The Seven Tales of Trinket (21 page)

THE OLD BURNED MAN SPEAKS

It took us only a day to follow his path and find him. He was sitting by his campfire, silhouetted against the last of the daylight.

“You’ve come for the tale, then, Trinket?” he asked without looking up.

“I’ve come for the truth.”

The Old Burned Man cleared his throat. His voice scattered against the clear evening air like a jar of pebbles that had been dropped.

Stories are like stars. They shine brightly for us in times of darkness. Some of them draw our attention and hold it. Some we forget, but these are no less beautiful simply because our careless minds cannot hold on to them all.

But then there are stories that burn inside of us, waiting for the right moment to be told. My dear Trinket, this story has burned inside of me for a long, long time. Finally, it can be told.

The Old Burned Man cleared his throat once again and continued.

I loved your mother. Of all the things I will tell you, this is the most important. I loved her like the sun loves the moon or a moth loves a flame. She was the best person I ever knew. Lovely Mairi-Blue-Eyes.

And I loved you, too, Trinket, with your sparkling raindrop eyes.

You must believe that I wanted to come back to you. Sometimes I think about how different all of our lives might have been had I not taken to the road to begin with. But that was my calling. ’Tis the way of a bard. This is something I think you understand, now.

I left, that early spring day, prepared to travel and tell my stories until the appearance of winter’s first frost. I would have come home, bearing a small bag bursting with gold and perhaps some thread in exquisite colors for your mother to weave into fine things. But, as you know, life does not often go as planned, and the road is fraught with adventure.

The ruined eye winked.

I spent my days away from you doing what I do best, telling tales and playing songs on my harp. Yes, I had a harp once, but my fingers are now too scarred and clumsy to pluck the notes. And my voice too withered to sing the songs. A flute works best for me now.

I met Gypsies along the way and stayed with a caravan many weeks. They offered me beautiful silk, in a lovely shade of blue I thought your mother would like, if I stayed and told my stories. I sang a song to the Gypsy King’s daughter every night to lull her to sleep. She was a smallish girl plagued by bad dreams. The king wanted me to stay forever, until I refused to play for his daughter a special lullaby she’d heard me practice. I’d created that song for only one child. You.

I met all manner of creatures on my journey. I played sleeping songs for the seal people, told ancient tales to a wandering clan of banshees, and strummed jigs and reels for dancing faeries. And though I knew hundreds of tales already, I gathered a hundred more as I traveled. Some from folk in rare and unusual places, some from my own experiences. Yes, there were many of those.

But none of those tales are the one you want to hear, are they? You want the story, the reason I never went back to the small cottage by the sea. Very well. But I warn you, ’tis a frightening tale, where all is not as it seems. And in truth, dear Trinket, I did go back to the cottage, not once but several times.

SO PERFECT A DAY

Most accounts of a terrifying nature begin at night. This one does not. This one begins on the most gorgeous day you could imagine. The trees were turning and the air was filled with the scent of dry leaves. The sun was not too hot nor the breeze too cool. ’Twas a perfect day.

I was walking between villages, making my way to a castle whose name I cannot remember. ’Twas taking longer to get to the next village than I had been told it would. But I had an apple in my pocket and a bit of cheese and a crust of brown bread. And, as I said, the day was beautiful and golden.

Through the forest came the sound of hooves pounding against the soft ground. I could feel the vibrations under my feet, traveling up through my legs. Around the bend galloped the largest horse I’d ever seen. Atop him was a gent in fine clothes and a flowing black cape.

“Good day, good sir,” I said. ’Twas not unusual to meet others along the road. I’d found that being friendly to fellow travelers was the best course. However, I was no fool. I kept in my bag a large, heavy rock. Already, the rock was in my hand, hidden behind my own gray cloak.

The stranger swept down from his horse and brandished his sword. “’Twill be a good day, indeed, sir, when you give over your purse.” He smiled with his mouth, but his eyes held menace.

I hurled my rock, but the stone hit the ground behind the man. The rock had gone right through him.

I gasped as he laughed and said, “I should run you through!”

Being a bard, naturally I’d heard tales of those who, though death had visited them, chose not to pass on. I’d even told stories of those who remained in the world of the living as shadows of their former selves. Ghosts. But I’d never met one on the road.

Until now.

Perhaps his sword is but an illusion as well, I thought, though the sound of it slicing through the air above my head was real enough, as was the feel of cold steel when he held it against my throat.

“Your purse, good sir,” he said through closed teeth.

“I have no money.”

“You’d prefer to forfeit your life, then?”

“Nay. I do not wish to die.”

“Then convince me, good sir. What reason have I to let you live?”

What reason, indeed?
I swallowed and thought of you and your mother. I would use whatever method I could to stay alive, to see you again. And I had but one weapon. My words.

“Do ye not become bored, sir, from time to time?” I asked.

His dark eyebrows rose in question. “What are you about?”

“I, sir, have a gift worth more than sacks full of gold.” Strangely, my fear made me brave. Perhaps you have felt this along the road as well. “A gift so fine that even the wealthiest lords pay handsomely for it.”

He rolled his eyes in disbelief, but allowed me to continue, which I took as a good sign.

“The chance to experience great adventure.”

“I am a gentleman of the road. I’ve plenty of adventure, sir.”

His voice was mocking, but I was glad for each second I managed to distract him from killing me.

I looked from side to side, as if I was imparting a sacred secret, which indeed I was. “I offer the chance to feel alive again.”

This gave the Highwayman pause.

“’Tis not possible to cross back into the living and remain,” he said at last. “I have tried.”

“Nay, I am not offering life, I am but a poor bard. I could not possess a secret so amazing and majestic.”

“Then what do you offer, sir?” The sword lowered slightly, then poised over my heart.

“Feeling. I offer feeling. Would you not like to feel as if your heart were racing, as if your blood were once again thrumming through you?”

“You talk circles, sir, and I grow tired. State your intentions or meet my sword.” The tip of his sword pressed against my chest.

What had I to bargain with but my craft? And truly, I could weave a story like no other in those days. My voice was smoother than the velvet on a king’s robe. With but a whisper, I could send chills up any spine.

Were my stories fascinating enough, and could I tell them well enough, to win my life back from a ghost?

I would find out.

A YEAR AND A DAY

I should have known better. I should have known not to expect one who steals from others to honor his word. And these were his words: “I shall keep you with me, sir, until I feel what you say I will feel.” He flicked at the edge of my cloak with the tip of his sword. “Or until I grow tired of you and kill you.” He laughed without humor.

He pulled me up onto the back of his horse and we rode faster than I could imagine riding to a place I had never seen before. The trees were cold and dead, although winter’s chill had not yet touched the land. There were mists and the sky was neither dark nor light. I got down off of the horse—

The Old Burned Man noted my gasp, but continued.

—and sat upon the large rock. The Highwayman smirked and commanded me to begin.

So I did.

I began with a rollicking tale of betrayal, heroic triumph, and a magical coin. ’Twas one of the old tales, from when the land was young. The kind of tale that sings in the veins, for even though parts of it are impossible to believe, every word rings true.

He feigned boredom, at first. But he could not maintain his pretense for long. When a story decides to claim you, it takes both your heart and soul during the listening.

“Too bad
you
did not possess such a bargaining coin,” he jested. “Mayhap you could have bargained yourself a better deal.”

I remained silent, letting the story have its final moment. Like a song, a story needs that one last note, as it flies off on the wings of the world.

“Or perhaps
I
could have used a coin such as that … to barter my way back…”

He was thoughtful then.

A good tale always makes one thoughtful afterward.

Next he asked me to play my harp, which I did most willingly. I played lullabies guaranteed to calm and relax the fiercest of beasts. Perchance, he would doze … but even I should have known that ’tis impossible to lull a ghost to sleep. For those who do not join the dead, those who stay in the shadows in between, never rest.

After that, one story per day was all that I would grant him, thinking each day he would release me.

But he did not.

He could not. I should have remembered from the old tales what happens to those who travel through magical boundaries. When I’d stepped off the horse and touched my foot to the ground, I had committed to spending—

“A year and a day.”

*   *   *

Yes, a year and a day on the other side.

Truly I had hundreds of stories. And I told one each day, to save myself from being run through … but sometimes …

The withered voice cracked.

Sometimes, when I felt I could go on no more, when the loneliness and longing for you got to be too much, I would tell tales that made you and your mother come alive in my heart.

I told stories of you, Trinket, and of my memories of your sweet face and clear gray eyes. I told tales of your mother’s beauty and the way her laugh made the flowers in my heart bloom.

And in desperation, I played for him the lullaby I had composed for you. Yes, the one I played for you, and only you, when you were a babe. It became his favorite and he demanded it after each tale. And so, to stay alive, I played.

You may ask what else I did on the other side. The truth? I cannot remember. Perhaps time moved differently, for the year passed more quickly than a leaf falls to the ground. I am certain that I met other souls, there on the other side, but I can recall neither their names nor their faces.

I was true to my word. The Highwayman
felt
for the first time since his foul life had been cut short by the hangman’s noose, years and years before. He laughed at the escapades of a luckless prince. His eyes glistened with unshed tears when the last of the great warriors was betrayed by a friend and killed. The thief, however, was not true to his word.

“The souls here are restless,” I said to him before one telling, for it was not unusual for us to converse before or after the story.

“’Tis the eve of Samhain, sir. Only natural they should be excited.”

“Samhain? Already?”

“Aye.” He sat polishing his sword, though it never grew dull, so there was not much point.

“Then—” I began.

“Nay, I have not yet tired of your tales, sir.” He kept polishing. He liked the way the sword flashed with the light of the moon. “You shall stay.”

But I was determined not to.

There were few who were willing to help a mortal soul lost on the other side. Fewer still willing to cross a shade as cunning and ruthless as the Highwayman. However, luck was with me when I met the ghost of a gravedigger the next day.

“Ye don’t belong here,” said he. His hair, what was left of it, was long and white, and he walked stooped over, leaning on an ancient shovel.

“Nay, I don’t. I’d very much like to go back. ’Tis Samhain, after all. Isn’t the wall between the living and the dead at its thinnest?” I asked, even though I knew this to be true from the tales I’d told.

He handed me the shovel and said, “Ye’ll do.”

The Old Burned Man nodded as if to say, Aye, ’tis true.

And so, a year and a day after the Highwayman captured me, I dug a grave, captured a pooka, and rode him back across to the other side, to the land of the living.

THE WRATH OF THE HIGHWAYMAN

The Highwayman was angry, though, for he had been deprived of his prized entertainment. If I had crossed a stream or lake before he caught up with me, things might have been different.

But I did not.

Soon after the pooka let me off, I was walking through a village, down deserted streets where not a sign of life could be seen or heard. But there was light. On the outside of each house a torch burned fair and bright, perhaps to keep the ghosties away. On a night like Samhain, the torchlight was not enough.