Contrarywise by Zohra Greenhalgh With Love To the Deviant Denizens of Lytheria: Past, Present, and Future Especially to Lee Schneider Who Provided the Refuge in the First Place Acknowledgments Hearty thanks to my mother who provided my Big Brother (typewriter) in the nick of time; to my father for his gracious grant in 1984; to Jean Marie Stafford for an early vote of confidence and those wild family dinners which first inspired the Panthe'kinarok; to the late Jane Roberts—teacher, mystic, and pioneer—her husband Rob Butts, and the rest of the regular class rowdies for their blessed spiritual irreverence (especially the «Boys from New York»), to Seth himself for his disarming and devastating model of the Tricky Teacher, to the Sumari for ancient songs that linger just out of mind, to Pir Vilayat Inayat Khan for reminding me of Splendour; to the generous Yellow Springs of Ohio for iron medicine and the concept of landdraw; to my editor Terri Windling for early morning coffee and spirited courage; to the countless musicians to whose work I listened while writing—especially to those gentle heretics Ron Romanovsky and Paul Phillips; to my agent Val Smith who has a «soft spot» in her heart for Trickster; to Karen Pauli for Utter Chocolate Decadence; to David Bowie (whom I've never met) for his pied-eyed Jinnjirri visuals; to Professors Bruce Stark and Harold Scheub of the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee and Madison respectively for Tricksterish lectures on Loki and Uncle Tompa; to Keith Stafford for his insight regarding artistic sketches and his gift of Everywhen; to the Room 9 Hearthhags for their female presence and creative heroism; to the Hearth for messages; to Midori Snyder for fight scene specifics; to Charles and Mary Ann de Lint for writerly support when it was sorely needed; to Stephanie for tea; to my sister Sarah for fierce faith; to Kato Hayden for sheer exuberance; to David Piselli for being absolutely Contrary; to Anja for ambulatory walking sticks; to the Coffee Trader of Milwaukee for many hours of conversation and livelihood; to J.D. LaBash for impromptu talks on molecular biology and «selfish DNA»; to Marjorie Shyne and her daughter, Patti, for introducing me to the East Coast ditty «Dicky Dunkin'»; to Judy Frabotti for bringing me the concept of «the group» at the right moment; to Ardvesura Krafft for sounding my heart during a stolen, fierce week in August; to Kathe Ann for the storyteller's perspective; to the scattered cast of The Seven Rooms for patience; to Grace Daley for the pun on her name; to the seen and unseen participants in my Lake Michigan Naming Ceremony for that new dawn; to my Grandmother Marie Walbridge Greenhalgh for «trust fund» teaching; to Mark Arnold for rampant tomatoes and solitude when it was needed; to my gray-haired, gold-eyed cat, Rimble—for his impossible, four-legged displays of claiming affection; to Gary Cone for the meaning of Podiddley; to the outraged, young Afghan woman on the cover of National Geographic, June 1985—may you be answered; to my beloved kin, Desiree Luena Bell, for embodying the sweet trueness of friendship; and finally to that irrepressible rogue, Trickster—here's to your great, wild heart and endless Improoovements on my life. Better known as Divine Meddling… The Trickster's Touch PART I He came to her when her world was frozen And the dormant dreamed of Spring; He came to her on her own asking Her need his open door. His ways cut deep, His smile sly And forged in some ancient, secret place— His black eyes exacting. He was a summer wind in autumn, Circling the stillborn house of her soul, Prying and piercing Until she reached weeping-blind For the promise of his unknown. Stark and hungry for essentials, Seeking bone and sinew Under layers of wool and homespun chatter, He shattered her at Trickster's Hallows And left, The wild poison of his thaw An aching kiss upon her lips, His touch Searing. He was the invited stranger, The masked reveller of the street. And she? She was the Great Fool's common ground; She was Greatkin Rimble's He.
—Kelandris of Suxonli circa Jinnaeon The Panthe'kinarok Prologue In truth, there was no eldest or youngest among the Greatkin for they had all emerged from the Presence at the same moment. However, they were a playful family who loved games of pretend almost as much as they loved to create worlds, each of the twenty-seven Greatkin adopting and discarding an endless array of shifting physical forms with exuberant abandon. In time, the Greatkin became such skillful masters of disguise that they confused even themselves. One day, in a fit of pique, Sathmadd, the Greatkin of Organization, Mathematics, and Red-Tape protested vigorously. Her exasperated outburst earned her a moment of unprecedented silence—which she promptly filled with her own opinion. Wagging a finger at her boisterous brothers and sisters, this tidy-minded Greatkin proposed that each of them chose a favorite persona, a single Primordial Face that would be immediately recognizable to each other and to all the peoples of their worlds. «There now,» finished Sathmadd, folding her old hands primly in her lap. «Isn't that a lovely idea?» «Nope,» retorted the youngest and most wily Greatkin of them all. Sathmadd peered at him over her bifocals. «What do you mean nope!» «Just nope,» he replied, sticking his chin in the air. The name of this Greatkin was Rimble. Called Trickster by his family, this little maverick was the Greatkin of Deviance, the Unexpected, and the Impossible. Currently, Rimble appeared as a cross between a French fop, a griot, and an urban bagman. Rimble was also uncommonly short. And glib of tongue. Sathmadd gave her little brother a wary look. «Would you to explain yourself?» «Oh, Maddi,» cried another Greatkin with alarm, «don't give Trickster a lead-in like that! He'll have us here all day!» The speaker's name was Jinndaven. He was the Greatkin of Imagination. Rimble smiled serenely at Jinndaven and got to his feet. «On the contrary, dear brother. What I have to say is brief.» He grinned as Jinndaven stared at him in surprise. «Just keeping you on your jingle-toes,» replied Trickster nodding at the silver, upturned slippers worn by the Greatkin of Imagination; they were rimmed with tiny, tinkling bells. «No point in doing the Expected,» Rimble added with a sly wink. «Now where was I? Oh, yes— Sathmadd's proposal.» Rimble eyed his older, gray-haired sister with weary patience. «Maddi, dearest—» he began. «Uh-oh,» she grumbled. Rimble batted his' long eyelashes at her. «Maddi, dearest—a single persona is a Boring Idea. Think of what the mortals will do with it.» Sathmadd looked unconvinced. Rimble paced. Then he stopped abruptly and said, «Mortals enjoy mental boxes more than you do, Maddi. They delight in trying to explain us away. Give them the idea that they can recognize us by one Primordial Face, and you'll have them calling us things like Muses, Archetypes, and—» «Goddesses,» said Sathmadd dreamily. Rimble hesitated, stroking his black goatee. «Well, there is that.» Trickster considered the matter from this angle and said, «All right, Maddi. I accept your proposal. But only on one condition.» «What is it?» asked Sathmadd suspiciously. Trickster grinned. «That you let me make one teensy, weensy, Improoo vement—» «Oh, no you don't!» snapped Jinndaven. A chorus of protests from the rest of the family backed up Jinndaven. As far as the Greatkin were concerned, Trickster's improvements were a euphemism for nothing more than thinly disguised Divine Meddling. And everyone, Jinndaven included, had been turned inside-out by one of Rimble's famous remedies at some time or other. Not that the effects of these remedies, these Improoovements, were necessarily bad—at least, not in the long run. They were, however, always extreme; even the most innocuous appearing ones could turn out to be shake-you-to-the-foundation radicalizing. And everyone knew it. Adoring all the consternation he was causing, Rimble circled his seated family, his footsteps echoing throughout the great hall of Eranossa, the home of the Greatkin. Most of the twenty-seven Greatkin lived at Eranossa all the time. The exceptions to this were the members of that portion of the Presence called The Fertile Dark, or Neath. Rimble himself, being a most subtle and shadowy fellow, hailed from this Divine Down-Under. And it was Rimble's great pleasure to make the shining denizens of Eranossa nervous whenever possible. Like now. Doing a sauntering little jig in his yellow boots, Rimble walked over to the Greatkin of Imagination and, smiling broadly, said, «I'm only suggesting a small Improoovement, dear brother. So relax.» Jinndaven rolled his eyes. «Only you could make the word 'relax' sound alarming.» «Naturally,» replied Rimble, giving his family a small bow. «As always, I'm at your service. And at yours,» he added to the enormous hearth at the end of the great hall. The flames leapt high and crackled loudly. Trickster grinned, turning back to his brothers and sisters, his pied eyes—one black, one yellow—glittering. «You see,» he said slyly, «even Trickster has an ancient loyalty to the hearth.» No one cared to debate this; the hearth at the end of the great hall was intelligent. It was also a direct manifestation of the Presence, the Great Being who had given birth to them all. And according to Themyth, the Greatkin who tended the hearth, Trickster had as much right to serve the Presence as the rest of them. Galling, but true. Jinndaven pursed his lips. «All right, Rimble. Let's hear this small improvement.» Arguing eloquently, Trickster made his point. He explained that as he was the Patron of all Exceptions, it was his right—indeed his very nature—to gleefully disregard this Single Face Thing. Furthermore, since he was the literal embodiment of Divine Shiftiness, the rest of the family couldn't expect to box him in. In fact, they simply had to let him get on with his work in the known and unknown universes—namely that of keeping creation moving. After all, he was change personified. Sathmadd, who also happened to be the Patron of Logic, winced. She saw where Trickster was leading the family. She saw it all too clearly. Sathmadd slumped in her chair and put her gray head in her hands. Jinndaven turned to the youthful, lovely Greatkin seated to his right. Her name was Phebene and she was the Patron of Great Loves and Tender Trysts. «I don't know, Phebes,» Jinndaven muttered. «I don't like it when Maddi gets worried. Means Trickster is up to something.» «But, of course,» replied Phebene, her voice sweet and musical. She wore a gown of gossamer, rainbow hues and a garland of wild, green roses on her head. «He's always up to something,» she added with undisguised affection for pied-eyed Trickster. Jinndaven rolled his eyes. «You just like him for the weird sex.»
