Mattermat smiled. "I'm sure you do, little brother. And we can do very well without you here. If there's another place that needs you more than us—"
Jinndaven interrupted unexpectedly. As much as he felt justified in complaining about Trickster's mutation of a rose into a winterbloom, Jinndaven knew full well what would happen if Rimble left the Panthe'kinarok table for good. Matter would sclerose; ideas would become mediocre; habits would never be broken; life would stagnate. If Rimble did not exist, Jinndaven knew that the world—the universe—would in time cease to exist also. Trickster was the face of the Presence who kept things moving and growing. Entropy and inertia would set in immediately if the little ruffian stopped meddling in reality. Waving his hands, Jinndaven said,
"Don't be hasty, Rimble. I'm sure there's plenty of reasons for you to stay here."
"Can't think of a one," said Rimble, and shrugged. Bowing to Mattermat, Trickster said, "It's been a real pain knowing you. Hope things run more smoothly with me gone. I really do."
Themyth stood up. Was Rimble serious? "Rimble? You can't leave here.
Without you, everything will go out of balance. We need the tension you create—
"We do not!" cried Mattermat.
"Yes, we do," chimed Phebene. "No one will ever fall in love if you're not here to create the impossible possibility."
Trickster shook his head. "You'll do just fine without me, Phebes.
Good-bye," he said to everyone. Then without another word, Trickster vanished.
There was a long silence.
Mattermat peered into the physical space Trickster had just occupied. "Do you suppose he's really gone?" he asked hopefully.
Themyth got up. She walked slowly over to Rimble's chair. She felt the air.
She stuck her hand through time and space and grabbed hold of nothing.
Her old face paled. The patchwork quilt she had been wearing over her shoulders fell to the floor. Themyth walked into the kitchen. Rimble's roast was gone.
25
Rimble's departure from the known universes had immediate consequences. Old habits which one had hopefully discarded or outgrown in youth came creeping back with irritating tenacity. Obstacles that stood between the Guild in Speakinghast and various small interest groups solidified and became unmovable. Lovers lost their creativity and romanticism, breeding contempt and boredom. Artists continued making what they had made before. Surprise birth-day parties went out of fashion.
So did daring inventions. In short, civilization came to a grinding halt.
Meanwhile, in the unknown universes, specifically the one which held the Distant Place, Trickster's touch created an explosion of New Ideas and Possibility. Trickster, who had been called by many names in the Distant Place, was now recognized as Rimble the Transformer. The old mythology had been given a new infusion by Trickster's recent reentry into that world.
He was given a face-lift so to speak. Welcomed by the denizens of the Distant Place, Rimble settled in. Updating himself for the needs of the modern world, Trickster put on new clothing. He adopted a Mohawk on Saturday and Sunday, and a yuppie three-piece suit for the workweek, when he also carried a business card. It read:
IMPROVEMENTS, INC.
Creators of the Impossible Possibility
(800) 999-9999-9
Special Agent: Mr. Rimble
Trickster distributed his business card in every city of the world. People who were in desperate need of radical, irrevocable, and life-giving change in their lives called Rimble at all hours of the day and night. Rimble, who possessed and needed no phone, simply heard their calls in his mind. As soon as the request was made, the power of change was released to the individual. Of course, since it was Trickster answering the calls, change occurred in the most unexpected and fantastic ways. Coincidence knew no bounds. Neither did eccentricity. Trickster loved every minute of his new job. Everyone who requested help from him became Rimblessah—blessed by Rimble. And changed forever.
One day, Trickster and the Obstinate Woman took a walk down by the east banks of Lake Michigan in Milwaukee. Even though it was still winter in Mnemlith, it was edging toward fall in Wisconsin. The trees were covered in a pageant of orange-pink and yellow leaves. The air was eager and gusted merrily across the teal-blue water of the gigantic lake. The Obstinate Woman pulled her gray muffler and hat down over her ears. Since it was Saturday, Trickster carried a skateboard under his arm and sported a denim jacket with rhinestones and buttons stuck all over it. His stiff black Mohawk listed in the wind. Trickster turned to the Obstinate Woman and said,
"Wonder how things are going in Mnemlith?"
The Obstinate Woman shrugged. "Probably not very well. How long do you plan to abandon them—"
"Abandon them?" interrupted Trickster. "I hardly call it that. Tis they who have abandoned me, girlie. They didn't know what they had when they had it. Always complaining, always wishing I'd go away. Well, I have. And I likes it much better here," he added with a grin. "People ask for my help, you know. All the time. Day and night. It's quite nice, it is. Quite gratifying."
"You don't think people in Mnemlith need your help?"
"That's not the point. Sure, they need my help. But they don't want it. They don't ask for it. See the difference?"
The Obstinate Woman grunted.
There was a short pause.
Trickster watched the waves in silence. Finally he said, "You really think I should check up on things?"
The Obstinate Woman nodded. "Yup. You kind of left Kelandris and Zendrak with a mess, you know. You left them in a world that hasn't got the quality of change represented in it. They're your children, yes. But without you being represented at the Panthe'kinarok, how can they activate that side of their nature? You're not there to mirror it back. So what are they to do, Rimble? You've crippled them."
Trickster scowled. "I think you're exaggerating mightily, missy."
"I don't."
There was another short pause.
"Well," said Trickster, wiping his nose on his sleeve, "I have been curious about everyone. I suppose I could make a quick return. A weekend jaunt, as it were."
"Good idea," replied the Obstinate Woman drily.
In Mnemlith time, Greatkin Rimble had been gone only three weeks. But what a three weeks it had been. True to his word, Gadorian had shut down the Kaleidicopia, its entrance and first-floor windows boarded up. Rimble's Own, as the members of his ennead were known among themselves, had scattered into the streets of Speakinghast.
In the north, Kelandris, Zendrak, Himayat, and Po remained in Suxonli Village after Hennin's death. The two Greatkin had felt Rimble's departure from the known universes and had been stunned. Unsure what their father expected of them, both Greatkin had sought the counsel of their mother, Greatkin Themyth. Themyth had visited her children appearing as an old crone at the crossroads outside Suxonli on several occasions. She did so now.
Gone were Themyth's playful patchwork clothes. In their stead were drab colors and limp, threadbare materials. Her gray hair was matted, her wrinkles pronounced. Themyth limped toward Kelandris and Zendrak. She used her cane to
support her frail body. Her condition had alarmed both her children. They had begged her to contact Rimble, but Themyth had refused. The Greatkin of Civilization pre-ferred to keep her condition secret from Rimble. She wanted him to feel free to do what he felt he needed to do. Kelandris had thought this absurd and spent a great deal of time sending urgent messages to the Obstinate Woman in Milwaukee trying to convince her to tell Rimble he needed to return home as soon as possible. The Obstinate Woman had finally succeeded down by the shores of Lake Michigan. Rimble made his first appearance in Mnemlith at the crossroads outside Suxonli moments after Themyth appeared there.
Sleek and happy himself, Rimble stared open-mouthed at the Greatkin of Civilization. He had expected Themyth to react negatively to his disappearance, but he had never expected her to waste away. "Themyth,"
he said softl
y, "why didn't you tell me this was so hard on you?"
The Greatkin of Civilization shrugged. "You needed to leave. Why should I stop you from doing that? You're an independent sort, Rimble. Always have been. From the moment you freed us all from Great Being, that's been your nature. Your freedom is your being. I understand this and would never cage you here."
Rimble swallowed. He felt awful—for once. He put his hands out and touched Themyth gently on the cheeks. "You're so very dear to me. More than any of the others, you matter most to me," he said with uncharacteristic affection. "I would've returned for your sake. Always."
Kelandris, who was standing nearby with Zendrak, raised an eyebrow. She leaned toward her brother and whispered, "Seems the Distant Place has softened his heart a bit."
"Yes," agreed Zendrak. "How unexpected. Somehow I never figured Dad for a paragon of compassion. Suppose it's a trick?"
Kelandris shook her head. "Feels to me like he's really upset about Themyth's health. I think he really loves her."
"Phebene is getting through to Dad, after all."
"Yeah."
Rimble put his arm around Themyth. He guided her away from their children, measuring his quick step to Themyth's labored ones. Out of hearing of Zendrak and Kelandris, Rimble said, "You want to make love?"
Themyth shook her head. "You always make me pregnant."
"I don't have to make you pregnant."
"No tricks?"
"No tricks."
Themyth smiled slightly.
Rimble grinned. "I saw that. I saw that smile there, girlie."
Themyth started laughing. As she did so, she lost years off her apparent age. Her eyes twinkled as she thought of the happy prospect of bedding Trickster. "Remember that position where you hang from the ceiling and I—"
Trickster shrieked with giggles.
Kelandris looked at Zendrak. "What do you suppose they're talking about?"
she asked.
Zendrak kissed her playfully on the mouth.
26
While Rimble and Themyth made love, the world of Mnemlith was transformed. Civilization prospered—albeit eccentrically—and Rimble's Nine found their footing again. Rowenaster, who had always been independently wealthy (and quite tenured), bought a house in the Asilliwir section of Speakinghast and invited the rest of the Kaleidicopians to come and live there. Friends with some of the most powerful and influential merchants in the city, Rowenaster was able to buy the house for practically nothing.
Located on Bazaar Street, the house was symmetrical and not quite as large as the Kaleidicopia. Made of old brownstone, it was studded with stained glass and marble archways. The house had a central courtyard and was surrounded by a walled garden that had been meticulously cared for by its previous tenants. Here was a place of great privacy. The Asilliwir merchants who prospered on this well-to-do street allowed the Guild little interference in their lives. Many of these merchants were the ones who kept the Guild solvent. Rowen knew it.
And so did Gadorian.
Guildmaster Gadorian stared moodily into his coddled egg which nestled inside a floral porcelain container on the kitchen table. Master Curator Sirrefene bustled about squeezing oranges on the counter and browning toast on a rack over the open fire in the kitchen hearth in their Saambolin residence. Seeing Gadorian's expression, she said, "Cheer up, love. The Asilliwir will keep the Kaleidicopians in line—more or less."
"It's the less I'm worried about."
"Well, at least the house on Bazaar Street is attractive."
"True."
Gadorian groaned. "What's wrong with Rowenaster? Why does he insist on living with those people?"
"Maybe he likes them."
Gadorian rolled his eyes.
Sirrefene put a glass of fresh juice on the table next to her husband's dark-skinned hand. "You know, Gad—the Kaleidicopian's got rid of that gray thing. Akindo, I think they called it. No one at the 'K' wanted it in the city any more than you did."
Gadorian pursed his lips. "There were reports of a Mythrrim in the sky, Sirrey. And these reports all originated inside that house. Those people are rumormongers. They're dissidents. They make havoc of city rules. They should be kicked out of Speakinghast altogether. And there's a new mood, Sirrey. Have you felt it? All in the last week or so. Members of the Saambolin Guild are saying we're looking at a more relaxed time now in the city. They're even considering starting a scholarship fund for artists over at the university. They're going to pay the Jinn to go to school!"
Sirrefene smiled. "Maybe our time in the city is past, Gad. Maybe there's a new age acoming. If so, we'll have to make room for it, won't we, my love?"
Gadorian grunted.
In the north, Kelandris and Zendrak began the long process of straightening out the distortions they found in the rituals the Mayanabi had given to Suxonli Village centuries ago. It seemed that the person who had done the original telling of the Mythrrim for Greatkin Rimble had added a few things of his own to the storytelling. Since Rimble was such an eccentric Greatkin, it had been difficult to even see the distortions, much less correct them in the original.
Needless to say, the old guard in Suxonli—all those who had been loyal to Hennin—complained bitterly of the changes Zendrak and Kelandris brought to their village.
When they also discovered that Kelandris was indeed the same person they had judged akindo sixteen years ago, there were midnight meetings and talk of enacting the Ritual of Akindo a second time. When Zendrak found out about these meetings, he laughed. Calling the entire village together, he informed them that he was Trickster's son and emissary. Pointing to Kelandris, he told them she was Trickster's daughter.
"In other words, folks, you're looking at a direct line of transmission.
Greatkin to Greatkin. You want to twist my father's rituals into something unrecognizable? Fine, but you do it on your own time. And you do it far from Suxonli. Centuries ago, Suxonli was a sacred spot—so designated by the Mythrrim Beasts of Soaringsea. You will keep Trickster's Hallows exactly as they are handed down to you, or you will leave."
Zendrak paused while the villagers muttered among themselves.
Hennin's best friend, Village Elder Rigga, spoke harshly. "Rituals change over time. Stories are embellished. Accounts are changed to suit the needs of the people. If Greatkin Rimble were here, I'm sure he wouldn't impose rules on his followers. He's the breaker of rules, not the maker of them.
You've been living in Saambolin too long. We don't like your attitude. And we're not going to accept it."
Zendrak smiled. Turning to Rimble, who presently sat at his feet in the guise of a pied-eyed brindle dog named Pi, Zendrak said, "Your turn, Father. They don't think I'm representing your wishes."
Trickster grinned, pulling his lips back over his teeth. Standing up, Trickster changed form. He appeared to the villagers of Suxonli as a middle-aged skateboarding punk. Chewing a large wad of gum, Rimble blew a pink bubble. It popped.
The sound of it was deafening.
People put their hands to their heads. A few cried out in pain. Rimble watched their discomfort with a glacial expression. When the noise and complaining in the village council room had died down, Rimble said, "Now that I've got your attention, I have this to say: This village isn't special in the least to me. It's only a physical place, folks. If you had kept my Hallows intact and not read into them what you wanted to see, then this place would've been special. As it is, I could blow it off the face of the world and not miss it one whit." Trickster let his words sink in. "And I may yet do that. Themyth and I are discussing your fate, you see. She's your champion. Not me. Personally, I don't think you deserve to be given a second chance with my Mythrrim. You've proved yourselves grossly incompetent as it is. I gave you my daughter, and you tried to kill her? And now you'd run my son out of town? You know what that says to me? Says you're blind, deaf, and stupid." Rimble's eyes blazed as he warmed to the task of telling Suxonli what he thought of them. "Either you accept
Zendrak and Kel's rule, or you get out. Now."
There was a short pause.
During the silence, Rimble went up to several people in the front row. "You leave. And you. You, too."
"But I—" began one of them.
Rimble slapped the woman on the face. "You think I can't read your mind, lady? You think I can't read your ugly thoughts? They're like a quadraphonic stereo blaring in my ears!"
"A what?" asked the man next to the unfortunate woman. Of course, no one in Suxonli had ever heard of a stereo, much less a quadraphonic one.
Greatkin Rimble ignored the question. Pushing through the chairs, he told several more people to leave. When they hesitated, he began to blow at them. They lifted into the air and slammed against the back of the council room. Those who shared these people's opinion of Zendrak and Kelandris got to their feet hastily and ran from the room. They didn't want to wait until Trickster read their thoughts as well. Only a handful of people were left in the room—approximately twelve, some of them teenagers over the age of seventeen. Trickster put his hands on his hips. Looking down at one young girl, he said, "You want to turn for me this autumn at the revel?"
The girl blushed, and nodded vigorously.
Looking at Himayat, who was still in Suxonli with Po, Trickster said, "You train her, will you?"
Himayat nodded, and bowed slightly to Trickster.
"Po?" said Trickster. "You've got a choice. You can either stay up here and keep this village in order, or you can come back to Speakinghast and keep order there."
Po peered at Rimble. "You sure you're talking to me?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"Keeping order isn't my favorite thing—"
"Well, bud," interrupted Trickster, "it's your favorite thing now." Trickster bowed to the little thief. As the Greatkin did so, he clunked Po on the forehead with his own head. Po staggered backward, swearing. When the little thief had gotten his balance back, he said, "What the fuck did you just do, Rimble?"
Trickster cackled. "Change or be changed, asshole."
Trickster's Touch Page 18