The Feast of the Trickster

  "Which is why they need my help," Eikoheh said. "I will weave allies for you, in the world whither you are bound."

  The Weaver looked anxious. "A Fate that spans the void?"

  Eikoheh drew herself up. "Yes."

  "I admire your courage," the Weaver told her.

  "I shall help her," Ohmiden put in. "I have already dreamed of 'Tsan. If my dreams can span the void, I think the Dreamweaver's Fate will have no trouble."

  "You are resolved to go," the Dreamer said to the five companions. "And you are resolved to aid them as you can," he added to Ohmiden and Eikoheh. "Faithful friends, indeed."

  "We are resolved to go," Karivet acknowledged. "When—and how—will you send us; and how will we return?"

  The Weaver answered. "Together, the three of us can send you across the void without touching the Loom's power. Once you are there, we will follow your progress as best we can—through the Dreamweaver's Fate, and by direct means; we are able to scry beyond the void. When you are ready to return, link hands and call upon us. Use my true name: Elgonar. I will hear you, and the three of us will draw you back. We will send you"—he spread his hands—"when the Dreamweaver tells you all is in readiness."

  "The Fate is strung," the old woman said. "And as for mundane needs—" she gestured to the door, to a cluster of bulging knapsacks for the travelers—"Ohmiden has seen to it."

  The Namegiver held up one hand. "Wait. One thing more. We must give them the language, so that they need not waste time learning to speak to 'Tsan's people."

  The Weaver and the Dreamer agreed. While the gods took counsel together, Iobeh, Karivet, and Eikoheh exchanged glances; it had fallen to them to teach 'Tsan the Senathii, the speech of the peoples, when she had first come. It had not been easy.

  The Weaver spoke again. "If we pool our power, we will be able to give you the language and we can send you across the void whenever you choose. Perhaps in the morning?"

  Let's do it now, Iobeh signed. I won't get any sleep for worrying, if we wait.

  The others agreed. They said their farewells to Eikoheh and Ohmiden, then clasped hands in the center of the room. The old woman began flinging the shuttle through the warp. The gods linked hands and called their power. For several moments nothing happened, then air hissed past them and they were swept into swirling darkness.

  Once the Five were gone, the gods took their leave. Eikoheh sat late at her weaving; while Ohmiden cleaned up, he heard her mutter, several times: "Allies. I must weave them allies."

  SIX

  Angel let out a yodel and urged Gabe into a mad gallop up the slope Brice had christened "Black Stallion Hill." The two boys followed Angel's lead; they reined in laughing on the crest of the hill. Angel saw the sun glinting on the Orange Reservoir; out of habit, her eyes sought the forlorn bulk of the Blocktower, a derelict square structure, rather like a Saxon fort, built by some summer people. If you didn't know where to look for it, it tended to blend into the landscape. Suddenly, Angel tensed.

  "Look!" she pointed. "Smoke—by the Blocktower. I wonder what's going on."

  "Probably someone having a picnic," Mark offered.

  "At nine in the morning?" Angel scoffed.

  "Maybe someone is camping there," Brice suggested.

  "Let's check it out." Angel and Gabe set off without waiting for a response. Mark and Brice shared long-suffering looks before they followed.

  The steep path up to the Blocktower was badly eroded by the frequent passage of dirt bikes. Angel tried to set a sedate pace, so as not to startle anyone who might be around, but Gabe took the bit and thundered up the path. At the top, Angel reasserted control. Smoke rose from behind the tower. As she and her friends slowly approached, a figure swathed in outlandish white robes sprang from the grass. Churchy shied violently, nearly unseating Mark. Angel gasped as she realized the figure barring their way held a sword. Brice gave a low whistle, then said in an undervoice that almost hid his tremor of apprehension, "Angel, your aliens have landed."

  "We're friends," Angel told the unwavering sword. "We're peaceful. We're harmless!" Her voice crackled with panic.

  When Mark had Churchy under control, he took the reins in one hand and extended his open palm toward the robed figure. "We're unarmed," he said with a calmness Angel envied.

  The figure sheathed the sword. "Come with me." It was a woman's voice. "Perhaps you can aid us."

  "Take us to your leader," Brice whispered; he and Angel had to stifle nervous giggles. They followed. The woman and her companions had cut back some of the turf and laid a campfire. Meat was roasting on a spit, and steam escaped from a lidded kettle set in the coals. There were four others, all similarly robed. As Angel and the boys stared, one of the others rose, swept his hood back from a halo of white-blond hair, and bowed.

  "I trust we have not invaded your territory," he began. "We are strangers here; we do not mean to offend."

  Angel waited for Mark to answer; she'd been impressed with his calm in the face of the swordswoman. But when he said nothing, she drew a deep breath to steady her voice. "We don't own the Blocktower, and I don't suppose Old Man Chandler will notice unless you start a brush fire. We saw the smoke and came to check it out."

  "You're not sentries for this—Old Man Chandler?"

  Angel made a face, partly puzzled, partly exasperated. "Sentries? We're just kids. We keep our horses over at Horizon Stable and we ride around here." She took the offensive. "Where are you from, anyway? And how did you get here?" she added, as she noticed there was no trace of any vehicle.

  "We are from a distant land," one of the others said: another woman; she, too, pushed back her hood, revealing a sharp-featured face and shrewd, silvery-gray eyes. "We are on a quest and hope that you can aid us."

  Brice laughed. "I get it. You guys are into that Dungeons and Dragons stuff. Look, we don't want to interrupt; we'll just head out and let you get back to your game."

  "Wait," the young man said firmly, and Brice hesitated in spite of himself. "We are not playing a game. We do need your help. At least hear us out before you refuse."

  The three kids exchanged looks; Mark whispered, "This is really weird, but it can't hurt to listen, surely."

  Angel turned back to the young man. "So explain."

  "As my companion said, we come from a distant place; three of our gods sent us across the void to this world. Our quest is of the utmost importance. In the land whence we come, the very fabric of reality is weakening. We must find a woman of your world, a friend of ours, who was drawn to our world to fulfill her destiny. When her quest was accomplished, the Trickster cast her out, tearing her thread from the Loom of Fate. Alas, her thread was tightly woven into the Loom, and the Trickster's deed did grave damage. We seek our friend in hopes that she may heal the Loom and save our world." The young man smiled wryly. "That is the noble side of our quest. But there is a human side, as well. 'Tsan is our friend, and she is not happy here. After all she has done for us, she deserves better. We seek her for the gods' sake, for our sake, and for hers. Will you aid us?"

  There was silence when he finished. The thin woman laughed harshly. "It's no good, Remarr; they don't believe you." She pinned Mark with her eyes and asked, "What is 'Waterbury'?"

  Mark flushed and stammered, "W-Waterbury?"

  The woman nodded patiently. "You were wondering whether we had escaped from Waterbury. I can assure you we haven't. We don't even know what—or where—Waterbury is."

  Angel felt the imp of mischief prod her. "There's a state mental hospital in Waterbury," she said. "I bet that's what Mark was thinking of."

  "'State mental hospital,'" the woman repeated; then her eyes widened. "You think we're mad."

  "You're not exactly normal," Angel replied brightly. "Do you want a turn to—you know—tighten up your friend's story?"

  The woman frowned. "What would convince you that we are, indeed, from another world?" Angel said nothing, thinking that maybe this had gone too far. These folks might be dangerous. Wa
terbury: Mark wasn't far off base. She started fishing for a tactful exit line; the woman interrupted. "Watch."

  The woman's form blurred suddenly; as they gaped, her shape changed, reassembled: a woman no longer. A wolf confronted them, the woman's gray eyes strangely intelligent in its face. Angel bit her tongue to keep from screaming. The wolf regarded them. Convinced? Her sarcastic voice spoke directly in their minds.

  "Can you all do that?" Angel squeaked. "And can you do any shape you want or just wolves?"

  The wolf melted into a red-tailed hawk with human eyes. Only I. My companions have other gifts. Then she resumed her human shape. "I am called Ychass; this"—she touched the blond man's shoulder—"is Remarr." Indicating the woman with the sword, she said, "Vihena. And Iobeh, and Karivet." The last two were younger; as Ychass introduced them, they pushed their hoods back, revealing curly dark hair and faces with a great deal of resemblance to one another. Only the swordswoman still wore her hood; all they could see of her face was a pair of cold eyes.

  There was a long silence. Angel found herself suspended between terror and jubilation. (Aliens! They really ARE aliens!)

  Then she realized she hadn't retained a single name. Before she could confess, though, the one who had changed shape repeated the introductions. This time, Angel found she could actually look at the five of them without her mind flinching.

  "Iobeh and I are twins," Karivet said, explaining their resemblance. "And my sister does not speak. If you can help us find our friend, we will be ever in your debt."

  "Do you have any idea where she's staying—the town or city?" Mark asked. He sounded officious; Angel realized he was as overwhelmed as she, but was coping in his own way.

  "Town?" Karivet echoed. "No, we haven't."

  "This may not be as simple as you hope," Mark warned. ''There are nearly five hundred thousand people in Vermont alone; and I don't suppose you're even certain she is in Vermont."

  "What is Vermont? Is it a town?"

  Brice answered; his voice sounded as though part of his mind were elsewhere. Angel knew the feeling. "No, a state; a region. We're in Vermont, now, in the town of—Orange, I guess; or Plainfield. Those are little towns. If your friend is in one of them, it ought to be easy to find her. What's her name?"

  "'Tsan," Karivet responded.

  "'Tsan?" Angel echoed doubtfully. "Is that it? I mean, she's not from around here with a weird name like that. Here, people have at least two names: I'm Angel Newcomb. And this is Brice Crowley, and Mark Harrington."

  "'Tsan was what we called her," Remarr clarified, as he dredged his harper's memory for her whole name. "Alexandra Scarsdale," he said when it surfaced.

  "It could be worse," Brice pointed out cheerfully. "At least we're not looking for a Jane Smith."

  "We?" Mark broke in. "Have we decided to help?"

  "Of course we'll help!" Angel retorted. "They're my alien invasion."

  "Angel," Mark began, in his most annoying 'let's-bereasonable' tone; but Brice cut him off.

  "They're just looking for a friend, Mark. It's not like we're being asked to slay a dragon. Where's your sense of adventure, anyway?"

  Mark regarded his friends seriously before his wry smile surfaced. "The last time you asked me that, Brice, I ended up staying after school every day for a month."

  Brice grinned. "Yeah, but it was worth it."

  The Five watched their exchange, puzzled. "Will you help, or not?" Ychass asked at last.

  "We'll help," Angel replied. Suddenly, she registered a sound that had been growing in the distance: dirt bikes. "Uh-oh, we may have company. Look, you guys: hide in the Blocktower. In those billowing white things, you look like a bunch of superbleached Hare Krishnas." She turned to her friends. "We've got to get them some real clothes."

  "First priority," Mark agreed. "I can scrounge some of my older brother's stuff."

  Angel nodded. "In the meantime, you guys stay here. We'll deal with the dirt bikes and come back later with clothes. While we're gone, don't talk to anyone else. We'll be back as soon as we can." With an ordinary task at hand, Angel wasted no time. The strangers had barely absorbed their plan before the three kids turned their horses toward the sound of the bikes. Soon, they were herding a pair of dirt bikes ahead of them. They were halfway home before the bikers escaped them.

  ***

  "Hide?" Vihena snorted. "I wouldn't hide from the Trickster herself. Who do those three think they are?"

  Perhaps they are the allies Eikoheh promised to weave for us, Iobeh suggested.

  "Let's hope not," Vihena retorted. "You heard them: their first priority was clothing." She turned to the twins. "I doubt clothing was the first thing you thought of doing for 'Tsan."

  "No," Karivet agreed. "Teaching her the language was."

  There was a silence, which Remarr broke. "Ychass, what do you think? Could those three be the allies Eikoheh promised?"

  The shapeshifter shrugged. "We are strangers; they may be useful. Then again, they were very frightened of us. They look full grown, but their thoughts are young. One of them—the one called Brice—wondered what his mother would say if she knew."

  "Wonderful," Vihena snapped. "I'm certainly not planning to hide from anyone! If others come along, we should approach them, in hopes that they are our allies, instead of these children."

  "I won't dispute that, Vihena," Ychass said. "Surely it can do no harm to ask questions."

  SEVEN

  More dreams! Alexandra thought with disgust. Can't they leave me alone? That thought made her flinch: they weren't doing anything to her; this was her own impossible subconscious. Was she getting paranoid on top of everything else?

  She rose. Though she had slept, she did not feel rested. What was she going to do? The past three years had not been easy, but she had thought she was through the worst of it. Now, her dreams were again tormenting her with glimpses of her delusional world. And she missed it—that was the crowning irony.

  "I'm going over the edge," she said aloud. "And part of me wants to."

  She used her morning routine to stifle her uncomfortable thoughts. After she mopped her dripping face, she caught sight of her wan reflection in the bathroom mirror. She grimaced; her reflection suddenly wavered. Instead of her own familiar image, she faced the Weaver. 'Tsan, he spoke in her mind.

  Alexandra screamed. She snatched her hairbrush and hurled it at the mirror. The glass shattered, taking with it the terrifying reflection. "No, NO!" she shouted. "Get out of my head! Leave me alone! Leave me alone! LEAVE ME ALONE!!"

  Concerned voices and a knock on the emergency fire door doused Alexandra's hysteria. "Are you okay in there?"

  She struggled for control. She didn't even know these next-door neighbors. She didn't want them prying into her madness. After several deep breaths, she spoke. "Sorry! I'm okay. Really. I didn't mean to alarm you." Her voice sounded shrill in her own ears; but she prayed the neighbors would buy it. If they came through the fire door, the resulting alarm would rouse the whole dorm. The thought appalled her.

  "You sure?" the voice was doubtful. "It sounded like you were being murdered."

  "I'm sure, I'm okay. Thanks. I'm so sorry to have alarmed you!" Her voice sounded better this time; fortunately, her neighbor couldn't see the shuddering that wracked her body. He made some acknowledging noises, then left her alone. Alexandra returned to the bedroom, collapsed on the bed, and buried her face in her hands. The shudders turned to sobs; acutely aware of her neighbors, she muffled her face in her pillow and cried as though the world were ending.

  ***

  The grinding rumble Angel had called "dirt bikes" returned to trouble the morning. Vihena listened intently. If the sound were as distant as it seemed, it was quite loud. She wondered what sort of animal would make so much noise. At least it wasn't hunting; such a racket would drive prey into hiding.

  "I would guess that it is approaching," Remarr said. "Are you certain we shouldn't take our visitors' advice?"

  "And hide?"
Vihena's eyes flashed. "I am not so craven."

  "No one doubts your bravery," the minstrel retorted. "But is it wise to confront the unknown so rashly?"

  "This whole venture was rash: a leap into the unknown, Singer. Surely it is late to counsel caution?"

  Remarr eyed her coldly. "I have a name—a given one, if not a clan name. Use it."

  "Indeed, Remarr. And what honorific should I use? Lord Remarr? Master Remarr? Remarr of the Golden-Throat?"

  Stop it! Iobeh interposed herself between them. You sound like cats battling over territory. The noise is close. Leave your argument until we have at least figured out what it is.

  It was impossible to guess Vihena's expression behind her veil, but Remarr looked sheepish. "My apologies, Iobeh," he murmured; but further discussion was cut off by the appearance of two peculiar beasts. Vihena pushed herself in front of Iobeh and Remarr, raising her sword.

  The beasts halted; their roars changed to a purr. Instead of feet, they had wheels that enabled them to travel very quickly. A single eye glowed between two thin antlers; and oddest of all, perched on the back of each purring creature was a strange, human-like figure with a round, hairless, oversized head that was utterly without features. The Five gaped. The largest of the humanoids dismounted, raised both hands to his head and removed—his helmet! Recognition, like the sighting of a familiar landmark on a desert horizon, washed over the Five. These two were people—mounted rather strangely, but about the same age as the three who had arrived earlier on horseback.

  "What do you think you're doing?" the unhelmeted boy said belligerently. "This is private property!"

  Ychass, who had been lounging nonchalantly against the gray bulk of the Blocktower, sauntered toward him. "So it is," she agreed. "And we well might ask you what business you have on Chandler land."

  The second rider spoke, his voice muffled by his helmet. "If they've got permission…"

  The first boy's gesture cut him off. "Old Man Chandler isn't going to give a bunch of freaked-out cultists permission to do their crazy rites on his property." He glared at Ychass. "So what are you doing here?"