Trixter (4 page)

At a loss, Trix concentrated on finishing his task. His dagger disappeared into the golden mess over and over again, blindly hacking into the stinky dead flesh with the goal of simply making it through to the other side. The sun continued to rise and Trix began to sweat into the lingworm's blood and flesh as he stepped further and further inside the carcass (losing his one remaining shoe in the process). When his right arm began to fail him, he sliced with his left, again and again and again. When he encountered bone, he pushed his body into the worm’s neck with all his weight until he heard a
crack
. And just when he began to lose hope of ever finishing, the head of Wisdom fell away before him.

Truth and Compassion cheered. Trix might have too, but for the golden blood that now covered him in yet another layer from head to toe.

“Now take Wisdom back to the ocean," said Truth. "You must carry him as we carried you for a time."

One good turn deserved another. That was not something Mama always said, but it should have been. Trix wove his hands deep into the hairs that covered the top and back of Wisdom's head, mindful of the deadly indigo spikes there. The hairs were soft and hollow, crushing beneath his fingers as he found purchase in the locks. Where they bent, the indigo disappeared from the shafts, leaving them colorless. It made Trix think of the ink the great squid had released, and of his poet sister, Wednesday, with her penknife always at hand. This much ink in this many quills would have set her up forever. It was almost a shame to toss it into the sea. Perhaps, with luck, the damaged head would find its way to Faerie, where Wednesday played apprentice with their Aunt Joy. Wednesday would know what to do with it. Wednesday would not be afraid. In Trix's eyes, Wednesday had more Wisdom than this head could ever hold.

The head of Wisdom was heavy and unwieldy. Step by slow step, he dragged it with him into the sea.

“Wash yourself, Golden Boy," said Compassion.

“You’re fey enough to live a long life without the help of our blood," said Truth.

The lingworm's words continued to baffle Trix. No one could know how long anyone might live, but then, he'd have thought no one could know he was going to exist once upon a time ago. Or better, know that he could talk to animals. Why hadn't all the animals he'd played with as a child told him this before?

Trix had thought to heave the head over his shoulder and into the surf, but the reality of that plan proved impossible. Trix dragged the head behind him into the sea until it was deep enough in the water to lead the way. Trix let Wisdom pull him under a bit before allowing the head to roll away, down the rest of the hill that used to be a hayfield, to the bottom of this magical ocean, wherever that used to be.

If this ocean ever went away again, some farmer was going to find quite a surprise in his yard. Goodness…what would Mama say? Thankfully, if this chaos had consumed the towerhouse, then his haphazard wish had saved the Woodcutters as well. He silently thanked the gods once more. He hoped they weren’t tired of hearing from him.

Trix flipped and dove in the waves, swimming strong, as the fish in the river had taught him to swim. (Not like the fish in the cow pond had taught him, for they were lazy.) He shook vigorously, darting in and out through the underwater hay in an effort to clean himself. As he came back to shore he rubbed at his skin, making sure every speck he could reach was free of blood and mud. His mind might not be settled inside, but his body could be clean on the outside.

As Trix walked back to the lingworm through the new tidal surf, something bumped into his bare ankle. He reached down and pulled up what looked like a long, white stone. Upon further examination, he realized it was the point of a tooth. The only animal he'd ever met with a mouth this large was the lingworm, so it must have come from Wisdom.

“And so we send the dead to sea," said Truth.

“Whatever comes back to us is what they wish us to have," said Compassion.

“I should keep this?" asked Trix.

"Yes," said Truth. “It will help you on your travels.”

“Whenever you need advice,” said Compassion. “Wisdom is very helpful that way.” The head looked down at the neighboring neck-stump, already sealing over nicely with a thin violet skin.

“You should also keep your dagger,” said Truth.

Trix had not intended to dispose of his dagger, though he hadn't considered what effect the lingworm's blood would have on the blade. He pulled it from his belt and wiped at the gold blood with the bottom of his wet shirt. He wiped and wiped until he realized that there was no blood; the blade and hilt had turned completely gold.

“That blade will now cut through anything,” said Truth, “and nothing born of earth can destroy it.”

“Have a care not to lose it,” said Compassion.

“Thank you,” said Trix. While he wasn't sure yet how he might put Wisdom's tooth to use, the dagger was an instant treasure.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Boy Who Talks to Animals,” said Truth, and Trix took pride in the compliment.

“We look forward to telling the King of the Sea about you,” said Compassion. “We are honored to have been part of your story.”

With a flip and a roll powered by energy that Trix would not have believed the injured lingworm to have, the sea serpent slipped through the hay and disappeared into the waves of the magical ocean with fluid ease.

“So am I,” Trix said to the vanished legend, equally as honored by the experience. “So am I.”

N
ow fully awake
and no longer deterred by the rich stink of golden lingworm blood, Trix's stomach growled. Judging by the sun, it had been the better part of a day since he'd eaten anything that hadn’t been magically poisoned. What food he'd brought with him had been lost with his sack in the impossible ocean. He stood amidst a sea of tall hay that wouldn't prove much for him in the way of sustenance, but where there was a hay field, there was usually a farmer. A lazy farmer, judging by the state of this hay, but a farmer nonetheless. Making sure the golden dagger was securely fastened in his belt, Trix set off in the one direction that made sense: away from the ocean.

While Trix was not as tall as his sister Saturday (and probably never would be), the hay did not completely obstruct his view as he climbed the gently sloping hill. The field went on, unbroken, for miles. His stomach protested.

"There's no use getting all upset," Trix told his stomach. "It's not like there's another choice. We'll just have to walk until we find something."

Trix continued walking as promised, until his feet began to complain as well. This ground, untouched by magical waves, was cracked and dry and gray. Hay stalks that broke as he pushed through them, stabbing into the bottoms of his feet like tiny iron fire pokers.

“Sorry, feet,” Trix said. "We can't rest until we find something to eat. But as soon as we do, we will rest for a very long time."

Trix kept up his pace, grumbling stomach and feet and all, across the endless hay field. The sun continued to rise in the cloudless sky as the sun does, clouds or not, and Trix's now-dry head and face began to burn.

“Stay sharp, head,” Trix said to his overly warm pate. "Even if this hay would make a fine hat, we cannot stop until we find something to eat. When we do, we will eat and rest in the shade." Despite the pep talk his head continued to burn, hotter and hotter, so much so that he finally took his shirt off and wore it as a very limp hat.

All the while, Trix walked on, up and down the rolling hills, with nothing for miles in any direction but hay. When he got to the top of a particularly steep hill, he realized that the endless hay was an illusion. There, nestled in a small valley between two hay-covered hills, was a small cottage. Outside the small cottage was a giant apple tree, filled with apples. Trix’s head and stomach and feet all cheered.

He took the measure of the cottage as he raced down the hill toward it. The grass on the paths around it was overgrown. The sod on the roof was sprinkled with wildflowers. No smoke rose from the chimney. No window or door, even on this beautiful day, was open. Trix decided that the cottage was abandoned, which explained the neglected hayfields. This was good news, for it meant all the apples he could eat and all the rest and shade he could soak up before continuing his journey onward. Oh, happy day!

Trix reached the bottom of the hill and stretched his arm out for the lowest, ripest apple on the tree.

"
Who comes to steal my apples
?"

The voice was female, slightly crackled with cold or age. The front door of the cottage was now open a crack. The voice had come from the darkness inside.

Trix bowed low to the cottage. "Trix Woodcutter, milady. I am but a poor boy journeying alone to an abbey in the north. My belongings were swept away in the magical sea. I thought this cottage abandoned, or I would never have presumed to take an apple from your tree without asking. That said, you do have many fine apples here. Could I trouble you for one or two of them, please, and the use of your tree’s shade to rest my weary bones?”

"You may have as many apples as you desire,” said the voice, "and you may rest as long as you like. But I would first have you do something for me."

Trix bowed again. His stomach growled mightily at the teasing abuse. "Name your task, milady."

"You must fetch me the topmost apple on that tree and bring it to me.”

What luck! Having grown up next to the Wood, Trix was a master at climbing trees. He could do it in his sleep (and
had
on a few occasions, according to Sunday). This full tree, thick with branches, would be nothing at all for him to scale. "I will have your prize in the jiffiest of jiffs," Trix declared, and he quickly scrambled up the tree. As he leapt from limb to limb, he was so happy to be somewhere familiar that his aching head and feet and stomach forgot to complain.

In the jiffiest of jiffs his head emerged from the branches and leaves at the very top of the tree. From this vantage point, the white-capped mountains in the distance were larger than he'd ever seem them before; the magical ocean had taken him much farther north than he'd anticipated. A fortunate bit of chaos, that. A shorter journey was always good, once the worst obstacles had been cleared.

Not forgetting his task, he looked about to see which apple hung highest on the branches around him. There were plenty of apples here as well, but surely one must stand out…
a-ha!
He spotted it at once: a perfectly shaped apple made of solid gold. It snapped right off into Trix's hand as if it had been waiting to be plucked. Prize obtained, Trix slid down the branches and hopped down to the ground in a shower of leaves.

He bowed again, offering the fruit in his outstretched palm. Its weight reminded him of a certain golden ball his sister had been forced to sell at the market once…a bauble given to her with love by a frog who would be king. “Your apple, milady.”

The door opened. Before him stood not the old witch he’d expected but a young woman. She was gold from head to toe. Her hair was gold. Her eyes were gold. Her clothes were gold. In the bright light of the sun he could even make out a small gold star in the middle of her forehead. Stunned by her blinding beauty he bent further, lowering his face to the ground.

"Would you share the apple with me, good Trix?" Her voice cracked again and she coughed daintily. Out here, all alone… Trix imagined this girl spoke to no one regularly, not even herself (which was a shame).

"But of course," said Trix. He unsheathed his lingworm-blessed dagger, golden as the apple in his hand. Putting it to the test, he set the blade to the cold metal surface. The flesh of the fruit parted easily for the dagger. Oh, happy day! The bright smell of deliciously ripe apple filled the air. Trix’s stomach did somersaults in appreciation.

Papa was far better at slicing apples in midair than he. Trix had been a little more successful cutting off the head of the lingworm. The two pieces he now held were woefully unequal.

Trix's stomach took the opportunity to weigh in on the decision before him.
Take the larger half
, his stomach growled.
You're starving
.

Take the larger half
, his feet winced.
You're tired
.

Take the larger half
, said his head.
You deserve it. You've come such a long way, and you still have so far to go
.

And then suddenly, unexpectedly, the voice in his mind was that of Saturday. "GIVE HER THE LARGER HALF!" cried his warrior sister. Her words were hollow and felt far away, as far away as a towerhouse on a magical ocean, but they rang across the distance clear as a bell.

Oh, Saturday. How I miss you
.

Trix smiled. All the voices were right. But this golden girl had promised him all the apples he wanted. Just because this particular apple was gold didn't make him want it any more than the plain old red and green ones still hanging happy and fresh on the tree behind him. Trix held his hands out to the girl, offering her both halves of the golden apple.

"For you, milady," he said. "The humble apples on yonder tree are more than enough for a poor Woodcutter like me."

There was a singing in the air that sounded like a swarm of bees, a riot of cicadas, and a sword being unsheathed all at once. The girl grinned at him with a smile as bright as the sun, and then flung herself into his arms. He had expected her movements to be stiff as a moving statue’s and not quite so effervescently fluid, but there she was in the blink of an eye. Her enthusiasm reminded him of Friday, unabashedly throwing love around for all to share. He braced himself as he would have for one of Friday’s hugs, which was good, because this girl did seem to
weigh
as much as someone who’d been dipped in gold.

"Thank you!" she cried. "Thank you for releasing me from my spell!”

She smelled of honeysuckle and smoke, delicious scents than made Trix’s stomach churn in frustration. The girl must have heard it for she released him soon after, walking over to the tree and picking a shiny red and green apple for him.

“For those vociferous hollows,” she told him. Her voice was stronger now, though her skin and eyes and skirts and hair were no less golden.

"That and twenty more like it, with great thanks.” Trix greedily took the apple from her and bit into its tart flesh.

"All you need is one," she said. "You'll see."

She spoke truly. By the time Trix finished the apple, he felt as fat as a pig before Midwinter Feast. "Thank you, milady," he said as he wiped the juice from his chin.

“Please call me Lizinia," she told him. “You also wanted to rest in the shade of my tree. Join me here and I will tell you my story." She spread her golden skirts and sat gracefully on the ground beside the apple tree. Trix didn’t have Friday’s eye for material, but he’d never before seen metal move like silk, no matter how finely hammered.

Oh, Friday. How I miss you.

Shade and stories...Trix sighed. This was almost like being at home, except that his family’s clothing wasn't half so fine. "Should I fetch you a blanket?" he asked. "Aren’t you worried you'll muss your splendid dress?”

She laughed again and her golden fingers flew to her golden cheeks, as if the act of laughing itself was foreign to her. "My clothes can never wear or tear or stain," she told him. "Nor can anyone else remove them but me. That is part of my story."

Satisfied, Trix settled back against the trunk of the tree. He gazed up into its thick leaves, bright and green with sunlight. His stomach and feet and head quieted as he settled in to hear Lizinia's tale.

"I haven't always lived in this cottage," she began. "I grew up in an old house not far from here, with my mother and older sister Peppina."

"Where was your father?" Trix asked lazily.

"Mother told us that he died when we were very young," said Lizinia.

“You sound dubious.”

“Mother was not known for being truthful. Or generous. Mine was a happy, humble life, but in Mother's eyes we were destitute and deserving of so much more."

"And your sister?"

"My sister, unfortunately, took after our mother. She dreamed of places she would never live and riches she would never own and men she would never marry. Then she would get mad because she didn't have those things."

"She must have been mad a lot," said Trix.

"They both were. And so I spent my sunny days working in the garden and playing with the birds and squirrels and rabbits who came to visit me. They cared only for kindness and did not mind my humble trappings.”

“As it should be.” Trix made the comment in a low voice, so as not to disturb the natural rhythm of his new friend’s narrative. Just as Papa had taught him.

“On rainy days, I cleaned the house. At night, I would cook dinner and tend to the mending. I had peace of mind, but nothing was ever enough for my mother and sister. So when the cats offered to pay my mother in exchange for my servitude, I went with them freely."

"Cats?" Even with his fantastic talent, Trix had always been leery of cats. Cats could see things most humans and many fey could not. They were not always wise beyond their years, but they acted as if they possessed the knowledge of the ages. Worst of all, they spoke—when they wanted to be heard—in riddles that could drive even the most fey-blessed denizens of the Wood mad with frustration.

Lizinia indicated the small cottage beside them. "There were dozens of them, maybe even a hundred, and I was brought here to live with them. I cared for them: made their meals, washed their sheets, and kept the house in order. The only difference from my old life was that I had more free time to myself."

“And no grouching at every turn,” said Trix. “It sounds rather nice.”

"It was.” Lizinia leaned back against the trunk of the tree as well, her voice dreamy with memory. “A full year went by before I began to miss my old bed, my old garden, and my mother and sister. Since it had been a successful year, Papa Gatto felt that I had more than earned my keep, so he let me return home."

"Papa Gatto?"

"Papa Gatto was the leader of the cats, the wisest and most powerful of them all. It was he who hired me, and thusly he who rewarded me for my service."

Lizinia touched the star on her golden forehead, her golden cheek, her golden dress in wistful thought. Trix didn't have to ask her the extent of Papa Gatto's reward. "Was it scary, being dipped in gold?"

"A little," she admitted. "Thank you. No one has ever asked me that. But then, no one before has offered me the golden apple either."

"Did they eat it?" asked Trix.

"No," said Lizinia. “They would steal it, or try to melt it down. Those that melted the apple were left with ashes, or dust, or a pile of fragrant mush.”

“And those that stole the apple?”

Lizinia shrugged. “Nothing pleasant, I imagine, but I never followed them to learn. Per Papa Gatto’s instructions, once a visitor failed the test, I closed the door and locked it tight. Another golden apple always appeared on the tree the very next day.”

"Good," said Trix. Those greedy gobs deserved whatever they got. “So what did your mother say when you returned home looking like…that?”

"She was overjoyed, as you can imagine. Until she realized that she could not cut my hair, or remove my apron, or take off my shoes. All of this gold at her fingertips, and none of it hers! She locked me in a cupboard, and then told Peppina to go to the cats' cottage and offer herself up for servitude."

"I'm going to guess that didn't go well," said Trix.