The Seven Tales of Trinket (6 page)

“Would you sing songs, too? A good bard always has songs, you know.”

“Yes. I suppose I could write a song or two.” Already words and rhymes danced in my head, joined by fleeting melodies.

As I thought more about becoming a bard, I remembered that my mother had always encouraged my tales. She’d laugh and tell me I was like him. Like my father.

Those were, however, babes’ stories. Not what I sought at all. Now I quested for words that would sing in the hearts of those who heard them. Tales that were made of dreams. And I would need seven. Then I could stay in one place for a whole week and tell a new tale each night.

“What would you like to do then, Thomas? What do you think your path is?” The longer we talked about things other than his hunger, the better.

“I dunno. I’ve given some thought to it, though. Sometimes I feel it in my bones to be a healer.”

I gave him a look.
Thomas the Pig Boy a healer?
Now
that
would be a story.

“Oh, not for people. For animals, mayhap. Do they have those, do you think, animal healers?”

“I suppose they might.”

Looking up from where he’d been kicking a pebble down the road, Thomas groaned. “This is really a wreck of a town. But maybe we can find a meal here. Or a bed. Or both.” I had not the heart to force him on. So we stopped at a rather dilapidated house, the closest one to the road.

The owner, Mister Fergus, surprised us with his kindness, offering us chowder and warm pallets for our rest.

“You are a wiry lad, but perhaps you have strength in your bones?” said Mister Fergus. He was strong and weathered, with a roundish nose that sat atop a gray moustache. Thomas looked from side to side, then, realizing Mister Fergus was talking to him, puffed himself up a bit. “We can use a lad like ye to help us rethatch the cottages.” Thomas nodded over his fish stew. He was not a lazy lad, most days anyway, and if the work meant food in our bellies, he was more than willing.

“I am not as strong as Thomas, but I can help, too,” I offered, glad I was wearing my britches.

Mister Fergus looked me over. “Have ye an ear for a tale, lass?”

I nodded.
An ear for a tale? ’Tis what my ears were meant for!

“There is a lady who lost her husband to a storm a month ago, and just the other night lost her babe, too. Nigh on crazy she is, insisting the babe is still alive. We searched and searched, but the Mistress of the Sea must have claimed him.”

I could feel tears welling in the back of my eyes. I, too, had lost loved ones. Mayhap I did not want to do this task, whatever it might be.

“She’s in need of a lass who will listen to her, dry her tears, and pat her shoulders, so the rest of us can get the work done. She’s done naught but stagger from one to the next of us, begging us to listen to her story. Begging us to keep looking for the babe.” His voice trailed off and he sighed. “In the morn, I’ll take you to her. Best you rest well now.” He motioned to the pallets he’d arranged by the hearth. “You’ll be warm enough there, I think.” Mister Fergus did not wait for me to say yes. And Thomas was asleep before I could even talk with him about it. So I laid my head on the straw and closed my eyes, but no slumber came. Thoughts of mothers without their children and children without their mothers drifted through my wakeful brain.

THE MOTHER’S TALE

The sun had just peeked over the hill when Mister Fergus took me to the cottage closest to the sea.

’Twas obviously the first house to be repaired, for on its roof was fresh, new thatch. The people of Conelmara must care for this woman a great deal.

“Catriona, there’s someone here to see you,” Mister Fergus called, and with that, he shoved me inside the house, closing the door behind me.

I expected her home to be a mess, for what care would a grieving woman have for neatness and order? But it was not. Everything was tidy. Linens were folded, chairs pushed into a small table, floor swept. “Hello,” I called. “Mistress Catriona?”

She appeared in the doorway of what must have been the bedchamber. Her long hair was brushed and the green dress she wore was clean and unwrinkled. She might have been beautiful, but for the swollenness of her eyes and the purple circles underneath. She looked as if she’d shed every tear she was capable of shedding. Before she could ask, I blurted out, “I am Trinket. I am the daughter of James the Bard. I am searching for him but I’ve not found him. I’ve come to gather stories as well.” Well, that did not sound very compassionate at all. “Mister Fergus told me about your baby, and your husband, too. I am very sorry.” My voice faltered on the word
baby
. It was horrible to lose a parent, as well I knew, but it was dreadful to think of a baby dying. “My own mother departed this life not long ago…”

“Thank you,” she said, her voice deep and soft. “I was sorry to lose my husband. The Mistress of the Sea was greedy. ’Twas not only
my
man that she took. Many lost their lives that day.”

I had no other words, so I said again, “I am sorry.”

“However, she did not take my child.” Her voice was fierce. “Well, perhaps I misspoke. She may indeed have taken the babe … but he is still alive.”

I waited. This was the story I’d come to hear.

“We were out on the boat, the babe and I, catching fish for our supper. The Sea Mistress had drowned my husband not a month before, so we had to provide for ourselves. Certainly, the good people of Conelmara offered to feed us, but I am strong enough. I’ll not survive on charity. We were returning to shore when the greedy Mistress reached in with her great wave-fingers and carried my wee babe away. I saw her bounce him up on top of the foam, not drag him down to her depths as she did my man. I cried out, cursing her, begging her to return my child. That’s when she sent the storm that demolished the village.”

I did not speak. What could I say? Everyone knows that the sea does not return what she takes. ’Tis not possible.

“And you, Trinket
the Bard’s Daughter
, you have come here to help me find him.” Her face changed instantly from anguished to hopeful. She grasped me by my shoulders and shook me with crazed joy. “I know that is why God sent you!”

“Mister Fergus sent me.”

Mistress Catriona just smiled at me. “He is not dead, my babe. I would feel it if it were so.”

She rose and placed small cups of tea in front of us, hot and steaming, and a plate of oatcakes. But I was not hungry.

“Sometimes, the Mistress of the Sea will give a young human babe to a grief-stricken selkie mum whose own babe has died,” she said. “That is an ancient agreement between the Mistress and the seal people.”

“Seal people?” I asked.

“I thought you were the daughter of a storyteller. Did your father teach you nothing?”

I wanted to tell her how my father had left before he could teach me much of anything, but she merely shook her head and continued. “Selkies are creatures who can appear as men or women, but are most comfortable in their seal forms. They wear their sealskins in the ocean, but store them in secret places when they wish to walk on land. ’Tis a lucky fisherman who finds a selkie woman, hides her skin, and takes her for a wife. They are the most devoted of mothers.”

“And you believe one of these seal mothers has your baby?”

Mistress Catriona nodded. “And I will get him back.” Her voice was cold, like a winter’s morning.

“I know what you are feeling, I think,” I began. “I, too, have been separated from my father—”

“We shall need music. The selkies can be tamed with music,” she interrupted. “Have you a voice for singing? And a mind for conjuring tunes?”

“I-I-I do not know, actually—” I began, but before I could get any more words out, Mistress Catriona had clasped her hand around my own and pulled me out of her cottage and down the narrow path toward the rocky coast.

THE MAKING OF MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS

As we approached, the ocean splashed playfully against the shore. The Mistress of the Sea and her angry storms were long gone from this stretch of the world, though the wind was brisk enough to tug at my braided hair and chill the tops of my ears. I was glad for the warmth of my mother’s cloak. I turned back to see Thomas, who trailed behind determinedly. Was he not supposed to be repairing roofs with Mister Fergus? It seemed wrong to be heading for the waves when so much work in the ruined town still needed doing. “Perhaps we should go and check on the thatching,” I began, releasing my hand from hers. “Mister Fergus may need some help…”

“Nay,” said Mistress Catriona, a determined look on her face. “Mister Fergus bid you keep company with me, so as to keep me out of everyone’s way. I know full well that none of them believe me. You will do your duty to Mister Fergus and come with me. ’Tis what an honorable soul would do.”

I wanted to be an honorable soul. So I followed Mistress Catriona as she led me down the dirt path.

Thomas raced to catch up.

“You did not have to come, Thomas,” I told him. “Doesn’t Mister Fergus need you?”

“Mister Fergus would not want you to go and let the lady do something stupid, that’s what I am thinking. And I am supposed to watch after you. Besides, I’ve been helping the whole time you’ve been sipping tea.”

“How did you know I was sipping tea?”

“Peeked in the window. How did you think?”

“And how could you peek in the window if you’ve been working the whole time? Hmm?” I attempted a big, disgusted sigh, but Thomas interrupted.

“She’s crazed, Trinket. Can you not see it in her eyes?” His voice was a whisper. I hoped the wind would not carry it down to where Mistress Catriona navigated between the large rocks of the shore.

I shook my head and turned to join her.

There were bones on the shore. Bones of large sea beasts called whales. Whiter than the clouds, they rose from the rocks like the ghosts of old tree branches. I could hear Thomas gasp at the sight of them.

Jagged and sharp, the rocks of the beach created a wall of sorts between us and the bones. Carefully, so the rough edges would not pierce our shoes, we made our way past the barrier to where the bones rested. But why would we require such things? Did she not say that the selkies liked
music
?

Mistress Catriona pointed to a large curved bone. “That is what we need. You will see, Trinket.”

Around the bone that Mistress Catriona desired nested a family of swans. Their beaks were pointed and they squawked most miserably about our approach. The mothers must need to protect their babies, I thought. Thomas once told me that the most dangerous animals were mothers protecting their young. Perhaps Mistress Catriona did not realize the peril she was in. “Have a care, Mistress Catriona, they have beaks that would slice your finger from your hand before you could blink twice.”

“Nay, they will not harm us,” she said, stealthily moving forward.

But Thomas ran ahead of Mistress Catriona, scattering the lovely birds. Not one pecked poor Thomas as he flailed about, dispersing them to the four winds. ’Twas a brave gesture, to be sure, for he could well have returned with cuts, bites, and bits of flesh missing.

Thomas smiled proudly at his victory.

“Mayhap ’tis a good thing I came after all,” he said smugly.

Mistress Catriona walked among the downy feathers of the swans’ nests. She motioned for me to join her, so I did.

“Now, Trinket the Bard’s Daughter, you will need this, to accompany your singing, of course.” Her fingers delicately stroked the elegant white arch of the bone she’d pointed to but a few moments ago.

The truth was, I didn’t know if I could sing well or not. I’d sung for my mum, but what mother doesn’t think her own child’s voice sounds like that of an angel? However, a storyteller must sing, for there are tales that lend themselves only to song. So I nodded, hoping my voice would not be too hideous to other ears.

“Here, take this. It will make a fine harp, and you’ll be our singer.”

We went back up the narrow path to her cottage. I carried the bone under my left arm. It fit there most remarkably well. As we walked, she drew from her pocket a straight, long bone, with small holes carved in it. “I have been working on fashioning a flute from this. We shall create such music that the selkies will have no choice but to give me what I want.” And the sound she made when she blew gently and moved her fingers over the holes was like a song from heaven.

“I’ve never heard anything like it,” I said softly, not wanting to disturb the magic in the air.

“Yes, ’tis a fine flute. But alas, I do not play as well as a true bard.” She sighed. “But I believe it will be good enough—”

“Have there been tellers here of late, mistress?” I asked, taking a seat upon the stump in front of her cottage. Thomas sat on the ground next to me. Mistress Catriona paced whilst polishing the flute with her sleeve.

“One performed for us not a fortnight ago,” she said. I held my breath. Could it be? “This flute is more beautiful than his. But the tunes he played … none can compare.”

I felt my shoulders slump. My father played a harp, not a flute.

But still, hearing another teller,
any
teller of tales, would help me learn the trade.

“He was aged and rough-sounding,” Mistress Catriona offered.

“Probably the Old Burned Man,” Thomas whispered, giving me a look. “Bald Fergal plays upon the drum.”

I nodded. Perhaps the Old Burned Man was still nearby and we would catch up to him soon. For if I were to become a teller, I had much to learn. And there was no James the Bard around to teach me.

“Now for the harp,” Mistress Catriona said, changing the subject. She quickly untied one of my braids and unwove the locks with her fingers. Then, she pulled from my head three long hairs.

“Ouch! Why do you need those?”

Mistress Catriona began wrapping the strands, up and down, creating strings between the unusual curved ends of the bone. And when she plucked the strings, ’twas the sound of a majestic lyre.

We were silent, Thomas and I, until the hum of the notes completely faded.