The Seven Tales of Trinket

by Shelley Moore Thomas

  Come lay your heid,

  Come lay thee down

  Upon my knee

  Of woolen brown.

  A song I shall sing

  Of salt and sea,

  Of waves and foam,

  Lad, come with me.

  Thy flippers are tired,

  Thy skin is cold.

  Slumber awaits,

  Thy dreams to hold.

  A song I shall sing

  Of salt and sea,

  Of waves and foam,

  Lad, dream with me.

  The spray is soft,

  The moon so bright,

  Come lay your heid,

  And rest tonight.

  THE THIRD TALE

  The Wee Banshee of Crossmaglin

  A LOVELY LITTLE TOWN

  We’d heard rumors of tellers on our travels. Bald Fergal. The Old Burned Man. Stephen of the Swift Tongue. But no word of James the Bard.

  Sometimes, I feared that we would not find him, but I did not say so to Thomas. However, if I could not learn how to be a teller from my own father, then ’twould be good to hear stories told by a true bard, not just by the local folk. Mayhap one would even allow me to apprentice. So we followed the road, hoping to meet a teller.

  Crossmaglin was a lovely little village, surrounded by green and rolling hills. On the top of one of these hills sat the ruins of a castle older than time itself. Only the white tower remained intact, and that was quite surprising for the stones were placed together with no mortar, looking as if even the most delicate of breezes could knock them down. But the tower did not fall. It remained tall and strong, a watchtower, perhaps, over the small village.

  When Thomas saw the tower looming over the village as we approached, he was ill at ease instantly.

  “No good can come of this,” he said. He reached for the map I’d been holding and pointed with his grubby finger. “Look at the map, Trinket. Says right here ’tis called the Banshee’s Tower.”

  “So what?”

  “So what? I’ll tell you what. I do not want to go to a town inhabited by banshees. Banshees! Cross, ghostly old women who moan and wail when death is near?”

  “I know what a banshee is,” I said. And I did. They were the messengers of death. There were lots of legends about banshees. I’d heard bits and pieces of tales about them, how they’d once lived in clans and ruled the night.

  But those were tales from long ago. No one believed such things anymore.

  “I heard the banshees, you know, on the night your mum died,” Thomas said quietly.

  I was silent for a moment. We did not yet talk about her. There was an unspoken agreement between us that we did not speak about our mothers. Thomas most likely missed his mum more than he wanted to say. As for me, the loss was still too fresh, too painful to think about. So, I tried to make light.

  “Nay, ’twas only the wind that blew the night she passed. And a peaceful, gentle wind it was.” But I remembered the way it whispered through the cracks in the shutters as if it knew my secrets, then burst into the room in her last moments.

  However, I did not believe in banshees, though I thought a good tale about one would be a nice thing for a bard to have. And a town with a Banshee’s Tower simply had to have a banshee tale.

  “Are you not hungry? I’m famished,” I said, changing the subject.

  “Aye, Trinket, you know I am. Never was a lad born with as fierce a beast in his belly as myself.” It had been many days since we left the village by the coast, and we had eaten all of our supplies. The few folks we met along the road could spare a crust or two, but no tales. And since Thomas hungered for food, and I hungered for stories, did it not make sense to venture to Crossmaglin? It would have both, I was certain.

  “Looks like a place that should be at the bottom of a lake where kelpies lie in wait to steal your soul … until a priest throws holy water on the lot of them and they get burned to a crisp.”

  I had not expected Thomas to be so superstitious.

  “Thomas, I don’t think—”

  “Would you rather be carried away by a kelpie or burned to a crisp, do you think?” he interrupted.

  “Neither. Come on, Thomas, I think I smell chickens roasting over a fire.” I sniffed the air dramatically.

  ’Tis the truth when they say that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Thomas begrudgingly agreed to come with me. “But do not say that I didn’t warn you.”

  We raced to the village, my lovely harp jostling gently against my side as I ran. I was glad it fit inside my bag, for I did not want anyone with thieving intentions to see it. We followed our noses to the most heavenly scent we could imagine: roasted fowl, rich stewed vegetables, and fresh bread and butter.

  We peeked through the window of the public house to see a white-haired woman serving plates of deliciousness to the folks sitting at the tables. Thomas and I exchanged a look, messed up our hair even more than it already was, and tried to look as pathetic as possible. We entered as two pitiful waifs in search of a meal. The pub mistress rolled her eyes and sighed, then directed us to two stools over by the fire.

  “Just because I feed you today doesn’t mean I’ll feed you every day,” she said as she placed small plates of meat and bread before us. “Folks earn their keep here in Crossmaglin. That goes for food as well.” Had I nothing else but bread and butter for the rest of my days, I would be happy, so long as the bread was as crusty and tender as the bread of Crossmaglin. I gave Thomas my share of chicken, so I could fill my belly with more bread. The only thing that could have made the meal better was a story.

  “Is there a teller here?” I asked the pub mistress between bites. “We heard that perhaps there might be one—”

  “Nay,” said a man at a nearby table between slurps of soup. “But one might come next month.” I tried to hide my disappointment.

  The man who spoke to us was named Mister Quinn. His voice was gruff and his manner as well, but he was not unkind. He offered a place for Thomas and me to stay, in his barn with the animals, so long as we helped to care for them. Thomas was thrilled, of course. I was not. Goats chew on too many things, including fingers, not to mention they smell. However, the only way to get myself inside a nice warm house for a night’s rest, like a real bard, was to trade a story for the comforts of a bed. And I was not ready to do so. Yet.

  So, in the barn at night, after the animals had dozed off and Thomas had doused the lantern, I practiced my harp and my singing. Softly, of course. It would not be bragging, though, to say that I was truly getting better.

  I was singing the second song I had created, a song of loss and death, for bards must be known for their tragedies as well as their tales of good fortune, when it happened.

  By it, I mean the fierce storm that whipped up from nowhere. The air felt heavy, like before a rain, yet there was no lightning, no thunder. Only wind. Rough wind, the kind that howls and moans and causes the hairs on the back of your neck to stand on end. The kind of wind that does not go around you, but through you.

  STORM

  “What is that?” cried Thomas as the door to the barn was ripped open, waking all the goats and the various other animals.

  “I don’t know!” I yelled, trying to be heard over the howling.

  “Storm?”

  I shrugged. It most certainly seemed like a storm. And the animals were certainly agitated enough.

  “Oof,” Thomas groaned, as a goat kicked him.

  It was difficult to see in the barn with the lantern out, and too dangerous to remain there amidst wild beasts, so Thomas and I decided to brave the wind. We battled the door, attempting to get through the opening without getting thrashed. The door scraped against the side of my face and whacked Thomas on the knee, but we managed to escape the dangerous building.

  The gusts became harder and harder, nearly blowing us over. We held hands and proceeded, heads ducked down, across the road and to a nearby house. With the whitewashed wall acting as a windbreak, we pause
d to catch our breath.

  “Thomas!” I called out tentatively over the sound of the wind.

  “I know, Trinket, I am scared, too,” he yelled, still clutching my hand. I could feel my nails digging into his flesh, but I could not make myself loosen my grasp. The howling became screaming, then shrieking. Goose bumps spread across my body and probably through my hand to Thomas’s grubby palm and up his spine as well.

  Then, as suddenly as it began, the storm ceased. One moment the noise was so loud there was no room in our brains for even the smallest of thoughts. The next moment, ’twas silent.

  The air was still. I brushed the hair from my eyes and looked at Thomas.

  We were too afraid to speak and still breathing hard from fright. We expected to hear stirrings throughout the village, the noises of people trying to get themselves back to sleep, perhaps the sounds of babes crying or dogs barking. But the silence continued. We walked, hand in hand, down the streets of the village, searching for, well, we were not quite certain what. I wanted to call out, Hark, is anyone awake? but Thomas put his finger against his lips and looked hard at me.

  We were followed only by the sound of our own feet crunching against the gravel as we made our way back to the barn. Thomas tried to pull the heavy door open, but it was stuck standing slightly ajar. Something was wrong with the top hinge, as if it had been stretched and bent. Thomas pulled again, but it would not budge, so we squeezed between the door and the wall.

  I could hold my tongue no longer. “’Tis strange, Thomas. Very, very strange.”

  Thomas only nodded and walked over to the pile of straw he’d fashioned into a bed.

  “How can you sleep?” I whispered fiercely.

  Thomas simply shrugged and closed his eyes. “I am tired, Trinket. We walked quite far. And ’tis only wind after all.”

  But I heard him moving restlessly in the straw. He could pretend to be brave all he wanted, but I knew he was scared, too.

  THE BROKEN DOOR

  Early in the morning, Thomas and I examined the barn door, but it was still stuck. Deciding to leave well enough alone, we squeezed out of the barn and went up to the house of Mister Quinn. We found him coming down the gravel path, and he divided up the tasks for the day. I was given the chore of milking the goats and Thomas had to muck out the sheep pens outside the barn. I was not certain which of us had the more unpleasant job. I’d only watched milking in the past and had been in no hurry to learn how, but the sooner I started my chore, the sooner I could talk to someone about the events of the night before.

  “Quite a storm last night,” I said.

  Mister Quinn grunted. He handed me a pail and a stool. We approached the stuck barn door; then he paused, taking in its awkward angle.

  “I had never heard wind so fierce. It nearly blew the barn door off,” I explained.

  “Are ye telling me ye broke the door?” he grumbled as he pulled on the handle with no luck. The door did not move.

  “Nay. I’m telling you that the wind near blew the door off.”

  “Ye’ll have to pay for the repair if the hinges are shot.” He touched the rusty metal of the pin of the hinge and shook his head.

  “But we didn’t break the door. The wind did. ’Twas most fierce!”

  He didn’t look at me but managed to shimmy his spare form in between the door and the wall and gave a huge shove. The hinge fell with a clink to the ground, warped and twisted, as the now-lopsided door swung open wildly.

  “Coin for the hinge,” he muttered.

  I stood with my hands on my hips and gaped at him. He did not notice, or chose not to look. How could he expect us to pay when we’d done nothing wrong? Nothing at all! However, he was a grown man, and we were but children. It would not do for us to be thought of as vandals. Who would invite a bard who destroyed things to their town?

  So, the hinge would have to be paid for. I supposed I could sell the small silver mirror in my sack, but ’twould be better if we found another way.

  And I would not sell the harp.

  * * *

  Being only thrice kicked by the goats, I was assured by Thomas, was a good thing. Truly it could have been worse. But perhaps Thomas was right and it was a bad idea to come here. Leaving the ill-tempered goats behind would be a relief.

  “Excuse me,” I said, handing the pail of fresh goat milk to Mister Quinn, who was squatting by an old wagon, repairing a wheel. “Here it is.” He looked at the pail disapprovingly. He must have expected more milk; however, not a sound escaped his lips.

  Thomas was still mucking out pens, so I went to the village square to offer myself as a chore girl. I listened carefully as I walked through the town for the sounds of conversation. Surely people would be talking about the horrible storm. And if I could gather a tale while I worked and paid for the hinge, well, that would be grand. Asking a question or two about a bard named James was also in my plans. What a busy day I had before me! The public house loomed ahead, bustling with business. I entered slowly and quietly. All speaking stopped.

  “Good morrow.” I bobbed a curtsy to the pub mistress, whose head popped up as I entered. In the light of day, I could see that her white hair was kissed with a touch of old fire. Some curls escaped from her bun and tickled her cheeks, which were plump and wrinkled. “I am Trinket, do you remember me from the meal last evening? This morning I milked the goats for Mister Quinn.”

  She nodded briskly, but said nothing.

  “I thought perhaps you might need help? I could wipe tables.”

  She looked me up and down, then handed me a broom. I began to sweep as she said, “I can give ye a meal, but not coin, if that’s what yer after.” Though I was disappointed, I continued sweeping. Perhaps if I swept well enough, I could earn a meal for both Thomas and me.

  “I am surprised to see all the roofs still on the buildings, what with that horrible windstorm last night.”

  The woman glanced at me as if hoping I would just be quiet. Most likely she had bread to bake or vegetables to stew. Then she sighed and asked, “What storm?”

  “The one last night, the one that near blew the door off the barn. The storm that shrieked so loud it sent chills through my very soul.” The woman cocked her head to the side, looking at me as if I had claimed I’d seen a fox flying through the air wearing a king’s crown.

  “Last night, you say?”

  “Yes, Thomas the Pig Boy and I barely got out of the barn alive.”

  Both eyebrows rose.

  “Well, perhaps I exaggerated. But the goats began kicking and the barn door knocked into Thomas’s knee and scratched my face.” I pointed to my scrape. “When we left the barn for the safety of the open path, the wind bowled us over. And the sound…” I felt like I was explaining something to a child who had never even heard of wind, or perhaps to a person who did not speak my language.

  “What did it sound like?” she asked, trying not to appear too interested. But I could tell she was, for her cheeks were flushed. And her eyes no longer showed boredom. ’Tis something a storyteller learns to look for.

  “Like screaming. Or maybe shrieking. I could not tell really.” I laughed nervously. “But it was horrible.”

  She turned brusquely away. “Quite a story, lass. But I heard not a thing.”

  I did not know why she would lie, but I did not believe her.

  “It was not a story, but the truth,” I said. But if she did not want to talk about the storm, there were other questions I could ask. “But I do like stories, you see,” I said, sweeping the floor in front of her to keep her attention. “I am collecting them to tell. My father was a teller. James the Bard was his name. Perhaps he came here once?”

  “Might have,” she replied. “Might have come years ago. But I’d remember if he were one of the good ones. Bald Fergal, now he tells a good tale. Plays the bodhran well, too. Does your da tap the wee drum like Bald Fergal?”

  “I don’t think so. I think he played the harp,” I said.

  I worked for
a while, making certain to get every crumb and bit of dust. “A most amazing tower that is, at the top of yon hill,” I said as I finished sweeping under the last table.

  “I would not be so curious, if I were you, to find out about the Banshee’s Tower. There have been those who have ventured there and never returned,” the woman whispered.

  “If it is so fearsome, then why do you not move your village to a place more pleasing than the shadow of the Banshee’s Tower?” I asked.

  The pub mistress threw her head back and laughed. The white curls that dangled in front of each of her ears swung merrily. “Move a village? Indeed! You are not as smart as you look, child. Folks just cannot up and move a town, you know. And besides, the land here is good for grazing and the crops grow bountifully.” Then, suddenly serious, she leaned down and whispered to me, “We have learned how to live in the shadow of the tower. We ask no questions, we tell no tales.” Moving her mouth even closer to my ear, she urged, “Do not go there, child. You might not find your way back. ’Tis foolish to go to the Banshee’s Tower.”

  * * *

  When I returned to the barn with bread and cheese to share with Thomas, I mentioned my strange conversation with the pub mistress.

  “Same thing happened when I asked the neighbor boy about the storm last night. Claimed I must’ve imagined it. But he didn’t say anything about the old tower,” Thomas said with his mouth full of bread.

  “We didn’t imagine it, though, did we?”

  Thomas shook his head. “I’ll never forget how that sound rattled through my bones, like it could have pulled them apart if it wanted to.”

  “Thomas, you talk about the wind like it was a person or a monster or something,” I teased.

  He did not laugh, nor would he return my gaze. I knew he thought it was a banshee, but if he wasn’t going to say so, then neither was I.