The Seven Tales of Trinket (12 page)

I reached out my arms to pull her to me, but she put up her hand.

“Trinket, do not move.”

I looked down. If I had taken but one more step, I would have joined my mother in death.

And when I stopped to think about it, perhaps it would not be so bad.

I could fly through the air in a dress of sky, by the side of my mother. I had no one else now. All it would take was one little step …

“Trinket, stop.”

Her tone was sharp. I knew that tone. When I tried to take more than my share of oatcakes, she used that tone. When I would not go to my bed at night, she used that tone.

I learned early not to ignore it.

“Why?” I asked.

She smiled so sweetly, I thought my heart would break. “This is not your time, Trinket. But you already know that, don’t you?”

I said nothing. The urge to run into my mother’s arms was strong. It was all I could do to keep my feet planted on the ground.

“Trinket, you must listen to me.”

I nodded. I had come to listen to her message.
But I wanted so much more.

“There will be a time when you will need these words. I have risked much to see you, Trinket, as have you.”

Her face was fading in the dusk.

“I’ll not be allowed to come again, Trinket, so listen well.”

My eyes filled with tears.

“Your heart, Trinket, keep it safe and strong. It will guide you on the right course.”

I nodded.

“And, Trinket, do not judge by appearances. Evil may lurk in a harmless package. And something pure and good may reside under old, crabbed wrapping.”

Her lips curved delicately and I sniffled. She faded even more, her body but the steam above a boiling kettle.

I wanted to smile in return, but I was confused. If you had one moment with the dead, what questions would you ask? What would you tell them?

“Mother, I love you.”

“I know that, Trinket. Please forgive me for leaving you.
Forgive
.”

“Mother, what about my father? Is he d-d-dead, too?” I choked out. “Is he with you?”

She was vanishing, and the small banshee drifted in between us, an endearingly innocent look on her face.

“Forgive.”

“Stay … please…” I begged.

“Oh, my little Trinket,” I could hear my mother’s voice echo as she was lost to the mist. “I am with you more than you know.”

I wiped my tears with my sleeve only to find the wee banshee there again in the space my mother had just vanished from. The wee banshee’s long fingers opened and she held out her hand to me. So easy it would be to grasp it, to fall into the abyss and not feel this pain anymore.

I wanted my mother.

The banshee’s outstretched hand slowly came closer.

“The harp,” I said between sobs, pointing back to the tower where I had left the bag on the ground by the bench. “I offer it in exchange…” Paying the price was hard, but I had come prepared.

“I do not require the harp, Trinket,” she said. Her voice was cheerful, almost kind. “I want
you
. Think of it. We could play all night, in the tower. We could comb our hair. We could fly on the wind.”

Her bony finger beckoned and I watched as my own hand moved stealthily forward.

“You’ll never hurt again,” the banshee said. “You’ll cry for the loss of others, but the pain will not be your own.”

Sweet words. Never to feel my own pain again. The pain from a father who deserted me and a mother who died and abandoned me. Everyone left me. Even Thomas left.

Perhaps I drove them away.

“Yes, Trinket, you drove them away. They never cared for you,” she crooned, her small face filled with compassion. “But I would not leave your side. We would stay young and ride the moon. We’d shriek at the world and watch as foolish mortals are carried off by Death.”

Was I such a terrible person that no one ever wanted to stay with me?

“Your message has been delivered. Now ’tis time to pay,” the wee banshee said. “The price is your life.”

My hand was almost touching hers, but I could not reach her unless I took a step. I looked down. That one step would send me so far below that I could not see exactly where my bones would crash and break. Would they join others, there at the bottom of the cliff? Would my body lie next to the pub mistress’s grandfather, and no one would ever know what happened to me?

Would I feel this searing hurt no longer?

“Trinket!” called a voice from the path above.

“Just one more step,” the wee banshee whispered. “One more tiny step … no more pain … come, Trinket…” Her hand stretched out to me, just beyond my grasp.

“TRINKET!” Thomas shouted. “STEP BACK!”

The banshee grabbed at my wrist. Her nails scratched against my skin and I lost my balance.

THE BLUEBIRD

Falling was not as peaceful as I thought it would be. It felt hard and rough and was over much too fast.

That is because I did not fall from the cliff.

Thomas had thrown himself at me and knocked me out of the banshee’s grasp. She roared and wailed in despair. He landed on me and squashed me uncomfortably, but I would thank him later for it. Thomas had kept me alive.

He pulled on my arm, dragging my body upward, and forced me along the path. “Do not look back, whatever you do, do not look back.” But I could not help it. Her eyes were fiery, like a demon’s, and her face grimaced like a gargoyle. Thomas opened a small pouch of salt and flung it over his shoulder. Luckily, the wind did not blow the grains back at us, but carried them through the night, blasting the tiny specks against the thrashing, wailing form of the wee banshee. I could hear a
hiss
as the salt touched her skin.

Thomas pulled from his pocket my small silver mirror and flashed it at the wee banshee. Her moans and screams pierced the night.

My cloak whipped around and between us. Thomas batted it out of the way and clutched my hand, not letting go until we were far away from the top of the hill and the Banshee’s Tower. All the way down the path, the wind did not let up, nor did the howling cease. We ran and ran as if Death itself was at our heels.

And it may have been.

When we got to the road that led back to Crossmaglin, Thomas took us in the other direction.

“Thomas, my things…” I sobbed, but my words were covered by the sound of feet on gravel. ’Twere the first words I had spoken in all the time it took us to reach the fork in the road. Nay, I had not spoken, but I was not silent. I cried all of the way, until there were no tears, only dry coughing sounds, and still I did not stop. Thomas said nothing but held my hand as we traveled, helping me along when the going became difficult.

There is a time to talk and a time to hold your tongue. Thankfully, Thomas knew the difference between the two.

At last we were so far away it seemed safe to stop and catch our breaths. I sat on a log and buried my face in my hands. “My harp,” I said softly, thinking only I could hear. ’Twas selfish to be thinking of a mere instrument when my very life had just been saved. I knew it, but I could not help it.

“It’s here. It’s all here,” Thomas said simply, patting the bag on his shoulder that I’d been too shaken to notice. “I found this inside, see?” He pulled the mirror from his pocket and placed it gently in the sack. “When I went back, the pub mistress told me you’d gone. She gave me some salt and asked if I had a mirror. I didn’t, but I knew you did. And when I got to the ruin, I saw your bag on the ground by the bench.”

I noticed then that all of Thomas’s garments, every last one, were on backward and inside out.

“Do you suppose we banished her away from the tower?” he asked.

I shrugged. The wind around us was gentle now, like the breeze in the room after my mother had died.

As long as the wee banshee was nowhere near us, I did not care where she was.

“Thank you for coming back,” I whispered, my voice hoarse from the tears.

“Ah, Trinket. You’d have done the same for me.” He smiled a bit, grateful, perhaps, that I wasn’t crying for the first time in a few hours.

*   *   *

Later, when we were miles from Crossmaglin and could no longer see the Banshee’s Tower, I asked the question that had been rattling around in my brain.

“Thomas, how did you arrive at just the perfect moment? Had you been an instant later…”

“You know, Trinket, ’twas the strangest thing. I was already on my way along the path leading away from Crossmaglin, when a bird appeared. A beautiful bluebird. Well, I’d never seen such a bird before, and I’ve seen lots and lots of birds, and so I went to get a better look. Was flying all strange, it was, darting all around as if it were trying to get my attention. And I was afeared the poor thing was injured. So I ran to keep up, thinking maybe I could help it. ’Twas approaching twilight already, yet this bird fairly glowed. Never seen anything like it. I
had
to chase it. It stayed always just ahead of me. So there I was, running to catch a better look at the bluebird, and the next thing I knew, I nearly stumbled over the pub mistress. She handed me a bag of salt and … well…”

He did not go on with the story.

I did not blame him. But a warmth and a tingle went through me.

“Thomas, what color of blue was the bird?”

“The color of the sky at dawn.”

THE THIRD SONG

The Bluebird Song

To fly in the sky

With thee, dear bird,

Betwixt the clouds

Of white.

A-floating, a-darting

Up high, dear bird,

From morn

Until twilight.

What wouldn’t I give?

A treasure? A tune?

To fly with feathers

’Neath the cold, pale moon.

Like a mother who watches

Over her nest

And teaches the young

To fly.

Against the blanket

Of sparkling stars

’Neath the Mistress

Of the Night.

What wouldn’t I give?

A treasure? A tune?

To fly with feathers

’Neath the cold, pale moon.

THE FOURTH TALE

The Faerie Queen and the Gold Coin

ORLA

Each village has its own way about it. Some have a tragic sense to them and some can only be described as sleepy. Thomas and I like the happy villages the best, the ones where music can be found in the very sounds of bees buzzing or the mooing of cattle. The ones where laughter trickles from under the cottage doors like water over smooth rocks. Such a village was Ringford, where we met a girl who was born to dance. Perhaps the moon and stars twinkled in harmony the night she was born, or the ocean waves beat against the shore in the same rhythm as her little beating heart. Whatever the reason, the lass was born with dancing in her soul and she could do naught but move about, this way and that, every single minute of every single day.

Now, everyone knows how the faerie folk like their dancing. It’s one of their favorite things, next to cake and revelry. And possibly romancing. But this tale is not about faerie romance. Or cake. ’Tis about dancing. And a bargain. And the girl who was born with the rhythm of the twinkling stars in her feet.

*   *   *

Thomas and I came upon the dancing girl’s town after many days of walking. We were at the end of our rations and here was the fine-looking village of Ringford. We watched the townsfolk from behind a hedge, making sure the folks were friendly before revealing ourselves. Thomas and I had found that some people were kind and some were not, and the easiest way to tell was to watch how they treated their children. Villages where children were beaten were not places we stayed long, for where there was little tolerance for children, there was less for a young storyteller and her pig boy.

Instead of yelling at the dancing girl to be more helpful, her family encouraged her, making the cutting of the turf a celebration.

“Dance, Orla, dance!”

Joyful voices frolicked through the breeze and to our ears, married with the sound of clapping. And then we saw Orla, dancing deftly in the peat bogs alongside her family as they worked. Tall and graceful, swift and strong, she was the best dancer Thomas and I had ever seen.

*   *   *

“If I were a true bard, I’d stay a whole week in a village just like this,” I whispered to Thomas. It was impossible to say the word
bard
and not think of my father, but finding James the Bard became more of a foggy dream each day.

“I bet the Old Burned Man’s been here. Maybe he’s even here now.” Thomas nudged me with his elbow. The more we searched for my father, the more we realized how difficult our task was. By this time, we were happy when we found
any
bard.

“Perhaps,” I said, though I secretly doubted it. It seemed luck was never with us as we sought the Old Burned Man. We had been fortunate enough to hear Bald Fergal tell tales the week before. His stories were mostly jolly and we’d giggled about them for days on the road. But when I had asked him about my father, he had supplied no information.