Brigid continued, "when we're at the stable, just be friendly and try to get to know Angel, Brice, and Mark better. They are hoping to invite some of you to stay with them before my parents come home. And if you can help out with chores, we'll all take turns checking the phone books Brice brings."

  "Is this elaborate subterfuge necessary?" Vihena asked.

  Brigid sighed. "Yes. It's going to take some time to find your friend—unless we luck out with the phone books. If they don't give us any leads, I'll do some research in the library. As for subterfuge, this is an organized world. We need to explain your presence. I know it's frustrating, but it's the best we can do." She looked around at them. "Let's hit the road."

  Riding in the truck was a thrilling experience. Ychass rode in the cab with Brigid, intrigued by the gauges and dials on the dash, puzzled by the glove compartment ("It's so small when you have all this room!"), and delighted by the fan. In the truckbed, the other four felt they had never traveled so fast in their entire lives. The air whipped around them, and even the jostling bounces seemed smooth compared to the jolt of an unsprung oxcart. The countryside that sped past so swiftly was fascinating. They passed houses, in bright, unusual colors, with cars and other vehicles in their yards. They roared by a huge red barn with two tall blue towers; they swept past a person riding on a two-wheeled metal framework that looked like a skinny, silent dirt bike. And finally, they drew into the yard of a large barn. They all clambered out, leaving Vihena's sword and Remarr's harp in the truckbed.

  "This is it," Brigid said. "My home away from home: Horizon Stable. Come on; I'll show you around."

  ***

  Alexandra still hadn't slept. As she went through her daily routine, her actions often lost their focus. Alexandra only barely managed to remember which summer-session classes to attend. Her German class was the easiest to keep straight, since it met every day.

  This morning, when she arrived, Herr Bergemann had already begun. As she murmured an apology, his gaze sharpened on her. He watched her collapse into her chair without unslinging her bookbag, then he turned back to the other students.

  "I want you each to write a letter to your Tante Amalia. Make the letters as outrageous as you dare, and as your vocabulary permits. I've got to step out for a few minutes, but when I come back, you will read them to one another. All right?"

  "Jawohl," the class wit responded.

  While everyone got started, Herr Bergemann took Alexandra by the elbow. "Come on. Come with me."

  Bemused, she rose at his insistence. They went outside into the Yard. "What?" Alexandra finally managed.

  "You look awful," he said without slowing his brisk pace. "Aren't you sleeping at all?"

  "I'm all right," she bristled. "Who says I'm not?"

  "It's written all over you! You look worse every day. I don't know what's going on in your life, Alexandra, and I don't need to know; but it's clear you need help. I know someone who can help you, and I'm taking you to him."

  "You're taking me to Health Services," Alexandra said.

  He nodded. "Dr. Marchbanks got
me through a tough time, my first year as a grad student. I think you should talk to him."

  It was too much. She burst into tears. Herr Bergemann put his arm around her. "It's all right, Alex. Dr. Marchbanks will be able to help."

  "But I'm not sick," she gasped, "I'm crazy."

  He herded her on. "Dr. Marchbanks is a psychiatrist."

  It was a relief to abandon her pretenses. Alexandra went obediently where her teacher led.

  ***

  Elgonar felt his color move in the Dreamweaver's pattern. He wrapped his power around him as he was drawn to her cottage. She waited in the doorway, her face grave.

  "Something terrible is happening," she said. "I feel it in the pattern. And I cannot wake Ohmiden from his dream."

  The Weaver looked past her. Ohmiden lay in a nest of cushions by the hearth. Sweat beaded the old man's face; he moaned like a woman in travail. Elgonar went to the loom, wove a strand of the Dreamer's blue into the pattern, and said, "Irenden."

  The Dreamer appeared in a swirl of mist and ran to the old man's side. He laid a hand on Ohmiden's wrinkled brow, his own expression echoing the old man's pain. "Awake," he commanded. "Awake!"

  Ohmiden jolted awake. His eyes brimmed with tears as his breath caught in gasping sobs. "'Tsan's in terrible danger," he whispered. "Terrible! She has met the man who can cripple her spirit—who will destroy her in the name of healing her."

  "Look!" Eikoheh cried, pointing in horror to the loom. With no hand touching it, the shuttle hissed through the warp, laying down a thread of vivid purple. Scarcely had Eikoheh spoken when the door of her cottage slammed open. The Trickster strode in.

  "Trickster," she said, mimicking the tone the Weaver had used to name the Dreamer. "And here I am. What a touching scene. Did you seriously believe your meddling would escape my notice, Weaver?"

  "Meddling?" the Weaver retorted. "The Loom is my province."

  "Not so! During my Feast, anything that interests me is my province—and I find your attempts to interfere with me more and more objectionable. So, I take action." At her gesture, a thread of pure gold wove itself into the pattern. "Namegiver. "

  The Namegiver appeared, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed. "Arrogant," she said. "Prideful. Rash."

  "I quite agree," the Trickster replied. "But which of you is which? You must be Rash, for naming my chosen Voice Silence."

  As the Trickster spoke, the Weaver could feel her gathering power, preparing to act against them. Though he longed to send Eikoheh and Ohmiden to safety, he dared not, for the Trickster watched him. Her lips shaped a poisonous smile.

  "It would be amusing," she purred, "to cast you across the void. I would enjoy watching you struggle with a mortal's limitations, stripped of language, in the world where your Wanderer grapples with madness." Her hands moved; the straining power of the Loom gripped the Weaver. He struggled for breath.

  Then, the Trickster staggered backward, as she was struck by a flung stoneware pitcher. The gathering power ripped free of her control. The Dreamer and the Namegiver shielded the two mortals while the Weaver dove for the loom. He snatched Eikoheh’s shuttle, throwing all his power into the weft. He wove furiously, binding the power the Trickster had loosed and strengthening the Dreamweaver's pattern. But before he could finish, the Trickster clutched his throat. As the world began to dissolve into dizzying sparks, the Weaver took desperate action.

  With almost the last of his strength, he wove the Trickster across the void. At the instant the Weaver collapsed to the floor, the Trickster, with a shriek of rage, vanished.

  TWELVE

  "Good morning, Brigid," Kelly Sebastian greeted her, grain scoop in hand. Her eyes widened. "What's this? An entourage."

  "Hi, Kelly. These are some Greek friends of mine. I met them when I was staying in Athens." She began pointing. "Ychass Zaousis, Remarr Papadopoulos, Vihena, Iobeh, and Karivet Marakis. This is Kelly Sebastian."

  "Do you ride," Kelly asked, "or are you spectators?"

  "We ride," Vihena answered.

  "After a fashion," Ychass added, hearing sudden worries from Brigid about styles of riding.

  "Well, we don't rent horses for trail riding, but if you'd like to take lessons while you're visiting, let me know." With that, Kelly started off.

  Brigid shooed her charges into the tack room. "Now," she said. "There's some time to kill before Brice gets here with the phone books. You guys want to learn to clean an English bridle?"

  When Brice and Mark arrived, they were greeted by the sight of the Five diligently cleaning every bridle in sight. Brice raised eyebrows, nudged Mark, and feigned outrage. "Brigid Chandler, are you trying to make us look lazy?" He examined the bridle in Iobeh's hands. "That's Twitch's bridle! That hasn't been cleaned since last year's beginner camp week."

  "No Angel?" Mark asked. "I swear she'd be late to her own funeral."

  As though her name had summoned her, Angel appeared in a breathless hurry, her arms full of horsey things. "Wow!" she said when she took in the industry; then her look grew calculating. "I don't suppose you lot would see that Gabe's bridle gets done?" Without waiting for a reply, she dumped her load on top of her tack trunk and went off to start turning horses out.

  Brice gestured to the phone books he'd piled on his trunk. "I've got all the Vermont books. Who wants to start?"

  Brigid picked up a book and flipped it open, explaining that the Five couldn't read. While Brice was still reeling from that information, Kelly poked her head in. "Give Angel a hand with the turnout, Brice," she ordered briskly, and Brice, well trained, hustled.

  Mark rose. "I'd better start the mucking. Kelly gets grumpy if she has to remind us."

  "Why don't you all help him," Brigid suggested, "while I go through the phone books?"

  Mark put the Five to work, and in a remarkably short time, they were done. When they returned to the tack room, Brigid was on the last phone book. After scrawling something on a piece of paper, she laid the book aside. "Pretty slim pickings." She sighed. "There's a Victor Scarsdale in Cavendish and a Margaret Scarsdale in Island Pond. Does your Alexandra have relatives?"

  Karivet answered. "She told me her father was dead. I do not know whether she had other kin. She never spoke of relatives or close friends."

  "I wonder if it's worth calling," Brigid murmured. "I suppose it can't hurt. I'll try these numbers tonight—when folks are apt to be home from work—and let you know what I find out. Her father is dead?" At Karivet's nod, she looked thoughtful. "Maybe she is Alister Scarsdale's daughter. As soon as I get a chance, I'll research him in the library, and we'll see what there is to see."

  "When?" Vihena pressed.

  "I might have time tonight," Brigid replied. "If not, it won't be until the day after tomorrow. Tomorrow, we're all going to the horse show at Vershire. Speaking of which, who wants to help me give Rex his bath?"

  The chores associated with readying four horses for the Horse Trial at the Vershire School took most of the day. Iobeh proved invaluable during the task of bathing Tigger, who had never reconciled herself to water; when Iobeh used her empathic gift, the little mare stood as though a bath were her idea of bliss. After the horses were clean, their manes were braided, their whiskers clipped, and their hooves polished. Then, the four riders packed their gear in their tack boxes and loaded everything into Kelly's truck. The four-horse trailer was swept out, haynets filled, jerry-cans of water and extra bales of hay lugged up. By the time everything was ready, it was time for evening chores. When they had passed out the last of the hay to the hungry horses, Ychass dusted her hands off on her shirt and looked at Brice. "It's a great deal of work, to look after so many horses. Whatever would you have done without us?"

  Brice grinned. "The same thing—but slower."

  All afternoon, Kelly had watched their industry with a mixture of amazement and approval. Now, as she approached the group she smiled warmly. "You certainly know how to work! Brigid tells me you'd like to come along tomorrow, and I jus
t wanted to say I think that's a great idea. The bad news is that we have to be on the road by six-thirty. I'll look for you around five-thirty. Okay?"

  As Kelly moved off, the Five exchanged surprised looks. "We are to go with you tomorrow?" Remarr asked carefully. "To what end? Is there not something we can do to find 'Tsan?"

  Brigid shook her head. "I don't think there is a step you can take without at least one of us along to guide you; and all of us are committed for tomorrow. If we didn't go, Kelly would be very suspicious. It really is the best we can do. Besides," she added with a smile, "you might find the show fun."

  "Fun?" Vihena began, outraged; but Iobeh squeezed her hand.

  Brigid is worried about us, she signed. No doubt there is some danger we do not understand.

  Vihena clamped her teeth on further outburst. Brigid looked around at them anxiously. "Are you hungry?" she asked at last. "Shall we go home to supper?"

  Remarr managed to smile. "Indeed yes. The longer we remain, the more appetizing your horse begins to look!"

  That evening after Brigid left them, the Five held a council. The others settled in the living room, but Vihena stalked around with feverish energy.

  "This is madness!" she began. "We wasted an entire day helping that useless troupe prepare for—for games with their horses! 'Tsan is languishing somewhere while we are mired in foolishness. And they want us to waste another day at their silly games. The gods didn't send us here to play servants to a collection of pleasure-seeking fools!"

  "You are too harsh," Remarr chided. "You mustn't forget that they rescued you, Vihena. The subterfuge may seem pointless to us, but they know the rules—and perils—of this world. We would do well to remember that, and to follow their advice."

  "And waste another day in idleness?" Vihena challenged.

  "We were hardly idle," Ychass remarked.

  Vihena glared. "Very well: are we to waste another day in stupid, pointless makework?"

  "What would you propose?" Karivet asked. "I know you are fretting for action, but what would you have us do, Vihena?"