The Seven Tales of Trinket (18 page)

HERE LIE THE BONES

OF OLD MACGREGOR

OF ALL HE WAS

THE BEST GRAVEDIGGER

That night, miles away, I felt for the bargaining coin deep inside the pocket of my britches. ’Twas warm from being so near my skin and I rubbed it twice for courage. Was I finally brave enough to speak aloud the thoughts that had crowded my head all day?

“Thomas,” I said carefully, “what if that outlaw, what if he really
was
my father?” I swallowed, trying to sound like I didn’t care as much as I did.

“What if he was?” asked Thomas. “Doesn’t make you any different, does it? You’re still Trinket no matter what.”

I wanted to bury the bard’s map in the dirt, for I’d follow its trail no longer. What if it had been drawn by the evil hand of the Highwayman? But Thomas would not let me.

“A map’s a map, Trinket. We can still use it even if you don’t like who made it.”

Wise, wise Thomas.

“Still Trinket no matter what.”
I said those words over and over to myself for the rest of that night.

And many nights to follow.

If James the Bard was really James the Ghostly Highwayman, then I wanted no part of him. And if he was not, sadly I was no closer to finding him. Though some folks remembered my father, no one had seen him for years. He was as good as dead.

Perhaps some truths are never meant to be uncovered.

THE FIFTH SONG

The Dangers of the Road

To tell the truth, this is not my favorite song, and I cannot play it without getting a chill upon the back of my neck. However, it is the duty of the teller to warn the unsuspecting traveler, I think.

Go not, thou unsuspecting lad,

Oft through the blackened night,

For in the mists

And tree-claw limbs

There lurks a fearsome sight.

Hooves of fire,

Flanks of coal,

Only a moment

To forfeit thy soul.

And there, behind the callous swirls

Of danger and despair,

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, and 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.”