The Seven Tales of Trinket

by Shelley Moore Thomas

  “It’s stale, ye know,” he complained.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “Now that I’ve captured you, you have to honor me with a favor,” said Thomas in his most commanding tone. Quite impressive for a pig boy, really.

  “Perhaps I do not want to,” said the pooka.

  “Pardon me, sir pooka, but the custom says that you are to be most civil and agreeable when honored with a feast on Samhain.” My voice sounded like I knew what I was talking about.

  “Ye call this a feast?” he moaned. “It’s more like table scraps a dog wouldn’t eat, that’s what it is. Now help me out of here.”

  “Very well, you have given us no choice but to leave you here.” We turned our backs and took a few steps away.

  “No! Wait!” cried the pooka. We glanced back over our shoulders. “I apologize. If you would assist me in my effort to get out of this … this … this whatever it is, I shall help you.” His voice was most civil, now.

  Not wanting to insult him by asking for his word of honor (as the custom says that pookas are most honorable creatures), we helped him out of the grave. ’Twas not easy, hefting a horse twice the size of a regular nag out of a hole in the ground. Thomas climbed down and leaned against the horse’s huge rump with all his might.

  “I beg your pardon!” the pooka cried.

  “Forgive me … er, um, sir. It’s just that if I don’t push against your bum while Trinket pulls on your mane, we might never get you out.” Thomas grunted between pushes.

  I was already pulling on his mane, the coarse hairs cutting into my hand fiercely.

  “Of all the indignities,” the pooka muttered.

  “You could help, sir,” Thomas groaned. “Just place your forelegs on the edge and—there you go—now when I count to three—one, two, THREE!” Thomas cried, and with a final shove, the pooka stumbled up out of the grave. A sweaty Thomas emerged after him, breathing heavily. “I hope I never have to do that again.”

  “You are not the only one. I’ve probably got bruises all over me rump,” said the pooka.

  I quickly explained to him our situation.

  “So,” he began, taking a deep breath, still munching on bread crusts. “Ye want me to take ye through the wall between the living and the other so ye can find the Highwayman and steal back your harp, your mirror, and your gold coin? You’re serious about this?”

  We nodded.

  “The Highwayman, nasty piece of work, he is. If he catches ye…” His voice trailed off.

  Thomas said bravely, “Well, we just won’t let him catch us. Are you fast?”

  “Fast enough for you, laddie. Fast enough for you.”

  “Fast enough to carry the both of us?” I asked.

  The pooka considered the situation before replying, “Aye.”

  TO THE OTHER SIDE

  “Nay, Trinket, you’re not coming—” Thomas began.

  “Aye, Thomas, you’ll not stop me, and we both know it. So we can stand around and argue, however I myself think that it is rude to quarrel in front of company.” I nodded to the pooka, who winked back at me. “Or we can get this over with.”

  I handed a jug of water to Thomas. “Remember to drink up before we ride. There might not be time after.”

  Thomas glared but took several swigs from the jug. This was the part I was glad Thomas was willing to do. “Don’t drink too much, though. It could be a bumpy ride.” He did not laugh at my joke, but the pooka snorted. Bending down, the pooka allowed Thomas and me to climb on his broad back.

  “You will not fall, for I will not let you. But hold tightly. I shall gallop faster than you have ever traveled. ’Twill feel like flying.” The pooka seemed to be enjoying this. “And remember not to get down from my back while we are on the other side.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “How can you not know this?” the pooka scolded. “If your feet touch the ground, you’ll stay on the other side until next Samhain, plus one day more.”

  A year and a day with the dead? Perhaps it would not be so bad if I found my mother. She would not come to me, but if I found her …

  “Do not think about it, Trinket,” Thomas said. He knew me far too well. “There is a reason there’s a wall between the living and the other, don’t ye think?”

  “Aye,” said the pooka, “there’s a reason indeed.” And he left it at that.

  * * *

  True to his word, the pooka galloped faster than either Thomas or I could have imagined. The trees blurred into one long and eerie shadow that trailed after us. We traveled so fast that even the light of the moon could not catch up. Breathing was difficult, for the air was sucked out of our lungs as we rode faster and faster still. My mother’s fine cloak flew behind me as if it had wings of its own. The pooka did not speak. With his head down, he raced against the night, speeding us toward the wall between the living and the other side.

  I thought I would be able to tell when we passed through the wall. Perhaps there would be a sense of utmost despair. Perhaps it would be even darker. Perhaps there would be a tiredness in my bones that would compel me to seek eternal rest. Alas, I noticed no difference. The pooka whispered, “We are here. Do not get off my back.”

  He stopped. We listened to the silence, waiting for a clue as to which direction to pursue. I thought there would be the sound of wailing on the other side, like the wee banshee from Crossmaglin. However, there was nothing but the faintest melody.

  “Do you hear that?” I whispered in Thomas’s ear. He shook his head. “’Tis my harp a-playing. I’m sure of it.”

  He whispered back, “Which way?”

  I pointed to the left. Slowly and silently, we trod along. The pooka’s hooves made no sound on the ground, if there was indeed ground under us. I could only see mist.

  The tune became louder, proving we were going the right way. But no spirits did I see. Weren’t there countless dead folk? I would have thought the other side quite crowded.

  As if reading my mind, the pooka whispered, “The other side is vast. More so than you can imagine. And, of course, ’tis Samhain. Many souls have gone frolicking amongst the human folk.”

  “But not the Highwayman,” Thomas said with a gulp.

  “Nay, the Highwayman is a ghostie. He does not have to wait until Samhain, when the wall is at its thinnest, to travel betwixt the lands of the living and the dead. He can pass back and forth as he pleases.” The pooka was most knowledgeable. I was glad we had him for our guide.

  “Why, then, are not all of the dead folk ghosties? Wouldn’t they like traveling back and forth of their own choice? I know I would.” Thomas’s voice was so quiet, only the pooka and I could hear.

  “Would ye now? Ghosties are tortured souls who cannot rest. They long to feel blood rush through their veins again, to be alive. But they cannot return to life, nor can they feel comfort in death. ’Tis not a fate anyone would choose, lad. Like being more tired than ye can comprehend and not being able to sleep.”

  I felt a bit of pity for the Highwayman. Certainly, he had stolen from us, but an eternity of no rest sounded dreadful indeed.

  The music was loud enough for me to discern the melody. And I recognized it.

  Gooseflesh spread across my shoulders and down my arms. Thomas felt me shake off the chill.

  “What is it?” he whispered.

  “’Tis a song I know … a lullaby…” My father’s lullaby.

  And then, through the mist, I saw him.

  THE HIGHWAYMAN

  The Highwayman sat on a rock, playing my harp. His long fingers moved over the strings deftly. He finished the lullaby and began a sorrowful piece that broke my heart. I longed to get off the pooka and speak to him, but Thomas held my arm tightly.

  Now what to do? Should we demand the harp back, or try to get close enough to grab it?

  “You’ve come a long way to retrieve such a small treasure,” the Highwayman said, turning slowly and facing us. “And on a pooka! ’Twould seem I underestimated y
ou.”

  He rose, placing the harp on the rock, and took a step closer to us. Thomas clutched the pooka’s mane even tighter.

  The Highwayman smiled cruelly. “Your harp?” He addressed his question to me. “Come and get it.” He stepped out of our way and bowed gallantly.

  Ever so slowly, we moved toward the harp.

  “Your eyes are familiar, girl.” His voice was between a sneer and a whisper.

  “Don’t listen to him,” warned the pooka. “I told you, he is evil.”

  “And the point of your chin,” the Highwayman continued. “Aye, girl, I’ve seen it before. I knew when I first looked at you, I’d seen it. Somewhere…” His voice trailed off.

  We were almost close enough. If I leaned far over and Thomas held me, I might be able to grasp the harp. If only we did not have to pass the Highwayman first.

  “Who is it that you look like, dearie? Your mother? Or your father?”

  I froze as the Highwayman chuckled. “Mayhap you do not know.”

  We inched forward, just past him, almost even with the harp.

  Thomas pinched me hard. I’d have to grab it now, fast, or miss my chance altogether.

  I reached out, the tips of my fingers touching the smooth white bone. The pooka moved us closer.

  As I clasped the cold side of the harp and pulled it to me, the Highwayman’s hand snaked out and jerked at the creature’s mane. The pooka stumbled, nearly throwing me off. Had Thomas not been holding me so tightly, I would have fallen and I’d have been cursed to live a year and a day on the other side. Thomas dug his heels into the pooka’s flanks and the creature reared back.

  “A challenge it is, then!” The Highwayman laughed. He climbed upon his stallion, which had appeared from nowhere.

  The pooka galloped hard and fast. I clutched the harp tightly with one hand and Thomas with the other, hoping we were going the right way, but at this point, any direction away from the Highwayman was a good one.

  He was but a breath behind us. I could feel the stallion panting on the back of my neck.

  “A gentleman of the road, I am,” the Highwayman snickered. “Always willing to offer kindness to a fellow traveler.” He reached out and caught a few strands of my hair and yanked. “Hmm, the father’s hair or the mother’s?”

  I screamed, tempted to throw the harp back in his face. But that would not have stopped the Highwayman. He cared not for the harp.

  He sought trophies of another kind.

  We sped through the other side, the wind so harsh on our faces we were near blinded. I thought once or twice I felt a tug on my hair, but whether it was a strand caught in the branched fingers of a decrepit tree, or the Highwayman closing on us, I could not be sure.

  I was far too afraid to look back, for if he were to catch us, I would not have his cold eyes be the last things I ever saw.

  We crossed through the wall between the living and the other, but that did not stop the Highwayman. He was not as close to us now, but he didn’t need to be. He could follow at his own pace and never tire. He was dead already.

  But we were gasping for breath. Even the pooka was wheezing as we arrived at the gravedigger’s cottage. “Hurry, Thomas, HURRY! You’ve got to do it now!” I cried, hoping he hadn’t sweated off all of the water he’d drunk earlier.

  A VISIT FROM THE QUEEN

  We got off the pooka and Thomas proceeded to relieve himself on the gatepost of the small house.

  “The only way to keep a ghostie out of your house,” the gravedigger had told us, “is to piss on the gatepost. They won’t pass through. They cannot.”

  Thank goodness Thomas had no problem. Seemed like, in fact, he’d not relieved himself for days. I wanted to say, That’s quite enough, Thomas, but preferred instead to look off into the distance. I caught the eye of the pooka, who was doing the same.

  I did not see the Highwayman approach. But I could hear him circling.

  “Ye’ll be safe, if ye stay inside,” the gravedigger had told us. But where was the old man now?

  The door to the cottage was just large enough for the pooka to fit through, though Thomas had to push on the horse’s large rump once again.

  “Sorry,” Thomas mumbled.

  “Well, ye should be. Twice in one night. Now, close the door, will ye?” the pooka ordered. Thomas closed and bolted the door.

  * * *

  Through the window, we could see movement among the gravestones. Those from the other side, perhaps, paying a visit on Samhain. But nothing came near the house. We sat inside the cluttered, filthy cottage, a girl, a boy, and a pooka, trying to pass the time until daylight came, hoping the sun would keep the Highwayman away.

  “They cannot go far, you know, ghosts and such,” said the pooka. “A ghost cannot pass over water. Cross the stream half a day’s walk east of the village and you’ll be safe.”

  We heard clip-clopping again, louder, sending new waves of chills down my arms.

  “Do you suppose…” Thomas began. “Ah, never mind.”

  “Go ahead. Ask me.”

  “Well, the Highwayman talked a lot about your folks … do you suppose…”

  “Are you asking me if he knew my parents?”

  “Or, maybe, could he be one of them … like your father, I mean? Think about it, Trinket. No one seems to know much about James the Bard. Mayhap your da became a robber—”

  A loud growl interrupted us and we flew back to the window. The Highwayman stood at the gate, anger fairly spewing from him. But he was not alone.

  I gasped as the familiar, terrifyingly beautiful form of the Faerie Queen emerged from the fog, cracking her whip overhead and driving her miniature ponies across the dry ground of the old graveyard.

  “I’ll have the coin,” she said, her voice just as I remembered. She drew herself out of her carriage and up to the Highwayman’s full height. Her pale hand gestured impatiently. “You should know better than to steal what the faerie folk have given, you foolish shade.”

  The Highwayman appeared as if he would refuse. But then, all around the graveyard, spirits materialized from behind the headstones. Some young, some old, all as pale as the clouds at night. “Give it back,” they whispered. “Give it back to the girl.”

  Whether ’twas a trick of the Faerie Queen, or the dead speaking for us, I did not know.

  Slowly, Thomas and I walked onto the cottage porch. If the Highwayman had been able to venture past the gatepost, I was certain he would have done it by now.

  Shaking with fury, the Highwayman gave the coin to the Faerie Queen. “It does not belong to me.” She flipped it through the air and it clattered on the porch at my feet, just as it had after the contest in Ringford. “It belongs to the girl. Return all that is hers.” She then turned to me. “You would do well not to lose a bargaining coin given by the folk. Prove yourself worthy, girl, for ’tis more valuable than you can imagine. I’ll not help you retrieve it should you part ways with it again.”

  My sack flew through the air as the Highwayman glared at us one final time. Thomas raced through the doorway and caught the bag before it could fall to the ground and shatter the mirror. The Highwayman’s eyes were no longer cold, but hot with rage, his mouth twisted in a sneer. Was that the face of my father, hidden behind a thief’s mask? Then he turned and galloped off into the new light of dawn. The air was rent with the queen’s laughter.

  Naturally, the pooka was gone when we went inside, for ’twas daybreak and he was, after all, a creature of the night. And a magical one at that.

  We wanted to say goodbye and thank you to the gravedigger, but he was still nowhere to be found and we were too anxious to get past the stream, half a day’s walk from the village. And we’d no desire to bide with the folk in this town, who had cowered in their homes for the past two days and nights. Strangely, though, as we passed the farthest edge of the graveyard, we saw a weathered headstone with a small shovel leaned up against it.

  HERE LIE THE BONES

  OF OLD MACGREGOR<
br />
  OF ALL HE WAS

  THE BEST GRAVEDIGGER

  That night, miles away, I felt for the bargaining coin deep inside the pocket of my britches. ’Twas warm from being so near my skin and I rubbed it twice for courage. Was I finally brave enough to speak aloud the thoughts that had crowded my head all day?

  “Thomas,” I said carefully, “what if that outlaw, what if he really was my father?” I swallowed, trying to sound like I didn’t care as much as I did.

  “What if he was?” asked Thomas. “Doesn’t make you any different, does it? You’re still Trinket no matter what.”

  I wanted to bury the bard’s map in the dirt, for I’d follow its trail no longer. What if it had been drawn by the evil hand of the Highwayman? But Thomas would not let me.

  “A map’s a map, Trinket. We can still use it even if you don’t like who made it.”

  Wise, wise Thomas.

  “Still Trinket no matter what.” I said those words over and over to myself for the rest of that night.

  And many nights to follow.

  If James the Bard was really James the Ghostly Highwayman, then I wanted no part of him. And if he was not, sadly I was no closer to finding him. Though some folks remembered my father, no one had seen him for years. He was as good as dead.

  Perhaps some truths are never meant to be uncovered.

  THE FIFTH SONG

  The Dangers of the Road

  To tell the truth, this is not my favorite song, and I cannot play it without getting a chill upon the back of my neck. However, it is the duty of the teller to warn the unsuspecting traveler, I think.

  Go not, thou unsuspecting lad,

  Oft through the blackened night,

  For in the mists

  And tree-claw limbs

  There lurks a fearsome sight.

  Hooves of fire,

  Flanks of coal,

  Only a moment

  To forfeit thy soul.

  And there, behind the callous swirls

  Of danger and despair,