The Seven Tales of Trinket

by Shelley Moore Thomas

  * * *

  We slept little that night due to the howling winds and the agitation of the barn animals. Thomas’s face held a cranky scowl, so I left quickly in the morning to do my chores. After milking the goats, I returned to the public house. I would sweep, scrub, wipe, wash, or do whatever was required to learn the story of the tower.

  The pub mistress sighed when I asked for the third time. “Fine, I’ll tell you the tale, if you’ve the stomach for it.”

  We sat at a table in the kitchen, our heads close together. The pub mistress began, “Once, the tower was the stronghold of a clan of banshees that watched over Crossmaglin. Perhaps watched over is not the right way to say it, but in the tower above the town, the banshees dwelt, shrieking and crying when death was coming to one of the folks in the village, for banshees call a wailing wind when death is near.”

  I nodded, encouraging her to go on.

  “There was once a young banshee who was so full of trouble and mischief that she was cast out of the banshee clan,” she continued. “They say she grew bored with hair combing and clothes washing, which is what the banshees do when death is far away. Whatever the reason, the wee banshee started wailing in the wind for no purpose at all, except to annoy the folks of the town and the other banshees. Every night, the wee banshee wailed and moaned until the other banshees got so tired of it, they disappeared into the mist, not telling the wee thing where they were going.”

  My heart went out to the little banshee, just a bit. I knew what it felt like to be abandoned.

  “But did that stop the banshee? No. She kept on hollering, shrieking, and creating terrible winds. At first, the villagers tried to stop her. A few brave men went up to the tower at night, but they were cocky, thinking how easy it would be to dispatch a wee banshee. They did not bring the proper protection.” The pub mistress tapped the small dish of salt on the table. “The wee banshee must have led them to their doom, for they never returned.”

  I gasped.

  “One of those men was my grandfather. I was but a girl at the time. I remember traipsing up the hill the very next day searching for him.” The pub mistress was silent for a moment, then dabbed at her eye with the end of her apron and continued. “Oh, the hill that day was so lovely, the grass so green, and the tower itself so white against the blue sky. But not a trace of my grandfather or the other men did we find. Since then, no one in the town pays attention to the wails of the wee banshee. No one is brave enough, nor foolish enough, to try to banish her away. We mind our business and she minds her own.”

  TRIP TO THE TOWER

  “’Tis a bad place, Trinket. We should leave. I care not for that stupid door. We did not even break it. The wind did,” Thomas said the next morning as he moved an old wagon back to the other side of the barn. He had placed it between the goats and us each evening since the first. Though there were not many goats in the barn, they kicked at us, bleated, and tried to chew our fingers whenever the wind blew wildly, which was turning out to be every night. And then there was the smell. Even though the wagon did nothing to block the odor, it did keep the goats away. And the farther away the goats were, the less it stank.

  The morning air held its chill as Thomas and I picked bits of straw from our clothes. Purplish circles resided under his eyes and probably mine as well. Neither of us had slept much, but for moments between gusts, wails, and the bleating of the goats. Thomas must be truly terrified to want to leave a place where the food was so plentiful and tasty. I, too, was frightened. But we had a door to repair, and there was the fact that I had hoped to find a story in this strange little town underneath an ancient tower. The pub mistress had told me some of it, but I knew there had to be more. How far was I willing to go to capture my tale?

  Mister Quinn was waiting as we left the barn. He examined the door hinges again, though we all knew they were still broken. “’Tis your fault,” he said, pointing at us. “The wind’s been a-wailing more than ever since the two of you came to Crossmaglin.”

  “I thought you did not notice the wind,” I said.

  Mister Quinn’s right eye twitched. “Either go up to the tower and have her done with you, or hurry and earn the price of the hinges before she blows the whole barn down.”

  “She? Who is she?” I asked, but he stormed away and disappeared into his house, slamming the door behind him.

  I had a fair idea who she was: the wee banshee.

  “Told you so,” Thomas muttered.

  I milked the goats whilst Thomas tended the other animals. When I was kicked for the second time, I gave up and felt in my pocket for the few copper coins I’d been given by Feather. It would have to be enough.

  “You win, Thomas. We’ll leave. But before we go, would you come and explore the ruins with me? I should like to go up this afternoon and have a look around. Nobody will answer my questions about it except for the pub mistress.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “Just small specks of a story. You probably wouldn’t believe it,” I said, hoping that would be enough to make him curious.

  “Try me.”

  “She said that once there was a young banshee who was so full of trouble and mischief that she was cast out from the banshee clan.”

  “Banshees! Did I not tell you?” he interrupted.

  I threw a handful of straw at him.

  Thomas pulled a pretend key from his pocket and proceeded to lock his lips.

  I told him all that I knew. Thomas’s eyes got wide, the way a person’s eyes get when they want to hear more. His mouth was no longer shut tight, but gaped.

  “The pub mistress didn’t say much more,” I said. Thomas’s face dropped in disappointment. A breeze came by at that exact moment and ruffled the hairs on our heads.

  “The wee banshee is there still, or so the pub mistress says.”

  Outlandish was the word my mother would use about a tale such as this. And she would have laughed and said that scary things like banshees didn’t exist. But Thomas was more fanciful.

  “Do you suppose she makes the wind every night?” he asked.

  I shrugged, for I did not even think I believed in banshees. But had I not met a seer? Had I not met seals who could change into people?

  “Will you come with me?” I asked.

  Thomas paused. I could see his indecision flopping around in his mind, like a fish on land. I let him take his time, for I would not force him if he was too frightened.

  I did not have to wait long before he nodded.

  He would come.

  * * *

  We climbed the hill in the early afternoon. When we began, it appeared we would reach the tower quickly. However, the hill and the old ruin were both massive. We walked up the trail for an eternity until we finally came to the peak of the hill and the tower itself.

  Like a giant from a lad’s tale, the tower loomed over us. Thomas’s excitement grew. Thoughts of banshees must have flown out of his mind.

  “Look, Trinket, its tip touches the very clouds! How did folks build such a tower? How many years do you suppose it took? More than a hundred, I think.”

  But I was not looking up at the clouds. I was watching the sun, which was beginning its descent. We would have only a little while here before it became dark. I dreaded the walk back down the hill in the blackness of the night. We had not thought to bring a torch.

  “Thomas?” I called, for I could no longer see him. “Thomas!” I shouted, my voice echoing against the silence of the hill.

  No birds sang. The air was still. I could hear my own breathing and my pounding heart, but that was all.

  “Thomaaaaaassss!” I yelled, from the very bottoms of my feet.

  “Trinket! Up here!” There was Thomas, hanging halfway out a window and waving wildly.

  “There are stairs!” he called, as if I would not be able to determine how he got up there.

  I entered the tower and easily found the stairs, which looked horribly unstable but felt strong and sturdy as I stepped
. Up and up again. The stairs wound around the edges of the tower, creating a spiral that made my head spin. I had never before feared heights, but I had no desire to climb all the way up.

  “Thomas! ’Twill be dark soon!”

  “I’ve almost made it to the top!”

  “If we don’t leave now, we will miss our dinner!” Again, Thomas’s stomach would probably be my greatest ally.

  “Trinket, I am almost there!”

  “Fine! Go on, then! I’ll meet you below.” I was put out, and angry with myself for feeling so. Had Thomas not come with me whilst I dealt with the selkies? I walked back down the steps and out of the tower to an ancient stone bench. I pulled my harp from my bag, glad that I’d brought it along. ’Twould be good to practice. I plucked the strings, trying some new tunes, then played once more the old lullaby. How I wished I could remember my father’s words.

  The ruins that surrounded the old tower created fascinating shadows on the ground as the sun set. A broken wall to the north. A crumbling gateway to the west. Only the tower stood untouched by time. I imagined the people that might have built it. Were they fierce warriors? Were they gentle scholars whose castle had been destroyed by invaders? That would have been before the banshees came, of course. If the banshees had even come at all. Inspired by these imaginings, I plucked new melodies that bounced from wall to wall, then drifted off into the sky above.

  I did not notice when the breeze began, only that one moment I was contemplating old rocks, and the next I was wishing my mother’s cloak was thicker.

  “Thomas!” I shouted. “You are taking too long!” I placed the harp gently back in my bag and rose.

  I doubted that he heard me, as my voice was carried away by the wind. I looked for shelter from the strengthening gusts and found it behind the stones of the gateway. I peered around the edge frequently, hoping to see when Thomas came out from the tower. The shadows cast by the ruins grew longer and longer until there was more shadow than light.

  “Thomas!” I called, more in frustration than in hope that he heard me. I cursed the idea that had led us up the hill in the first place. My own idea, of course.

  The sound was small at first, so small that I almost didn’t notice it.

  “Trinnnnnkkkketttttt,” the wind called. And then a second time, louder.

  “Triiinnnnkkkkkeeeetttttt.”

  “Thomas, is that you?” I yelled, knowing that it was not Thomas, could not be Thomas.

  THE WEE BANSHEE

  Fear finally caught up with me.

  ’Twas the wail of a banshee, I was certain.

  I peered around the stone once more, but I caught no glimpse of the pig boy. Naturally.

  Perhaps knowing that death is close makes you strong. For, indeed, if death is coming for you, what do you really have to lose by being brave? Things could hardly get worse.

  So, I stepped from behind the stone, faced the wind, and cried, “Who calls me?”

  A girl appeared before me, but she was not really a girl. She was a wee banshee, crying most mournfully as her white hair whipped around her head. I had never believed in the stories of banshees, but what do you do when one is looking you in the face? And this child was not human. She was combing her hair with a silver comb, although the instant she smoothed a lock, it was tangled by the wind once again. Her gown was also white, paler even than her face. Glistening in the early evening light like diamonds on her cheeks were perfectly formed tears. She was beautiful and terrifying at the same time.

  “Did you call me?” I asked bravely.

  “Aaaaaaayyyyye,” she wailed.

  I swallowed and looked at my hands for a moment. Did I want to know why? I remembered my time with the Gypsy King’s daughter. Back then, I had not wanted to know my future. Now, with a small banshee calling my name, was I strong enough to know if I was meant to die now?

  “Am I going to die?”

  She said nothing for a moment, then the wind became softer, as did her voice.

  “I have a message for you, Trinket the Bard’s Daughter.”

  I had thought it impossible to be more scared, yet her words sent a fresh wave of goose bumps down my arms.

  “Who is the message from?”

  “Your mother.”

  An eternity passed before I could form any words of my own. “My mother?”

  My mother was dead.

  “And the price of this message is a small, small thing. So small,” she said.

  At that moment, Thomas came up behind me. I could hear the gravel crunching under his feet, the same rhythm he made when we walked together mile after mile after mile.

  “Trinket … do you see what I see … or think I see?”

  “Aye, Thomas, I see a banshee girl.”

  The wee banshee glared at Thomas, then returned her gaze to me. “Come back on the morrow, as the sun sets.” Her voice floated on the wind.

  “Wait!” I called to the mist that now swirled about in the space where she had been.

  Thomas grabbed my shoulders and shook me hard. “You are not stupid enough to think of doing what she says, are you?”

  “Thomas.” I pulled away from him. “She has a message from my mother.”

  “It’s a lie, Trinket. She is tricking you. She will carry you off. ”

  I scoffed. “She is too small to carry anyone off. ”

  “She’s a banshee! God above only knows what she can do!” he cried.

  “I am not afraid of a tiny little banshee,” I lied. Of course I was afraid. But the chance to hear words from my mother made me courageous.

  “You should be. I will not let you come back,” he said simply, and turned to walk down the hill to the village.

  You cannot stop me.

  We did not speak all of the way back to Crossmaglin.

  ALONE

  The wind blew more fiercely than ever that night. And I could not be sure, but I thought I heard my name whistling through splintered planks of the old barn walls.

  In the morning, I awoke to the sound of Thomas stuffing his meager possessions in his sack. “Trinket, we are leaving.”

  My head was still foggy with dreams of a pale ghostly girl calling my name, floating over clouds and stars.

  “You are not my master, Thomas.”

  Thomas swallowed. He knew he could not force me to do anything. “Please, please, please do not do this, Trinket.”

  Until that moment, I had not known what I was going to do. I did not in truth want to face the frightsome child again; yet, she bore a message from my mother. My mother.

  How could I not try to find out what she might tell me?

  “I have to, Thomas,” I said, laying a hand on his arm. He brushed it off and threw his sack over his shoulder.

  “’Twill be your funeral, then. I’ll not stay to watch it.”

  “I thought you were brave. But you are not. You are nothing but a scared little boy!” I cried.

  “I’ll be heading west and … well, I won’t walk too fast.”

  And he left.

  I was alone in the town of Crossmaglin. Well, not completely alone. There was cranky Mister Quinn and the strange pub mistress. And there were the goats.

  It was better the pig boy was gone. He would only distract me from finding my tales. And if he was not brave enough to stay with me, then perhaps he was not the friend I thought he was.

  At least this was what I kept telling myself.

  I worked that morning, milking the goats one last time. I left my copper coins on the milking stool, but I no longer cared if it was enough to pay for the hinges. I swept the pub in the afternoon and tried to eat a small plate of bread and cheese. Though the food curdled in my stomach, I willed myself to finish it, hoping it would give me strength. ’Twas a short distance back to Mister Quinn’s barn, yet I found my feet dragging, and when I slung my bag over my shoulder, it felt heavier than usual with my harp and my map inside. But I had decided. I would go and receive the message from the small banshee. The message fro
m my mother.

  I readjusted my bag, thinking how much lighter it would soon be without my precious harp. Didn’t the banshee say my mother’s message would have a price? The harp was the most valuable thing I owned. There was nothing I would give it up for, except this.

  The pub mistress blocked my way as I left the barn, startling me. “Thought I’d find you here.” She took in my bag as I edged my way around her. “Leaving are you? I’d not go that way, girlie. Your friend went the other way.”

  “I know,” I said, and continued toward the hill.

  “You’ve a mind to see the banshee, then?”

  I nodded.

  She grabbed my hand and placed a small pouch in it. I peeked inside.

  “Salt?”

  “Protection,” she said. “And turn yer cloak over, inside out. ’Tis also a shield against magical creatures, not as strong as salt, but you’ll need all you can get if you’ve a mind to attempt this.”

  “Attempt what?”

  “To banish the banshee, of course. That is why you are going, isn’t it?” She cocked her head to one side, trying to read my mind. “You’ve been there once already, haven’t you? Even though I warned ye not to go?” she asked knowingly.

  I nodded.

  She shook her head slowly back and forth. “Tsk-tsk-tsk. You’re lucky to still be alive. Most never return at all. Are ye sure ye want to do this?”

  I said nothing.

  “If she promised you something, it will have a price. A price you won’t want to pay. Do not fall for her tricks.” Her brow furrowed and she tapped her chin in thought. “It would help if you had a mirror. A banshee cannot abide its own reflection.”

  I thought about the mirror still hidden in the bottom of my sack.

  It gave me a little feeling of strength, but not much.

  * * *

  As I walked on the path to the ruins, I made up my mind and dropped the pouch of salt on the hard ground. I did not turn my cloak inside out for I did not want to keep the wee banshee away. I wanted the message from my mother. I remembered her hair, soft brown and gently curling. Her face was shaped like a heart, except that her chin was round, rather than pointed. Her eyes were deep blue, and in summer months the slightest sprinkling of freckles danced across her nose and cheeks. I, too, sprouted a new crop of freckles each spring. Kisses from the angels, my mother called them. Her arms, before they became so thin, had held me softly as I drifted off to sleep. And she told me stories.