Trixter (3 page)

RUN!
Trix thought-cried.

SWIM!
hummed the sea star.

Trix kicked frantically in the water, but his meager legs were no match for the sirens’ thick ebony tails, slicing through the current like poisoned daggers. They surrounded him in but an instant, transforming into a violent cloud of translucent white skin and red hair and sharp teeth and those empty, hungry eyes. They reached for him with their bony fingers, colorless but for a splash of crimson at the tip of each one. They snapped at him, snapped at each other as they fought over him.

The great shadow passed above them again, showering the attack in mottled darkness. Trix reached into his shirt and pulled the reluctant sea star from his chest. He could feel the star’s hum of fear, but there was no time to explain.
I just hope that’s what I think it is
. With all the might he could summon, Trix tossed the star skyward.

He continued to fight off the sirens with everything he had, but they were too fast for him. He felt a hand on his wrist and a mouth on his neck just as the water around them turned black with ink.

Trix took advantage of the sirens’ blind confusion and kicked up with all his might, in the same direction he’d thrown the star. As he cleared the ink he realized the retreating shadow was not an octopus, as he’d supposed, but another large animal with similar legendary properties.

A hand gripped Trix’s wrist and he flailed about wildly, but it was not bony fingers attached to a siren. He recognized soon enough the feel of familiar knobby feet.
A great squid
, hummed the sea star.
Well done, friend
.

I still cannot swim fast enough
, said Trix. The muscles of his poor legs were beyond exhausted.
We cannot escape them
.

We don’t need to
, said the sea star.
I have called a friend
.

Trix felt another vibration, from outside his skin this time, coming to him through the water itself. Approaching them was the largest turtle Trix had ever seen…but this turtle had no shell, only spotted, leathery skin, and its forelegs were more like flippers than feet. Trix maneuvered himself astride its back and settled his legs into the ridges there. He relaxed slightly as the turtle quickly put more distance between them and the ink cloud of sirens. The energy of all the excitement beginning to leave him. Yes, this would be a good, safe way to travel, for as far as the turtle was willing to take them.

Thank you again, brother-kin,
Trix told the sea star
.

The address seemed to please the star, whose tube feet wriggled and tickled Trix’s skin again.
It is my honor, Boy Who Talks to Animals
.

Excellent
.
Now then, I may be unconscious soon.
Trix’s eyelids were already starting to feel the heaviness of sleep-fog
. What other sorts of mischief can we get up to in the meantime?

The sea star’s hum was melodiously pleasurable.
I look forward to telling the King of Stars of this day, and our adventures here
.

So do I, brother-kin
, said Trix.
So do I
.

C
ome to me
, my sweetheart
.

My sweetheart, come to me
.

There is so much you should know,

And still yet so far to go.

Trix forced his reluctant eyelids open. The world was a russet-stained muddle around him, and from that haze walked the shining image of a woman in a flowing violet dress woven with vines. Her wild cinnamon hair curled around the shafts of light delivered by the morning sun. She bent down and tutted over his barely conscious form but did not touch him.

“It should have been Snow White, you know. Fate dealt my sister all the winning cards, and yet somehow the Faerie Queen still managed to trump her hand. And so I had a son.”

His birthmother wore a different costume than she had on previous visits, but she carried herself the same, commanding in both voice and bearing. “Four” she had been born, fourth daughter of his unimaginative grandmother. Until this spring she had been nothing to Trix but a shadowy character in the stories Papa told about his wife's family. Mama never told stories.

“The prophecies of gods must be fulfilled by someone, and I was their backup plan: ill-equipped, untrained, and unprepared. What a disappointment I must be to you. Not that it makes you any less powerful.”

Tesera was the name she gave herself before taking the stage and treading boards across the world, returning only to abandon her babe on the doorstep of her fertile little sister so that she could return to her life unburdened.

“I could not know you until now, but I could not be prouder of you, Trix Woodcutter,” she said. “You have already accomplished so many wonderful things in your short life. Just think of all the places you have yet to visit, all the adventures you have left to live.”

He wanted to speak at her words, but his wretched body would not obey him. There were still secrets left to reveal, questions yet unanswered. Who was his father? Why had she and he
both
abandoned him? What did the gods have planned for him beyond the towerhouse where he grew up? And what in Heaven or Earth was so important that his birthmother’s spirit was moved to place a compulsion upon him from the land of the Dead? What weird knowledge did Tesera Mouton have to impart to
him
, a boy she barely knew?

“Fly to me soon, my sweetheart, my son,” his mother whispered in his ear. “Earth breaks; fire breathes; waters bless. Both the witch and your father are searching for you. Help us.”

Trix owed Tesera Mouton nothing. Help her? He had helped his sister Sunday in her lessons once, guiding her without telling her the answers, and when she had chosen to run from the prince who was her destiny, Trix had run with her. Sunday had always loved Trix, truly and unconditionally. Sunday would have urged him to journey onward, heedless of this nagging vision, and never look back.

Oh, Sunday, how I miss you
.

Trix added his tears to the already salty ground. The sobs shot painfully through his aching chest, suppressed for so long and now filling with brilliant burning air that brought with it the briny taste of regret.

“He’s taking forever,” said a voice.

“Don’t be a toad,” said a second voice that sounded uncannily similar to the first. “Let the boy have his cry. He's been through a lot, poor minnow. He needs a hug.”

“You don't have hands, nitwit,” said the toad.

“At least I have a heart,” said the nitwit.

“Look, he wasn't the only one tossed about in that mad ocean. We've all been through a lot today.”

“It won't kill you to wait a while longer,” said the nitwit.

“One of us is already dead. We need his help. You there,” called the toad. “Boy! If you're all done with that cry, could you help us out?"

“You could at least say ‘please,’” the nitwit said softly.

Trix pushed himself up, though the muscles of his arms had intense feelings about being so tirelessly abused. His shirt was in tatters but his wounds seemed to have healed decently enough. The old blood had washed away in the sea, but an ache in his bones remained. Like when Grinny Tram predicted rain. Well, there
had
been rain. Rather a lot of rain. But Grinny’s aches usually came before the storms, not after. Perhaps Trix’s aches would reach synchronicity when he was older.

He fell more than turned over and willed his battered body into a sitting position. This was a strange shore. Not strange in the way that he did not recognize it, even though he did not, but strange in that it should have been an old hayfield gone to seed and not the edge of an ocean. The tide had gone out, he surmised, or the waking goddess had spent her anger and collapsed into a fitful sleep.

Beyond the field stretched a horizon of unbroken sea, the crashing waves winking the reflection of the rising sun over and over and over again in a soothing lullaby. Beside him lay a very long, very purple dragon with three heads.

“Dragon!” Trix screamed.

“Where?” one head asked to the sky.

“
FLEE
!” cried the second head with its eyes squeezed shut.

The third head said nothing. It looked asleep. Trix realized that it might be the one they had referred to as dead. How sad.

“Aren’t you a dragon?” Trix asked the heads.

“Heavens no, child.” The middle head laughed in relief.

“We are a lingworm,” said the first head.

“I am Trix,” said Trix. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Forgive me for not bowing before a being of such legendary grandeur, but my body seems to be on the outs with me at the moment.”

“So polite,” said the middle head. “Isn’t that nice?”

“It would be nicer if he could get to the point,” said the first head. Both were covered in curved indigo spikes, some of which remained taut as the heads conversed, and some of which flowed in the air above them like the plumes of an impressive bird.

“Forgive me,” said Trix. “Is there some way I can help you?”

“Yes,” said the first head.

“Thank you, dearie,” said the middle head.

“Do you have a knife?” asked the first head.

Trix wasn't sure how to answer. He'd had quite a few things when he'd left the towerhouse the previous evening, but he hadn't been conscious for long enough yet to make an inventory of what was left on his person. He did that now. His sea star friend had returned home, it seemed, as had that pesky vision of his birthmother. He was also missing one shoe, the sack he'd prepared with extra bread and clothes, and his lucky four-leafed clover. But he still had his wits, the scar on his finger where he’d pricked himself on Sunday’s spinning wheel, and the small dagger in his belt.

“I do have a knife,” Trix answered with confidence.

“Good,” said the first head. “We need you to chop off our dead Wisdom.”

Trix was fairly sure his ears were still stopped up with magic ocean water, because he couldn't have heard that right. “I’m sorry, you want me to do what?”

“You’re terrible,” the middle head said to the first. “We’ve only just met, and it's a ghoulish thing you’ve asked him to do.”

The first head sighed in exasperation. “We caught him in the Deep when he slipped off that leatherback in the current, and we carried him in our crest all night, until we reached this shore.”

“Thank you," said Trix, grateful that the fallen sea star’s gift had lasted well beyond his conscious state.

“You’re welcome, dearie,” said the middle head.

“He is a boy who can do things that need to be done," said the first head, as if it had never been interrupted. “This is something that needs to be done."

“I will help you if I can." Trix slid the dagger out of his belt; the small blade had been well protected by the sheath Saturday had fashioned for it. Trix made to polish it on his trousers, but hesitated when he realized his clothes were completely covered in layers of muck and slime.

“See?” said the first head. “He’s rethinking it already.”

“It’s a lot to ask," said the middle head.

“I’m not sure I understand," said Trix. The mud drying on his face made his cheeks stiff as he spoke. "What exactly is it that you're asking?"

“What do you know about lingworms?" asked the first head.

Trix shrugged. "I thought you were a dragon."

“And you scared me half to death!" said the middle head. "Dragons haven't been around for ages."

“Neither have lingworms," said Trix. "At least, not around here. But there's usually not an ocean around here either." He swung his arm to indicate the unharvested hayfield.

“Pitiable, uneducated youngling,” said the first head.

“You have our sympathies," said the middle head.

The first head straightened his neck tall, as if it were sitting upright and not attached to a long, segmented body that sprawled and curled around itself for a hundred feet. It spoke as if reading from a book. "The legendary lingworm dwells deep beneath the Seven Seas. There are few descriptions of this serpent, because spotting it is so rare."

“’Tis luck to look on a lingworm," said the middle head. "That's what the sailors always say."

“The lingworm has three heads," the first head continued. "A Head of Truth, a Head of Compassion, and a Head of Wisdom."

The middle head tutted over the third, lifeless face with its spikes limply splayed on the ground. "Poor Wisdom."

“Should any one of the lingworm's heads be removed, it will grow back," said Truth. "Only by removing all three heads can the lingworm be killed."

“What a horrible thing to imagine,” said Compassion. A shudder echoed down the segmented length of the sea serpent.

Trix heard this all as very good news. “Then you have nothing to worry about! Your Wisdom will grow back, maybe even better than before."

“Only it has to be removed first," Truth repeated.

“He’s right, actually," said Compassion. “He usually is.”

“Oh,” said Trix. He looked at the very large head and very large neck of the very large sea serpent, and then down at his very small dagger. "This is not going to be pleasant."

“I imagine not," said Compassion.

“But it needs to be done," said Truth.

Somehow, Trix forced his sore body to stand. Broken shafts of hay stabbed into the pad of his shoeless foot. Each head of the lingworm towered above him, almost as tall as the trees in the Wood with those enormous plumes. Truth and Compassion looked back at him with eyes as big as his head, their matching irises as deep and green and cloudy as the deep and green and cloudy sea. Trix told himself to walk over to the fallen head, but himself would not obey.

“I’m afraid," he explained to the heads. “You are a very large beast, and I’m a very small boy.”

“We will promise not to bite you or swallow you whole, or swat you with our tail," said Truth.

“Yes,” said Compassion. "We promise."

The lingworm waved the end of the tail in question—the indigo spikes there were tipped with wicked barbs. Trix was not inspired by this. But the lingworm
had
carried him safely to the shore. To refuse performing a kindness in return would upset the balance of the universe, and the universe had enough of an upset goddess already.

“I will do this," he told his body more than the lingworm.

“Thank you," said Truth.

“Thank you," said Compassion.

Trix took a breath, held it, and then plunged his dagger deep into the giant neck of the lingworm. He was glad then that he'd held his breath, for the odor that released from the dead Wisdom was fetid and foul. When Trix finally was forced to take a breath, he choked and gagged.

“See?” said Truth. "You are still alive."

“You live up to your legend," Trix said to the lingworm. He scraped a few scales aside and plunged the dagger into the sea serpent's flesh again. It wasn't too different from cleaning a fish, he thought, if the fish were as big as a horse.

“So do you," Compassion replied, just as Trix hit his first vein. Sluggish golden blood welled up out of the ragged tear he'd made in Wisdom's neck and spilled over his hands.

“Wait,” “said Trix. “You’ve heard of
me
?”

“The Lingworth are old enough to know the prophecies of this world, clever enough to remember them, and wise enough to have created a few ourselves," said Truth.

“There are few who do not know of The Boy Who Talks to Animals," said Compassion. "It is a tale that beasts have passed on to their children, and their children's children, throughout time. It was a story told before gods were gods."

The gods had been something else before being gods? The thought baffled Trix, but not half as much as the thought that no one else in the world had the same ability he had possessed all his life. "No one else can talk to animals?"

“Not to
all
the animals," said Truth.

“Not like you," said Compassion.

“What makes me so special?" asked Trix. It was a stupid question. There were a lot of things that made him special. But he suspected he wasn't aware of just
how
special.

"Chaos is coming," said Truth.

“There is an imbalance in the world," said Compassion.

“I don't know that I'm special enough to set that to rights. You need someone more like my sister for that." Trix didn't specify which sister—for a boy with seven extraordinary sisters, it didn't really matter.

“Oh, the world will need your sisters, too," said Truth.

“There are prophecies enough for everyone!" cheered Compassion.

“But you will need to be the voice of the animals," said Truth. "It's a very important job."

“Be careful who you tell," said Compassion. “Men have been committed to slavery for far less."

“And still are," added Truth.

“And still are," said Compassion.

Trix was sorry now that Wisdom had not survived, for he would have liked that head's advice on what to do in his current situation. But if Wisdom had survived, Trix would not be in this current situation, and he would not know that the animals had been talking about him behind his back for centuries upon centuries upon... How long had the gods been gods, anyway? Not that it mattered. Everything happened for a reason, just like Mama always said.