The Seven Tales of Trinket

by Shelley Moore Thomas

  And I would not. Thomas had been patient, and I had no wish to torment him, especially since I agreed with him. We needed to leave this place.

  “Oh, you are still here. I thought you would have gone.” Feather did not look up at me. She sat, staring at a lovely piece of cloth. “For my bridal dress, someday,” she said softly as she folded the fabric. She did not even glance in my direction, but continued folding various pieces of beautiful clothing and placing them in a bag.

  “You are going to run away.”

  “And they say I see the future,” Feather said.

  “But they will follow you. They will bring you back.”

  “Again you are probably right.”

  “But why?”

  Finally she looked at me, smiling as if I were a very simple child. “Trinket, when you are born, it is your destiny to die. It is everyone’s future. Does that mean you should curl up in a ball and just let death take you?”

  Puzzled, I shook my head. I did not like talking about dying.

  “Of course not, you go out and live anyway, even if the end is inevitable,” she said.

  “But—”

  “So maybe they catch me, maybe not, but should I just curl up and let my father sell me to a husband for gold, or bargain away my sight as he sees fit … or should I create my own future?”

  “What did you see, when your father touched your shoulder?” I asked.

  “You do not have to be a seer to know what my father plans for me. He has made the arrangements already. He will not admit it, but I saw it—a foul tyrant across the water waits for me. Whether my father has promised me as a wife or a slave to such a beast, I do not know. But I shall be neither.”

  It was silent in the tent as Feather placed items in her bag. Bracelets, colorful hair ties, and necklaces jingled as she untangled them, wrapped them in cloth and put them on the top.

  “I might need to trade these,” she explained. “For meals and such.”

  “Won’t you use your gift?”

  “Of course, I am not a fool. I will use the gifts I have been given. But I must be quiet for a while, lest my father hear rumors of a fortune-telling girl.”

  I paused, wondering how Feather could leave her family. Did she not know how lucky she was to still have a family? Then I thought of her father, with the hairy caterpillar eyebrows, who always scowled. Perhaps a hideous father was worse than no father at all.

  “What did you see when you took Lothar’s hand? I know you saw something.”

  Why did I want to know? I could not answer, but I needed to understand. Thomas, on the other hand, felt the need to go. I could see him pacing outside, for he did not feel it was right to enter a lady’s tent without permission.

  “His wife has died in childbirth. He will be angry. He will rage at those he left behind to watch over her. Violence. But then…”

  “Then?”

  “He will feel great remorse. His heart breaks and he vows to do kind deeds. Perhaps, after time passes, I will seek him out.”

  “That seems like a lot. Have you ever seen so much before?”

  “Never. Perhaps our lives are intertwined and that is why I could see. Mayhap his future lies beside my own.”

  I felt my eyes widen. Feather was choosing Lothar as her future husband.

  “Don’t look so surprised,” she chided. “Remember, I believe in making my own fortune.” Feather came to me then and hugged me. She also gave me a few coins from a small purse she wore around her neck. “’Tis best if we don’t leave together. They will assume you and Thomas stole me away against my will and think nothing of slitting your throats to get me back.” Feather hid her bag beneath her cot. “I will leave in three days’ time. My father will be so busy with the preparations for the tyrant’s arrival, he will not even notice.”

  “Goodbye, Feather. You are the first friend I have met on my travels.” I felt the heat of tears behind my eyes.

  “I am sure I shall not be the last.” She smiled, then looked at me thoughtfully for a moment. She took my palm. “Would you like to know?”

  Did I want to know? Did I want to know what the future held for me?

  Or did I want to make my own future?

  “Don’t tell me,” I whispered, curling my hand in a fist before I could change my mind.

  “I foresaw you would say that.” She laughed.

  I turned toward the tent flap, hoping I had decided correctly.

  But Feather could not help herself. “You will find your answers, you know,” she said.

  “The truth? I will find the truth?”

  “That is not exactly what I said, Trinket. I said you would find answers. Every question has more than one answer. Every story more than one ending.”

  She held up seven fingers. “Were I you, Trinket, I would make my own future. Find your own tales for the telling. Seven. Being a teller is in you. I saw it there.”

  I hugged her as she hummed the lullaby for me, my father’s lullaby, one last time, strong and true so I could carry it with me in my heart. “’Twas his song for you, was it not?”

  * * *

  “Finally,” Thomas grumbled as I came out of the tent, but he was not really angry.

  I did not answer him. Instead, I turned back to Feather, still unsure.

  “We will meet again,” the Gypsy King’s daughter said, following me out. “And do not worry that the guards will come after you. I will tell them I foresee a plague from the plants in the forest. Those having to drop their breeks when nature calls will suffer from boils erupting on their cursed backsides!” She laughed. “That will stop them.”

  We regarded each other one last time, neither of us willing to say the word goodbye. Strangely enough, Feather grabbed Thomas into an awkward embrace. He blushed, and she whispered something to him, but I did not hear.

  She returned to her tent, the tent flap closed, and Thomas and I walked out of the Gypsy camp.

  * * *

  I found myself glancing backward every few minutes, and Thomas doing the same. The Gypsy camp had been the first real stop on our adventure, and now it disappeared into the trees as if it had never existed. We did not leave empty-handed, though, for I carried with me a song from long ago. And perhaps a tale as well.

  Thomas was unusually quiet. I caught him peeking at me from under his unruly locks, then looking away quickly.

  “What is it, Thomas?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” he tried to lie.

  “Feather said something to you. I know she did.”

  Thomas did not respond.

  “Just tell me.”

  Thomas fidgeted, kicking hard at any stone unfortunate enough to be in his path. “You said you did not like fortunes. You said you didn’t want to know.”

  Ah, ’twas a prophecy then.

  “’Tis not fair if you know something that I do not know, especially if it is about me.” Whether I wanted to know or not no longer mattered. I could not let Thomas bear the burden alone.

  “It’s not about you. It was about me. She said … she said to watch over you.”

  I tried not to roll my eyes. So far, Thomas needed much more watching over than I did.

  “And she said you would need my ear for listening,” he said with a bit of confusion. “I dunno what she meant by that. I already have to listen to you all the time.”

  I punched him in the arm, but not too hard.

  “And she said that I would do great things.” His cheeks flushed as he told me.

  “You will, Thomas. I am sure you will.”

  “And she said to follow the song. The lullaby. Follow the lullaby.”

  THE FIRST SONG

  To a Gypsy on a Moonless Night

  ’Twas my first song, and there was nothing fancy about it. Just a heart’s own voice. For that is what a song is, even if there is only a tune and no words at all.

  Tell me true,

  If thou could see

  What could happen,

  What might be.


  Would thou take

  The reckless chance?

  Would thou peek,

  Take but a glance?

  And if thou saw

  Thy future sold,

  Could thou change

  What fate beholds?

  I have not

  Answer nor opine,

  But I’ll not look—

  The risk is thine.

  THE SECOND TALE

  The Harp of Bone and Hair

  THE MISTRESS OF THE SEA

  My father’s map was dotted with small coastal villages. Rugged they are, as are the people who inhabit them. You must be strong of spirit to live with the ocean as your neighbor. Sometimes, she is as gentle as a new lamb, soft and placid. You might not even know she is there, but for her salty scent and the gifts of fish she bountifully brings. But other times, she is angry. She takes things that do not belong to her, and she does not return them.

  The people who live on the land are not the only ones who are at the whim of the Mistress of the Sea. There are others.

  Thomas and I came over a hill and upon a village called Conelmara that looked as if it had just lost an argument with the Mistress of the Sea. The thatch was blown off the houses, trees were uprooted from the ground, bits and pieces of everything lay about.

  “Perhaps this is not the best place to take shelter. These poor folk probably have not much left to eat themselves, let alone anything to share with two roamers,” I said. Checking the map, I could see there were other villages a bit farther along. I wondered if my father had told tales at every village he passed on his travels, or if he had let his stomach determine his stops.

  Thomas just grunted his response.

  “You know, you’ve really got to learn to converse. Ask a question or two. I get tired of hearing my own voice all the time.”

  Thomas groused, “Fine. I’ve a grumble in my belly so loud and fierce it could be heard all the way to heaven and back.” He paused. “Here’s a question: What would be worse, Trinket, to be starving, but have no food, or to be dying of thirst and have no water?”

  “I don’t know, Thomas.”

  “Well, I can’t tell myself, because I’ve both. I’ve a thirst big enough to drink a lake and a hunger loud enough to frighten a ghost.”

  “’Twould be a good story, Thomas. Mayhap if we keep going, we will find the Old Burned Man, and you can share it with him.” I laughed and tried to make light.

  “Me? I’ve no wish to tell tales.”

  “Mayhap … I do,” I said tentatively.

  “Mayhap you what?”

  “I want to tell stories. Do you think I could, Thomas?” I spoke quickly, afraid I would lose my nerve and keep my dream forever trapped inside. But since we’d left the Gypsies, I’d thought of little else.

  “Well, of course you’ll be a teller, Trinket. What else could you possibly be?”

  I smiled. I’d feared Thomas would tease me. His belief in me made my heart feel not quite so hollow.

  “Would you sing songs, too? A good bard always has songs, you know.”

  “Yes. I suppose I could write a song or two.” Already words and rhymes danced in my head, joined by fleeting melodies.

  As I thought more about becoming a bard, I remembered that my mother had always encouraged my tales. She’d laugh and tell me I was like him. Like my father.

  Those were, however, babes’ stories. Not what I sought at all. Now I quested for words that would sing in the hearts of those who heard them. Tales that were made of dreams. And I would need seven. Then I could stay in one place for a whole week and tell a new tale each night.

  “What would you like to do then, Thomas? What do you think your path is?” The longer we talked about things other than his hunger, the better.

  “I dunno. I’ve given some thought to it, though. Sometimes I feel it in my bones to be a healer.”

  I gave him a look. Thomas the Pig Boy a healer? Now that would be a story.

  “Oh, not for people. For animals, mayhap. Do they have those, do you think, animal healers?”

  “I suppose they might.”

  Looking up from where he’d been kicking a pebble down the road, Thomas groaned. “This is really a wreck of a town. But maybe we can find a meal here. Or a bed. Or both.” I had not the heart to force him on. So we stopped at a rather dilapidated house, the closest one to the road.

  The owner, Mister Fergus, surprised us with his kindness, offering us chowder and warm pallets for our rest.

  “You are a wiry lad, but perhaps you have strength in your bones?” said Mister Fergus. He was strong and weathered, with a roundish nose that sat atop a gray moustache. Thomas looked from side to side, then, realizing Mister Fergus was talking to him, puffed himself up a bit. “We can use a lad like ye to help us rethatch the cottages.” Thomas nodded over his fish stew. He was not a lazy lad, most days anyway, and if the work meant food in our bellies, he was more than willing.

  “I am not as strong as Thomas, but I can help, too,” I offered, glad I was wearing my britches.

  Mister Fergus looked me over. “Have ye an ear for a tale, lass?”

  I nodded. An ear for a tale? ’Tis what my ears were meant for!

  “There is a lady who lost her husband to a storm a month ago, and just the other night lost her babe, too. Nigh on crazy she is, insisting the babe is still alive. We searched and searched, but the Mistress of the Sea must have claimed him.”

  I could feel tears welling in the back of my eyes. I, too, had lost loved ones. Mayhap I did not want to do this task, whatever it might be.

  “She’s in need of a lass who will listen to her, dry her tears, and pat her shoulders, so the rest of us can get the work done. She’s done naught but stagger from one to the next of us, begging us to listen to her story. Begging us to keep looking for the babe.” His voice trailed off and he sighed. “In the morn, I’ll take you to her. Best you rest well now.” He motioned to the pallets he’d arranged by the hearth. “You’ll be warm enough there, I think.” Mister Fergus did not wait for me to say yes. And Thomas was asleep before I could even talk with him about it. So I laid my head on the straw and closed my eyes, but no slumber came. Thoughts of mothers without their children and children without their mothers drifted through my wakeful brain.

  THE MOTHER’S TALE

  The sun had just peeked over the hill when Mister Fergus took me to the cottage closest to the sea.

  ’Twas obviously the first house to be repaired, for on its roof was fresh, new thatch. The people of Conelmara must care for this woman a great deal.

  “Catriona, there’s someone here to see you,” Mister Fergus called, and with that, he shoved me inside the house, closing the door behind me.

  I expected her home to be a mess, for what care would a grieving woman have for neatness and order? But it was not. Everything was tidy. Linens were folded, chairs pushed into a small table, floor swept. “Hello,” I called. “Mistress Catriona?”

  She appeared in the doorway of what must have been the bedchamber. Her long hair was brushed and the green dress she wore was clean and unwrinkled. She might have been beautiful, but for the swollenness of her eyes and the purple circles underneath. She looked as if she’d shed every tear she was capable of shedding. Before she could ask, I blurted out, “I am Trinket. I am the daughter of James the Bard. I am searching for him but I’ve not found him. I’ve come to gather stories as well.” Well, that did not sound very compassionate at all. “Mister Fergus told me about your baby, and your husband, too. I am very sorry.” My voice faltered on the word baby. It was horrible to lose a parent, as well I knew, but it was dreadful to think of a baby dying. “My own mother departed this life not long ago…”

  “Thank you,” she said, her voice deep and soft. “I was sorry to lose my husband. The Mistress of the Sea was greedy. ’Twas not only my man that she took. Many lost their lives that day.”

  I had no other words, so I said again, “I am sorry.”

  “
However, she did not take my child.” Her voice was fierce. “Well, perhaps I misspoke. She may indeed have taken the babe … but he is still alive.”

  I waited. This was the story I’d come to hear.

  “We were out on the boat, the babe and I, catching fish for our supper. The Sea Mistress had drowned my husband not a month before, so we had to provide for ourselves. Certainly, the good people of Conelmara offered to feed us, but I am strong enough. I’ll not survive on charity. We were returning to shore when the greedy Mistress reached in with her great wave-fingers and carried my wee babe away. I saw her bounce him up on top of the foam, not drag him down to her depths as she did my man. I cried out, cursing her, begging her to return my child. That’s when she sent the storm that demolished the village.”

  I did not speak. What could I say? Everyone knows that the sea does not return what she takes. ’Tis not possible.

  “And you, Trinket the Bard’s Daughter, you have come here to help me find him.” Her face changed instantly from anguished to hopeful. She grasped me by my shoulders and shook me with crazed joy. “I know that is why God sent you!”

  “Mister Fergus sent me.”

  Mistress Catriona just smiled at me. “He is not dead, my babe. I would feel it if it were so.”

  She rose and placed small cups of tea in front of us, hot and steaming, and a plate of oatcakes. But I was not hungry.

  “Sometimes, the Mistress of the Sea will give a young human babe to a grief-stricken selkie mum whose own babe has died,” she said. “That is an ancient agreement between the Mistress and the seal people.”

  “Seal people?” I asked.

  “I thought you were the daughter of a storyteller. Did your father teach you nothing?”

  I wanted to tell her how my father had left before he could teach me much of anything, but she merely shook her head and continued. “Selkies are creatures who can appear as men or women, but are most comfortable in their seal forms. They wear their sealskins in the ocean, but store them in secret places when they wish to walk on land. ’Tis a lucky fisherman who finds a selkie woman, hides her skin, and takes her for a wife. They are the most devoted of mothers.”