The Seven Tales of Trinket

by Shelley Moore Thomas

  The clipping, clopping follows thee

  Through empty evening air.

  Hooves of fire,

  Flanks of coal,

  Look not upon him

  Or forfeit thy soul.

  THE SIXTH TALE

  The Old Burned Man and the Hound

  CASTLE CHORES

  Thomas and I were still determined to find and hear the Old Burned Man. Most villages considered it an honor when he paid a visit. No feast was too extravagant, no bed was too soft. He ofttimes visited castles or fine manor houses, and though it would take him a hundred days to tell all of his tales and sing all of his songs, he was not known for remaining long in one place. I could not even imagine what it would take to remember a hundred stories! I was still working on gathering and polishing seven.

  I had become more courageous with my harp. Perhaps it was that I was tired of milking, drawing water, thatching roofs, and digging graves. Or perhaps, after being chased by creatures and beasties worse than Death itself, it seemed foolish to fear a quiet fire, shining eyes, and ears ready for the listening. In the last village we’d been to, a woman took one look at my harp and said to me, “Have ye songs to go with your harp? Or mayhap a story, lass?”

  Aye. I liked how that sounded. The Story Lass.

  * * *

  But now we had finally arrived at a true castle, called Castlelow. It had received its name from being situated on a low, grassy meadow. The legend was that another castle, called Castlehigh, once sat at the top of the nearby hills, but now only ruins remained. ’Twas a good thing we chanced upon Castlelow, for each night as we camped, the sound of howling wolves grew louder. Never before had we heard such howling. Perhaps it was normal for this time of year, with winter approaching. Neither Thomas nor I were certain, though, for there were never wolves howling near our village on the coast. We were grateful to find the shelter of thick stone walls.

  There are all manner of beings that live in a castle. Not just kings and queens and lords and ladies. Not just servants down below or knights in the field. There are animals as well. Pigs, goats, and chickens running free through the castle yard and hounds, lying under the tables, waiting for crumbs to drop.

  I’d met hounds before, of course. But a castle hound is a different breed from a village hound or a road hound. You can tell by the way he holds his head and the way he stands close to his master.

  The way he’d give his life to protect him.

  * * *

  I was somewhat nervous, of course. Would Castlelow want to hear the tales of a traveling lass? Mayhap it would be better to do odd chores and such, taking the time to listen to the stories of the castle bard, if they had one.

  I decided not to ask about my father here. He was the past.

  I had to focus on the future.

  The Lord and Lady of Castlelow were kindly. They had a new babe, their first, a boy with sandy hair that stuck out from his head like the down of a newly hatched duck. I was assigned to help look after the child, which would allow me to practice my lullabies and perhaps a story or two. Thomas was assigned to the pigs, his first pigs in a long, long time. He was jubilant.

  “Aw, Trinket, mayhap we can stay here a while. The food is plentiful and the straw is clean.” He had a small piglet, pink and quite adorable, tucked under his arm. “And the work is not hard.”

  “Not like digging a grave.” I laughed.

  “Nay, not like digging a grave at all,” he said.

  True, we’d done much hard labor on our journey, slept on the ground, and gone hungry more oft than not. Life at the castle looked to be easy. My task was not difficult, either. I did the things the laddie’s nurse would rather not do, which mostly consisted of dirty jobs like changing soggy clothes, feeding him gruel, and following him wherever he wanted to crawl. Unfortunately, the babe had a hard time getting to sleep and the nurse bade me stay with him in his nursery in the tower until he slumbered. I missed the storytelling for the first four nights we were there. ’Twas torturing me to be so close to a true bard and not be able to hear him, even if it wasn’t the Old Burned Man, who was due to arrive any day, or so everyone said. Thomas had been luckier than I, for there was no need for a pig boy to lure the piglets into dreamland.

  “They said if we were good and quiet and all, that we could come and listen,” he told me the fifth morning of our stay. I could feel jealousy rising, and Thomas saw it in my face. “He wasn’t near so good as you,” he sputtered.

  I only humphed.

  “Trinket, they’ve seen your harp. They know you’re a teller. Why do ye not just—”

  “I am not ready for a castle, Thomas.”

  He walked off, but I was sure I heard him mumble, “Of all the things, never thought she was a chicken.”

  Thomas was right. I was being ridiculous.

  One must be brave to tell stories.

  I had met with creatures of unusual magic and lived to tell the tale. I had even escaped a deadly rider atop a phantom stallion and outwitted the powers of darkness.

  Was I not brave?

  FINN

  I practiced, singing soft songs to the young babe each night with the lord’s gigantic hound at my feet. He loved the songs, too. A larger dog I’d never seen in my life. Were he to stand on his hind legs, his head would have risen far above my own. His coat was the color of wheat in autumn. But the most amazing thing about him was that, for all of his enormous stature, he was gentler than the evening breeze. They called him Finn the Great. I thought of him as Finn the Oversized Kitten.

  He watched over the babe each night while he slept. As I drifted off to sleep in my small closet of a room next to the nursery, I could see the hound lying still and protective on the floor at the foot of the boy’s crib.

  Perhaps I would have a dog of my own one day, I thought as I strummed and sang softly in the early morning before the babe awoke. A dog could watch over Thomas and me while we slept. What an odd family we would be. No parents, just a boy who tends pigs and a girl who tells tales.

  There were worse families, I was certain. And yet—

  The voice that interrupted my song was gravelly and rough. “I heard music on the stairs and followed it here. ’Tis a nice song. Is it yours?”’Twas a damaged voice, but there was beauty in the ragged way he spoke.

  I wish I could say that I answered, Aye, sir, my own tune as well as my own words. But when I turned to face him, I could not speak. His face was fiercely scarred and he wore a gray hood that covered his head. The scars were white and twisted his smile (I thought it was a smile) into a frightening skull-like grimace. I gasped and nodded stiffly. I could feel heat rush to my face. What horrible manners I possessed.

  After all, exactly what had I expected him to look like? The Old Burned Man, for he could be no other, the bard I’d searched for, was standing not halfway across the room. The famed teller had finally arrived at the same place at the same time as Thomas and I. I should have been jumping with excitement. He was here! But all I felt was horror.

  The Old Burned Man looked down.

  I stammered, “Er, ’twas a song I wrote for my mother. She reminds me of a bluebird.”

  “She is blessed to have such a song written for her.”

  “She’s dead.”

  There was silence, but it was not uncomfortable this time. ’Twas like he was offering a bit of silence in respect for my mother. That was nice.

  “Well.” He cleared his throat, which sounded painful. “The ones we love often leave us, don’t they?”

  “Aye.”

  “But my guess is they’d prefer not to, if given the choice.”

  His ruined eye winked at me, and I found myself smiling slightly at this gruesome-looking man.

  “If given the choice,” I repeated.

  * * *

  ’Twas not simple to sneak down the stairs of the castle to hear the storytelling that night, but how could I miss my first chance to hear the Old Burned Man? As if the babe knew I needed him to sleep, a
nd quickly at that, he refused to lie down for a long time. Even when he finally slumbered lightly, the quiet sound of my footsteps roused him and I had to start singing all over again. I found myself making up unpleasant words.

  Go to sleep, little piglet,

  Lest I roll ye in the mud

  And make thee eat on worms and scraps

  ’Twill be for thy own good.

  “Ye’ll have to teach me that one. I might use it sometime,” said Thomas with a snicker.

  I carefully placed my harp on the cushion, tiptoed across the room, and whacked him hard in the gut.

  “Oof.”

  “Shhhhhh.” Most likely I should not have thumped him, but I was in a mood due to missing the very reason we had come this far.

  Luck was with me, for the babe did not stir. “I got tired of waiting on the steps for you to come down,” Thomas whispered. “He must be halfway through with the stories.”

  “Aw, Thomas, you didn’t go and hear him without me? You waited?” I asked.

  “Now, Trinket, how could I leave you with the wakeful babe and go listen to the Old Burned Man and live to tell the tale?” Thomas grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the stairs. Finn the dog opened one eye and watched us leave. Feeling the babe was in good hands, or paws, we continued on our way. I stumbled once on the hem of my dress, which I’d pulled from the bottom of my sack and worn for the evening. Finally hearing the Old Burned Man was worthy of my nice clothes.

  ’Twas not the Old Burned Man, though, but a string bean of a lad named Berthold.

  Thomas rolled his eyes. “Not him again,” he muttered.

  “Where is the Old Burned Man?” Thomas whispered to a lady as we squeezed in beside her on the bench.

  “Cough or fever,” said the lady. Thomas groaned and was promptly shushed by the woman. “Now quiet down and give proper respect. Berthold is the nephew of—”

  “Aye, I know. I heard him the other night,” Thomas said, then mouthed the words he’s horrible so that only I could see.

  Berthold’s voice quivered like a leaf on a branch. He kept clearing his throat and he forgot important parts of the story, so the ending made no sense. The crowd was beginning to get restless and the lord and lady looked annoyed.

  “Is there not someone else who has a tale this night?” asked the lord. “Where is the girl who arrived but a week ago with a harp?”

  I was determined to have courage this time. I raised my hand. “I am the Story Lass,” I said.

  “Well, go on, lass,” said the lord, “give us a story.”

  I took my place on the three-legged bard’s stool as Thomas raced up the stairs to get my harp. I felt in my pocket for the faerie gold, which I now carried with me always, and pulled it out. The coin felt heavy in my hand.

  “A-hem.” The lord cleared his throat. “Any time now, lass.”

  Whether I rubbed the coin for courage or for luck, I do not know. But I rubbed it thrice and placed it back in my pocket.

  Then I began my tale.

  My voice was timid at first, and I swallowed a couple of times until I felt the shaking stop. No better than Berthold. I took a deep breath and calmed myself. Though ’twas my first castle, I hoped it would not be my last. This is what I had worked so hard for.

  “The Story of the Gypsies and the Seer,” I began again, “a tale of a princess with a rare gift and her father, who would stop at nothing to sell it.”

  With my words, I painted pictures of the places I had been. The exotic caravans of the Gypsy camp came alive in the great hall, so real, in fact, that I could smell the chicken coop and feel the silk of the tent under my fingers. The words were flowing from my lips now, into the ears and hearts of my audience. Their eyes shone with unshed tears at Feather’s plight and they gasped when Lothar’s men drew their swords. Best was the cheer at Feather’s escape, and then the call from the crowd for another tale.

  ’Tis one thing to learn a story, word by word, to tell it the right way; ’tis another altogether to bring a tale to life, where moments before there was nothing but emptiness.

  Thomas had placed my harp at my feet sometime during my tale, so quietly that I hadn’t noticed. A hush filled the hall as I plucked the first note and sang the first song I had ever written myself.

  The great hall of a castle is an amazing place to play a tune, for the notes echo and bounce between the old stone walls and out to the folks sitting on their carved benches, hoping to be whisked away to another place and time.

  I have had many adventures. But this … this was the most magical.

  For five nights they asked me for my stories. I sat on the bard’s stool, rubbed my coin for luck, and told my tales: Gypsies, selkies, banshees, faeries, and pookas danced across my harp. Each yarn I spun was better than the last, each song sweeter.

  Then, the Old Burned Man recovered.

  IN WHICH I FINALLY HEAR THE OLD BURNED MAN

  The great hall was full, for Lord John had planned a hunt and a banquet for the next day and had invited many to the event. The room was overwarm and the air sticky, but I did not care. We wedged ourselves through the crowd until a lady in a dress of fine blue velvet tweaked my braid hard and glared.

  The Old Burned Man cleared his throat and spoke.

  Perhaps it was because his voice was spoiled and the effort to use it sounded painful, but I felt honored to be the recipient of his words. They sang in my mind, though the back of my throat ached in sympathy. The spell he cast with his story was more wondrous and mystical than I could have imagined, and that says a great deal coming from a lass who spends most of her time imagining.

  The bench we sat on was hard and we were quite squished, but I did not care. The legend of a lady who tended swords for only the bravest knights and lived underwater in a lake that never froze over was both lovely and tragic.

  I listened.

  I dreamed.

  Though his voice was ragged, his telling was far smoother and silkier than even Bald Fergal’s. My heart soared at one moment with the magic of the story, then sank the next moment. I felt quite the fraud. My tales could not compare. I was no bard. What had made me think that I was?

  And then the Old Burned Man pulled out his flute.

  “I’ll only do the one song tonight,” he said, “for my throat’s still a-paining me. ’Tis a lullaby I composed myself many years ago.”

  ’Twas lilting and sadly sweet. But beautiful.

  And all too familiar.

  My blood stilled.

  I knew the song.

  And in my heart, I knew the player.

  * * *

  Thomas gulped, then he looked at me and his eyes grew wide. Did he, too, recognize the tune? His hand touched my sleeve, but I jerked my arm away and ran down the corridor and up the stairs. The tears on my cheeks were hot. I could not sniff them back no matter how hard I tried.

  Finn raised his head when I stumbled into the room, saw it was me, and lay back down, his eyes still open. The dog watched me as I sobbed and grabbed my harp, clutching it so hard the strings bit into the flesh of my arms. But I did not care about the pain.

  When you cry, your mind is a jumbled mess. Part of your brain is trying to make you stop crying and stop thinking about the things that are making you cry. Hush, hush now, do not cause a scene. The other part of your brain is lashing back, thinking thoughts so numerous and difficult that reason runs and hides for a while, until things die down.

  Thomas was a reasonable fellow, and he did the same. I heard his footsteps come up the stairs, pause, then go back down.

  The only creature brave enough to offer comfort was Finn. He nuzzled his enormous head under my arm. My throat was too thick to even utter, “Not now, dog, go away.” So I let him stay at my side as I sobbed, watching the tears splash on his golden coat. There was something terribly reassuring about the dog’s presence.

  I was glad to have such company.

  I cried myself to sleep and the night was filled with dreams.

&nbs
p; I dreamed that I saw my father and that he told me stories and kissed me goodbye and never came back.

  I dreamed my father rode on a dark stallion, with a cape that flew behind him.

  I dreamed my father smiled at me with a scarred and ruined face.

  * * *

  When I awoke, I was no longer overwhelmed with sadness.

  I was confused.

  How could a man that old, scarred, and hideous-looking possibly be my handsome father? How could he have been so heartless to have not returned if he was actually still alive? WHY?

  And I was angry.

  THE HUNT

  Even before the sun rose the nurse poked her head into my small closet room. “You’re all red and blotchful. Been ye crying, girl?”

  I sniffled and nodded, but quickly looked away. I did not want to speak of my suspicions.

  “Never mind about it, girl, whatever it is, ye must get the babe dry and fresh. He needs to say goodbye to the lord. Off to the hunt, he is.” The nurse tugged on my arms and pulled me up. “You’re a weed of a girl, you know. I swear you’ve grown in the days since you have come here.”

  I only sniffed.

  “’Tis a good thing you arrived when you did, what with the wolves in the forest and all. The pack’s been a-howling each night. Had you met them on your journey, ye might not have made it here whole.”

  I swallowed, remembering the forlorn howls we had heard as we traveled. Sadly, it was more pleasant to think about being attacked by wolves than about having a father who stole for pleasure and laughed a dark laugh like the Highwayman. Or a hideous father who left you five years past and could have come back but chose not to.

  “Seems foolish to go on a hunt for boars with wolves about, do ye not think?” the nurse continued, unaware that I was a poor contributor to the conversation. “I would think the wolves would have eaten the boars or scared them away. Alas.”

  “Aye. Alas,” I offered.