The Seven Tales of Trinket (11 page)

“Trinket, I am almost there!”

“Fine! Go on, then! I’ll meet you below.” I was put out, and angry with myself for feeling so. Had Thomas not come with me whilst I dealt with the selkies? I walked back down the steps and out of the tower to an ancient stone bench. I pulled my harp from my bag, glad that I’d brought it along. ’Twould be good to practice. I plucked the strings, trying some new tunes, then played once more the old lullaby. How I wished I could remember my father’s words.

The ruins that surrounded the old tower created fascinating shadows on the ground as the sun set. A broken wall to the north. A crumbling gateway to the west. Only the tower stood untouched by time. I imagined the people that might have built it. Were they fierce warriors? Were they gentle scholars whose castle had been destroyed by invaders? That would have been before the banshees came, of course.
If
the banshees had even come at all. Inspired by these imaginings, I plucked new melodies that bounced from wall to wall, then drifted off into the sky above.

I did not notice when the breeze began, only that one moment I was contemplating old rocks, and the next I was wishing my mother’s cloak was thicker.

“Thomas!” I shouted. “You are taking too long!” I placed the harp gently back in my bag and rose.

I doubted that he heard me, as my voice was carried away by the wind. I looked for shelter from the strengthening gusts and found it behind the stones of the gateway. I peered around the edge frequently, hoping to see when Thomas came out from the tower. The shadows cast by the ruins grew longer and longer until there was more shadow than light.

“Thomas!” I called, more in frustration than in hope that he heard me. I cursed the idea that had led us up the hill in the first place. My own idea, of course.

The sound was small at first, so small that I almost didn’t notice it.

“Trinnnnnkkkketttttt,”
the wind called. And then a second time, louder.

“Triiinnnnkkkkkeeeetttttt.”

“Thomas, is that you?” I yelled, knowing that it was not Thomas, could not be Thomas.

THE WEE BANSHEE

Fear finally caught up with me.

’Twas the wail of a banshee, I was certain.

I peered around the stone once more, but I caught no glimpse of the pig boy. Naturally.

Perhaps knowing that death is close makes you strong. For, indeed, if death is coming for you, what do you really have to lose by being brave? Things could hardly get worse.

So, I stepped from behind the stone, faced the wind, and cried, “Who calls me?”

A girl appeared before me, but she was not really a girl. She was a wee banshee, crying most mournfully as her white hair whipped around her head. I had never believed in the stories of banshees, but what do you do when one is looking you in the face? And this child was
not
human. She was combing her hair with a silver comb, although the instant she smoothed a lock, it was tangled by the wind once again. Her gown was also white, paler even than her face. Glistening in the early evening light like diamonds on her cheeks were perfectly formed tears. She was beautiful and terrifying at the same time.

“Did you call me?” I asked bravely.

“Aaaaaaayyyyye,” she wailed.

I swallowed and looked at my hands for a moment.
Did I want to know why?
I remembered my time with the Gypsy King’s daughter. Back then, I had not wanted to know my future. Now, with a small banshee calling my name, was I strong enough to know if I was meant to die now?

“Am I going to die?”

She said nothing for a moment, then the wind became softer, as did her voice.

“I have a message for you, Trinket the Bard’s Daughter.”

I had thought it impossible to be more scared, yet her words sent a fresh wave of goose bumps down my arms.

“Who is the message from?”

“Your mother.”

An eternity passed before I could form any words of my own.
“My mother?”

My mother was dead.

“And the price of this message is a small, small thing. So small,” she said.

At that moment, Thomas came up behind me. I could hear the gravel crunching under his feet, the same rhythm he made when we walked together mile after mile after mile.

“Trinket … do you see what I see … or think I see?”

“Aye, Thomas, I see a banshee girl.”

The wee banshee glared at Thomas, then returned her gaze to me. “Come back on the morrow, as the sun sets.” Her voice floated on the wind.

“Wait!” I called to the mist that now swirled about in the space where she had been.

Thomas grabbed my shoulders and shook me hard. “You are not stupid enough to think of doing what she says, are you?”

“Thomas.” I pulled away from him. “She has a message from
my mother
.”

“It’s a lie, Trinket. She is tricking you. She will carry you off. ”

I scoffed. “She is too small to carry anyone off. ”

“She’s a banshee! God above only knows what she can do!” he cried.

“I am not afraid of a tiny little banshee,” I lied. Of course I was afraid. But the chance to hear words from my mother made me courageous.

“You should be. I will not let you come back,” he said simply, and turned to walk down the hill to the village.

You cannot stop me.

We did not speak all of the way back to Crossmaglin.

ALONE

The wind blew more fiercely than ever that night. And I could not be sure, but I thought I heard my name whistling through splintered planks of the old barn walls.

In the morning, I awoke to the sound of Thomas stuffing his meager possessions in his sack. “Trinket, we are leaving.”

My head was still foggy with dreams of a pale ghostly girl calling my name, floating over clouds and stars.

“You are not my master, Thomas.”

Thomas swallowed. He knew he could not force me to do anything. “Please, please, please do not do this, Trinket.”

Until that moment, I had not known what I was going to do. I did not in truth want to face the frightsome child again; yet, she bore a message from my mother.
My mother.

How could I not try to find out what she might tell me?

“I have to, Thomas,” I said, laying a hand on his arm. He brushed it off and threw his sack over his shoulder.

“’Twill be your funeral, then. I’ll not stay to watch it.”

“I thought you were brave. But you are not. You are nothing but a scared little boy!” I cried.

“I’ll be heading west and … well, I won’t walk too fast.”

And he left.

I was alone in the town of Crossmaglin. Well, not completely alone. There was cranky Mister Quinn and the strange pub mistress. And there were the goats.

It was better the pig boy was gone. He would only distract me from finding my tales. And if he was not brave enough to stay with me, then perhaps he was not the friend I thought he was.

At least this was what I kept telling myself.

I worked that morning, milking the goats one last time. I left my copper coins on the milking stool, but I no longer cared if it was enough to pay for the hinges. I swept the pub in the afternoon and tried to eat a small plate of bread and cheese. Though the food curdled in my stomach, I willed myself to finish it, hoping it would give me strength. ’Twas a short distance back to Mister Quinn’s barn, yet I found my feet dragging, and when I slung my bag over my shoulder, it felt heavier than usual with my harp and my map inside. But I had decided. I would go and receive the message from the small banshee. The message from my mother.

I readjusted my bag, thinking how much lighter it would soon be without my precious harp. Didn’t the banshee say my mother’s message would have a price? The harp was the most valuable thing I owned. There was nothing I would give it up for, except this.

The pub mistress blocked my way as I left the barn, startling me. “Thought I’d find you here.” She took in my bag as I edged my way around her. “Leaving are you? I’d not go that way, girlie. Your friend went the other way.”

“I know,” I said, and continued toward the hill.

“You’ve a mind to see the banshee, then?”

I nodded.

She grabbed my hand and placed a small pouch in it. I peeked inside.

“Salt?”

“Protection,” she said. “And turn yer cloak over, inside out. ’Tis also a shield against magical creatures, not as strong as salt, but you’ll need all you can get if you’ve a mind to attempt this.”

“Attempt what?”

“To banish the banshee, of course. That is why you are going, isn’t it?” She cocked her head to one side, trying to read my mind. “You’ve been there once already, haven’t you? Even though I warned ye not to go?” she asked knowingly.

I nodded.

She shook her head slowly back and forth. “Tsk-tsk-tsk. You’re lucky to still be alive. Most never return at all. Are ye sure ye want to do this?”

I said nothing.

“If she promised you something, it will have a price. A price you won’t want to pay. Do not fall for her tricks.” Her brow furrowed and she tapped her chin in thought. “It would help if you had a mirror. A banshee cannot abide its own reflection.”

I thought about the mirror still hidden in the bottom of my sack.

It gave me a little feeling of strength, but not much.

*   *   *

As I walked on the path to the ruins, I made up my mind and dropped the pouch of salt on the hard ground. I did not turn my cloak inside out for I did not want to keep the wee banshee away. I wanted the message from my mother. I remembered her hair, soft brown and gently curling. Her face was shaped like a heart, except that her chin was round, rather than pointed. Her eyes were deep blue, and in summer months the slightest sprinkling of freckles danced across her nose and cheeks. I, too, sprouted a new crop of freckles each spring.
Kisses from the angels,
my mother called them. Her arms, before they became so thin, had held me softly as I drifted off to sleep. And she told me stories.

Not stories like my father would have told, not
bard
stories, but stories about when she was a girl like me and the things she discovered as she ventured out into the world.

I missed her so much.

And I missed Thomas, though I wished I didn’t. He had been there with me, caring for my mother, helping me cook vegetable broths and oatcakes in hopes of making her strong. Before the illness, she mothered him as well as me. ’Twould be strange to hear her words and not have Thomas there.

But he had made his choice. And so had I.

The late afternoon sun glinted off the Banshee’s Tower. Soon, the sun would disappear, the sky would darken, and I would receive her message.

As I neared the top of the hill, the wind kicked up, as I had known that it would. The low moaning began, rising to a shrill shriek as gloom descended upon the ruins. I found the stone bench and sat on it. I would not be waiting long.

“Trrrriiiiinnkkeetttt,”
the wind called.

I did not reply. If the wee banshee was looking for me, she would find me easily out in the open. I tried to sit with my back straight, looking fearless. But there was a bone-deep chill in the wind and I clutched my mother’s cloak tightly, though it was nearly useless against the icy gusts.

I hoped ’twould be the spirit of my mother that found me cowering in the wind. She would wrap me in a soft blanket, the one full of colors she had woven for me long ago. I would cry and she would tell me not to weep, that it rarely did anyone much good. And then she would impart her message.

It was, however, the wee banshee who came to me, her pale eyes alive with devilish joy. “Yooooouuuu caaaaaaaame baaaaack.” Her voice sailed on the wind.

“What is the message from my mother?” I asked. I had hoped to leave this place before the sun finished sinking in the sky. Perhaps I could catch up with Thomas in a day or two—if I decided to forgive him for deserting me.

“You have payment?” she whispered.

“Aye.” I placed the bag with the harp on the ground in front of me.

She beckoned with fingers that looked far too long for a child’s. I followed her carefully.

“Where is she? Where is my mother?”

The banshee did not answer, but continued on her path. I could do naught but follow, though the evening light vanished more with each step.

Gravel slipped beneath my shoes as she led me down a steep path on the other side of the hill.

“Wait! I cannot keep up!”

She floated faster and faster along the path and I started to run. Were I brave enough to look down to my left, I would have seen the pebbles skid out from under my shoes and fall hundreds of feet below, for on one edge of the path lay a cliff, on the other a wall of stone.

“Please, slow down!” I called, gasping for breath.

The wee banshee slowed and pointed over the cliff.

Did she want me to jump?

I shook my head, as no words would come. Thomas had been right. This fiendish child only sought my death, the chance to carry my soul off and cry most mournfully about it. Why hadn’t I listened to him?

She pointed again as I clutched the rocky wall. I closed my eyes and bent my head. I would not look where she pointed, nor would I jump. But the wind was so strong, I could move neither forward nor back along the path.

I began to cry.

MESSAGE FROM BEYOND

“T
rinket,”
a voice called. It was not the whiny cry of the wee banshee. It was a gentle voice, the most beautiful voice I had ever heard in my life.

It was
her.

It was my mother.

I was afraid to open my eyes. What if she was not here with me? What if, in my moment of death, I was imagining that she was here? Would not everyone want their mother with them when facing something so frightening?

“Trinket.”

Bravely, though I was sniffling, I opened my eyes and looked into the empty air above the cliff.

’Twas no longer empty.

She was more lovely than I remembered, her skin not as drawn as when I last saw her, although it was paler than the face of the moon. Her hair did not swirl in the wild wind, but hung silkily past her shoulders. She wore the dress they buried her in, the most gorgeous blue I had ever seen. The color of dawn.