The Seven Tales of Trinket (16 page)

“Mayhap … but I do not think…” My thoughts stopped as the sun finally burst over the horizon, so bright it made the insides of my eyelids turn red when I blinked.

“We’d best start looking for the village. Who knows how many days away it is,” he said. I nodded, remembering that since my father’s map was in my bag, the robber had that as well. I hoped we’d find a town soon.

Thomas led us to the top of the hill where, in the distance, we saw a most unusual sight.

The village of Agadhoe.

’Twas not there the night before, but now stood plain as day. Small thatched cottages sat clustered and golden in the morning light.

So confused we were, I did not even have time to cry about my harp or the map, not that there were many tears left.

We saw no people as we walked down the hill and into the town, which was unusual. In most places, many of the folks rise with the sun or before. There is always more work to do than there is daylight to do it in. But the streets were more silent than the inside of an egg before it hatches.

We went from house to house, knocking on doors, but nobody ever answered. How utterly bizarre for a village to be completely deserted. Slowly and carefully, lest the highwayman be lurking, we continued on through the town. We saw not a soul.

At the far end there was a graveyard. Most villages that have a church also have a graveyard somewhere close by so that those who die can rest in holy ground. Near the gate to the graveyard was a small cottage with a sign on the door that read: Gravedigger.

I’d never met a gravedigger before.

I moved my hand to knock on the weathered door.

“What are ye doing?” Thomas grabbed my wrist.

“Knocking on the door, perchance it looks like something else?” We’d tried every other cottage in town without any luck. And this was the last in the village. Why not give it a knock?

Before Thomas could tell me why we should not knock on this door, it creaked open and an old man stood there, no taller than myself.

His head resembled a round, mossy stone, and he had a twitch in one eye. He looked us up and down. “Aye, ye’ll do,” he said. “Come on.” And he grabbed the shovel that was leaning next to the door and motioned for Thomas and me to follow.

Thomas shook his head most emphatically. I grabbed his arm and yanked him along. I wanted to see what would happen. Would we be digging graves? I wondered.

“Excuse me, sir,” I asked, struggling to keep up. For an old man, he was quite spry. “But if I may ask, where is everyone in the town?”

He stopped short and looked at us with his twitchy eye. Then he croaked, “Who wants to know?”

“I am Trinket,” I said. “This is Thomas. We have traveled many days to find your village. We were set upon by a robber last night and have neither food nor money.”

At the word
robber
, the eyebrow above the twitchy eye raised. The gravedigger looked around to the right, then the left, and asked me to describe the thief.

“Tall, on a horse bigger than a house. He wore a cape and…” Thomas had finally decided to enter the conversation. Unfortunately, we both realized that it had been too dark for any further description.

“But his eyes,” I remembered. “When I looked him in the eye, it nearly froze my blood and bones.”

“Humph,” said the gravedigger. Then he turned and continued down the path through the headstones.

“Sir,” I persisted, following. “We will gladly work in exchange for food.”

“Will ye, then?” he asked, stopping in an open spot and handing the shovel to Thomas. “Dig then, boy. You, girl, you can clear the large rocks out of the way. It makes the digging go faster if the large rocks are gone.”

He turned to leave us there to dig what could only be a grave. I tried once more. “Sir, where is everyone in the town of Agadhoe?”

“Do ye not know the day, girl? ’Tis Samhain. They’ll be a-hiding in their houses, too afraid to walk the streets, too afraid to light a lamp, until the dead rest again. Tomorrow, most likely, or the next day.”

Samhain. I’d heard of it, of course. The night when the dead visit the living. That was why there were no lights in the town below so it appeared as if there was no town at all. The townsfolk wanted to hide. They feared the return of their dead.

I wondered for a moment if
all
those who have passed return on Samhain, though I held little hope for seeing my mother again. Lucky I’d been able to receive her message in Crossmaglin. Had she more to tell me, she would have done so then.

She would not call upon me tonight.

Nay, if the entire town were concealing themselves, the spirits who walked tonight would not likely be gentle mothers paying loving visits to their children.

DIGGING

After the man went back to the cottage, Thomas threw the shovel on the ground. “I am not digging a stinking grave.”

“What are we going to do then? I cannot believe you are not hungry.” I did not want to dig a grave either, but we simply had to eat.

“I think the old man knows something about the robber,” I continued. “Mayhap he will tell us what he knows if we ask him during the meal.”

Thomas glared at me. “You’re just trying to find another story, are ye not?”

“Aye, I suppose I shall need even more now that my harp is gone.”

Perhaps it was cruel to use the loss of my harp to get my way. But it worked. Thomas began to dig.

And truly, what choice did we have?

*   *   *

Digging a grave is hard work. Morbid, too. It made me think about death. I didn’t like to think about … about people I loved being buried in the ground. Better to think of my mother flying like a beautiful bluebird, across the sun, looking down at me from time to time. The grave made me think about my father, too.
Was he dead? Or was he still out there, somewhere?

My search had still turned up no clues as to why he disappeared. And I knew he must have existed, because I existed. But there were few along the way who remembered him. I wondered if I would ever find an answer. However, I did not regret this quest. It had led me on many an adventure and given me my own set of stories.

Sometimes, when you search for one thing, you find something else.

I said a silent prayer for James the Bard, wherever he was.

We were starved when we finished digging what we thought was a respectable grave. It was past midday and the sun was getting lower, so we ran to the little cottage by the gate. A mess met us inside, with brown leaves and broken branches strewn about. Obviously, the gravedigger was not the tidiest housekeeper. Had I not known better, I would have thought the only inhabitants of the cottage of late had been mice and squirrels.

Nonetheless, the old man’s stew smelled wonderful. A rich, brown broth with bits of turnip, parsnip, mutton, and the tiniest onions ever glistened in our bowls. And there were slices of apples and pears, warmed by the fire. I could not stop eating the sweet, tart wedges. I wanted to ask the gravedigger about the robber, but my mouth was too full, so the only sound during the meal was the slurping of stew and the clinking of spoons against the pottery.

“Thank you, sir,” I said at last, mopping the remains of the stew with a crust of bread. “’Twas the best meal we have had in many days.”

He nodded, and then looked at Thomas with a wink. “I expect you’ll be needing all your strength tonight,” he said as he ladled another helping in each of our bowls.

Thomas stopped chewing and looked at the man. His mouth was too full of apple to blurt out his question, so I helped him.

“What do you mean, exactly?”

The man sat back in his chair and lit his pipe from the fire. He did not even have to reach far, for the small table was next to the hearth.

“If ye are wanting to catch the Highwayman, it has to be tonight, else you’ll never get your things back from him.”

THE POOKA

Thomas choked on his apple. I patted him on the back and handed him some cider. Neither of us had considered chasing after the outlaw.

“Here’s what ye do,” continued the old man, leaning toward us. “Ye’ve already dug the grave to trick the pooka. Once you’ve caught the pooka, he’ll owe ye a favor. And pookas keep their word, they do. Ye’ll ride the pooka out past the wall between the living and the other side and steal your wealth back from the Highwayman. Simple as pie.” He chuckled to himself.

Thomas was the first to respond. He laughed out loud. “I must tell you, old man, I didn’t understand a word of what you just said. Not one word!”

However, I did understand. I had heard of the pooka, the enormous spirit horse that can speak to humans. There are tales of pookas carrying unsuspecting riders away, never to be seen again. My mother once tried to tell me one such tale (that she learned from my father), but I was too scared and I begged her not to finish. But I remembered that pookas, in addition to being large and terrifying, were surprisingly civil. They were also most easily bent to the will of humans on Samhain. There was, however, something in the gravedigger’s instructions that did not make much sense … unless …

“Sir, the fact that we must cross the wall between the living and the other, does that mean that the outlaw is
dead
?”

“Nay. It means the Highwayman who robbed you was a ghostie.”

Finally, Thomas stopped laughing.

Food remained in our bowls, but neither Thomas nor I had the stomach to eat it. The meal was finished.

*   *   *

“’Tis too dangerous,” I said to Thomas that night as we walked back to the grave, remembering how close I’d come to following the banshee to the other side. The other side, I was convinced, did not play fair. “Perhaps if we wait…”

“Nay, it has to be tonight, or the wall will be too thick to pass through for another year.” Thomas paused, then pressed on. “Do you not want your harp back?”

Of course I wanted my harp back. But if I had to choose between a harp and a pig boy … well, I would choose Thomas.

“You were the one who promised adventure would befall us if I agreed to accompany you on your quest for stories.”

He had a point. But still, this was far too dangerous.

“Look, Trinket, you know the stories about Samhain. You’ve heard them since you were a babe, same as me. And if we get the help of a pooka—”

“
If
we find one,” I interrupted.

“As I was saying, if we get the help of a pooka, I should be able to ride in and ride back out.” He threw a crust of bread down in the grave, as the old gravedigger had instructed. I’d never seen Thomas so excited about anything.

“You’ve grown braver, I think, Thomas.”

He paused, then looked me in the eye and said simply, “I had a good teacher.”

The wind began to rise. We threw more and more crusts of bread down into the hole. ’Twas tradition to leave a feast for the pooka in the graveyard on Samhain, else ill luck was to follow for the year. At least that was what the old gravedigger told us. But when we searched again for the gravedigger, hoping he’d help us put together a feast, we could not find him. Perhaps he, too, feared the night of Samhain, like the other residents of Agadhoe, and was hidden inside one of the lifeless little cottages. Thus, our pitiful feast was leftover bread and apple slices.

We hoped it would be enough.

We heard a sound carried on the wind. Perhaps it was a large horse blowing gusts of air from his nostrils. We could not tell, however, if it was the pooka we were expecting, or the Highwayman atop his stallion, so we hid behind the nearest gravestone.

“Weeeeeeellll, what have we here?” said a surprisingly pleasant voice. “Crusts of bread? What kind of a feast for a pooka is that?” The voice changed from kind to perturbed.

’Twas not the outlaw, of course. ’Twas the pooka.

I chanced a peek. Deep gray, he was, with a mane the color of midnight and a tail to match. Quite handsome, but comical in the way his mouth moved when he spoke.

“And, putting the crusts down a hole? What way is that for folks to tell ye how much they appreciate ye? No way at all, I tell ye,” he muttered, shaking his head back and forth.

“Mebbe something else is under the bread. Can’t really tell from up here…” He leaned over the grave.

Before I could blink, Thomas jumped up and pushed the pooka from behind.

The horse wriggled and waggled and tried to keep his balance, but fell, as we had planned, into the grave.

“Och, now, why’d ye have to go and do a thing like that?” he whined.

Thomas and I peered down over the edge. The pooka sat with his legs crossed, nibbling on a crust.

“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.