Trixter (excerpt)

The Boy Who Talks to Animals

Trix Woodcutter ignored the twinges in his belly and the ache in his heart as he raced across the meadow. It hadn't been the most graceful of escapes. If he'd had more time to plan, he would have arranged to meet a deer-friend or one of the lynx outside the towerhouse so that he might have covered more ground before the dark magic brew in his system took effect. A deer might have been the better choice as he was (finally) getting too tall to ride a lynx comfortably. If he'd really been clever, then—

    PAIN.

    Trix gasped. Winced. Doubled over. Cramps stabbed through his middle like knives and he cried out despite himself. He'd had bad porridge before, but this was beyond anything he'd ever experienced. His hands balled into fists and instinctively tried to reach for the tiny army with pointy swords fighting a battle to the death inside him so that he could make it all stop.

    He tripped. Rolled. Paused, waiting for the—

    —PAIN—

    —to pass so that he could keep moving. He took a deep breath. The razor sharp flashes of anger inside him subsided enough to let him back up. He shuffled, walked, ran—PAIN—shuffled, jogged, all while trying to think about something besides the incredibly stupid decision he'd just made.

    It would have been impossible to successfully bespell his family without bespelling himself, even just a little. It was all Mama's fault; Mama, with those eagle eyes of hers that saw everything and the silver tongue that could make the devil do her bidding. Being raised by a woman whose every statement came true had taught him to always seek forgiveness instead of permission. His quest was too important this time. One "no" from Mama's lips would have stopped Trix from leaving the house entirely. So he had put her to sleep—put them all to sleep—to avoid her saying anything at all.

    Eagles. The cleverest thing to do would have been to call the eagles and really fly, though they would have disapproved of him betraying his family. Eagles were all about loyalty.  An eagle would never have crossed his congregation. Trix wasn't particularly proud of himself either, at the moment. He deserved whatever horrible pain he was in.

    He cried out and doubled over again. He checked to see if he'd split in two without realizing it, but he spotted no blood on his tunic. He coughed through a particularly wrenching spasm—no blood there either. That last fall had torn his trousers, though. Trix laughed a little as he pulled himself to standing and shuffled forward a few more drunken steps. He told himself that a magicked stomach ache was surely preferable to the whipping Mama would give him if she caught him.

    Trix screamed. The cramps wracked his whole body this time, bringing tears to his eyes.

    "Maybe the whippings weren't so bad after all," he said to no one. At least he'd known when those would end.  

    One more step. Two. Three. Three more steps. It was going to take him days to cross this meadow. Years. A lifetime. He deserved it, too, every moment of crippling agony, every scrape, every tear. Family didn't do this to each other. And yet...

    Three days ago, he never would have put a sleeping spell on the stew and poisoned his sister, his brother, the man and woman who had raised him from a babe and never treated him like anything but their own. Three days ago, it never would have crossed his mind to do such a selfish and horrible thing. But three days ago his birthmother hadn't appeared in his dreams and called for him.

    Earth breaks; fire breathes; waters bless. Fly to me, my son.

    Trix knew what dreams looked like, the real dreams, the ones he was meant to pay attention to. They had more in them than the nothing-dreams of restless nights: more color, more feel, more sound, more taste, more cohesiveness, more details, more memory than memory. Real dreams did not fade upon waking but instead became more vivid, replaying themselves over and over in the mind's eye until the brain teetered on madness with the vision. Real dreams came from the gods. The gods knew how to make a point.