of the house. They found no trace of Tree. They returned to the larger group, their expressions and their hair color dour. Mab said, «You didn't find him.» «Nope,» said Janusin. «Try outside,» said Himayat. «I can feel him nearby. I just can't place him. Seems he's elevated on something—» «A tree?» said Yafatah suddenly. «There do be one you can reach outside my window.» «Well, that explains a lot,» said Barlimo drily. During Fasilla's absence, Barlimo had been left in charge of the young Tammirring girl. On several occasions, she had found Yafatah's door locked and the girl strangely silent inside her room. Yafatah hadn't been sleeping; she had been out exploring the city streets. Barlimo rolled her eyes, but said nothing more. Yafatah gave Barlimo a quick hug. «Sorry. Anyway, come on. I bet that be his hideaway.» It was true. When everyone had piled into Yafatah's small room on the second floor, the sixteen-year-old ran to the open window. Yafatah poked her head out. There on the innermost branch, huddled next to the trunk of the maple that grew beside the Kaleidicopia, sat Tree. His hair was ashen, his eyes shut. He was trembling. Yafatah told the others. Janusin opened the window wider and climbed out. He called Tree's name. Tree said nothing. Swinging carefully to a strong branch, the master sculptor inched toward Tree. Hearing twigs break, Tree looked up. His eyes were wild with fear. He began screaming at Janusin to get away from him. Janusin licked his lips. «Tree, I mean you no harm. You know that.» «I don't want your help, Janusin. Stay the fuck away!» Janusin looked helplessly at Barlimo, who now had her head outside the window. Barlimo called softly to Tree, putting all the mothering she could muster into her voice. Janusin felt cheered by her words himself. He turned back to Tree, expecting the younger Jinnjirri to respond in kind. «Go away! Go away, all of you!» Zendrak, who was still in Mythrrim form, heard Tree's yells. Circling overhead, Zendrak squawked. Tree was so startled that he lost his grip on the trunk. Janusin grabbed his arm as Tree nearly fell off his perch. Feeling the strength in Janusin's hand and seeing the genuine concern in Janusin's eyes, Tree started crying. Janusin, whose arms and back were hard with muscles made powerful through hours of sculpting, pulled Tree toward him roughly. Moving back toward Yafatah's bedroom, Janusin pushed Tree into Barlimo's waiting hands. Once Tree and Janusin were inside, Yafatah shut the window. Tree collapsed in a small, skinny heap on the floor, his face buried in his arms. He made no noise. Now his hair turned stricken blue-black. It frosted with gray. Barlimo sat down next to Tree. She spoke quietly to him. «Hey, you in there.» «What?» came the muffled reply. «Life goes on.» «Shut up, Barl.» Barlimo remained undeterred. «Hey.» «What?» «I'm making cocoa. You want some?» Tree raised his head. «You're not making cocoa. You're in here talking to me, stupid.» Barlimo nodded. «Well, I'd like to be making cocoa—» «So go away. I told you to go away before. So go away.» Barlimo shrugged. «You going to stay inside?» «Who cares?» «I do,» said Barlimo. A round of voices echoed her words. Barlimo smiled. «Well, will you listen to that? They all care. Must be sick, huh, Tree?» «Yeah,» said Tree, his hair starting to lighten imperceptibly. Barlimo got up. «I'm going to make cocoa. Anybody who wants any should follow me into the kitchen.» Everybody left the room. Seeing that he was alone—finally—Tree let out a sigh of relief. He glanced at the closed window. He considered going back out on a limb—literally. As the thought crossed his mind, Zendrak pressed his ugly Mythrrim head—teeth, protruding eyes and horns—against the closed window and screeched. Startled, Tree got to his feet hastily and tore down the stairs after his housemates. Outside the house, Zendrak lifted into the air and flew toward Suxonli. In the kitchen of the Kaleidicopia, conversation was merry. This surprised Gadorian. After all, he had just served everyone their eviction notice a scant hour ago. The Saambolin official watched Barlimo throw the eviction papers aside as she readied mugs for cocoa. Uncomfortable with the good humor in the room, Gadorian said, «Well, I'll be leaving now.» «Why do that, Gad?» asked Rowenaster. «We'll be having lunch soon. You might as well stay.» «'Why are you being so hospitable to me?» Rowenaster shrugged. «We're alive, aren't we? Seems like a good moment to act friendly. Even to you. After all, we want the same thing as you. We want the city to survive the Jinnaeon.» Gadorian scowled. «I was going to ask you about those prophesies the other day at the university. Sirrey said I should.» Rowenaster grinned unexpectedly. «So, sit.» Timmer grumbled as she poured milk into a large saucepan. «This isn't going to be boring, is it? I mean, this isn't going to be one of your religious lectures, is it?» Yafatah grinned happily and interrupted before Rowenaster could reply. «They be Tammi prophesies, doon't they?» «Yes, child. Now, pay attention, all of you. You, too, Timmer. These prophesies affect everyone in this room, this city, indeed, in the whole world. You can close your ears if you dare. Some people like surprises, of course.» Properly chastised, Timmer swore and sat down at the round kitchen table. Tree, Janusin, Barlimo, Fasilla, Yafatah, and Mab soon joined her. Rowenaster stayed on his feet. He was about to give one of his favorite lectures. For this he would pace in his best professorial style. Clasping his hands behind his back, the seventy-year-old man began. «The Jinnaeon is named for Jinndaven, the Greatkin of Imagination. Jinnaeon is a transition period of creative, imaginative turmoil when doomsday stories proliferate and everyone's worst fears will be realized— At Eranossa, Jinndaven started protesting vigorously. Panthe'kinarok Interlogue «I am the patron of good ideas!» yelled the Greatkin of Imagination at the top of his lungs. All conversation at the table stopped. Raising his fist in the air and glaring mightily at Rimble, Jinndaven added, «You see what they're saying about me? You see what you did—» Mattermat roared with laughter as Rimble turned scarlet. Jinndaven continued his tirade. «I told you they'd blame all your chaos on me. The Jinnaeon. Just because you wanted to cause a mutation in a rose gives you no right to bastardize my name, Rimble!» Jinndaven's body trembled with frustration. «Well, well, Rimble,» said Mattermat silkily. «You just lost one of your main supporters here. Feeling a little vulnerable, are we?» Trickster had just materialized a blanket. He was currently hiding under it. What Mattermat didn't realize was that the blanket was one made by a Native American tribe in a Distant Place. While Rimble hid, he thought. After a few moments—during which Mattermat continued to deride him—Rimble threw off the blanket. Dressed in furs and feathers and mud, Trickster announced, «Fine. You guys don't like me? I don't care. I don't like you, either— Themyth tried to interrupt but was unsuccessful. «Furthermore,» said Trickster, standing on his chair, «I don't have to stay here at this blasted dinner. I can leave. I can go live elsewhere.» Rimble paused, delighting at the stunned expressions on the faces of his twenty-six brothers and sisters. «No one would have you,» snapped Mattermat. «Hoo-hoo, brother dear. You're so wrong. I've been marketing. And it's paid off. A new name has been born in a Distant Place. Mine. They've added it to their list. I'm not just Coyote. I'm Rimble. I'm Ubiquitous. I'm National. I'm Dancing in the Streets.» Trickster laughed like a Mythrrim. Hearing the familiar sound, Themyth steepled her fingers on the table. Trickster was up to something, that was certain. Or he had already been up to something and the Greatkin were about to find out what it was. She decided the latter was probably the case; Rimble was looking too smug to be bluffing. Themyth cleared her throat. «What streets are you dancing in, dear?» «Milwaukee. And D. C. And Pittsfield. And New York. And Boston. And San Francisco. Hey—I'm even dancing in Kenya. I'm not just national, folks. I'm international. Ta-da! My name means Transformer.» «No, it doesn't,» said Sathmadd. «It means The-One-Who-Knows-Something-of-Himself. I know. I have it catalogued right here,» she added, pointing at her head. «It also means Transformer,» said Rimble. «Since when?» asked the Greatkin of Organization, her voice skeptical. Sathmadd knew all the names of everything in the known universe. As it turned out, however, the Distant Place was in a universe unknown to the Greatkin. Until recently. Greatkin Mattermat frowned, his burly eyebrows resembling a ridge of briars across his broad forehead. «If you leave this universe, Rimble, you'll cease to 'matter' here. I'll see to it personally.» «I'm sure you will, Mattie,» replied Rimble, his voice pleasant. «You don't sound very concerned,» said Themyth. She, on the other hand, felt quite concerned. «Why matter to people who don't appreciate my improoovements? Even I get tired of hitting my head against mountains,» Trickster added, looking directly at Mattermat. Mattermat smiled. «I'm sure you do, little brother. And we can do very well without you here. If there's another place that needs you more than us—» Jinndaven interrupted unexpectedly. As much as he felt justified in complaining about Trickster's mutation of a rose into a winterbloom, Jinndaven knew full well what would happen if Rimble left the Panthe'kinarok table for good. Matter would sclerose; ideas would become mediocre; habits would never be broken; life would stagnate. If Rimble did not exist, Jinndaven knew that the world—the universe—would in time cease to exist also. Trickster was the face of the Presence who kept things moving and growing. Entropy and inertia would set in immediately if the little ruffian stopped meddling in reality. Waving his hands, Jinndaven said, «Don't be hasty, Rimble. I'm sure there's plenty of reasons for you to stay here.» «Can't think of a one,» said Rimble, and shrugged. Bowing to Mattermat, Trickster said, «It's been a real pain knowing you. Hope things run more smoothly with me gone. I really do.» Themyth stood up. Was Rimble serious? «Rimble? You can't leave here. Without you, everything will go out of balance. We need the tension you create— «We do not!» cried Mattermat. «Yes, we do,» chimed Phebene. «No one will ever fall in love if you're not here to create the impossible possibility.» Trickster shook his head. «You'll do just fine without me, Phebes. Good-bye,» he said to everyone. Then without another word, Trickster vanished. There was a long silence. Mattermat peered into the physical space Trickster had just occupied. «Do you suppose he's really gone?» he asked hopefully. Themyth got up. She walked slowly over to Rimble's chair. She felt the air. She stuck her hand through time and space and grabbed hold of nothing. Her old face paled. The patchwork quilt she had been wearing over her shoulders fell to the floor. Themyth walked into the kitchen. Rimble's roast was gone. *25* Rimble's departure from the known universes had immediate consequences. Old habits which one had hopefully discarded or outgrown in youth came creeping back with irritating tenacity. Obstacles that stood between the Guild in Speakinghast and various small interest groups solidified and became unmovable. Lovers lost their creativity and romanticism, breeding contempt and boredom. Artists continued making what they had made before. Surprise birthday parties went out of fashion. So did daring inventions. In short, civilization came to a grinding halt. Meanwhile, in the unknown universes, specifically the one which held the Distant Place, Trickster's touch created an explosion of New Ideas and Possibility. Trickster, who had been called by many names in the Distant Place, was now recognized as Rimble the Transformer. The old mythology had been given a new infusion by Trickster's recent reentry into that world. He was given a face-lift so to speak. Welcomed by the denizens of the Distant Place, Rimble settled in. Updating himself for the needs of the modern world, Trickster put on new clothing. He adopted a Mohawk on Saturday and Sunday, and a yuppie three-piece suit for the workweek, when he also carried a business card. It read: IMPROVEMENTS, INC. Creators of the Impossible Possibility (800) 999-9999-9 Special Agent: Mr. Rimble Trickster distributed his business card in every city of the world. People who were in desperate need of radical, irrevocable, and life-giving change in their lives called Rimble at all hours of the day and night. Rimble, who possessed and needed no phone, simply heard their calls in his mind. As soon as the request was made, the power of change was released to the individual. Of course, since it was Trickster answering the calls, change occurred in the most unexpected and fantastic ways. Coincidence knew no bounds. Neither did eccentricity. Trickster loved every minute of his new job. Everyone who requested help from him became Rimblessah—blessed by Rimble. And changed forever. One day, Trickster and the Obstinate Woman took a walk down by the east banks of Lake Michigan in Milwaukee. Even though it was still winter in Mnemlith, it was edging toward fall in Wisconsin. The trees were covered in a pageant of orange-pink and yellow leaves. The air was eager and gusted merrily across the teal-blue water of the gigantic lake. The Obstinate Woman pulled her gray muffler and hat down over her ears. Since it was Saturday, Trickster carried a skateboard under his arm and sported a denim jacket with rhinestones and buttons stuck all over it. His stiff black Mohawk listed in the wind. Trickster turned to the Obstinate Woman and said, «Wonder how things are going in Mnemlith?» The Obstinate Woman shrugged. «Probably not very well. How long do you plan to abandon them—» «Abandon them?» interrupted Trickster. «I hardly call it that. Tis they who have abandoned me, girlie. They didn't know what they had when they had it. Always complaining, always wishing I'd go away. Well, I have. And I likes it much better here,» he added with a grin. «People ask for my help, you know. All the time. Day and night. It's quite nice, it is. Quite gratifying.» «You don't think people in Mnemlith need your help?» «That's not the point. Sure, they need my help. But they don't want it. They don't ask for it. See the difference?» The Obstinate Woman grunted. There was a short pause. Trickster watched the waves in silence. Finally he said, «You really think I should check up on things?» The Obstinate Woman nodded. «Yup. You kind of left Kelandris and Zendrak with a mess, you know. You left them in a world that hasn't got the quality of change represented in it. They're your children, yes. But without you being represented at the Panthe'kinarok, how can they activate that side of their nature? You're not there to mirror it back. So what are they to do, Rimble? You've crippled them.» Trickster scowled. «I think you're exaggerating mightily, missy.» «I don't.» There was another short pause. «Well,» said Trickster, wiping his nose on his sleeve, «I have been curious about everyone. I suppose I could make a quick return. A weekend jaunt, as it were.» «Good idea,» replied the Obstinate Woman drily. In Mnemlith time, Greatkin Rimble had been gone only three weeks. But what a three weeks it had been. True to his word, Gadorian had shut down the Kaleidicopia, its entrance and first-floor windows boarded up. Rimble's Own, as the members of his ennead were known among themselves, had scattered into the streets of Speakinghast. In the north, Kelandris, Zendrak, Himayat, and Po remained in Suxonli Village after Hennin's death. The two Greatkin had felt Rimble's departure from the known universes and had been stunned. Unsure what their father expected of them, both Greatkin had sought the counsel of their mother, Greatkin Themyth. Themyth had visited her children appearing as an old crone at the crossroads outside Suxonli on several occasions. She did so now. Gone were Themyth's playful patchwork clothes. In their stead were drab colors and limp, threadbare materials. Her gray hair was matted, her wrinkles pronounced. Themyth limped toward Kelandris and Zendrak. She used her cane to support her frail body. Her condition had alarmed both her children. They had begged her to contact Rimble, but Themyth had refused. The Greatkin of Civilization preferred to keep her condition secret from Rimble. She wanted him to feel free to do what he felt he needed to do. Kelandris had thought this absurd and spent a great deal of time sending urgen