The Feast of the Trickster

by Beth Hilgartner

  ***

  When the Trickster came down for breakfast, she was surprised to find Isaac, in a bathrobe, lingering over his coffee. "I thought you were long gone," she greeted him.

  "Sorry to disappoint. I'm on call this weekend, so I took today off. Besides, I thought you might like a ride to your hearing."

  "My what?" she said.

  "You don't remember? I thought that was why you changed your hair."

  "Isaac, what's a hearing?"

  Isaac's lips formed a soundless 'O,' as he realized the extent of her ignorance. "This afternoon you have to go talk to a judge about your creative motorcycle driving and your utter disregard for rules and regulations."

  "But what do I say?" Panic edged her voice.

  He thought about it for a moment. "I think I'd stick to: 'I'm sorry and I won't do it again.'"

  "What will happen to me?"

  He sighed. "Well, it's a first offense, so they may be lenient. I'd say a fine is practically a certainty."

  "A forfeit of money?" she clarified. At his nod, she wailed, "But I haven't any!"

  "I have," he said. "Don't worry about that. Now, I don't think this is likely, but there is a possibility that you will be given a jail sentence."

  "Jail?" The Trickster paled. "Oh, Isaac, I don't want to go back to jail. Should we bribe the judge?"

  "No! Where did you learn about bribing judges?"

  "The Vemathi sell justice. Your people don't?"

  Isaac smiled sardonically. "Not officially. Listen, Antekkereh, I had to give the police a name when I came to bail you out. I listed you as Ann T. Carroll. Can you remember that?"

  The Trickster smiled crookedly. "Show me how it is spelled, and I'll do my best."

  ***

  Alexandra didn't wake until after three in the afternoon. She railed at herself for allowing exhaustion to overpower her. Her chances of getting away from Cambridge before nightfall were, she knew, slim. She dressed, then hurried to her bank to get the money she needed for her escape. That task completed, she headed back toward her dormitory room to pack. She was not even halfway home when she started hearing the voices. Like a deer that hears the belling of the hounds, she began to run.

  ***

  The Trickster and Isaac left the courtroom, very much relieved. The judge had seemed to recognize the real contrition and fear in the Trickster's eyes. The motorcycle had been confiscated, but she was let off with a fine and a suspended sentence.

  They decided to stop for a cup of cappuccino on their way home. As Isaac spun his car quickly round a corner, a running figure dashed into the street from between two parked cars.

  Time slowed. Isaac slammed on the brakes. Tires screamed on pavement. But the runner was too close, too unexpected. The Trickster's cry rent the air. "NO!" She had seen what Isaac had not: it was 'Tsan!

  There was a blast, a silent burst of power that made the car leap into the air. Alexandra was flung like a rag doll, to lie in a crumpled heap nearly twenty feet away. After an impossibly long moment, the car crashed to earth.

  "Oh, God," Isaac whispered, shock and horror stealing his breath. "What have I done?" As he reached for the release on his seatbelt, he noticed the Trickster. Her face was white as plaster, her eyes vacant. Isaac grabbed her arm, shook it a little. "Antekkereh?" No response. He looked more closely. She looked ghastly; he didn't think she was breathing. "Antekkereh! Antekkereh!" He shook her harder. Like a very old woman, she turned her head toward him. Her eyes were still wide, but now they were filled with fear.

  "I broke my vow," she whispered. "Oh Isaac, I broke my vow." Then, she slumped forward, apparently unconscious.

  "Vow?" he repeated; then he remembered, heard the Trickster's voice: 'I, Antekkereh, swear that I will not come next or nigh 'Tsan … I swear I will neither impose my will nor use my influence upon her. This I swear on my name . . .' He sat perfectly still while the implications exploded in his brain. "Alexandra," he whispered. The screaming of sirens recalled him; passersby had gathered; police were moving, official and blue, calming fears, taking statements. An ambulance squad arrived and began tending Alexandra. One of the policemen came over to the car.

  "You all right, sir?"

  Isaac was having a hard time breathing. "I—yes. Is—is she—" He gestured weakly toward the paramedics. "Is she alive?"

  The officer nodded. "They'll get her right to the hospital. Is your passenger all right?" he added, as he noticed the Trickster's still form.

  Isaac turned to her. "Antekkereh?" He jostled her, to no effect. "She must have fainted," he said. His voice sounded desperate, even in his own ears.

  A moment later, one of the paramedics came over. He put his hand to the Trickster's throat, then looked up, alarmed. "Let's get her out of the car. I don't feel a pulse."

  She was lying on a stretcher almost before Isaac could get out of the car. One of the paramedics started CPR. Isaac took her hand. "Antekkereh. You can't leave me. Antekkereh!"

  The woman on the stretcher drew a shaky breath and opened her eyes. "Isaac?" Her hand tightened on his.

  "I'm here," he said. "You're going to be all right. Just keep breathing."

  "'Tsan?"

  "She's alive; I don't know any more."

  The Trickster sighed. "Good," she said, her voice a little stronger. "Then it was not for nothing."

  ***

  The Trickster's cry rocked the Loom. The Weaver heard it; it shook him out of his patient scrying meditation. As he turned toward the Loom, the Trickster's burst of power flared through warp and weft like chain lightning. He flung up one arm to shield his eyes and he heard the Dreamweaver' s scream. Wrapping himself in wind, he hurled himself to her cottage.

  Eikoheh sat, frozen before her Loom, the shuttle upraised in one hand, while the Trickster's wild power limned her in eerie purple light. Elgonar wrested the shuttle from her hand, channeled the Trickster's power back into the Loom. He wove feverishly, strengthening the pattern, diverting the killing force of the Trickster's oath breaking blast. Something resisted him, some power—not the Trickster's—prevented him from draining her to a husk; he was stopped short of reclaiming her forsworn name and destroying her. Finally, exhausted, Elgonar set the shuttle down and turned to the Dreamweaver.

  With trembling hands, the Weaver gathered the old woman into his arms. She breathed, but he could feel her fragile, birdlike bones; he could see the toll her long weaving had exacted, and he did not know hope. He was too drained himself to attempt any healing magic. He settled her as comfortably as he could, and took his place by her side to wait.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Long after the working students and their friends had gone home to their suppers, Kelly came back the stable to give the horses their evening grain. As she turned the lights on, a whicker of anticipation swept the barn.

  "That's right, kids," she told her charges. "Suppertime."

  Ychass started violently. She had understood Kelly, understood the words! She tested the strength of the Trickster's binding and shifted to human shape with no resistance at all. It was all she could do to restrain a cry of exultation. Suddenly, she realized that Kelly was approaching. She shifted back. Kelly was standing at the stall door, a perplexed look on her face. Her thoughts were troubled: Am I seeing things? Ychass whickered and nudged Kelly gently with her nose. With a shrug, Kelly dumped Ychass's ration of grain and continued down the aisleway.

  Ychass waited until Kelly was gone before she tried to contact her friends. She realized she couldn't simply vanish; but she was mortally sick of horse-shape. She needed advice.

  In the end, it was Brigid's mind Ychass found. And it was Brigid who came up with a plan. They spent some time consulting over details, then sought their rest with lightened hearts.

  ***

  The Dreamer and the Namegiver joined the Weaver's silent vigil in Eikoheh's cottage. Together they were able to give the Dreamweaver strength to keep her spirit in her body—but that was all, and it drained the gods. The night wane
d; dawn, stealthy as a thief, crept closer.

  "Should we let her spirit go?" Irenden asked in the quiet.

  "'Ren, it's her pattern." Desperation tinged the Weaver's voice. "I don't know how she intends to bring it full circle."

  "And El may not be permitted to weave it, if the Moot is called," the Namegiver pointed out bleakly. "I have no doubt that the others felt the surge in the Loom even as we did. It is only a matter of time before someone demands an explanation."

  "And we will be undone."

  "Not you: I will be undone," Elgonar insisted. "I will take responsibility. It was I who let my anger rule me when I wove to save the Dreamweaver. I have put the Loom's energies all askew. It is my fault: I will take the blame."

  "To what do you refer?" Yschadeh asked him.

  His eyebrows rose. "I thought you knew: I tried to kill the Trickster when she broke her vow."

  "But El! She broke her vow in 'Tsan's defense."

  The Weaver bowed his head. "I know."

  "Tried?" Irenden broke in. "Only tried?"

  Elgonar did not look up. "Something prevented me, some force I did not recognize."

  "So who is most likely to call the Moot?" the Namegiver asked. "The Trickster herself?"

  "I doubt I left her power enough to do it; but she is not the only one who has chafed under my control. I would guess the Warriors or perhaps the Arbiter, himself " The Weaver's face was anguished. "If a Moot is called, it will find against me: I am in the wrong. Even I see that."

  A moan from Eikoheh cut off their discussion. The Namegiver laid her thin hand on the old woman's brow and murmured, "We are here: the Weaver, the Dreamer, and I. Is there aught you need?"

  The Dreamweaver opened her eyes and the three gods stifled gasps. The old woman's eyes were the color of blindness: blank, white, and opaque. Her groping hand found her face; despair etched lines in her face.

  "I can't see. I'm blind. Blind!" Her voice climbed to a wail. "How can I finish the pattern if I cannot see?"

  There was an aching silence. Then, the Dreamer strode to her loom. "Use my eyes, Eikoheh," he told her, linking his mind gently with hers. As he looked at the pattern, passing what he saw to the old woman, the color drained out of his face. "El?" he whispered, his voice a mere thread of sound. "El, look!!!"

  The Weaver sprang to his side. His face mirrored the Dreamer's horror. Only the Namegiver saw understanding dawn in the Dreamweaver' s expression, and the tears that left silver trails from the corners of her sightless eyes.

  The pattern had changed and the tension of the warp was uneven, giving the work on the loom a curiously rippled effect. But that was not all. In the last several inches of the pattern, the vibrant, gleaming purple of the Trickster's color began to fade to a muted shadow, and in the same space, 'Tsan's red gained intensity, glowing and pulsing with the iridescence of a god's color.

  ***

  The Trickster did not find the hospital a restful place. Whiteclad workers flitted in and out of her room, checking this or that, while machines clicked and beeped. Isaac could visit only for short periods; and he looked so frantic that she fretted long after he had left. The Trickster was so drained she couldn't even feel the minds around her without straining.

  She lost track of time. The light never changed in her windowless room. Isaac came and went. The Trickster let herself float, hoarding what strength or power was left to, her. Finally, Isaac came in with another man, who had the air of one used to respect. He checked all the machines, read the notes on the clipboard at the foot of the bed, and looked as though he was weighing important matters.

  "Well, Ms. Carroll, all your readings are normal. I can't see any reason not to let you go home. Is there someone who could stay with you for a day or two, until you're really feeling better?"

  Her eyes slid, almost involuntarily, to Isaac. He looked relieved. "Yes."

  "Good. Now do you have any questions?"

  She hesitated for a moment. "I don't think so."

  He waited, as though to make sure she wouldn't change her mind, then turned brisk. "Very well. I'll write up your paperwork, and we'll get you discharged." He left, but Isaac stayed.

  "Are you really all right, Antekkereh?"

  "I'm very weak. I feel drained—drained of power. I think someone tried to use my forsworn oath to destroy me."

  "Will they try again?"

  "I don't believe that's possible." She smiled shakily. "What I don't understand is how they failed. A name is a powerful binding; a forsworn name is usually deadly."

  "But you broke your oath in order to protect Alexandra. That should count for something."

  She took his hand. "Clearly it does: I'm still here."

  "Thank God," he murmured. "Listen: it will take the hospital a while to process your discharge. In the meantime, I'm going to go see what I can find out about Alexandra. All right?"

  She nodded. He kissed her forehead before he went out. When Isaac reached the wing where Alexandra had been taken, he found the shifts had changed. "Are you family?" the day shift nurse asked him.

  "No," he replied. "I'm her psychiatrist, Dr. Isaac Marchbanks."

  Her eyes widened; then she smiled. "Dr. Milton will be glad you're here."

  Isaac raised his eyebrows. "Oh?"

  "The patient seems to be suffering from lapses of memory. I'm sure Dr. Milton will appreciate any history you can give."

  "Is Dr. Milton with Alexandra now?"

  "No," the nurse replied. "But I'll have her paged."

  Alexandra was sitting up in bed. Her eyes followed Isaac as he entered. There was something different about her, he thought, but it took him several seconds to realize what it was: for the first time since he had met her, Alexandra's face was serene.

  "Hello, Alexandra."

  "I don't know you," she said calmly.

  "You don't remember me," he corrected. "I'm Isaac Marchbanks, Dr. Marchbanks."

  "I don't know you," she repeated.

  He made a gesture of concession, then held out his hand. "Let me introduce myself. I'm Isaac Marchbanks. And you are . . . ?"

  She looked at his hand as though she had no idea what it was for. "Dr. Milton tells me that I am Alexandra Scarsdale, but I couldn't say for sure that she's right."

  It was then that Dr. Milton came in. She was a young woman with a friendly smile and a brisk manner. "Dr. Marchbanks? I'm Vivian Milton. Alexandra has made the most remarkable physical recovery—we were quite concerned about her when she was brought in." She smiled at her patient. "Now, if we could just help you to remember some things. . . I hope you won't mind if I steal your visitor for a few minutes?" At Alexandra's shrug, Dr. Milton herded Isaac into the hallway.

  "It is a most perplexing case. I saw the x-rays of her skull injury that were taken yesterday. I ordered another set this morning because her pupils were reacting normally. The pictures are completely different; there's no visible fracture this morning."

  "A lab mix-up?" Isaac suggested.

  Dr. Milton spread her hands. "Who knows? But this morning, there is no evidence of head trauma—which leaves me without a physical explanation for her amnesia."

  Isaac nodded. "Her amnesia may have a psychological explanation. Alexandra came to me several weeks ago showing symptoms of severe neurosis, or possibly psychosis. Since then, her symptoms have intensified; she has become quite paranoid. It's possible that this amnesia is the mind's attempt to free her from the pain and uncertainty of the last few weeks."

  Dr. Milton considered. "That sounds plausible—but what on earth do we do with her? She's perfectly well, physically; there are no medical reasons to keep her here, but we can't exactly turn her loose."

  "We could request a transfer to a psychiatric hospital. She certainly is in no mental state to be wandering the streets."

  "That's probably best. But those x-rays—I just don't understand how it could have happened." She shook her head, then turned toward Alexandra's room. Isaac followed, thinking of Antekkereh's healing
powers, and wondering whether she could have unconsciously healed Alexandra. She had certainly been worried enough, and perhaps it would explain her terrible weakness.

  Alexandra was watching the door when Dr. Milton and Isaac returned. "If I am well," she said, "why won't you let me go?"

  "Where would you go, Alexandra?" Isaac asked.

  She smiled faintly. "No doubt something would occur to me."

  "It's not quite that simple," Dr. Milton put in. "You need to have a little more of your memory in order to function. Just think what could happen if you didn't remember about traffic."

  "But I do remember about cars and traffic," she said with a patient air. "I remember many things—surely enough to get by."

  "We're not sure of that," Dr. Milton responded. "Trust us: we only want to act in your best interests."

  "Don't you think I can judge my own best interests?"

  "Frankly, Alexandra, no." Isaac's concern softened his words. "You haven't been doing very well at it, lately. We would be failing our duty to you to discharge you right now."

  "Preserve me from senses of duty!" she snapped. "I want to be out of here. It is so airless and stifling!"

  "If it's too warm—" Dr. Milton began, but Alexandra cut her off with a violent gesture.

  “ENOUGH!!"

  "Maybe you'd better get a couple of orderlies," Isaac muttered. "I don't like what I'm seeing."

  Dr. Milton complied, hurrying out of the room.

  "Why don't you run away, too?" Alexandra demanded. "I don't want you here either, and I'm angry. I might hurt you."

  "I'm not afraid of you."

  "You are lying," she said. "Fear rises from you like mist."

  "All right," he conceded, "I am afraid. But not enough to keep from doing what I think right."

  "You are a fool."

  "Probably; but there it is."

  "Do you seriously believe you can chain me?" she demanded.

  "Who said anything about chains?"