The Seven Tales of Trinket

by Shelley Moore Thomas

  It was not very large, but it was thick. If the fire was still hot enough, it just might work.

  THE CHALLENGE

  At supper, Orla hummed a reel quietly to herself as she sipped her soup and chewed her bread.

  “Are ye not nervous, dearie?” asked her mother.

  Orla simply smiled, tapping her feet under the table. Her mother moved her gaze in my direction.

  “Trinket, has she been practicing too hard? She looks soft in the head this evening.”

  “Nay, she’s been practicing a great deal, but not over much. She’ll be ready.”

  I winked at Orla and she winked at me. We looked down at our bowls so as not to giggle. Was this what it was like to have a sister?

  I heard a snort from Thomas. He gave me a what have you gotten yourself into this time, Trinket? look.

  Orla’s mother sighed and glanced up to the heavens, muttering something under her breath.

  * * *

  When the sun went down, people began to gather on the hillside. And by moonrise, the crowd covered all of the green. The faeries were in attendance as well. Oh yes, they can be invisible when they choose, but when they gather in such a great number, well, they sparkle and shimmer most visibly. The queen wanted them there, of course, to witness her victory over the mortal girl who was fool enough to bargain with the fey.

  Thomas and Mr. McGill carried Great-grandfather, bed and all, out to witness the contest. He smiled, but his old eyes held the worry we all felt.

  Just as the moon found its place in the center of the sky, the Faerie Queen arrived in a carriage drawn by six tiny white ponies. The wagon stopped in front of Orla and the queen stepped out. She pulled herself up to her full height and asked, “Are ye ready for the challenge?”

  “Aye,” Orla said, bending down to adjust a lace on her ghillie.

  “And ye agree that the loser of the battle shall never dance again?”

  Orla’s father made a move as if to protest the terms, but though his lips formed words, no sound came out. Bewitched most likely, as I had been when we last met the Faerie Queen.

  “Aye,” said Orla, “and the winner shall have your gold?”

  “Aye,” laughed the Faerie Queen, and she clapped three times. Musicians appeared on either side of her, one with a flute and one with a fiddle. “You have your own musician, do ye not?” She pointed disdainfully at me, though I saw her look at my harp with envy. ’Twas, after all, a most unique harp.

  “Trinket is the finest harper in the land,” Orla bragged. I stood tall as those around, human and fey alike, whispered and mumbled.

  “Indeed?” said the Faerie Queen. “Then ’tis only fair that she play for me as well as for you. I would not want anyone to say that the contest is not a fair one.”

  I swallowed hard.

  “Of course, the harper must have some stake in this as well.” She turned her beautiful face. “The harp, of course, should you make a mistake in playing, will be forfeit,” she said.

  A boy’s voice piped up from the crowd. “What does she get, then, if she plays without error?”

  Thomas.

  The queen glared at him, but quickly replaced her nasty look with a sweet smile. “She can have her choice of reward, of course.”

  I only nodded. I had no idea what I might ask for because I did not expect to be able to play without a slip. My hands shook, causing my harp to quiver, as the queen motioned for me to sit on the chair the McGills had brought for me from their house.

  “So, we begin.” The queen stood on one side of the wooden plank floor Orla’s father had laid for the competition. Orla took her place opposite the queen. My fingers were poised over the harp strings.

  “Oh wait, I forgot one small detail.” Ah, here it was. She pulled from the pocket in her cape a gold coin. “All dancing must take place upon a gold coin. Each step, each leap, each twirl must land upon the gold!”

  Orla’s mother gasped and I thought she might faint, but Orla’s father and Thomas fanned her with large leaves and held her upright. Murmurs, mumbles, and grumbles wove through the crowd, laced with the occasional cries of “Unfair!” and “Cheat!”

  The queen might have expected to see Orla crumple in disappointment. If so, then she herself was the disappointed one.

  “You first.” There was the slightest bit of cheek in Orla’s request. But perhaps I was the only one to notice.

  The queen rose as Orla stepped back from the floor. The coin flipped into the air and landed smack in the middle of the planks. She snapped her fingers and I played.

  The Faerie Queen began her dance. The village folk could not help but ooh and aah as she leaped gracefully about, the tip of her toe never touching anything but gold. My fingers raced along the strings, desperately trying to keep up with the queen’s wickedly fast feet. My hands started to sweat, but never once did the queen look tired. Never once did she look anything but fresh and strong. And amazing. The villagers clapped as she finished her dance, pointed her toes one final time, and bowed. She nodded her head the slightest bit in my direction. I had made no mistakes.

  “Your turn.” She looked Orla up and down, her mouth smiling, her eyes not. “I hope you enjoy your last dance ever.” As Orla took her place on the dance floor, her eyes twinkled mischievously. She motioned for me to begin. The queen caught the glimmer. “Remember, you must dance upon a gold coin! Every step!”

  ORLA’S GAMBLE

  My fingers sprang to life again and I played. ’Twas harder this time, for I could feel fatigue rolling in like the fog on a fall evening. I’d no doubt the queen would count a fault against me even if I botched Orla’s tunes instead of her own.

  Not too fast, at first. Give Orla time to ease in.

  Orla danced in a way that no one had ever seen before. Instead of leaping and prancing, as a lady should when she dances a reel, Orla’s feet rallied and trebled, creating an intricate, pulsating beat. If you listened, you could hear her shoes click slightly each time she touched the wood. But the queen was too busy savoring her soon-to-be victory to listen. “Look how her feet do not even touch the gold!” she jeered. “She has lost the bargain already.”

  Orla’s mother began to weep. She hid her head in her husband’s red beard. “Never even had a chance,” she sobbed. Orla heard nothing but the music and continued to create the most amazing dance ever danced. My fingers, inspired by her feet, leaped over the strings, never missing a note. The villagers clapped in time with the tune.

  “You’re not following the rules!” the Faerie Queen shrieked.

  Orla’s feet hammered out a crisp rhythm, more musical, more graceful, and more entrancing than the Faerie Queen’s performance. When she clicked her heels together for the last time, both faerie folk and townsfolk stood, clapping and yelling wildly. Orla pointed her toes and bowed regally.

  “You lost! You lost!” cried the queen. “Now you’ll never dance again! You stupid, foolish girl! You did not even try! It doesn’t matter that your dancing was the finest, for even the fey cannot deny it.” She gestured to the faeries on the hill, who were all leaping about and clicking their heels, imitating Orla’s spectacular performance. “But your foot never touched the gold!” she roared.

  All were silent then.

  Orla was out of breath and still smiling. She nodded at me to rise, which I did. “If you’ll permit me, your highness.” I bowed to the queen, then bent down and unlaced Orla’s ghillie. I flipped the shoe over, revealing its sole. “You never said she had to dance on that particular coin.” Nailed to the bottom of Orla’s shoe with horseshoe nails was half of her great-grandfather’s coin, pounded flat and covering the hole that had been there. The other half was nailed neatly to the shoe’s mate.

  “As you can see”—I held the shoes high, visible to all—“Orla completed all of her steps upon a coin of gold.”

  The queen was furious. Some even said they saw lightning behind her eyes, and many of the villagers, fearing her wrath, escaped down the hillside. Ang
ry words in a language I did not understand spewed from her lips.

  But she did not combust there, under the moon that night. Nay. She simply took in a deep breath and disregarded Orla altogether.

  Instead, she turned to face me.

  She tried to hide her ire, but faeries are of a passionate nature. I knew I would have to watch my step, and my words, very carefully.

  “Come forward,” she said, pointing to me. “Bring your harp.”

  I picked up my harp and held it close to me, lest she try to grab it away. I walked two paces forward, then stood my ground. If that was not close enough, then she could come to me.

  “’Tis exquisite,” she said. “Perhaps you would let me try?”

  I knew I was foolish to refuse, but I could not bring myself to allow it. I wrapped my arms tighter around my harp and shook my head slightly.

  “Very well,” she said. “I did not expect that you would. We have other matters to discuss, do we not? Your payment. Have you thought about what you might ask of me? I could come back another day, when you have had time to consider your options.”

  I could see Orla’s great-grandfather out in the crowd, shaking his head. Yes, indeed she might come back … in a hundred years or so!

  “I would prefer my reward now.”

  “Would you really?” Her voice, the quietest of whispers, was still so fierce that gooseflesh rose on my arm.

  “Aye.”

  REWARD

  Before you think too hard about what you might have wished for yourself, consider my situation. I was but a young storytelling lass accompanied by a pig boy, traveling through the land, attempting to find my father and learn enough stories so I could make a living for myself one day.

  ’Twas a hard enough path I had chosen for myself.

  I did not need an enemy.

  “I would like…” My voice was small, even to my own ears. I cleared my throat and started again. “I demand as my reward…”

  The heat from the queen’s glare was burning my own eyes. I felt them water and blinked twice. Oh, she was angry, but smart as well. I was certain that, at this moment, she was in her mind thinking of the things I might ask for and finding a way to turn my request into a curse.

  ’Tis the way of the fey. They’ll not be bested.

  I turned from the queen and looked into the remaining audience. The faces lit by torchlight under the midnight sky were scary to behold. Too much shadow around the eyes, and the grins all appeared evil, villager and faerie alike.

  “I demand that the Faerie Queen be released from her punishment of never dancing again.”

  There were a few gasps and shocked murmurs. I was not facing the queen now, for I was too frightened, but I could hear her sharp intake of breath, followed by a slow exhale.

  “Turn around, harp girl.”

  Slowly I turned.

  “Why?” Her black eyes narrowed as if trying to search inside my mind. Perhaps she gained entry, for in the next instant, she smiled softly. Her face was so luminous in that moment, outshining even the stars and the moon.

  “I’ll not be outdone, girl. Faeries do not like being in the debt of humans.” She spoke so softly I was not certain if anyone heard but me. “For your troubles,” she said as she raised her hand and flipped a gold coin in the air toward me. I was too shocked to catch it, and it clattered on the wooden dance floor at my feet. I reached down to retrieve it. ’Twas larger than a regular coin, with strange shapes on it, perhaps serpents, all interwoven with each other, with no beginning and no end. Faerie gold.

  By the time I looked up again, the Faerie Queen, her carriage, the ponies, and all of the faeries in the audience had vanished in the night, leaving behind Orla’s newly won gold in several sacks of fine, heavy brown velvet.

  The people whooped and hollered, raising Orla over their heads and lugging her fortune back to the McGills’ cottage.

  As I watched the villagers disperse, a hand clamped around my hand that held the coin. ’Twas sweaty.

  Thomas.

  “My palms were wetter than a crying babe’s cheek.” He laughed, and I hugged him. Neither mother nor father had I, but I had Thomas. And I was glad for it.

  * * *

  A traveling bard cannot remain in one place forever. Though I liked Ringford well, ’twas time to journey on and find new yarns to spin and eager new ears to hear them. And I could not forget what had led me here in the first place—the search for my father.

  The farewells the next morning were both sweet and sad. Orla hugged me like a sister and the McGills thanked me over and over again. And Orla’s great-grandfather clutched my hand tightly as a tear rolled down his withered face. “She would have lost it all without you,” he said. I decided not to mention that ’twas probably my own conversation with Thomas by the faerie mound that caused the challenge to be issued in the first place. Some tales are best left untold.

  “Why did you not ask for riches?” Thomas asked as we left the town of Ringford. “Or food. This sack will not last forever.”

  The sack in question bulged at the seams. Orla’s mum had loaded us up with more food than four fat men could eat in a month. A heavy bag, indeed. But Thomas did not mind carrying the extra weight. It was worth it.

  “You could have asked for a magic sack that would have filled with food whenever it was empty.”

  “And take the chance that the food would be cursed? Take the chance that if you ate it, you’d be under an enchantment?”

  I knew Thomas would have chanced such a thing, were he hungry enough. But now, on a full belly, he nodded. “Didn’t think of that.”

  “But what about riches?” he continued. “Come on, Trink, did ye not think of wealth?”

  “Probably cursed as well. And if not a curse from the Faerie Queen, than the curse of greed. Yes, Orla’s family has wealth, but they must now be on guard for someone who might want to take it from them.”

  “You sound like a know-it-all, you do know that, do ye not?”

  We walked in silence then, but for the sound of our steps as we traveled farther and farther from the village. Sure steps, strong steps. Steps that said with each crunch of gravel that there were more important things than wealth and food.

  “You’re not going to tell me why, are you?” Thomas was getting annoyed, which would make for a cranky next few hours.

  I sighed. “Thomas, with my reward, I bought us freedom. Freedom from the faerie folk chasing us down to reclaim whatever it was I’d asked for. And the freedom to continue on our quest for stories.”

  He said nothing for a long time.

  “Your quest, you know.”

  “Hmmm?”

  “It’s your quest for stories. I am only along for the food.”

  THE FOURTH SONG

  The Faerie’s Reel

  These are the words I sang in my head when Orla and the Faerie Queen danced their reels. I found if I concentrated on the words, I worried less about my fingers slipping.

  Oh, she is fair and fleet of foot

  When she spins,

  When she spins.

  Oh, she leaps o’er the dust and soot

  And makes the laddies happy.

  And nae mistakes does Lady make

  When she twirls,

  When she twirls.

  She dances on a golden stake

  And makes the laddies happy.

  THE FIFTH TALE

  A Pig Boy, a Ghost, and a Pooka

  IN THE BUSHES

  ’Twas late in the afternoon and the wind crackled between the trees, coaxing dead leaves to swirl devilishly through the air, into our eyes and our hair. It seemed like only days since we had danced under the late summer moon. But in truth, it had been weeks.

  We wanted to reach the next village before nightfall. ’Twas rumored that the Old Burned Man had visited villages to the south. We still held out hopes of meeting up with him and hearing him weave tales, though he was proving to be more elusive than a butterfly on a winter’s day.
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br />   We unrolled the map in the light of the dying sun. I wished, not for the first time, that we had been more orderly in our travels. I wished we had followed a more sensible trail. Instead, we had visited a hodgepodge collection of places. Up to the hills. Down to the coast. Back up the coast. Over to yon valley. Wherever we thought we might have a lead on a bard or a story of any kind, that is where we went. Or rather, that is where we attempted to go. Our latest stop had been the village of Moreglin, a tiny town with neither a teller nor tales. However, there were cows that needed tending, so Thomas and I lent a hand in exchange for food and shelter, as usual. How I wished I was brave enough to do my own telling and charge a fair price, instead of forever just practicing bits of songs and tales on folks. Oh, to sleep far away from the smell of cattle! Perhaps in the next village … except the next village was not there.

  “Maybe they were wrong. Maybe the next village was more than three days away,” I said.

  “Then why did they not just say that? The village is four days away. How hard is that? If they’d told us right, we’d have the proper amount of food still.” Thomas’s complaint was punctuated with a loud growl from his stomach.

  ’Twas always food with Thomas.

  “Perhaps we walked too slowly. They could have marked the days it would take a grown man, not a girl and a pig boy.”

  “Nay and nay again,” Thomas argued. “If so, then why not just say, It takes a grown man three days, but it will take you lot four?

  “And,” he continued, “we’ve not been walking too slow. We’ve kept a steady pace.” He kicked a rock, which traveled halfway up the hill we were approaching, then rolled back down to him. “If we cannot see the village of Agadhoe when we get to the top of this rise…” he said.

  And yet, when we reached the top of the hill and looked down into the valley, no village lights greeted us in the twilight. Not a single torch.

  I glanced at the map again, but it was no help at all.