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Trickster's Touch

by Zohra Greenhalgh

Panthe'kinarok Prologue

The Greatkin were a motley, passionate family of twenty-seven. Since they

had all sprung from the Presence at the same moment, each Greatkin was

exactly the same age. Still, the Greatkin loved to play elaborate,

sophisticated games of dress-up which involved the full spectrum of aging.

One Greatkin was particularly good at this. His name was Rimble. He was

the face of the Presence which represented the impossible, the unexpected,

and the devi-ant. A mischief-maker without peer, Rimble was also called

Trickster by many members of his large family. A master of disguise, Rimble

might appear as a toothless hag one moment and a youthful, perfumed fop

the next. Rimble excelled at many things: one of these was the art of

making himself completely irritating to everyone in his proximity. When

that failed to amuse him, Rimble would cause mischief on some world or

other.

At present, Rimble and his brothers and sisters were all seated at a round

table which had been elegantly set for a dinner party serving twenty-seven.

This was the Panthe'-kinarok feast where everything the Greatkin said and

did translated instantly into the known universes. The most idle

conversation could have the most far-reaching consequences here. Spats or

intrigues between dinner partners might cause wars—not to mention

indigestion for the Greatkin themselves. Fortunately, Rimble was fond of

his dinner partners, Phebene and Jinndaven. His affection for his sister and

brother had spared the family the worst of his unusually abominable table

manners. At present, Rimble had punctuated six of the nine dinner courses

with only thirteen belches, eight farts, and twenty-six yawns. Greatkin

Phebene was especially grateful to Rimble for behaving so well and said so.

"When you're polite, Rimble, dear, it makes eating so much more

enjoyable." She was the Greatkin of Great Loves and Tender Trysts and

tended to be a little on the syrupy side. Spectacularly beautiful, Phebene

wore a rain-bow-colored robe and a crown of green roses on her head. She

beamed at Rimble now, her voice full of seductive pleasantries and good

humor.

Rimble, who detested polite conversation, yawned for the twenty-seventh

time and grinned as Phebene's smile turned into a reproving scowl. Picking

his hooked nose (and eating its contents), Rimble said, "These

Panthe'kinarok dinners go on forever. Hates them, I do. Boring, boring,

boring."

Greatkin Jinndaven, who was seated on Rimble's right, groaned. If Rimble

was feeling bored, he was apt to do something—anything—to relieve the

tedium. Jinndaven tried not to think of all the ways Rimble might decide to

entertain himself, but since Jinndaven was the Greatkin of Imagination he

could not keep from imagining a thousand different scenarios, most of them

disastrous. Dressed in mauves and small mirrors, Jinndaven literally

sparkled when he moved. Leaning toward Trickster, the light of a nearby

candle glinted off Jinndaven's robe and found an answering resonance in

one of Trickster's pied eyes. Seeing this, Jinndaven hesitated.

"Well?" asked Rimble as nice as you please. "I just hope you don't plan to

make the last three courses of dinner as interesting as the first six."

"You still sore about the Jinnaeon?" Trickster asked incredulously.

Rimble referred to a sudden period of transition, a tricksterish shifttime , he

had named for his imaginative brother, Jinndaven. In certain terms, this

transition period could be seen as a mutation in time. This mutation (or

fluctuation) had been necessary to throw space and time off balance for a

while. If reality had remained on its usual track, Rimble couldn't have

triggered a quantum leap of consciousness that the Presence wanted

implemented through all the known universes. The Presence was the one

great being to whom the Greatkin owed their allegiance. It was the

Presence that all the Greatkin served, even Rimble.

It seemed the Presence thought the two-legged races in all the known

universes, especially the world of Mnemlith, were too concerned with their

day-to-day lives. They were missing the larger cosmological dramas that

developed and exploded around them on a constant basis. In the past

millennium or so, the Presence felt the two-legged races had grown

unbearably small-minded. It was Rimble's task to make them large-minded

again.

This task proved more difficult than Trickster could possibly have foreseen.

Not only were the two-leggeds of Mnemlith out and out resistant to change,

some of the Greatkin themselves acted in like manner, a few of them

consciously thwarting Rimble's attempts to do the will of the Presence.

Rimble thought this very small-minded of them , and said so often.

When Jinndaven didn't answer him immediately, Trick-ster repeated his

question, "You still sore about me calling it the Jinnaeon?"

"Well—I—" Jinndaven shrugged. "Yeah. I'm a little sore."

"Jinnaeon sounds better than Rimblaeon."

"That may be," Jinndaven admitted. "But look at all the trouble you caused

on Mnemlith. All in my name. You said it would be a teensy-weensy

fluctuation of consciousness. You had drugs, torture, insanity, civil

unrest—"

"Yes, yes," snapped Rimble hastily. "Well, it couldn't be helped. That was

the resistance to change. Mattie's fault entirely," added Rimble with a

sideways glance at another of his brothers, Greatkin Mattermat. This

Greatkin was the Patron of All Things Made Physical: of everything that

"mattered." At the moment, the ponderous fellow had his mouth full of

salad. Dressed in earth colors, Greatkin Mattermat smelled richly of caves

and loam and fir trees. Rimble grinned and added, "Mattie hates quantum

leaps, see. Hates them and blocks them."

Swallowing swiftly, Mattermat glared at Rimble and said, "Did I hear what I

think I just heard? Did you blame me for all the trouble on Mnemlith?"

Jinndaven pursed his lips and muttered, "At least Rimble didn't name an

age of transition after you. The Jinnaeon. The worst period of history that

Mnemlith has ever known." Jinndaven put his head in his hands and rolled

his eyes.

Rimble returned Mattermat's glare with one of his own. "Trouble? That

wasn't trouble. That was an experiment. An impr ooo vement. A remedy for a

stagnant situation—"

"Mnemlith was getting along fine until you interfered!" retorted Mattermat.

Among other things, Mattermat was also the Patron of Inertia. Being the

personification of change itself, Rimble had long ago decided that his divine

charge included the subversion of entropy—i.e., Mattermat—wherever he

found it. As a result, Rimble had earned the displeasure of his heavyweight

brother on countless occasions over the millennia.

"I saved that world!" cried Trickster, his boredom vanishing as he warmed

to the idea of having it out with Mattermat once and for all. "Furthermore

and most impor-tantly, I caused enough turmoil on Mnemlith to make folks

start praying to us again. In order to pray to us, they have to remember our

names. Remembering us makes them large-minded. And that , my dear

brothers and sisters, is the point."

Moments before the Panthe'kinarok meet and feast were to begin, Rimble

had decided that Mnemlith was the sleepiest world in the known universes.

According to Rimble, only a quarter of that world's population could recite

the names of all the Greatkin. Most had forgotten that the Greatkin had

ever existed. And even less than a quarter knew which of the Greatkin lived

in sunny Eranossa and which lived in the shadowy, subtle underworld called

Neath. Can't have that, said Rimble. Such forgetfulness might spread to

the un known universes. It would be a veritable plague of oblivion. So

Rimble had taken Mnemlith by the shoulders and shaken that world. Hard.

Mattermat sipped his wine, his eyes never leaving Trick-ster's. There was a

short silence while he drank. The tension in the room increased. Mattermat

put his wine goblet down carefully. Before he could speak again, Sathmadd,

the Patron of Organization, Mathematics, and Red Tape, inter-rupted.

"Rimble, I've had my fill of your turmoil, as you call it. Chaos and havoc

would be more apt," she said primly. She was a bustling sort of Greatkin,

fastidious and orderly to a fault. "I, for one, hope you keep your meddling

to a minimum from here on out. We've got three more courses to get

through. I vote to have them peaceful."

Several Greatkin nodded and clapped their hands politely in favor of

Sathmadd's suggestion. Rimble noted that all of them hailed from tidy,

cheery Eranossa. "Where all the bright ones live," muttered Rimble

sarcastically.

Troth, a dark-skinned quiet fellow, cleared his throat. Like Rimble, Troth

resided in Neath. The beautiful glass beads that adorned his braided hair

swung forward now as he changed position. Troth was the Greatkin of

Death; when he spoke everyone listened.

"Nothing is permanent, Mattermat. Not even us."

"Besides," said Trickster, "the Presence told me to meddle."

Mattermat snorted. "A likely story."

"Once a liar, always a liar," chimed in Sathmadd, wagging a finger at

Rimble sternly.

"I don't lie," yelled Rimble. "I'm Trickster. I live in Neath. We're not like you

day types. We don't tell every-thing we know all at once. It's not our

nature."

There was a long silence. During it, Rimble slumped in his chair. He

crumpled the linen napkin in his lap with frustration. Would no one in

Eranossa ever understand that he served the Presence same as the rest of

them? He had a divine right to meddle; it was his job, for Presence sake.

Rimble licked his lips and whispered in a singsong manner, "Trickster's my

name and change is my game. Trickster's my name and change is my game.

Trickster's my name—"

Jinndaven interrupted his brother sharply. "Cut that out, Rimble. This is the

Panthe'kinarok, when everything we say translates—"

"Yup," snapped Rimble, his pied eyes flashing with fury. "Trickster's my

name and change is my game. Trickster's—"

Finally hearing Rimble's words, Mattermat jumped to his feet. "Shut up! You

just shut up, Trickster! Don't you dare do one more thing to one more

world! I tell you, I won't have it! I won't!"

Now Mattermat appealed to the Greatkin whom the rest of the family

lovingly referred to as Eldest. Her real name was Themyth. She was the

Greatkin of Civilization. No Panthe'kinarok could begin without her opening

libation to the Presence. Her word was final in all disputes. Eldest, who had

been Rimble's lover recently, was dressed in a brightly colored patchwork

quilt, her gray hair tumbling free from its habitual, elegant bun. Under the

quilt, Eldest wore loose mix-matched clothing. No one had ever seen Eldest

attired in this fashion. It had been the silent conclu-sion at the table that

Rimble's lovemaking had influenced the Greatkin of Civilization. Everyone

hoped this influence would pass. It had been a great relief to some that

the place cards on the table had been arranged in such a manner that sat

Rimble next to Love and Imagination instead of Greatkin Themyth. The

seating arrangements had been Themyth's idea. Bedding Rimble was one

thing. Sitting next to him for a nine-course dinner was quite another.

Making love with Trickster would give all the civilizations in all the known

universes a small jolt; anything more extended might cause unwanted

anarchy. Mattermat hit the table with his fist. " Do something, Eldest!" Fruit

rolled out of a silver cornucopia and teetered on the table's edge.

Earthquakes abounded throughout creation.

"Mattie, dear, be careful ," said Themyth as she deftly caught the fruit

before it hit the floor. She replaced the apple and peach gently.

But Mattermat would not be calmed. "I want him stopped! I want him

contained! I want him out of this council!"

Eldest grabbed the wooden cane that rested against her chair and thwacked

it against the wooden floor. The sound resembled that of a very loud and

very uncompromising thunderclap. Everyone jumped, including Rimble.

Startled for the moment, Trickster broke off his litany for change.

"Now," said Themyth with great dignity, "we'll have no more of that at this

table. From either of you. Clear?"

Neither Mattermat nor Rimble said anything.

Eldest eyed both brothers coolly. Turning again to Rim-ble, she studied his

rather wild appearance. Rimble had painted his bare torso with yellow and

black diagonals during the break between the fourth and fifth courses. He

had pulled on fur pants made of the skin of coyotes and hung several gourd

rattles from a braided belt. Incongru-ously, Rimble wore a black bow tie

around his neck. Eldest cleared her throat. "Do you promise to leave

Mattie's things alone for the rest of dinner?"

As if on cue, Trickster jumped on his chair, let out a bloodcurdling shriek,

and yelled, "I don't have to stay here!"

When Jinndaven had recovered from Rimble's shout, he wiped his brow with

a lavender handkerchief several times and said, "I knew this was coming. I

just knew it. O sweet Presence preserve us—"

Eldest peered at Rimble. "Explain."

Rimble crossed his arms over his painted chest. "Ain't got nothing to

explain, Eldest. Nothing to explain at all. You don't want me here? Fine. I'll

go elsewhere."

Themyth frowned. "You can't go out of the universe, Rimble—"

Rimble snorted. "I got me the perfect antidote to Mr. Permanence and

Resistance over there," he said, inclining his head toward Mattermat.

Mattermat's face was scarlet with outrage. Trickster grinned and said, "I

think I likes changing matter from the inside the best. It's so irrevocable—"

"Not in this universe, you don't!" yelled Mattermat.

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