The Feast of the Trickster
Page 14
"Isaac?" she called, made nervous by the strange sound. He came into the kitchen, his hair rumpled and his eyes heavy with sleep. He made a grab for a small, oddly shaped thing on the wall and held it to his ear.
"Hello? … What? What do you mean, gone? … When? … She's in no shape to be on her own. Have you called the police? … Well tell them to list her as missing. She may be a danger to herself … I didn't think she was suicidal, but what do I know? All right. Call me if there's any word—and tell the police they can call if they have questions. I'll be in early tomorrow … okay … goodbye." He replaced the object in its rack. "Why are you still up?" he asked the Trickster.
"I'm not tired. Is something wrong?"
"Alexandra's disappeared."
"Disappeared?"
He nodded grimly. "She packed up some of her stuff and left the infirmary. Antekkereh, she shouldn't be on her own. It isn't safe for her."
"But how will you find her?"
Isaac dropped into a kitchen chair and leaned his head against his good hand. "I don't know. The infirmary called the police—but I don't really expect much from them." He sighed. "I wish those young women had come back. They might be able to offer some insight."
"What young women?"
"Vihena Khesst and Brigid Chandler," he said.
"Brigid Chandler?" the Trickster repeated.
"Do you know her?"
The Trickster handed him the stolen note. Isaac gave her a measuring look.
"How did you get this?"
"I stole it; I thought it might be important. Could they have taken Alexandra hostage?"
"Hostage? I hadn't thought of that. Ychass," he whispered. His hand throbbed; he remembered the cool, silver eyes in the face of the stray cat. He shuddered, then forced his mind back to the present. "You're right; this is important. I think tomorrow I'll give this Brigid a phone call."
Phone call: the word clicked in her memory—the magic these people had for talking across distance. "You mustn't!" she blurted. "That will warn her. She must not have wanted to talk to you since she didn't come back. Why would a phone call be any different? She'd think you had stolen her note."
Isaac frowned. "What do you recommend?"
"Can't we go to where she lives?"
"It's in Vermont."
"Does that make it impossible?" the Trickster demanded. "She came here; surely we can go there."
"We?"
The Trickster caught Isaac's wrist, made him look at her. "Won't you let me help you, Isaac? You've done so much for me."
"Let's sleep on it. We'll talk more in the morning." He got up, but stood looking at her for a long moment. "Please go to bed," he said finally. "It makes me tired to watch you."
"I will; I promise. Good night, Isaac."
"Good night, Antekkereh."
***
There was still no word of Alexandra in the morning. After rehashing her case with his colleagues, Isaac decided he'd better go look for this Brigid Chandler in Vermont. He scooped up his keys, locked his desk, and rose. Then he stopped short. Antekkereh stood in his doorway, watching him silently.
"You were going without me," she said. Her voice was colorless, untouched by accusation.
"I still may," he replied. "Give me one good reason why I should take you."
She hunched one shoulder. "There's no reason I should go—except that I'd like to go with you. Please, Isaac?"
Her manner was dignified without being haughty or scornful. But he could tell his answer mattered—maybe too much. "Why does it matter?"
"What can I say?" she responded. "If I tell you I just want to be with you, you won't believe me; if I tell you I need to talk to this Brigid Chandler, it will make you nervous; if I tell you I'm afraid the temptation to seek out Alexandra and work my will upon her will overcome me, despite my promise, you will think less of me; if I tell you that I'm curious to see Vermont, you will think me silly and frivolous."
"Why don't you tell me the truth?"
"Isaac, all of that is true."
"But is it the whole truth?"
Her calm shattered. "Of course not! If I were to tell you the whole truth, we'd be here until the sun faded to an ember! Never mind. I'm sorry I asked." She whirled and strode out.
"Wait!" he called. She didn't even hesitate. Isaac hurried after her; he barely made the elevator. They were the elevator's only passengers. Antekkereh pointedly avoided looking at him.
"Do you still want to come with me?" he asked finally.
It seemed a long time before she spoke. "If you were one of my brothers, you would ask that question, and then, if I were fool enough to admit that I did, you would laugh and say, 'What a pity I won't take you, then.’”
"I'm not your brother," he said quietly. "If you'd still like to come, I'll take you with me."
The Trickster smiled sadly. "If I were made of as stern stuff as I like to think, I would now refrain from coming, since I can hear the uneasiness in your voice. But pride is a cold place to live. I'll be glad to come with you."
***
When they reached Barre, Isaac got directions and they made their way to Brigid's apartment building. She was not there.
"Now what?" Isaac asked. "Shall we sit and wait for her?"
"Lunch?" the Trickster countered. "Aren't you hungry?"
They found a diner and ate, then went back. This time, when they rang the bell, they heard a faint but cheerful voice. "Hang on! I'll be right there." Brigid Chandler answered the door, dressed for riding. Her eyes widened at the sight of them. "What can I do for you?"
"I'm Dr. Marchbanks," Isaac said. "I'd like to talk with you about Alexandra. This is—"
"I'm the Trickster," she cut in clearly, covering her own name in Isaac's mouth.
Oh shit, Brigid thought, then, panic fueling her thoughtvoice, YCHASS!!
The Trickster heard Ychass's prompt response, but didn't pay attention to the exchange. Instead, she focused on the shapeshifter's mind, to locate it like a star in a constellation.
Somehow, Brigid managed to move them inside. Isaac asked her questions about Alexandra, which she tried to answer with as much truth as she could. Finally, she took the offensive.
"Look, I'd really like to know how you found me—and why you bothered to come here."
It was Isaac's turn to be uncomfortable. "Alexandra disappeared last evening. She left the hospital without telling anyone where she was going. I thought she might have come here, and that she might have sworn you to secrecy, or something. Miss Chandler, I am concerned about Alexandra; she is delusional and perhaps paranoid. I'm afraid of what she might do."
Just then, they heard footsteps on the stairs. Ychass came in without knocking. "Goodness," she said. "I didn't realize you had company, Brigid."
"This is Dr. Marchbanks," Brigid explained, "and his friend—I'm sorry, I've forgotten your name."
If the Trickster hadn't been trying to follow Ychass and Brigid's inward conversation, she might have forestalled Isaac. When she didn't respond, the doctor said, "It's Antekkereh."
"Right," Brigid said. "Antekkereh."
The Trickster's head snapped up, her eyes blazing. "You have no right to my name," she said, her fierce gaze boring into Brigid's. "Forget. Forget! Lest I strip away your memory!"
Brigid fought the pounding surf of the Trickster's power; but she could feel it sucking her under. Forget! Forget!! It pulled her toward a place where her spirit would be overwhelmed. FORGET! Brigid nodded—surrendered—and the Trickster released her. While the Trickster focused on Brigid, Ychass inched to the door. When the Trickster spun toward the shapeshifter, Ychass was out of reach, already racing down the stairs. With a cry, the Trickster followed.
Isaac stared after her, then turned back to Brigid. "What the hell is this all about?"
"What?" Brigid's eyes were glazed.
He grabbed her by the shoulder and shook. "This Trickster stuff. Who the hell is she—and why are you so afraid? You look like you've seen th
e dead walk."
"No. Just a god." Color was coming back into her face. "I hope Ychass got away."
"A god?" Isaac's voice cracked. "Antekkereh is no more a god than I am!"
Brigid shrugged. "Goddess, then."
"She's a mixed-up, overbearing, and rather disagreeable young woman; I certainly don't see signs of divinity in her!"
"You aren't looking for the right qualities," Brigid told him. A sudden sound from the street drew them to the top of the stairs. Brigid plunged downstairs and Isaac followed.
Traffic had been stopped by a huge, panic-stricken gray mare. The horse trumpeted as she reared and struck out. Brigid dove toward her, shrieking with her mind: Ychass! Ychass! The mare pivoted, teeth bared and ears pinned back tightly. As the horse's head snaked toward her, Brigid froze: instead of the silvery eyes she had expected, the horse's bulging orbs were a bright and impossible purple. A flailing hoof caught Brigid in the shoulder, sending her sprawling. The horse charged, while Brigid curled into the tightest ball she could.
"Antekkereh, NO!!" Isaac shouted. "Don't hurt her!" The gray mare reared over Brigid's huddled form; then its heavy hooves crashed down on the asphalt, straddling but not touching Brigid. The horse stopped its frenzied attack, and stretched its nose carefully toward the still form of the young woman. Now, its eyes were gray, and its ears were poked forward anxiously. Beside Isaac, the Trickster tugged his coat. "I wasn't going to hurt her," she murmured. "It's not my fault if that crazy woman flings herself at maddened horses."
Isaac studied the tall woman beside him for a long, stern moment. "We're going home," he told her at last.
The Trickster suffered his examination, then regarded him in turn. "Are you very angry?" she asked him.
"I'm scared to death."
"Of me?" The Trickster sounded sad.
"Of the whole damned business. Let's go."
TWENTY-ONE
Fickle and merciless GODS! Brigid, did I hurt you? Ychass's thought-voice pushed at the edges of Brigid's mind, trying to drive back the panic, as her soft horse-nose nudged the still form, seeking to reassure and comfort. Brigid, I'm sorry!
Brigid sat up. She could hear the voices of the crowd the wild horse had attracted and the distant wail of sirens. "Just what we need," she muttered. "The police."
Ychass's thought-voice was brittle with sudden unease. Do not speak aloud! she demanded. I can't understand your spoken words. Oh, gods! When she was in my mind, controlling me, she took the language; the Trickster stole the language!
What do you mean? Of course you can understand English—you're thinking in it!
No, I'm not!! Thoughts are beyond language. Brigid, what are we going to do? The Trickster has stolen my ability to understand your people! WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO?
Calm down. We'll deal with it—but later. Brigid pulled herself together in the face of the shapeshifter's anxiousness. Right now, we've got a mess to get out of. I wish Angel were here; she's better at this sort of improvisation.
By the time Brigid made it clear that she was unhurt, the police officers had arrived. One began taking witnesses' statements while the other approached Brigid.
Act up just a bit, Brigid suggested. I don't want him coming too close.
Ychass complied, and the officer stopped at a respectful distance. "Now, miss, perhaps you'd tell me what's going on?"
"I wish I knew," Brigid admitted.
"Well, start with the horse. Is this your animal?"
"Um," Brigid stalled. "Not really. My mother boards her at the farm for a friend of ours. And before you ask, I haven't any idea how she got here; I heard the commotion and came outside to investigate. When I saw Mari Llwyd having a fit, I just acted—I really didn't think."
The second officer joined them. "How are you going to get that horse out of here? I mean, you're holding up traffic."
Brigid thought fast. "There's a halter and lead rope in my car. I'll get it. Come on, Mari," she added to the horse, underscoring the words with the thought, Follow. With one hand on the horse's withers, Brigid moved over to her car. The halter was on the front seat. With the horse under control, the excitement was clearly over. Traffic and passersby began to move again. Brigid turned to the officer. "Here: if you'll hold her for a minute, I'll call my mother; she can bring the trailer down."
"You want me to hold her?" the police officer demanded. "I don't know anything about horses."
"Well, she's perfectly calm, now, and I won't be a minute." A moment later, Brigid returned. "Mother's out," she fibbed; of course she hadn't called her. "She must be looking for the horses. I'll just ride ol' Mari back. I'm real sorry about all the excitement."
"Wait a minute. The witnesses said that horse was wild and dangerous. You can't ride her without a bridle or saddle!"
Brigid exuded breezy confidence. "I can't imagine what got into her. She's usually totally placid. I ride her bareback all the time."
"She kicked you!" he protested.
"She didn't mean to—and she was sorry right after. Not to worry: we'll be fine." Then, using the porch steps as a mounting block, Brigid clambered onto Ychass's broad back. Let's go before they think to ask my name! Or worse, Mother's!
Brigid chose a route that avoided the more heavily traveled streets and then took a woods road where they could be certain they weren't observed. It was then, when Ychass tried to change herself out of horse-shape, that they discovered the real damage the Trickster had done.
Brigid!! There was an edge of hysteria in the shapeshifter's thought-voice. I can't change. The Trickster has bound me in this shape!
But—but how could she DO that? Brigid tried to keep her anxiety under wraps; but it wasn't easy to prevaricate, mind-tomind.
I don't know, but I'm TRAPPED!! Brigid, I CAN'T CHANGE!!
STOP IT!! We'll handle it! Don't panic! Worries tore through Brigid's mind like hounds on a scent, while the shapeshifter's fear distracted her. Wait! WAIT!! Listen! Calm down! We've got her name. Surely she can't hold you if you've got her name?
She took it; I can't remember it.
Well, I can. Dr. Marchbanks said it again, even after she took it back. It's—Brigid stopped. She could not make her memory supply the name.
Ychass's thought-voice sounded much more controlled. You must have agreed to forget; I did. It gives her power.
I feel so stupid!!!
Horses aren't built to shrug, but Ychass's thought-voice was resigned. She's one of the gods.
Brigid watched her friend anxiously. Are you all right?
I'm calm, if that's what you mean. I panicked because I was afraid that she would strip my mind as well as my shape; it is the only way I know of to do that to one of us: take the shapeshifter's name, memory, and freedom.
Is that why your eyes were purple? Brigid asked, recalling vividly the frenzied mare's attack.
She overpowered my mind, Ychass replied. SHE was controlling my actions. She must have left restraints behind, to hold me in this shape. Brigid, I'm sorry I frightened you, but what are we going to do now?
Let me think. I want to talk to Angel. Ychass, you have to stay hidden. I'll show you some good hiding places, but you must stay out of sight until we can explain you to Kelly. Horses just don't appear out of thin air. Don't worry, we'll dream up something. But Ychass, there's more. Alexandra has disappeared. She's left the hospital and no one knows where she is!
***
On the long car-ride home, the Trickster pretended to sleep. It was easier for her to concentrate on the bright mind of the shapeshifter—and to maintain her binding—without other distractions and she didn't know what to say to Isaac Marchbanks. She could hear his recurrent fear that—somehow—he had been sucked into the maelstrom of his patient's madness, and the bitter, unanswerable questions he had about the woman beside him in the car. The Trickster was out of her depth, and she knew it; so she sat with her eyes closed, and tried to savor the predicament she had caused for her enemies. Her triumph was sadly flat.
It would be hard to maintain this binding, the Trickster knew; but she wasn't trying to do anything but hamper the Five's progress. This was a large world, full of people. 'Tsan would be hard to find; and Isaac clearly felt she was in danger. All the Trickster needed to do, all she was able to do, was to delay them until 'Tsan had fallen prey to whatever harm Isaac feared. Ychass in horse-shape would make for awkwardness—and the added twist of blocking her ability to understand the language might compound it. As she leaned back, feigning sleep, a satisfied smile spread over her face. It was not a pleasant expression. By pure ill luck Isaac Marchbanks chose that instant to glance over at his passenger; the malice on her face didn't reassure him.
***
"I cannot read the pattern, El," the Dreamer confessed as he studied the work on the Loom in the Weaver's bower. "Are they winning or losing?"
The Weaver spread his hands. "I doubt this quest will make of them either winners or losers. The pattern the Dreamweaver chooses changes the very fabric of Fate; the Loom is different, stronger, for her work on it—but how much of its strengthening can be traced to Ohmiden's death? And was that a victory—or a defeat?"