The Seven Tales of Trinket (15 page)

’Tis the way of the fey. They’ll not be bested.

I turned from the queen and looked into the remaining audience. The faces lit by torchlight under the midnight sky were scary to behold. Too much shadow around the eyes, and the grins all appeared evil, villager and faerie alike.

“I demand that the Faerie Queen be released from her punishment of never dancing again.”

There were a few gasps and shocked murmurs. I was not facing the queen now, for I was too frightened, but I could hear her sharp intake of breath, followed by a slow exhale.

“Turn around, harp girl.”

Slowly I turned.

“Why?” Her black eyes narrowed as if trying to search inside my mind. Perhaps she gained entry, for in the next instant, she smiled softly. Her face was so luminous in that moment, outshining even the stars and the moon.

“I’ll not be outdone, girl. Faeries do not like being in the debt of humans.” She spoke so softly I was not certain if anyone heard but me. “For your troubles,” she said as she raised her hand and flipped a gold coin in the air toward me. I was too shocked to catch it, and it clattered on the wooden dance floor at my feet. I reached down to retrieve it. ’Twas larger than a regular coin, with strange shapes on it, perhaps serpents, all interwoven with each other, with no beginning and no end. Faerie gold.

By the time I looked up again, the Faerie Queen, her carriage, the ponies, and all of the faeries in the audience had vanished in the night, leaving behind Orla’s newly won gold in several sacks of fine, heavy brown velvet.

The people whooped and hollered, raising Orla over their heads and lugging her fortune back to the McGills’ cottage.

As I watched the villagers disperse, a hand clamped around my hand that held the coin. ’Twas sweaty.

Thomas.

“My palms were wetter than a crying babe’s cheek.” He laughed, and I hugged him. Neither mother nor father had I, but I had Thomas. And I was glad for it.

*   *   *

A traveling bard cannot remain in one place forever. Though I liked Ringford well, ’twas time to journey on and find new yarns to spin and eager new ears to hear them. And I could not forget what had led me here in the first place—the search for my father.

The farewells the next morning were both sweet and sad. Orla hugged me like a sister and the McGills thanked me over and over again. And Orla’s great-grandfather clutched my hand tightly as a tear rolled down his withered face. “She would have lost it all without you,” he said. I decided not to mention that ’twas probably my own conversation with Thomas by the faerie mound that caused the challenge to be issued in the first place. Some tales are best left untold.

“Why did you not ask for riches?” Thomas asked as we left the town of Ringford. “Or food. This sack will not last forever.”

The sack in question bulged at the seams. Orla’s mum had loaded us up with more food than four fat men could eat in a month. A heavy bag, indeed. But Thomas did not mind carrying the extra weight. It was worth it.

“You could have asked for a magic sack that would have filled with food whenever it was empty.”

“And take the chance that the food would be cursed? Take the chance that if you ate it, you’d be under an enchantment?”

I knew Thomas would have chanced such a thing, were he hungry enough. But now, on a full belly, he nodded. “Didn’t think of that.”

“But what about riches?” he continued. “Come on, Trink, did ye not think of wealth?”

“Probably cursed as well. And if not a curse from the Faerie Queen, than the curse of greed. Yes, Orla’s family has wealth, but they must now be on guard for someone who might want to take it from them.”

“You sound like a know-it-all, you
do
know that, do ye not?”

We walked in silence then, but for the sound of our steps as we traveled farther and farther from the village. Sure steps, strong steps. Steps that said with each crunch of gravel that there were more important things than wealth and food.

“You’re not going to tell me why, are you?” Thomas was getting annoyed, which would make for a cranky next few hours.

I sighed. “Thomas, with my reward, I bought us freedom. Freedom from the faerie folk chasing us down to reclaim whatever it was I’d asked for. And the freedom to continue on our quest for stories.”

He said nothing for a long time.

“
Your
quest, you know.”

“Hmmm?”

“It’s
your
quest for stories. I am only along for the food.”

THE FOURTH SONG

The Faerie’s Reel

These are the words I sang in my head when Orla and the Faerie Queen danced their reels. I found if I concentrated on the words, I worried less about my fingers slipping.

Oh, she is fair and fleet of foot

When she spins,

When she spins.

Oh, she leaps o’er the dust and soot

And makes the laddies happy.

And nae mistakes does Lady make

When she twirls,

When she twirls.

She dances on a golden stake

And makes the laddies happy.

THE FIFTH TALE

A Pig Boy, a Ghost, and a Pooka

IN THE BUSHES

’Twas late in the afternoon and the wind crackled between the trees, coaxing dead leaves to swirl devilishly through the air, into our eyes and our hair. It seemed like only days since we had danced under the late summer moon. But in truth, it had been weeks.

We wanted to reach the next village before nightfall. ’Twas rumored that the Old Burned Man had visited villages to the south. We still held out hopes of meeting up with him and hearing him weave tales, though he was proving to be more elusive than a butterfly on a winter’s day.

We unrolled the map in the light of the dying sun. I wished, not for the first time, that we had been more orderly in our travels. I wished we had followed a more sensible trail. Instead, we had visited a hodgepodge collection of places. Up to the hills. Down to the coast. Back up the coast. Over to yon valley. Wherever we thought we might have a lead on a bard or a story of any kind, that is where we went. Or rather, that is where we attempted to go. Our latest stop had been the village of Moreglin, a tiny town with neither a teller nor tales. However, there were cows that needed tending, so Thomas and I lent a hand in exchange for food and shelter, as usual. How I wished I was brave enough to do my own telling and charge a fair price, instead of forever just practicing bits of songs and tales on folks. Oh, to sleep far away from the smell of cattle! Perhaps in the next village … except the next village was not there.

“Maybe they were wrong. Maybe the next village was more than three days away,” I said.

“Then why did they not just say that?
The village is four days away.
How hard is that? If they’d told us right, we’d have the proper amount of food still.” Thomas’s complaint was punctuated with a loud growl from his stomach.

’Twas always food with Thomas.

“Perhaps we walked too slowly. They could have marked the days it would take a grown man, not a girl and a pig boy.”

“Nay and nay again,” Thomas argued. “If so, then why not just say,
It takes a grown man three days, but it will take you lot four
?

“And,” he continued, “we’ve not been walking too slow. We’ve kept a steady pace.” He kicked a rock, which traveled halfway up the hill we were approaching, then rolled back down to him. “If we cannot see the village of Agadhoe when we get to the top of this rise…” he said.

And yet, when we reached the top of the hill and looked down into the valley, no village lights greeted us in the twilight. Not a single torch.

I glanced at the map again, but it was no help at all.

We had not taken the wrong road. At least, I was fairly positive we had not.

Thomas muttered a word under his breath that I was certain his mother would have punished him for. I should have scolded him, ’twas my duty, being a year older and all, but I, too, was bothered by the lack of a town.

“I suppose we should make camp. I’ve still some bread left.”

“Stale bread,” Thomas said.

“And a few berries…”

“Mashed berries, probably rotting,” Thomas said.

I gave him a look and began searching for a place to camp.

’Twas always a bit tricky, finding a camping spot. Not too close to the road, for there were stories of highwaymen that robbed and terrorized travelers at night. But close enough so that we could hear anyone approaching on the road and determine if they were friendly or not. Of course, there were times we traveled when there was no road at all … but those stories are not in this tale.

There we were at the top of the hill, out in the open. The nearest patch of trees and bushes was back behind us, still visible in the dusk, but it would take us several minutes to get to it.

“Those bushes are too far from the road.”

“Thomas, just exactly what do you propose? It is near dark. It is getting colder by the minute. Unless you want to sleep right here in the middle of the hill, I suggest we start walking to yon bushes.”

He gave a
humph
and followed me there.

Thomas whacked at the bushes with a big stick to make certain no small creatures already sheltered there.

“’Tis safe,” he proclaimed. So there we slept.

IN WHICH OUR POSSESSIONS ARE STOLEN

I heard hooves clopping down the path. I was dreaming of a man whose face I could not see, riding a horse against the moonlit sky. The sound grew louder and I could feel the ground vibrating against my back.

Thomas felt it, too, for he was shaking me awake. It was not a dream.

We scrambled to pull loose branches over us.

The clip-clopping slowed.

We held our breaths. I could see a horse-shaped shadow with a rider atop whose cape billowed in the wind.

“Stand and deliver,” commanded a deep voice that echoed against the leaves and made them rustle.

We remained frozen.

He saw us, or heard us, or perhaps felt our presence. He called out again, “Stand and deliver!”

Thomas squeezed my arm and slowly released it, willing me to stay under the branches. He rose awkwardly, his hands in the air. “Sir, I have nothing but a stale piece of bread and some mashed berries,” he said, sounding like a pitiful runaway boy.

Quite convincing. I was proud.

“Have it and welcome,” Thomas continued, bending to reach for the crust of bread in his bag.

“Do not move, lad, not an inch nor a muscle.” The outlaw’s voice was harsh. I could see now that he had a large sword pointed right at Thomas, close enough to run him through. “And do not lie.”

I could hear Thomas gulp as the blade moved closer to his throat.

“I’ll have the bag. The one next to the lassie.”

How he could have seen me, I know not, for I was completely hidden in the shadows of the bushes. At least, I thought I was.

“The bag, missy. Ye’ll hand it to me, now.”

Slowly I rose and stepped out from behind a branch, brushing leaves from my hair. The horse stood massive and mountainlike, and the rider’s head reached the moon. A black mask covered most of his face, but peering out through two holes were a pair of eyes so dark and so cold they sent a new wave of shivers down my spine.

“I want the bag with the silver mirror, the harp, and the faerie coin.”

The coin I did not care about, despite its obvious value. I had thought we might need it, or the mirror for that matter, to bargain with at some point. I had not expected the price to be our lives. But my harp. I did not want to lose my harp. With it, I was beginning to feel like a true bard. How could I be a bard without it? Perhaps if I fought. Or ran.

Thomas made the decision for me, choosing our lives over our possessions. He grabbed the bag from my hands and threw it up to the man.

“Sorry, Trinket,” he said.

I said nothing.

I swallowed my anger and bit back my tears.

“Much obliged,” the outlaw said, tipping his hat with a flourish. Then he looked at me, cocking his head to one side, then the other. “Well, well, well.” He chuckled. “How lucky I am to have stumbled upon you.” I thought he would look the harp over, or make certain the coin was inside the bag, but he did neither. He continued to stare at me. Then, he reared his stallion and galloped off into the night.

He was gone faster than seemed possible.

THE GRAVEDIGGER

“How did he know what was in the bag?” I asked between sniffles as we waited for the sun to rise. I had tried not to cry too much, but being robbed was very frightening. And I knew it made Thomas feel better that he was not the only one to shed a tear. We’d found neither dreams nor sleep for the rest of the night.

“Followed us?”

“How could we not have seen? The countryside for the past few days has been open. There was nowhere to hide.”

“Mayhap someone in the last town spoke of your harp. Ye did play it, after all.”