The Seven Tales of Trinket

by Shelley Moore Thomas

  There were screams, naturally. And I am certain some of them were mine. I only knew that I had to get the woman and child out of the house before it was too late. I grabbed them to me, though my own cloak was ablaze, and somehow found a way out of the fiery cottage.

  He was silent for a long time, and his eyes filled with unshed tears.

  The next thing I knew, I was wrapped in bandages, feeling like I was still aflame. I could barely see and my skin was red, blistered, and painful, indeed.

  The woman and the girl with gray eyes had been saved from the fire. I had rescued them, though ’twas my own fault their cottage was burned by the vengeful Highwayman. Lesser folk would have turned me out, injured or not. But the woman was a healer. And so she practiced her remedies and potions upon my hideous burns.

  They looked after me, filling my dry mouth with cool water and restorative broth, keeping my bandages fresh and applying ointment as I would let them. ’Twas sore painful, to be true.

  My harp was destroyed in the blaze, as were my hopes of seeing you again.

  But time heals. If it does nothing else, time does that.

  Slowly, the anger I felt at being horribly disfigured, and their anger at me for causing the roof of their cottage to be torched, melted away as a cautious friendship grew. I told them about you, you know. They did not understand why I could not someday go back to you.

  But I could not.

  I left your mother and you a whole man. A handsome man. How was I to return, a shell of my former self?

  Thus, I stayed in the strange village, hidden from view, as the healing ointments and remedies gradually did their work. Until one day the girl woke afrightened in the night and asked me to tell her a nice tale to help her sleep.

  And so the stories came to me, again.

  I had no harp, but the woman carved me a flute and I told stories and played. Although my body would forever be scarred, my heart was healing.

  I no longer possessed the handsome looks of a young man, but instead a destroyed face and ruined white hair. So, I called myself the Old Burned Man and took to the road once more. My fame as a teller grew. Far more fame than I had ever known as my former self. Perhaps folks were intrigued by my scarred face and body. I know not, but with that fame, I gained courage.

  Mayhap enough courage to go back.

  RETURN

  The woman and child begged me not to return to you and your mother. True, once they had encouraged such a reunion, but we had grown fond of each other and they feared losing my company, and quite possibly my purse, for many a lord paid amply for my tales. My guilt would not allow me to keep much for myself, so the woman and child were well cared for. But I had to go back. I had to.

  And so I returned to that little cottage by the sea and watched from afar, too self-conscious to show my hideous face. I kept hidden behind my gray cloak and watched.

  Oh, your mother was so beautiful!

  Mairi-Blue-Eyes tended the sheep and sheared their wool. She carded the wool in the evening whilst sitting on a stool outside the cottage. The sunlight caught the gold in her hair as she smiled. And you, Trinket, you played at her feet, or danced. Or sang. Even then, you had a voice that carried on the wind, true and sure.

  As I watched, I felt a tear on my cheek. She no longer needed me. You no longer needed me.

  The Old Burned Man put up his hand. He did not wish to be interrupted.

  It had been more than three years since I’d seen either of you. Much of a year spent tale-telling, one year spent on the other side, and over a year spent healing from my wounds, for I even had to learn to walk again! And I realized that your lives had gone on during that time. Mayhap you would not even remember—

  Again the hand went up.

  * * *

  Whether it was the wrong decision or not, it was the one I made. I would not be a burden to your mother nor an embarrassment to my child. I had left the village a strapping, handsome man. James the Bard. Now I was so scarred and twisted, folks thought I was aged. And pitiful.

  I journeyed from then on. Village to castle. Castle to Gypsy camp. Gypsy camp to manor house, and all sorts of dwellings in between. The stories were my life now, even though I could not help myself from looking in on you, and you’d blush if you knew how I swelled with pride at how you grew. Tall, strong, and filled with such promise.

  I left things from time to time, on the back step, small bags of gold and such. Once I left a small silver mirror given to me by a princess who liked my tales. Mayhap you remember it?

  An ever-so-slight nod.

  Now the story becomes even more tragic, for a chance encounter with the Faerie Queen convinced me of my selfishness.

  “Do you really believe,” she said after listening to a story. (For the faerie folk are always around when there is a tale to be told. Watch for the way the light moves in the corners of the room, or the way the trees sway just so. That is them.) “Do you really believe that your wife and child only loved your looks? Are you foolish enough to think they would not care for you? The true you that lurks beneath the damage?”

  At least, I think she said these words to me. I’d fallen asleep after telling the tale, near a perfectly round mound, dotted with the most lovely flowers. I awoke after dreaming of you and your mother and hearing the Faerie Queen’s words. I knew then that I would return. However, I was struck ill, which happens often. My throat never healed well and I spend many weeks each year nursing myself through fever. By the time I went to visit you again, your mother had died and you were gone.

  If I live to be one hundred, I will never forgive myself for not taking the risk sooner that she would reject me, just to see her alive once more.

  * * *

  There was silence for a long time. What words could be left? At length, he cleared his throat and continued.

  Then I heard of a girl with a white harp, a Story Lass, traveling with a grubby boy, and I thought, Could it be her? Could it be Trinket?

  The words were but whispers.

  So I began to follow your trail, though illness and my scarred legs made me too slow to catch up to you, until you came to Castlelow.

  And now you know, daughter, what became of your father.

  Now you know.

  Most stories have only one ending, but at this moment, this particular story has two. Two possible endings.

  James the Bard stood, bowed slightly, and excused himself.

  THE FIRST ENDING

  I looked over to where the Old Burned Man was resting. He’d spilled his heart out, that much was true. Admitting to low feelings such as cowardice and vanity was most likely difficult. Cowardice, as he was not brave enough to return to my mother and me in time. Vanity, in assuming that we would reject him based upon his appearance.

  It had taken courage, yes, to confess these things.

  But perhaps it was a case of far too little, far too late.

  Did he not remember my mother had died? Could he have saved her from the illness had he been there?

  We would never know.

  Therein lay the poison. We would never know.

  It no longer bothered me to look at his scars, for they were as much a part of him as his eyes or his nose. No, it was not his physical appearance that bothered me. I could not look at him because he angered me still. Still.

  I would not look at him because that would mean forgiving him. Forgiving him for abandoning me.

  I motioned to Thomas to gather our things.

  “Why, Trinket, we just got—”

  I silenced him with a glare.

  I felt the Old Burned Man’s gaze and eventually returned it. I glanced at him with as little emotion as possible, then looked away, as if he were something insignificant, like an earthworm or a small beetle crawling among the dried grass.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw him nod in understanding.

  The Old Burned Man bent down and petted Thomas’s pup. Thomas clasped hands with the Old Burned Man, as grown men do, then walked
over to stand beside me.

  I turned in the direction of the road.

  I did not wave.

  I did not look back.

  THE SECOND ENDING

  The second ending, were I to choose it, would be more difficult.

  I let the silence settle around me, comforting like the cloak my mother had made for me. Thomas knew better than to disturb my thoughts, and the Old Burned Man, well, he was intelligent in the ways of people.

  The question was, could I forgive him?

  Could I?

  I knew in my heart it was the right thing to do. I knew I should.

  But could I?

  Would I always, when I looked upon his scars, feel my blood seethe beneath the surface? Would I blame him for the death of my mother? Not that he could have prevented her illness, but perhaps he could have been there. He could have been there for me.

  And I would not have been so alone.

  Is there anything worse than being alone?

  There was a time when I thought not. But now I was uncertain. I had managed fine with just myself and Thomas. Now we even had Pig. We had made our own family. And a person didn’t need much if they had someone as loyal as Thomas by their side.

  I did not need a father.

  But did I, perhaps, still want a father? Not an imaginary one who lived on pirate ships or lulled dragons to sleep. But a real father. A damaged, disfigured, and remorseful man who somehow still managed to touch my soul with his words and touch my heart with his own.

  I could not imagine what it cost him to tell me his tale.

  Perhaps, one day, I could tell him mine.

  * * *

  I readied my sack, but I did not leave.

  We had food aplenty that night. The Old Burned Man taught Thomas how to set a snare and he’d captured a fine rabbit, which they roasted on a stick over the fire. ’Twas tasty, and it is always easier to think when your belly isn’t growling. I watched the Old Burned Man eat carefully, out of the corner of my eye. He handed little bits of food to Pig and laughed as the pup stood on his hind legs, trying to get the morsels.

  “Look, he’s a dancer,” he said.

  And then he smiled.

  The Old Burned Man’s smile reached all the way to his eyes. Eyes that were silver gray, just like mine. And when he smiled, he didn’t look like a gruesome, scarred man.

  He looked like my father.

  James the Bard.

  In that instant, the tiniest sliver of memory came to me and I saw him kissing my mother goodbye. I felt him pat me on the head.

  He could feel that I was staring at him and he turned toward me.

  “Where is it you’ll be traveling to, then, Trinket?” he asked quietly.

  “I do not know, I’ll have to look at the old map—”

  His eyes grew wide and he interrupted me.

  “The map? You have my map?”

  “Aye,” I said. “You left it.” I took the leather canister from my bag and placed it in his hands.

  “I always wondered where it was. Thought I’d lost it along the road somewhere. And here you had it.” He unrolled the map with care and pointed to a place east of Castlelow. “We are here.” He paused for a moment, then added, “The question is: Where next?”

  There was something in his voice that just might have been hope.

  “I am not yet certain,” I said, making up my mind at last. “I have many more stories to learn … Father.”

  THE SEVENTH SONG

  Of Baubles and Trinkets

  My father’s lullaby

  A chest of gold,

  For thee, my sweet,

  A chest of jewels

  To lay at thy feet.

  For no other lass

  In all the land

  Can tame the world

  With but her hand.

  Thy eyes like drops

  Of crystal rain,

  I know thy heart

  But not thy name.

  So take my gifts,

  But darling dear,

  And come with me,

  There’s naught to fear.

  And I shall give thee,

  My one true love,

  The blessings of

  The morning dove.

  And in return,

  For days long gone,

  The nightingale

  Will sing her song.

  There is no trinket,

  Bauble, nor pearl

  Can match the grace

  Of thee, sweet girl.

  AND SO …

  Seasons change.

  So must we.

  That which we hold on to so tightly eventually withers in our hands, and it is time to let go.

  Time to let the winds carry the pieces away. For mayhap the small pieces are seeds. Seeds that will find a new, fertile ground somewhere to take root and sprout.

  I took the small handful of seeds I had been clutching and cast them to the winds. Some took to the air; some fell in the nearby grass.

  And one fell by my foot.

  Only to be spirited away by a small bluebird.

  * * *

  “Do not judge by appearances,” my mother had told me on the mountain overlooking Crossmaglin, “for something pure and good may reside under old, crabbed wrapping.”

  And so I was learning to see past the scars and sadness of my father and into his mending heart.

  “Forgive.” Her words drifted around me as she became a part of the evening sky.

  And so I would learn to.

  * * *

  “Come now, Trinket,” said Thomas.

  “Aye,” said my father. “Your harp is itching to be played again, and I know of a village not too far, just o’er the hills. They are soon to celebrate the marriage of their lord to a mysterious lass. Some say she’s a Gypsy.”

  “Aye,” I said, repeating it in just the way my father had said it. “’Tis time.”

  * * *

  It took us three days to travel to the wedding of Feather and Lothar. Three days of getting used to a different rhythm on our journeys, for there were three of us now, instead of two, although Thomas would claim there were four. He counted Pig as a person.

  Banners of crimson and gold were displayed up and down the narrow streets of Foresthill. This marriage was more a festival than a solemn ceremony.

  And when I finally got to see Feather, she looked truly happy.

  “Little Trinket, you have grown much,” she said, taking me by the hands and twirling me around.

  I stepped back. She was right. I had grown. No longer was I timid Trinket, the girl who searched for a father. Now I was Trinket the Story Lass. I had learned from a Gypsy girl to follow the calling in my blood and make my own future. I had been to the isle of the seal people and earned my harp. I had followed a young banshee to hear words from my dead mother. I had played music for the Faerie Queen and won a reward. I had traveled through the wall between the living and the dead with the help of a pooka. I had saved the lives of a loyal hound and my best friend.

  And I had found my father.

  “Trinket, will you play your harp for the wedding and tell us a tale?” Feather asked me. I looked at my father, and he nodded.

  So I sat and strummed my harp. The notes rose up from my heart, out through the air, and into the coolness of the evening as a smile played upon Feather’s lips.

  I smiled back and cleared my throat, for now I did indeed have a tale or two for her.

  For that is what I do.

  That is who I am:

  Trinket the Story Lass.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I drew heavily from Celtic folklore (Irish, Scottish, and Welsh) when creating Trinket’s stories, attempting to weave in bits of magic from the tales I heard as a child, researched as a grownup, and told to audiences myself as a professional storyteller. A good seanachai (Gaelic for storyteller) always flavors a story upon the retelling with a bit of her own soul.

  The Gypsies and the Seer. Often I have wondered about seeing
into the future. If I could, would I want to know what my future held? Those born with “the sight” appear often in folklore, and in ancient times, many a king had his own personal fortune-teller. The seventh daughter of a seventh daughter (or the seventh son of a seventh son) is said to be gifted with “the sight” in many cultures.

  The Harp of Bone and Hair. Harps made from bones and hair have appeared in folktales all over the world. More often than not, the bones used are human. However, there is an old tale of a babe stolen by faeries and a mother who bargains with a harp made from a sea creature’s bones, which is the basis for this story. Famed storyteller Sorche Nic Leodhas collected a version of this tale, called “The Stolen Bairn and the Sidhe.” Of course, because of my fascination with seals, selkies found their way into the mix in my version. Selkies, the seal people, are common in Irish and Scottish folklore, and are often called roans or silkies.

  The Wee Banshee of Crossmaglin. When I first researched banshees (back when I was about Trinket’s age), I remember wondering if they were always ladies, or if there were ever child banshees. I could find no evidence of banshee children, but then, maybe those who know did not survive to tell the tale. I named my village Crossmaglin, which is similar to the real village of Crossmaglen in Ireland, because I love how that name sounds. However, my imaginary village with its Banshee’s Tower bears no resemblance to the real town of Crossmaglen.

  The Faerie Queen and the Gold Coin. I knew a former Irish priest who, when my daughters were first learning Irish dance, claimed that the best Irish dancers could complete their steps on the face of a penny, or so his old aunt had told him. I later learned that in truth, dancers would often pound large horse nails into the bottoms of their shoes to create sound when they danced, or even the occasional coin. Perhaps Orla was the first. As for the faerie folk, they have always been known as fine dancers and dangerous competitors. Irish poet and playwright W. B. Yeats collected many stories about the faeries.