The Seven Tales of Trinket (23 page)

There was something in his voice that just might have been hope.

“I am not yet certain,” I said, making up my mind at last. “I have many more stories to learn … Father.”

THE SEVENTH SONG

Of Baubles and Trinkets

My father’s lullaby

A chest of gold,

For thee, my sweet,

A chest of jewels

To lay at thy feet.

For no other lass

In all the land

Can tame the world

With but her hand.

Thy eyes like drops

Of crystal rain,

I know thy heart

But not thy name.

So take my gifts,

But darling dear,

And come with me,

There’s naught to fear.

And I shall give thee,

My one true love,

The blessings of

The morning dove.

And in return,

For days long gone,

The nightingale

Will sing her song.

There is no trinket,

Bauble, nor pearl

Can match the grace

Of thee, sweet girl.

AND SO …

Seasons change.

So must we.

That which we hold on to so tightly eventually withers in our hands, and it is time to let go.

Time to let the winds carry the pieces away. For mayhap the small pieces are seeds. Seeds that will find a new, fertile ground somewhere to take root and sprout.

I took the small handful of seeds I had been clutching and cast them to the winds. Some took to the air; some fell in the nearby grass.

And one fell by my foot.

Only to be spirited away by a small bluebird.

*   *   *

“Do not judge by appearances,” my mother had told me on the mountain overlooking Crossmaglin, “for something pure and good may reside under old, crabbed wrapping.”

And so I was learning to see past the scars and sadness of my father and into his mending heart.

“Forgive.” Her words drifted around me as she became a part of the evening sky.

And so I would learn to.

*   *   *

“Come now, Trinket,” said Thomas.

“Aye,” said my father. “Your harp is itching to be played again, and I know of a village not too far, just o’er the hills. They are soon to celebrate the marriage of their lord to a mysterious lass. Some say she’s a Gypsy.”

“Aye,” I said, repeating it in just the way my father had said it. “’Tis time.”

*   *   *

It took us three days to travel to the wedding of Feather and Lothar. Three days of getting used to a different rhythm on our journeys, for there were three of us now, instead of two, although Thomas would claim there were four. He counted Pig as a person.

Banners of crimson and gold were displayed up and down the narrow streets of Foresthill. This marriage was more a festival than a solemn ceremony.

And when I finally got to see Feather, she looked truly happy.

“Little Trinket, you have grown much,” she said, taking me by the hands and twirling me around.

I stepped back. She was right. I had grown. No longer was I timid Trinket, the girl who searched for a father. Now I was Trinket the Story Lass. I had learned from a Gypsy girl to follow the calling in my blood and make my own future. I had been to the isle of the seal people and earned my harp. I had followed a young banshee to hear words from my dead mother. I had played music for the Faerie Queen and won a reward. I had traveled through the wall between the living and the dead with the help of a pooka. I had saved the lives of a loyal hound and my best friend.

And I had found my father.

“Trinket, will you play your harp for the wedding and tell us a tale?” Feather asked me. I looked at my father, and he nodded.

So I sat and strummed my harp. The notes rose up from my heart, out through the air, and into the coolness of the evening as a smile played upon Feather’s lips.

I smiled back and cleared my throat, for now I did indeed have a tale or two for her.

For that is what I do.

That is who I am:

Trinket the Story Lass.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

I drew heavily from Celtic folklore (Irish, Scottish, and Welsh) when creating Trinket’s stories, attempting to weave in bits of magic from the tales I heard as a child, researched as a grownup, and told to audiences myself as a professional storyteller. A good
seanachai
(Gaelic for storyteller) always flavors a story upon the retelling with a bit of her own soul.

The Gypsies and the Seer.
Often I have wondered about seeing into the future. If I could, would I want to know what my future held? Those born with “the sight” appear often in folklore, and in ancient times, many a king had his own personal fortune-teller. The seventh daughter of a seventh daughter (or the seventh son of a seventh son) is said to be gifted with “the sight” in many cultures.

The Harp of Bone and Hair.
Harps made from bones and hair have appeared in folktales all over the world. More often than not, the bones used are human. However, there is an old tale of a babe stolen by faeries and a mother who bargains with a harp made from a sea creature’s bones, which is the basis for this story. Famed storyteller Sorche Nic Leodhas collected a version of this tale, called “The Stolen Bairn and the Sidhe.” Of course, because of my fascination with seals, selkies found their way into the mix in my version. Selkies, the seal people, are common in Irish and Scottish folklore, and are often called roans or silkies.

The Wee Banshee of Crossmaglin.
When I first researched banshees (back when I was about Trinket’s age), I remember wondering if they were always ladies, or if there were ever child banshees. I could find no evidence of banshee children, but then, maybe those who know did not survive to tell the tale. I named my village Crossmaglin, which is similar to the real village of Crossmaglen in Ireland, because I love how that name sounds. However, my imaginary village with its Banshee’s Tower bears no resemblance to the real town of Crossmaglen.

The Faerie Queen and the Gold Coin.
I knew a former Irish priest who, when my daughters were first learning Irish dance, claimed that the best Irish dancers could complete their steps on the face of a penny, or so his old aunt had told him. I later learned that in truth, dancers would often pound large horse nails into the bottoms of their shoes to create sound when they danced, or even the occasional coin. Perhaps Orla was the first. As for the faerie folk, they have always been known as fine dancers and dangerous competitors. Irish poet and playwright W. B. Yeats collected many stories about the faeries.

A Pig Boy, a Ghost, and a Pooka.
Oftentimes stories get jumbled up in the telling, where elements from one tale meld into the next. The term “highwayman” wasn’t really in favor until the eighteenth century, although robbery along the road has been a danger since the creation of roads. There is a famous poem, “The Highwayman” by Alfred Noyes, which is hauntingly lovely, though the highwayman in my story is far less noble. As for the pooka, he is perhaps the most misunderstood creature of Celtic folklore. A shape-shifter who can be a wolf or an eagle, he is most often known as a horse who can talk with humans. Whether his intention be good or foul depends upon the story (and the pooka). In some places, the
pooka’s share
is still left out for him on Samhain (the ancient name for the holiday we call Halloween). I visited a graveyard in the west of Ireland called Aghadoe, and though no ghosts came out to haunt me, the image of the graveyard with its crumbling headstones still does. So I rearranged the letters a bit and made Agadhoe the name of my town.

The Old Burned Man and the Hound.
There is an ancient Welsh tale called “BeddGelert,” about a brave hound that protects a royal babe but is killed by the king, who unfortunately misunderstands the situation. There is even a monument to this dog in Snowdon, Wales. I always hoped they got the story wrong, and that the brave dog lived. The great thing about being a storyteller is you can create a better ending.

The Storyteller and the Truth.
A year and a day
is a magical unit of time. Some legends hold that marriages can be dissolved after a year and a day or that perhaps the dead can return in special circumstances, but only for this length of time.

As with all tales, the true meaning of each story is for the listener to determine. And though I enjoy researching folktales, I do not claim to be a folklorist. Just a simple storyteller with a desire to pass along the magic of stories, hoping they’ll reside in your hearts and minds for more than just a year and a day.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Above all else, two very extraordinary people are responsible for Trinket getting the opportunity to tell her tales. Joanna Stamfel-Volpe, my amazing agent, who e-mailed me before she was even done reading the story to let me know how much she was enjoying it and how beautiful she found it. That e-mail changed everything for me. And Beth Potter, my brilliant editor, who loved the story as much as I did and helped me weave the words even more tightly so that they would hold together, true and strong.

Thank you to teachers/writers Nancy Villalobos and Chris Kopp, who read each of Trinket’s tales, one by one, as I slowly finished them, and always seemed eager to read another. And faraway thanks to friends Holly Pence and Kathy Duddy, whose long-distance support is worth more to me than a thousand gold coins.

I could not be more pleased with the work done by the copy editors, the art directors, the amazing Dan Craig, and everyone at FSG Macmillan. I appreciate you so much.

Special thanks to my parents, John and Nancy Moore, and the rest of my wonderful family in New Mexico: John Moore III, Tammi Moore, Hope Moore, Jacob Moore, Jim Daniels, Elora Daniels, and Mia Daniels. My sister, Susan Moore Daniels, plays the harp so beautifully that I am certain her strumming echoed in my brain as I wrote this book. My nephew John Moore IV composed a hauntingly beautiful version of “Trinket’s Lullaby” that makes me tear up whenever I listen to it. I am not sure what I did to be part of such a wonderful crew, but I am thankful for them.

To the dancers of the Comerford Irish Dance School and their director, Tony Comerford: thank you for several years of amazing rhythms and the inspiration I’ve gained from watching your feet fly.

To the students and staff of Jefferson Elementary: every day you give me hope for the future of our world. And, kids, I never get tired of you asking for more stories. Never.

And finally, to my husband, Sean: you put up with a lot while I was working on this book and it is only because of your support that I was able to finish it at all. And to my beautiful daughters, Noel, Isabelle, and Caledonia: you are my muses. My stories are always for you, first and foremost. So is my advice: never be afraid to live your dreams and tell your tales. I love you.

Farrar Straus Giroux Books for Young Readers

175 Fifth Avenue, New York 10010

Text copyright © 2012 by Shelley Moore Thomas

Pictures copyright © 2012 by Daniel Craig

All rights reserved

First hardcover edition, 2012

eBook edition, September 2012

mackids.com

The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

Thomas, Shelley Moore.

    The seven tales of Trinket / Shelley Moore Thomas. — 1st ed.

        p.    cm.

    Summary: “Guided by a tattered map, accompanied by Thomas the Pig Boy, and inspired by the storyteller’s blood that thrums through her veins, eleven-year-old Trinket searches for the seven stories she needs to become a bard like her father, who disappeared years before.”—Provided by publisher.

    ISBN 978-0-374-36745-9 (hardcover)

    ISBN 978-0-374-36744-2 (e-book)

    [1.  Storytellers—Fiction.   2.  Fantasy.]   I.  Title.

PZ7.T369453Se 2012

[Fic]—dc23

2011050075

eISBN 9780374367442