Zohra Greenhalgh - Tricksters Touch

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 deviant. 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 warsnot 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 rainbow 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 somethinganythingto 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, Trickster repeated his question, You still sore about me calling it the Jinnaeon? WellI 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 improoovement. 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 entropyi.e., Mattermatwherever 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 importantly, 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 unknown 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 Trickster'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, interrupted. 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.