The Seven Tales of Trinket (22 page)

I could hear the clip-clopping of his horse’s hooves, not behind me but as if he was next to me, or on a nearby street.

I tried to hide in a doorway, but I could not flatten myself enough. The clip-clopping echoed between the buildings, louder and louder still. The Highwayman was advancing. I started banging on the door.

“Let me in! Please! I beg you!” I shrieked. I am not proud of the fear I felt nor of the way I screamed. I could hear stirring in the house, and the door opened but a crack. Staring up at me, through the narrowest of slivers, was a clear gray eye.

He paused and stared off, then gazed into a different set of clear gray eyes.

“Mum,” said a tiny voice, “there’s a man here at the door. Sore a-feared he looks. Should we let him in then?”

“Please,” I begged. “He comes for me. The Highwayman comes!”

“That’s exactly the reason we shan’t let you in!” cried a stern voice on the other side of the door, which was being pushed against me hard. “Ye think I’m a fool?”

I gave a shove and tumbled into the house and closed the door behind me. The wood was rough and my hand was filled with splinters from all my banging.

“How dare ye bring the wrath of the other side down upon my wee home!” yelled a woman with her hair stretched back so tight as to pull her eyes apart. “What are ye thinking? Me here with only me daughter.” She probably would have sobbed had she not been so angry with me.

And I didn’t blame her. What
had
I been thinking, bringing the horrible Highwayman to the doorstep of a mother and her lass? I thought of another mother and lass left home alone.

Another lass with cool gray eyes.

The Highwayman laughed, the sound harsh and cruel. The mother and her child huddled close together, and I crouched behind the door, cursing myself for involving this innocent family in my struggle with the dark side.

We heard a crash, as if something had been thrown upon the roof of the cottage. Then smoke, light at first, but quickly growing thicker and darker, engulfed the room. The thatch on the roof must have been dry, for it erupted in flames like a bonfire. I heard the girl cry and the mother yelling at the girl to stay close, but I couldn’t see anything in the dense black smoke.

There were screams, naturally. And I am certain some of them were mine. I only knew that I had to get the woman and child out of the house before it was too late. I grabbed them to me, though my own cloak was ablaze, and somehow found a way out of the fiery cottage.

He was silent for a long time, and his eyes filled with unshed tears.

The next thing I knew, I was wrapped in bandages, feeling like I was still aflame. I could barely see and my skin was red, blistered, and painful, indeed.

The woman and the girl with gray eyes had been saved from the fire. I had rescued them, though ’twas my own fault their cottage was burned by the vengeful Highwayman. Lesser folk would have turned me out, injured or not. But the woman was a healer. And so she practiced her remedies and potions upon my hideous burns.

They looked after me, filling my dry mouth with cool water and restorative broth, keeping my bandages fresh and applying ointment as I would let them. ’Twas sore painful, to be true.

My harp was destroyed in the blaze, as were my hopes of seeing you again.

But time heals. If it does nothing else, time does that.

Slowly, the anger I felt at being horribly disfigured, and their anger at me for causing the roof of their cottage to be torched, melted away as a cautious friendship grew. I told them about you, you know. They did not understand why I could not someday go back to you.

But I could not.

I left your mother and you a whole man. A handsome man. How was I to return, a shell of my former self?

Thus, I stayed in the strange village, hidden from view, as the healing ointments and remedies gradually did their work. Until one day the girl woke afrightened in the night and asked me to tell her a nice tale to help her sleep.

And so the stories came to me, again.

I had no harp, but the woman carved me a flute and I told stories and played. Although my body would forever be scarred, my heart was healing.

I no longer possessed the handsome looks of a young man, but instead a destroyed face and ruined white hair. So, I called myself the Old Burned Man and took to the road once more. My fame as a teller grew. Far more fame than I had ever known as my former self. Perhaps folks were intrigued by my scarred face and body. I know not, but with that fame, I gained courage.

Mayhap enough courage to go back.

RETURN

The woman and child begged me not to return to you and your mother. True, once they had encouraged such a reunion, but we had grown fond of each other and they feared losing my company, and quite possibly my purse, for many a lord paid amply for my tales. My guilt would not allow me to keep much for myself, so the woman and child were well cared for. But I had to go back. I had to.

And so I returned to that little cottage by the sea and watched from afar, too self-conscious to show my hideous face. I kept hidden behind my gray cloak and watched.

Oh, your mother was so beautiful!

Mairi-Blue-Eyes tended the sheep and sheared their wool. She carded the wool in the evening whilst sitting on a stool outside the cottage. The sunlight caught the gold in her hair as she smiled. And you, Trinket, you played at her feet, or danced. Or sang. Even then, you had a voice that carried on the wind, true and sure.

As I watched, I felt a tear on my cheek.
She
no longer
needed
me.
You
no longer
needed
me.

The Old Burned Man put up his hand. He did not wish to be interrupted.

It had been more than three years since I’d seen either of you. Much of a year spent tale-telling, one year spent on the other side, and over a year spent healing from my wounds, for I even had to learn to walk again! And I realized that your lives had gone on during that time. Mayhap you would not even remember—

Again the hand went up.

*   *   *

Whether it was the wrong decision or not, it was the one I made. I would not be a burden to your mother nor an embarrassment to my child. I had left the village a strapping, handsome man. James the Bard. Now I was so scarred and twisted, folks thought I was aged. And pitiful.

I journeyed from then on. Village to castle. Castle to Gypsy camp. Gypsy camp to manor house, and all sorts of dwellings in between. The stories were my life now, even though I could not help myself from looking in on you, and you’d blush if you knew how I swelled with pride at how you grew. Tall, strong, and filled with such promise.

I left things from time to time, on the back step, small bags of gold and such. Once I left a small silver mirror given to me by a princess who liked my tales. Mayhap you remember it?

An ever-so-slight nod.

Now the story becomes even more tragic, for a chance encounter with the Faerie Queen convinced me of my selfishness.

“Do you really believe,” she said after listening to a story. (For the faerie folk are always around when there is a tale to be told. Watch for the way the light moves in the corners of the room, or the way the trees sway just so. That is them.) “Do you really believe that your wife and child only loved your looks? Are you foolish enough to think they would not care for you? The true you that lurks beneath the damage?”

At least, I think she said these words to me. I’d fallen asleep after telling the tale, near a perfectly round mound, dotted with the most lovely flowers. I awoke after dreaming of you and your mother and hearing the Faerie Queen’s words. I knew then that I would return. However, I was struck ill, which happens often. My throat never healed well and I spend many weeks each year nursing myself through fever. By the time I went to visit you again, your mother had died and you were gone.

If I live to be one hundred, I will never forgive myself for not taking the risk sooner that she would reject me, just to see her alive once more.

*   *   *

There was silence for a long time. What words could be left? At length, he cleared his throat and continued.

Then I heard of a girl with a white harp, a Story Lass, traveling with a grubby boy, and I thought, Could it be her? Could it be Trinket?

The words were but whispers.

So I began to follow your trail, though illness and my scarred legs made me too slow to catch up to you, until you came to Castlelow.

And now you know, daughter, what became of your father.

Now you know.

Most stories have only one ending, but at this moment, this particular story has two. Two possible endings.

James the Bard stood, bowed slightly, and excused himself.

THE FIRST ENDING

I looked over to where the Old Burned Man was resting. He’d spilled his heart out, that much was true. Admitting to low feelings such as cowardice and vanity was most likely difficult. Cowardice, as he was not brave enough to return to my mother and me in time. Vanity, in assuming that we would reject him based upon his appearance.

It had taken courage, yes, to confess these things.

But perhaps it was a case of far too little, far too late.

Did he not remember my mother had died? Could he have saved her from the illness had he been there?

We would never know.

Therein lay the poison. We would
never
know.

It no longer bothered me to look at his scars, for they were as much a part of him as his eyes or his nose. No, it was not his physical appearance that bothered me. I could not look at him because he angered me still. Still.

I would not look at him because that would mean forgiving him. Forgiving him for abandoning me.

I motioned to Thomas to gather our things.

“Why, Trinket, we just got—”

I silenced him with a glare.

I felt the Old Burned Man’s gaze and eventually returned it. I glanced at him with as little emotion as possible, then looked away, as if he were something insignificant, like an earthworm or a small beetle crawling among the dried grass.

From the corner of my eye, I saw him nod in understanding.

The Old Burned Man bent down and petted Thomas’s pup. Thomas clasped hands with the Old Burned Man, as grown men do, then walked over to stand beside me.

I turned in the direction of the road.

I did not wave.

I did not look back.

THE SECOND ENDING

The second ending, were I to choose it, would be more difficult.

I let the silence settle around me, comforting like the cloak my mother had made for me. Thomas knew better than to disturb my thoughts, and the Old Burned Man, well, he was intelligent in the ways of people.

The question was, could I forgive him?

Could I?

I knew in my heart it was the right thing to do. I knew I
should
.

But could I?

Would I always, when I looked upon his scars, feel my blood seethe beneath the surface? Would I blame him for the death of my mother? Not that he could have prevented her illness, but perhaps he could have been there. He could have been there for me.

And I would not have been so alone.

Is there anything worse than being alone?

There was a time when I thought not. But now I was uncertain. I had managed fine with just myself and Thomas. Now we even had Pig. We had made our own family. And a person didn’t need much if they had someone as loyal as Thomas by their side.

I did not need a father.

But did I, perhaps, still
want
a father? Not an imaginary one who lived on pirate ships or lulled dragons to sleep. But a real father. A damaged, disfigured, and remorseful man who somehow still managed to touch my soul with his words and touch my heart with his own.

I could not imagine what it cost him to tell me his tale.

Perhaps, one day, I could tell him mine.

*   *   *

I readied my sack, but I did not leave.

We had food aplenty that night. The Old Burned Man taught Thomas how to set a snare and he’d captured a fine rabbit, which they roasted on a stick over the fire. ’Twas tasty, and it is always easier to think when your belly isn’t growling. I watched the Old Burned Man eat carefully, out of the corner of my eye. He handed little bits of food to Pig and laughed as the pup stood on his hind legs, trying to get the morsels.

“Look, he’s a dancer,” he said.

And then he smiled.

The Old Burned Man’s smile reached all the way to his eyes. Eyes that were silver gray, just like mine. And when he smiled, he didn’t look like a gruesome, scarred man.

He looked like my father.

James the Bard.

In that instant, the tiniest sliver of memory came to me and I saw him kissing my mother goodbye. I felt him pat me on the head.

He could feel that I was staring at him and he turned toward me.

“Where is it you’ll be traveling to, then, Trinket?” he asked quietly.

“I do not know, I’ll have to look at the old map—”

His eyes grew wide and he interrupted me.

“The map? You have my map?”

“Aye,” I said. “You left it.” I took the leather canister from my bag and placed it in his hands.

“I always wondered where it was. Thought I’d lost it along the road somewhere. And here
you
had it.” He unrolled the map with care and pointed to a place east of Castlelow. “We are here.” He paused for a moment, then added, “The question is: Where next?”