The Seven Tales of Trinket (10 page)

*   *   *

Being only thrice kicked by the goats, I was assured by Thomas, was a good thing. Truly it could have been worse. But perhaps Thomas was right and it was a bad idea to come here. Leaving the ill-tempered goats behind would be a relief.

“Excuse me,” I said, handing the pail of fresh goat milk to Mister Quinn, who was squatting by an old wagon, repairing a wheel. “Here it is.” He looked at the pail disapprovingly. He must have expected more milk; however, not a sound escaped his lips.

Thomas was still mucking out pens, so I went to the village square to offer myself as a chore girl. I listened carefully as I walked through the town for the sounds of conversation. Surely people would be talking about the horrible storm. And if I could gather a tale while I worked and paid for the hinge, well, that would be grand. Asking a question or two about a bard named James was also in my plans. What a busy day I had before me! The public house loomed ahead, bustling with business. I entered slowly and quietly. All speaking stopped.

“Good morrow.” I bobbed a curtsy to the pub mistress, whose head popped up as I entered. In the light of day, I could see that her white hair was kissed with a touch of old fire. Some curls escaped from her bun and tickled her cheeks, which were plump and wrinkled. “I am Trinket, do you remember me from the meal last evening? This morning I milked the goats for Mister Quinn.”

She nodded briskly, but said nothing.

“I thought perhaps you might need help? I could wipe tables.”

She looked me up and down, then handed me a broom. I began to sweep as she said, “I can give ye a meal, but not coin, if that’s what yer after.” Though I was disappointed, I continued sweeping. Perhaps if I swept well enough, I could earn a meal for both Thomas and me.

“I am surprised to see all the roofs still on the buildings, what with that horrible windstorm last night.”

The woman glanced at me as if hoping I would just be quiet. Most likely she had bread to bake or vegetables to stew. Then she sighed and asked, “What storm?”

“The one last night, the one that near blew the door off the barn. The storm that shrieked so loud it sent chills through my very soul.” The woman cocked her head to the side, looking at me as if I had claimed I’d seen a fox flying through the air wearing a king’s crown.

“Last night, you say?”

“Yes, Thomas the Pig Boy and I barely got out of the barn alive.”

Both eyebrows rose.

“Well, perhaps I exaggerated. But the goats began kicking and the barn door knocked into Thomas’s knee and scratched my face.” I pointed to my scrape. “When we left the barn for the safety of the open path, the wind bowled us over. And the sound…” I felt like I was explaining something to a child who had never even heard of wind, or perhaps to a person who did not speak my language.

“What did it sound like?” she asked, trying not to appear too interested. But I could tell she was, for her cheeks were flushed. And her eyes no longer showed boredom. ’Tis something a storyteller learns to look for.

“Like screaming. Or maybe shrieking. I could not tell really.” I laughed nervously. “But it was horrible.”

She turned brusquely away. “Quite a story, lass. But I heard not a thing.”

I did not know why she would lie, but I did not believe her.

“It was not a story, but the truth,” I said. But if she did not want to talk about the storm, there were other questions I could ask. “But I do like stories, you see,” I said, sweeping the floor in front of her to keep her attention. “I am collecting them to tell. My father was a teller. James the Bard was his name. Perhaps he came here once?”

“Might have,” she replied. “Might have come years ago. But I’d remember if he were one of the good ones. Bald Fergal, now he tells a good tale. Plays the bodhran well, too. Does your da tap the wee drum like Bald Fergal?”

“I don’t think so. I think he played the harp,” I said.

I worked for a while, making certain to get every crumb and bit of dust. “A most amazing tower that is, at the top of yon hill,” I said as I finished sweeping under the last table.

“I would not be so curious, if I were you, to find out about the Banshee’s Tower. There have been those who have ventured there and never returned,” the woman whispered.

“If it is so fearsome, then why do you not move your village to a place more pleasing than the shadow of the Banshee’s Tower?” I asked.

The pub mistress threw her head back and laughed. The white curls that dangled in front of each of her ears swung merrily. “Move a village? Indeed! You are not as smart as you look, child. Folks just cannot up and move a town, you know. And besides, the land here is good for grazing and the crops grow bountifully.” Then, suddenly serious, she leaned down and whispered to me, “We have learned how to live in the shadow of the tower. We ask no questions, we tell no tales.” Moving her mouth even closer to my ear, she urged, “Do not go there, child. You might not find your way back. ’Tis foolish to go to the Banshee’s Tower.”

*   *   *

When I returned to the barn with bread and cheese to share with Thomas, I mentioned my strange conversation with the pub mistress.

“Same thing happened when I asked the neighbor boy about the storm last night. Claimed I must’ve imagined it. But he didn’t say anything about the old tower,” Thomas said with his mouth full of bread.

“We didn’t imagine it, though, did we?”

Thomas shook his head. “I’ll never forget how that sound rattled through my bones, like it could have pulled them apart if it wanted to.”

“Thomas, you talk about the wind like it was a person or a monster or something,” I teased.

He did not laugh, nor would he return my gaze. I knew he thought it was a banshee, but if he wasn’t going to say so, then neither was I.

*   *   *

We slept little that night due to the howling winds and the agitation of the barn animals. Thomas’s face held a cranky scowl, so I left quickly in the morning to do my chores. After milking the goats, I returned to the public house. I would sweep, scrub, wipe, wash, or do whatever was required to learn the story of the tower.

The pub mistress sighed when I asked for the third time. “Fine, I’ll tell you the tale, if you’ve the stomach for it.”

We sat at a table in the kitchen, our heads close together. The pub mistress began, “Once, the tower was the stronghold of a clan of banshees that watched over Crossmaglin. Perhaps
watched over
is not the right way to say it, but in the tower above the town, the banshees dwelt, shrieking and crying when death was coming to one of the folks in the village, for banshees call a wailing wind when death is near.”

I nodded, encouraging her to go on.

“There was once a young banshee who was so full of trouble and mischief that she was cast out of the banshee clan,” she continued. “They say she grew bored with hair combing and clothes washing, which is what the banshees do when death is far away. Whatever the reason, the wee banshee started wailing in the wind for no purpose at all, except to annoy the folks of the town and the other banshees. Every night, the wee banshee wailed and moaned until the other banshees got so tired of it, they disappeared into the mist, not telling the wee thing where they were going.”

My heart went out to the little banshee, just a bit. I knew what it felt like to be abandoned.

“But did that stop the banshee? No. She kept on hollering, shrieking, and creating terrible winds. At first, the villagers tried to stop her. A few brave men went up to the tower at night, but they were cocky, thinking how easy it would be to dispatch a wee banshee. They did not bring the proper protection.” The pub mistress tapped the small dish of salt on the table. “The wee banshee must have led them to their doom, for they never returned.”

I gasped.

“One of those men was my grandfather. I was but a girl at the time. I remember traipsing up the hill the very next day searching for him.” The pub mistress was silent for a moment, then dabbed at her eye with the end of her apron and continued. “Oh, the hill that day was so lovely, the grass so green, and the tower itself so white against the blue sky. But not a trace of my grandfather or the other men did we find. Since then, no one in the town pays attention to the wails of the wee banshee. No one is brave enough, nor foolish enough, to try to banish her away. We mind our business and she minds her own.”

TRIP TO THE TOWER

“’Tis a bad place, Trinket. We should leave. I care not for that stupid door. We did not even break it. The wind did,” Thomas said the next morning as he moved an old wagon back to the other side of the barn. He had placed it between the goats and us each evening since the first. Though there were not many goats in the barn, they kicked at us, bleated, and tried to chew our fingers whenever the wind blew wildly, which was turning out to be every night. And then there was the smell. Even though the wagon did nothing to block the odor, it did keep the goats away. And the farther away the goats were, the less it stank.

The morning air held its chill as Thomas and I picked bits of straw from our clothes. Purplish circles resided under his eyes and probably mine as well. Neither of us had slept much, but for moments between gusts, wails, and the bleating of the goats. Thomas must be truly terrified to want to leave a place where the food was so plentiful and tasty. I, too, was frightened. But we had a door to repair, and there was the fact that I had hoped to find a story in this strange little town underneath an ancient tower. The pub mistress had told me some of it, but I knew there had to be more. How far was I willing to go to capture my tale?

Mister Quinn was waiting as we left the barn. He examined the door hinges again, though we all knew they were still broken. “’Tis your fault,” he said, pointing at us. “The wind’s been a-wailing more than ever since the two of you came to Crossmaglin.”

“I thought you did not notice the wind,” I said.

Mister Quinn’s right eye twitched. “Either go up to the tower and have her done with you, or hurry and earn the price of the hinges before she blows the whole barn down.”

“She? Who is she?” I asked, but he stormed away and disappeared into his house, slamming the door behind him.

I had a fair idea who
she
was: the wee banshee.

“Told you so,” Thomas muttered.

I milked the goats whilst Thomas tended the other animals. When I was kicked for the second time, I gave up and felt in my pocket for the few copper coins I’d been given by Feather. It would have to be enough.

“You win, Thomas. We’ll leave. But before we go, would you come and explore the ruins with me? I should like to go up this afternoon and have a look around. Nobody will answer my questions about it except for the pub mistress.”

“And what did she say?”

“Just small specks of a story. You probably wouldn’t believe it,” I said, hoping that would be enough to make him curious.

“Try me.”

“She said that once there was a young banshee who was so full of trouble and mischief that she was cast out from the banshee clan.”

“Banshees! Did I not tell you?” he interrupted.

I threw a handful of straw at him.

Thomas pulled a pretend key from his pocket and proceeded to lock his lips.

I told him all that I knew. Thomas’s eyes got wide, the way a person’s eyes get when they want to hear more. His mouth was no longer shut tight, but gaped.

“The pub mistress didn’t say much more,” I said. Thomas’s face dropped in disappointment. A breeze came by at that exact moment and ruffled the hairs on our heads.

“The wee banshee is there still, or so the pub mistress says.”

Outlandish
was the word my mother would use about a tale such as this. And she would have laughed and said that scary things like banshees didn’t exist. But Thomas was more fanciful.

“Do you suppose
she
makes the wind every night?” he asked.

I shrugged, for I did not even
think
I believed in banshees. But had I not met a seer? Had I not met seals who could change into people?

“Will you come with me?” I asked.

Thomas paused. I could see his indecision flopping around in his mind, like a fish on land. I let him take his time, for I would not force him if he was too frightened.

I did not have to wait long before he nodded.

He would come.

*   *   *

We climbed the hill in the early afternoon. When we began, it appeared we would reach the tower quickly. However, the hill and the old ruin were both massive. We walked up the trail for an eternity until we finally came to the peak of the hill and the tower itself.

Like a giant from a lad’s tale, the tower loomed over us. Thomas’s excitement grew. Thoughts of banshees must have flown out of his mind.

“Look, Trinket, its tip touches the very clouds! How did folks build such a tower? How many years do you suppose it took? More than a hundred, I think.”

But I was not looking up at the clouds. I was watching the sun, which was beginning its descent. We would have only a little while here before it became dark. I dreaded the walk back down the hill in the blackness of the night. We had not thought to bring a torch.

“Thomas?” I called, for I could no longer see him. “Thomas!” I shouted, my voice echoing against the silence of the hill.

No birds sang. The air was still. I could hear my own breathing and my pounding heart, but that was all.

“Thomaaaaaassss!” I yelled, from the very bottoms of my feet.

“Trinket! Up here!” There was Thomas, hanging halfway out a window and waving wildly.

“There are stairs!” he called, as if I would not be able to determine how he got up there.

I entered the tower and easily found the stairs, which looked horribly unstable but felt strong and sturdy as I stepped. Up and up again. The stairs wound around the edges of the tower, creating a spiral that made my head spin. I had never before feared heights, but I had no desire to climb all the way up.

“Thomas! ’Twill be dark soon!”

“I’ve almost made it to the top!”

“If we don’t leave now, we will miss our dinner!” Again, Thomas’s stomach would probably be my greatest ally.