The Seven Tales of Trinket (2 page)

“Trinket, mayhap the map shows where your father traveled about,” Thomas said.

“Then why did he not take it with him the last time he went?” I asked, although I knew the map had been my father’s. But it helped me to argue with Thomas. I could only know what I was truly thinking when I had to defend one thought against another.

The map was soft and faded, drawn by my father’s own hand in the black ink he always kept a small jar of on the shelf. But the ink in the jar had long since dried up, and the lines on the map had paled to a dirty brown. I traced an imaginary path from our town, through trees, to a far-off castle. Then I drew another, this time down the coast and to the villages by the sea.

“What are you going to do with it?” Thomas asked.

“What do you think?” My fingers trailed yet another direction, over the mountains to the forest.

He looked at me with eyes that widened as he understood my purpose.

“You are not going to follow it!” He spit when he yelled, which made it a good thing that Thomas the Pig Boy yelled very little.

“I am.”

“You are only eleven.”

“Almost twelve. A year older than you.”

“What will you do out there?” Thomas asked, flicking the map with his hand.

“Why, find my father, of course.”

And I will leave this place, and all the pain, behind.

But I did not say this aloud.

Thomas thought for a moment.

“If you go, can I come?”

I could have tortured him by not answering, or by saying no, but I had secretly hoped that he might want to journey with me. I could not imagine that he’d want to go back to spending all his time with his battle-ax of a mother, getting scolded if he breathed too loudly. As for myself, it would be easier to travel with a companion. And Thomas was a fairly brave boy, not to mention my only true friend.

“Could be dangerous, you know. Life on the road will not be easy.”

Thomas’s large brown eyes were already dancing. “Will there be excitement, do you think, and adventure?”

“Aye, mayhap. But if I let you come, you cannot complain,” I said, though I knew he would from time to time. He was Thomas, after all.

Thomas nodded, his eyes alive with thoughts of great escapades.

My own thoughts were more focused. There was a truth I sought.

And I hoped with all my soul I would find it.

“Yes, Thomas,” I said, “you can come with me.”

THE FIRST TALE

The Gypsies and the Seer

THE DARK-EYED GIRL

We’d been traveling for many days and many nights, asking each person we met along the road about the storyteller known as James the Bard. My father.

But of him there was neither word nor memory.

And following the old map was not as easy as it looked. We could not tell how long it would take to get from one place to the next.

“Perhaps beyond this glade, and whatever that is,” Thomas said, pointing to a cluster of what looked like trees on the map, “and over toward the east, we will find that village.”

It sounded like a good plan, and I had none better, so we continued. But it was not a village we stumbled upon as we followed the road and the faded smudges on my father’s map. ’Twas a Gypsy camp. Nestled between two lush groves of trees were exotic caravans and wagons, speckling all the way up the hillside.

Thomas could barely contain his excitement.
Gypsies!
How fortunate we were to meet with such adventure so early on our journey.

My hand tapped nervously against my britches. Thomas’s mum had given me the old trousers when I agreed to take Thomas along, so grateful she was at having one less mouth to feed. My only dress was rolled up tight in the bottom of my sack. I thought it best to keep it nice for when we met my father.

If we ever found him.

There was but a breath of wind as we approached the strange-looking camp. We walked a few steps. Then a few more.

Thomas’s stomach growled monstrously loud.

When you are first traveling, you learn that few things are as important as food, especially if you are carting around a pig boy with a bottomless stomach. We had run out of the provisions we’d packed, and if we did not get bread soon, I feared Thomas would roast and eat his own foot.

We brushed against the low branches of trees, scuffling and dragging our feet noisily upon the gravel, clearing our throats in order to make our approach known, hoping to be heard, pitied, and fed.

In the space between two heartbeats, the Gypsies surrounded us. Shiny knives poked at us, daring us to move. My back was against Thomas’s, and I could feel his spine shaking in unison with my own.

“Please, we mean you no harm,” I said, my voice close to a sob. Then I took a breath and willed my tears not to fall. Were my father here, I would not want him to see me cower.

“We’re just hungry,” cried Thomas. And he truly cried tears of hunger. ’Twould take a cold, hard heart to ignore the sniffles of a starving boy. And, as bad luck would have it, that was exactly the kind of heart the enormous Gypsy standing in front of us possessed. He also possessed the largest, hairiest eyebrows I had ever seen in my life. I guessed him to be the Gypsy King, for none of the other folk looked near so imposing.

“Bind them!” he bellowed, and the Gypsies grabbed our wrists.

“Wait.” And there, stepping out from behind the Gypsy King, was a dark-eyed girl, her black hair blowing against her cheek in the twilit breeze. She did not yell or shout at the men with knives. There was no command in her tone, yet our arms were instantly released.

She walked over and stood before Thomas and me, her eyes looking deep into ours. My own sniffling embarrassed me. Dragging Thomas along on this quest had been reckless. Surely he would have been better off at home. As for myself, well, though I did not want to lose my life, I had little left but that.

She touched my sweaty hand with her own cool one and closed her eyes, not moving even to breathe for one long moment.

Then the dark-eyed girl turned to the Gypsy King and said simply, “Do not harm these two, Father. I cannot yet see the reason that they have come, but no ill wishes travel with them. They are, after all, only children.”

The Gypsy King raised a giant eyebrow at his daughter, then scowled at the pig boy and me. He took in my plain, moss-colored britches and messy plaits. His eyes moved slowly over the elegant cloak my mother had kept in the chest. Beautiful it was, of many shades and hues. I stood straighter, trying to look worthy of such a fine piece of clothing. He turned his gaze to Thomas but in less than a second he looked away. Truly, Thomas appeared to be no threat at all, with his gangly legs, stringy arms, and threadbare shirt. Thomas’s feet were big and awkward. He was like a puppy or a colt that hadn’t yet grown into himself.

The king said nothing. He turned to leave, gesturing with his hand, and all of the Gypsies stepped back together, as if in a dance. ’Twas strangely beautiful as they all faded into their caravans and tents, leaving Thomas, myself, and the Gypsy girl alone together.

She led us into the center of the camp to a small campfire. From a pot over the flames, she ladled out bowls of broth and handed them to Thomas and me, along with chunks of bread. I chanced a smile as Thomas slurped three bowls, one after the next. I did not eat so quickly, though, for I found my head full of cautious thoughts.
Why was the Gypsy King so quick to obey his daughter? What kind of girl was she?

As if she read my mind, the dark-eyed girl spoke. “You wonder about me, as well you should.”

I paused, my bread midway to my bowl of broth.

“I am a liar,” she said.

TO TELL A LIE

I thought I must have heard her wrong, for though most people have told small lies in their lives, ’tis few who will admit even to those. I did not speak, fearing to look the fool for misunderstanding.

“They call me Feather,” she said, nodding at me to respond.

Feather
. A name birds would carry on their travels with the wind.

“This is Thomas,” I said, wishing his hair looked a bit tidier, not sticking out in all directions. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and grunted a greeting. Obviously I had not chosen him for his manners. “He is the pig boy in our village. He agreed to accompany me on my quest…”

Her delicate black brows rose.

“I seek my father; he is a bard. I was hoping I might find word of him here.”

She said nothing, so I continued. “A bard is a storyteller who travels from place to place, trading songs and stories for coin.”

“I know what a bard is.” There was a hint of annoyance in her voice. I had not yet given her the information she wanted. “What is your name?”

“I am called Trinket,” I said.

“Well met, Trinket,” Feather said. “We have not encountered a storyteller on our travels since I was younger than you are now, most likely. Mayhap the tales of my father’s temper keep them away or perhaps it is his unwillingness to pay. Whatever the reason, none have stopped at our camp for a long, long while.” Thomas and I were quiet except for the sounds of chewing and swallowing, so Feather continued. “But I remember the last one’s voice, clear as a cloudless night.”

“Do you remember his name?” I asked. She shrugged.

“My father was called James the Bard. They say I have his eyes.” I opened my gray eyes wide, unblinking.

She returned my gaze for a moment, then shook her head. “I was far too short to look into the eyes of the last storyteller that came our way. Perhaps if you had his knees.” She laughed. “Maybe
you
would be bard for us one night?” she asked.

“Nay,” I answered. “I do not think so.”

“What is the matter? It is only the repeating of a story. Are you afraid?” she asked.

It was my turn to shrug. ’Twas not that I feared telling a tale. The fear was that I would be horrible at it.

“Well, perhaps soon you will change your mind,” Feather said. “Now, are you going to ask me about the lying or not?” She rose and stretched like a cat, the bracelets around her wrists tinkling.

It was obvious she wanted me to. And she had saved us from being tied up, so I politely inquired, “You are a liar?”

She nodded. “Yes, I lie all the time.”

What do you do when someone tells you they lie all the time? Do you believe it? Or could they be lying when they tell you that they lie?

And why does any of this matter?
’Twas what I asked myself. Why should I care if a Gypsy princess tells lies or not? It’s none of my affair at all.

Except that I felt a shiver down low on my spine. And I was most curious.

“Why do you lie?” I asked.

“Because if I don’t, I surely will die.”

Thomas choked a bit on his soup. I patted him on the back and offered him water. Feather smiled. Her dramatic words had had the desired shocking effect.

“You will
die
?” I whispered. “Truly die?”

“Well, I won’t be struck with lightning and fall to the ground in agony. But my father will kill me and I would be just as dead.”

“Surely your own father wouldn’t kill you,” I said.

“I am the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, Trinket. I am a seer. With but a touch I can see the path a life will take. With but a dream I can see when death is coming. And I know without a doubt that if I stop lying, my life will be over.”

And with those words, she rose and left Thomas and me sitting with our soup, wondering which of the nearby trees would make the best shelter.

Or if the smartest thing to do would be to leave altogether.

*   *   *

“What’s it like, to see what is to come?” I asked Feather as we went to the stream in the morning to fetch fresh water. Thomas was helping with the chickens. He preferred his pigs to chickens, naturally, but he preferred chickens to people. And since we had decided to stay a few days with the Gypsies, we hoped to work a bit for food and information. Maybe one of the Gypsies might remember my father. I had the secret intent of asking each and every one of them.

“Imagine the worst feeling in the world.” Feather knelt to fill her bucket. “Then imagine a feeling even worse than that. That is what it feels like when a vision comes. ’Tis the curse of a seer.”

“But can’t you use your sight to help others? I would think having the sight would be a gift.”

“You would think that, of course,” she said, “but seeing the future is no gift. For I cannot undo what is to come and it only frightens people to know the truth.”

“You cannot warn people of danger?”

“Of course I can!” she reproved. She rose, her hands on her hips. “You do not understand at all.”

She stomped off, leaving me four buckets to carry, instead of my two. It took me until the sun was high to return to the camp with the pails. Indeed, my arms were sore.

Feather was waiting for me, sitting on a crooked wooden bench near the silver-haired woman in charge of the water. The woman’s soft purple skirt swayed as if underneath she tapped an impatient foot. She looked at all the pails I carried, then back at Feather’s empty arms. But she said nothing and merely pointed to where she wanted the buckets placed. Apparently, one did not question the Gypsy King’s daughter.