The Seven Tales of Trinket

by Shelley Moore Thomas

“But if the lord says there shall be a hunt, then a hunt there shall be, I s’pose.” She handed me a little gown of white lace with gold trim for the babe. “Dress him. Clean his wee face, too.”

  Finn the Great was at my side as I changed the babe from his soggy clothes. The hound looked at the boy with deep, soulful eyes, perhaps thinking him a pup instead of a baby.

  The wolves howled in the distance as I took the child down the stairs to see his father, who promptly kissed the boy’s head and led his band of hunters out of the castle. Thomas was with them. ’Twas a boar hunt, after all, and a pig boy might be useful, for what were boars but meaner, more dangerous swine?

  I was both glad and mad Thomas was gone. Glad, for I didn’t want to speak with him about last night, and mad, for I did not want to spend the day alone with my thoughts.

  After feeding the infant down in the kitchens and taking him to visit his lady mother until he became cranky, I sat him in his bed and began to play my harp for him. My fingers started to pluck a familiar tune and then stopped. I would not play my father’s lullaby ever again.

  Instead, I played the new tune I had composed for the selkie boy’s song, and his eyes were closed before the last verse.

  “You’ve a strong voice,” a voice said, “for one so young.”

  The Old Burned Man stood in the doorway. I chanced a look at his scarred face. Were those the eyes of my father behind his gargoyle’s features? I supposed they could be. They were similar to mine in color, but the shape wasn’t right.

  Nay. He could not be my father, James the Bard.

  But then there was the lullaby.

  My thoughts were muddled.

  I had sought the Old Burned Man for such a long time, just to hear his stories, not thinking for a moment that he might be my father. He looked far too old, but perhaps he was younger and just horribly disfigured. What happened to him? I wondered, then shook my head. No, I would not pity him. It was his choice not to return.

  Would I prefer that my father had died? Would I prefer him to be the Highwayman?

  “I thank you, sir,” I said, my voice hard like stone.

  “You’re a teller, too, then. I heard you the other night. Held them in your grasp, you did, lass. Where did you learn such skill? You are quite young, as I said.”

  Perhaps it is in my blood, I wanted to say, but I did not. I merely shrugged.

  The silence was awkward.

  I wanted him to leave, but then … perhaps … Was I completely certain?

  I cleared my throat. “The song you played on your flute last night. ’Twas lovely. It was yours?”

  He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “Just an old lullaby, written long ago, for a very special child.” He sighed and looked off, his voice quiet. “Some say it has magic.”

  He had his secrets, too, then.

  He asked to see my harp, so I showed him. “Unusual and fantastical,” he told me.

  The conversation continued in such a manner, stilted and uncomfortable. Are you my father? If so, why did you leave us and never return? The words screamed in my head.

  But I could not make them come.

  TRAGEDY

  After the Old Burned Man left me, the nurse reappeared and began tidying the room as the babe continued to doze. She took one look at my face and shooed me off. “We’ll be fine here, lass. The hound can help amuse the boy when he wakes. Go try and shed whatever heavy weight you’re carrying around. You’ll do no one any good brooding about like that.”

  I grabbed my mother’s cloak and set off, leaving through an old door at the bottom of the tower held ajar by a heavy rock. “’Tis cleaning day,” I was told by a woman with a broom when I asked about the open door. “Got to sweep out the hall to make things nice for the banquet tonight.” Ah yes. The banquet. In my dark mood, the thought of fine food made my stomach turn. I wandered under trees and down the green paths of the castle grounds, hoping that the farther away I was from the Old Burned Man, the clearer my thoughts would become.

  Was I not happy, then, to have found the man I thought was my father? Truly, it was more likely that James the Bard was the Old Burned Man than the Highwayman. After all, the Old Burned Man was a teller. That was a clue right there.

  But nay, I was not happy. All I felt was anger. When I set off on my quest for my father, I did not know what I would find. I hoped to hear of my father, of course. Had I expected to hear only of his death? Perhaps tragic, yet heroic. But that at least was an acceptable reason for him never to return.

  If he was alive, he would have come back.

  Should I tell him that my mother had died with a broken heart? Mayhap yes, if that would hurt him. Although the fact that he’d never returned showed his lack of care. It would not matter to him at all. And if he was not my father … well, those were thoughts I did not want, either. How did the Highwayman know the lullaby? I blocked this question from my mind.

  I sat under the trees until the sun was low in the sky.

  That was when screaming started.

  “Wolves! A pack of wolves!” I heard someone cry. I dashed through the castle gardens toward the keep, bumping into a large figure wrapped in gray.

  “Nay, lass,” said the Old Burned Man, “’twill do you no good to run. Best to stay here and safe, until the guards round them up.” He held me by my shoulders, the fine fabric of my mother’s cloak in his scarred hands. I glanced to where his fingers softly touched the threads. Did he remember when she made it? I looked away.

  “The wee lad might be afraid. I am going to him and you will not stop me,” I said. “’Twould be sad, would it not, for the child to feel abandoned?”

  His hands dropped in an instant, as if I had burned him myself, and I ran, red-faced, to Castlelow.

  Had he noticed the cruelty of my words? The angry, beastly part of myself hoped so.

  * * *

  Up the stairs I climbed, taking two at a time when I could. I could tell he was panting and huffing behind me, but his legs must have been damaged as well, for he was not fast for a grown man.

  I arrived in the babe’s room to find the nurse wailing.

  “He’s dead! He’s dead! I left him for but a moment alone with the hound. Just a moment! The beast!” she cried. Her arms were flailing and she clutched the hem of her dress against her face. Then she pushed past me and ran down the stairs. Finn was there, by the babe’s bed, blood on his coat, blood on the floor. He looked at me and bared his teeth.

  “The hound killed him! The hound killed my master’s son!” The nurse’s voice echoed eerily through the tower.

  And truly, that is exactly how it appeared. Why Finn should attack the babe, I could not say. Had the howls of the wolves thrown him into a canine frenzy?

  “There,” said the Old Burned Man, “behind his left flank, the babe’s arm … ’tis moving.”

  I gasped as my eyes followed where the Old Burned Man pointed. The babe’s chubby arm stuck out from behind the dog, and the fingers twitched. Most likely, the arm was still attached to the boy.

  “We need to get the dog away from the baby! I think he’s still alive!” I took a hasty step toward the hound and then stopped when he growled.

  “Stay back, Trinket!” cried the Old Burned Man, pulling my shoulder.

  Trinket? How did he know my name? Everyone except Thomas simply called me girl, or Story Lass.

  I jerked away and cried, “The babe needs me!” I took another step forward. “Finn, be calm.” I placed my hand palm up and moved closer.

  Finn growled again, showing blood in his teeth. He lay on his side and his breathing was labored, but he glared at me in warning. The hand behind him moved again, followed by a soft cry.

  I turned to the Old Burned Man. “See, the babe’s alive. We just have to get to him!” I saw my harp on the bench by the door, the whiteness of the bone fairly glowing in the afternoon light. I slowly tiptoed over to it.

  “Stop! Do not do this!” the Old Burned Man warned me. But I would not be
stopped. I reached the creaky wooden bench and sat down to play. If my tunes could make selkies sleep and faeries dance, perhaps they would be able to calm a crazed hound.

  LULLABY

  I don’t know why, but I began to strum the song I had sworn but hours before to never play again. My traitorous fingers were plucking my father’s lullaby, the most soothing, gentle song I knew. After a moment or two, my playing was joined by the sound of a flute, sweet, clear, and strong.

  We played together as moment after moment drifted by. Finn stopped baring his teeth. Whether it was the tune that tamed him, or the fact that neither of us was approaching him, I do not know, but he relaxed. The Old Burned Man continued the melody as I put the harp down and rose.

  When I got close enough, I could tell that Finn had been hurt, very badly. The blood on his coat was his own. ’Twould have been impossible for a small child to inflict such damage upon a dog.

  Finn’s eyes softened and his head slumped down. “The hound is bleeding,” I whispered. I knelt by the dog as the lullaby’s final note faded into silence and the Old Burned Man crept around to the other side of Finn. There he found the babe, who was sobbing quietly, like a mewling kitten.

  “He’s unharmed.” The Old Burned Man cuddled the child close to his chest. The babe’s eyes were wide and his breathing strong. Placing the boy on the mattress, the bard continued to soothe him. “He’s just scared. But look,” he said, pointing to another furry mass on the far side of the child’s bed.

  “Where is the foul hound?” Lord John bellowed as he charged into the room, sword drawn. He pointed his weapon at Finn and cried in anguish, “You will die now, you filthy cur!” And he raised the sword over his head, ready to swipe at the back of Finn’s bloodied neck.

  “No!” I screamed with all my might. I stepped between the man and the beast, which was foolish, for Lord John was crazed. He only had eyes for the hound. Too late, I realized he would kill me in order to destroy the dog, if that’s what he had to do. “No!” I cried again, cowering now, in a useless attempt to save myself from the blow.

  “My Lord!” The Old Burned Man’s ragged voice ripped through the air, louder than I’d ever heard him. He tried to grab Lord John’s arms from behind.

  “I’ll have your head, man!” yelled Lord John. “The horrible beast attacked my son!”

  “Nay! He did not attack! Finn did not attack the babe!” Breathlessly, I pointed behind the bed. “Can you not see?” I ran to the bed and held the child up.

  The Old Burned Man did not let go of the lord. The two men struggled until finally, Lord John shifted his gaze from Finn to me and the babe.

  “Look!” the Old Burned Man said, forcing Lord John’s vision to the floor near the bed.

  There, bleeding on the cold stones, was a large black wolf.

  “What in…” the lord began, but did not finish as he realized what had happened. The hound had not attacked the child. The wolf had. He’d probably crept in through the open tower door, though he must have been sly indeed to get inside the castle walls in the first place. And Finn had protected the babe from the wolf. The fury faded from the lord’s eyes as his sword clattered to the ground.

  He ran to me, gathered the lad in his arms, and sank to the floor, weeping.

  Gradually at first, so stealthily that none of us noticed, the black wolf rose slowly, teeth bared, and emitted a low, demonic growl.

  We all froze. I glanced at the Old Burned Man, whose intense gaze willed me not to move, not even to breathe.

  Thomas skidded into the room. He ran past the lord and the bard, straight toward me, and unknowingly placed himself between Finn and the wolf.

  “Trinket! What in the world…?” Thomas gasped, bending down to the wounded dog. A snarl made him turn around.

  He stepped back, but it was too late.

  The wolf lunged at Thomas.

  I screamed.

  The wolf sank his claws into Thomas’s shoulder and pulled him roughly to the ground. Thomas cried out as he went down, but when his head slammed against the floor, he fell silent.

  Whether ’twas the shrieks of the quick battle or the unnatural quiet that followed that roused him, Finn, injured and bleeding though he was, sprang at the wolf. The wolf released his hold on Thomas and growled again, his dark eyes fairly screaming, I have nothing to lose now, hound. My life is forfeit. But I’ll not cross into death without taking a human child with me.

  But Finn, brave, strong Finn, could not be taken down. Their fight waged on, hound versus demon-wolf, creating a barrier between poor Thomas and myself.

  “Thomas!” I cried.

  But he did not answer. I could see naught but his still form on the ground, a puddle of red surrounding him.

  I tried to go to him, but the firm hands of the Old Burned Man held me back.

  “You can’t help him if the wolf takes you as well.”

  The wolf latched onto Finn’s throat, but in that instant, Lord John was there, still holding his babe in one arm and thrusting his sword into the wolf with the other.

  “Look away, my son,” Lord John cried. He held the whimpering boy close, shielding his eyes from the grisly scene.

  “Thomas!” I yelled, tears making it hard to see in front of me. I stumbled away from where Finn lay breathless beside the dead wolf.

  Thomas was still. So still. I put my head down to feel his breath on my cheek.

  So very faint. But there nonetheless. He lived.

  The useless nurse returned with her lady, both gasping from running up the stairs.

  “The babe!” cried the nurse, pointing to where Lord John stood with the child in his arms. Lord John’s lips moved, as if he were praying silently. The lady let out a strangled cry and then dashed across the room to her husband and their babe.

  “I’m so sorry, lass. I know he was your friend,” the nurse panted as she approached Thomas and me, wiping her nose on her sleeve. “A pity to lose one so young and strong. Died like a hero, he did, trying to save the lord’s son.”

  She reached for my arm.

  “Go away!” I screamed, using every bit of my voice. “He’s not dead.”

  But she was not to be stopped. “Mayhap not yet, but soon most likely. Wolf gashes are nasty and foul. Do ye not see all the blood on the floor?”

  I held firm to Thomas, lest she try to wrestle me away. I would not leave him, and I would not let him leave me.

  We had been through too much together.

  “If you be so certain he is going to pass, then you best get the priest,” said the Old Burned Man. The nurse nodded, then turned and ran back down the stairs, her footsteps and wheezing fading into nothing.

  I cradled Thomas’s body in my arms. He did not move.

  “Trinket.”

  The voice was even rougher than usual, and right against my ear.

  I did not answer.

  “The bargaining coin. I know you have one. I saw you rubbing it before you told your tales.” The Old Burned Man’s hand was gentle on my shoulder and he patted my hair as if he were soothing a horse.

  “Do ye have it still, the bargaining coin? The faerie gold?” he persisted.

  I sniffled against Thomas and nodded.

  “Place it on the floor, next to Thomas,” he whispered. “Quickly, there is little time.”

  I released Thomas and reached in my pocket for the warm coin. I looked over to where Lord John and his lady were still sobbing over their son, planting kisses on all his fingers and toes. They noticed nothing in the room but the babe. Finn was panting and bleeding. The sword stuck out of the wolf and glinted in the last bits of afternoon sun that streamed through the castle window.

  “Quickly, now,” the Old Burned Man said. “Place it next to Thomas.”

  And so I looked into the gray eyes of my father, which shone silver with unshed tears, and set the gold coin next to Thomas’s own head.

  In a blink, the coin glimmered and was gone.

  The blood vanished.

&nb
sp; And Thomas’s eyelids fluttered, just like they did in the mornings when he first awoke.

  “What happened?” Thomas asked, his voice raspy and tired sounding.

  Then he sat up. “The wolf! Finn!” he cried, and rushed over to where the hound lay suffering.

  Thomas was just as skilled with dogs as with swine. Finn let him examine his injuries and stroke his bloodied coat. “’Twill be all right, Sir Hound,” Thomas murmured. “Ye’ve done well today. Your sire would be proud.”

  He knew not the danger he’d just been in. He did not even know that I had bargained his life back with the use of the coin the Faerie Queen had given me. I watched him tend the hound, as tears of gratefulness trailed down my cheeks.

  When I turned around, I found the Old Burned Man staring at me.

  He blinked twice, then cleared his throat and said, “You are brave, Story Lass.”

  “The coin,” I said, “how did you know?”

  “I thought all bards knew the tale of the bargaining coin,” he said quietly.

  I should have thanked him. I should have thrown myself at his feet and thanked him a thousand times for saving Thomas.

  But I had no words.

  In a bluster of robes and legs, the priest and nurse bolted into the room.

  “Him!” the nurse cried, pointing to Thomas. Puzzlement filled her eyes as she took in the dead wolf, the injured dog, and the quite lively boy. “He—there was blood—and he—” she sputtered.

  The priest, still breathing heavily from the run up the stairway, walked over to Lord John and delivered a blessing to the babe, just as if that was the reason he’d come.

  Not to bless and comfort the dying at all.

  * * *

  I sighed. I did not want to talk with the Old Burned Man about the things between us. I wanted only to leave this room.

  Obviously, the Old Burned Man felt the same. He was no longer there.

  REMORSE

  That night, there was a large banquet in the great hall celebrating the hunt, the safety of Lord John’s son, and the bravery of Finn the Great.