The Seven Tales of Trinket Read online

  We watched, spellbound, for a while. Then the bushes became too itchy and the family seemed kind enough, so Thomas and I came out and introduced ourselves. Orla’s family, the McGills, offered us shelter and food, if we helped with the turf cutting. Naturally, we agreed. Thomas, of course, would rather have worked with the animals than alongside people, but he was learning to carry on a conversation quite well, as I made him practice when we traveled between towns. He’d developed a fine love of questions.

  “Do you suppose ’twould be better to be a goat or a toad?” he might ask.

  Or, “Why do we have five fingers and not seven? Then you could count the days of the week on one hand.”

  Or, “What if people got younger instead of older? Then I’d be bigger than you … somehow…”

  That was what it was like to converse with Thomas. Though I hated to remind him, he already was growing bigger than me. His britches were no longer as saggy and his sleeves scarcely covered his wrists. If he kept up at this rate, we’d have to get him new clothing soon.

  Perhaps if I worked more on my stories and songs, they’d be worthy of trade before long.

  * * *

  I practiced my harp that night by the fire as the McGill family sat around the old wooden table in their kitchen. Though I still got nervous when playing for folks, I found my fingers growing more sure of themselves each day.

  “Do you play songs other than lullabies, though that is a lovely one,” Orla asked as I strummed my father’s lullaby, for I played it every day. I had indeed picked up a few other tunes along the road. I nodded and Orla leaped from her chair with joy. “Will you play for me? I’ve never danced to harp music before.”

  “’Twould be an honor, Miss Orla,” I replied.

  “Been a long time since we’ve seen a harper in these parts,” said Orla’s father. He was a tall man with a reddish beard and an easy smile.

  “Long time, indeed,” said Orla’s mother. “Oh, but he could play. Long fingers he had,” she said as she took one of my hands in her own. “Like yours.”

  “Was he called James the Bard?” I asked, hoping with all my heart to hear yes for once instead of sorry, no or I don’t remember.

  “Oh yes, lass. That was him. Not heard a harp like that for years. But your hands, child. Yes, I’ve seen hands like that strum a harp before.”

  I could not help but feel warmth travel from my heart to my fingertips. He might have once sat where I was now sitting. His blood made my fingers play more beautifully.

  Orla’s father nodded to me that it would be acceptable to play a dancing song, so I played a lilting jig I had practiced in the evenings when Thomas and I camped. And though Orla was but a child, she danced more fair than any woman I had ever seen.

  THE FAERIE QUEEN

  ’Twas my own fault that word of Orla’s dancing skill made its way down to the faerie kingdom, for there was a faerie mound nearby. If you’ve not seen a faerie mound, I should tell you that ’tis not a sight you’ll soon forget. Imagine a perfectly round hill, covered in grass that is both brighter and deeper green than any of the other grass around. And not a bush nor tree grows on this mound. Once a year, in the spring, a ring of flowers may sprout. Or it may not. Depending on the Faerie Queen’s whim.

  “If you see such a ring on the mound, do not attempt to pass through. Few have ever made it to the other side,” Orla’s mother told me as we sat around her table on our second morning there, eating fresh berries, cream, and bread. Her green eyes twinkled and her voice fairly sang. I liked how she spoke with her face as well as her voice and I told her so.

  Her cheeks turned the color of strawberries and she said, “Well, I’m not so good as a proper teller.”

  “Have there been many tellers in these parts?” I asked, trying to summon enough bravery to bring the conversation around to my father once more.

  She patted my hand as if she sensed the importance of my question. “If you are asking about that James the Bard, I’ve not heard of him being about for years. But the Old Burned Man comes from time to time. Ye’ll have heard of him, no doubt.”

  Aye. I had.

  Thomas’s eyes lit up. “Did I not tell you, Trinket? I told you he came here.” He smiled smugly.

  He was becoming good at collecting gossip; his eavesdropping skills improved with each town we came upon.

  “And Bald Fergal will be coming soon,” Orla’s mum said.

  Aye. Bald Fergal. We had already heard his tales.

  * * *

  Thomas and I ate our midday meal by the faerie mound. He thought it would be exciting. I hoped there might be a story nearby. Instead, we both found it rather dull. No faerie ring to be seen.

  We laid my cloak upon the ground and ate in silence, listening for faeries inside of the mound. I chewed my cheese slowly and frowned at Thomas as he made noise whilst peeling his egg. He dropped a bit of shell on the fine fabric my mother had woven and I glared at him until he picked it up and flicked it away. Finally, deciding there was nothing to hear, not even the buzzing of bees, we began to talk, though we should have known better.

  “The girl, she can dance, no?” Thomas asked with his mouth full. Regardless of how many times I reminded him to chew and swallow before he spoke, he uttered whatever thought crossed his mind, the moment it crossed.

  “Thomas, village folk would not want to see your food once it is inside of your mouth.” Especially boiled egg.

  “The way her feet move. Never have I seen a person move their feet so fast.” He stuffed the rest of the egg in his mouth, followed by a chunk of brown bread. “And she leaps so high, it’s as if the sky holds its breath until she lands.”

  ’Twas true. And the girl had rhythm in everything she did. The way she walked. The way she drew water from the well.

  There was the crisp sound of a branch snapping, unusual because there were neither bushes nor trees nearby. Unfortunately, we kept up our conversation, going on and on about Orla, never suspecting that we had been overheard by curious faeries from the mound.

  * * *

  At first, we only noticed a few things going amiss. Like Orla’s shoes being misplaced, or the fact that it took much too long to run a comb through her hair, so matted and knotted it was each morning. Or how the milk in Orla’s cup would spoil before midday.

  None of these minor catastrophes, however, had any effect on Orla’s dancing.

  ’Twas Orla’s duty to gather small, dry branches for kindling the fire. I accompanied her one day, for turf cutting was hard work and I preferred a good walk to a sore back. And with Thomas off investigating the sheep, I felt a bit lonely. Orla didn’t talk much, but she twirled and leaped with her empty kindling basket, her feet barely touching the ground. I had to run to keep up.

  “Which one of ye is Orla the Dancing Girl?” said a mysterious voice.

  As if it wasn’t obvious.

  Orla turned around and found herself not a hand’s length away from a most unusual creature. At first small of stature, the creature rose until she was tall enough to look the girl in the eye. Her hair was almost as fair as her skin but her eyes were of the black of a moonless night. Her clothing was sewn with a fine hand; I could tell as much, what with my mother being such a skilled weaver. The dress, of deepest rose, swirled delicately to the ground. Her cape was a rich emerald green. Afraid we were, but smart enough not to show it. Fear makes itself large if you let it out.

  “I am,” said Orla.

  “I am the Faerie Queen, and I’ve come to make a wager with ye.” She ignored me as if I weren’t there at all.

  “Nay, I’ll not wager. Wagering brings nothing but shame to a family.” Orla was bold to speak in such a way to a queen. “My great-grandfather warned me against making gambles from the day I could first take a step.” And wise, too, for a girl so young. “Wealthy he once was, till he gambled it all away.”

  “Would this change your mind?” The Faerie Queen pointed to the ground at Orla’s feet. Each pebble changed into a coi
n of gold. We gasped in unison as the path sparkled before us.

  “Ahhhh,” said Orla, bending to pick up one of the golden discs.

  “Not so fast,” laughed the queen, her voice echoing through the trees, the clouds, and the sky. “’Tis simple, you see, we will have a little competition between the two of us. A dancing competition.”

  Orla could not help but smile, for she knew no one could dance as fine as she.

  I, on the other hand, felt frozen in place. I could not speak the words that formed on my tongue: Orla, do not trust the Faerie Queen! I had learned from my experiences with the wee banshee and the selkies that humans and magical beings often see things differently.

  “Whoever wins gets the gold,” the Faerie Queen continued. “Whoever loses never dances again.”

  Orla stopped smiling. “Never?”

  “Never.”

  Orla, no! ’Twill break your own heart in two if you can never dance again. But I was frozen in my tracks. I could not even catch her eye. It was as if I wasn’t even there at all.

  Obviously, I had been bewitched.

  The thought of being able to help her family and restore their wealth was too much for Orla. She balanced her weight from one leg to the other, back and forth, more and more quickly until …

  “’Tis a bargain!” cried the girl, and she held out her hand to clasp that of the Faerie Queen. As they shook, the sky clouded over and a crack of thunder filled the air. Then the Faerie Queen and the gold coins on the ground vanished in a blink.

  “Orla, what have you done?” I whispered to the morning breeze when my voice finally returned to me. But Orla was no longer there. She was skipping and dancing merrily down the path, dreaming of the gold she would win for her family.

  THE DANGERS OF GAMBLING

  News of the contest spread quickly, through both the village and the faerie kingdom, like green over the hillside in the spring. The challenge would be danced at midnight under the full moon in five days’ time. Orla practiced from sunup to sundown. Her family did not know what to think, but what was done was done. The best they could do was help Orla prepare for her challenge.

  “We’ll stay, then, to see it through?” Thomas asked me as I paused to adjust the tightness of the strings on my harp, then started plucking again.

  I nodded. I hoped he did not mind too much, for we could not leave the family in their time of need. My harp playing was necessary for Orla’s practicing. Since daybreak I’d been working hard to keep up with her feet as she created more and more intricate steps. My fingers flew over the strings until small blisters appeared under the skin. But if the blisters on her feet did not stop Orla from dancing (and I was certain her feet must be sore and swollen), then the small eruptions on my hand would not slow my strumming.

  Thomas placed his hand next to mine, then turned it over, front to back. “Look here, Trinket, not a blister nor a cut.” He took in the red bumps on my fingers. “Mayhap I’ve got the easier job this time!” He whistled as he trotted off to join the men for an easy day of work.

  The day before the competition, Orla’s great-grandfather called her to his bedside.

  “Trinket, please come with me. Great-grandfather often frightens me. He never leaves his room nor gets out of bed,” she said.

  I had been most curious about the closed door at the back of the house. But this was not something you asked about in polite company. I was learning that hunting for stories required patience.

  Usually, when a story lurked, it revealed itself in time.

  * * *

  His hair was white and sparse and even his wrinkles had wrinkles.

  “It’s been fifty years, fifty years, I tell ye,” he croaked, “since I, myself, struck an ill-made bet with the faerie folk.”

  Orla gasped. “Is that how you lost all of your—”

  “Aye. That was the gamble that ruined me.”

  “What was your wager?” asked Orla.

  “Same as yours.” Great-grandfather’s voice was like slow steps on a gravel path. “Oh, aye. These feet that can no longer walk”—he lifted a threadbare blanket to reveal a pale, shriveled foot—“once danced the sharpest steps. The Faerie Queen challenged me. She cannot abide there being a better dancer than herself. Oh, it should have been easy for me to win. I was the most fleet of foot there was, but she was tricky. Faeries always are. She changed the rules at the last minute.”

  He sat up higher in his bed, leaning toward us, beckoning us closer with his finger. He looked to the left and to the right before he continued.

  “You there, harp girl, make sure there’s no eavesdropping faeries under the window. Orla, look ye well under the bed.”

  When we assured him that no one was listening in, he went on.

  “She changed the rules. I was made to dance upon a gold coin and not fall off.”

  Orla’s eyes were as large as goose eggs. “What?”

  “Foolish and full of myself, I was. I took the wager, and increased it, betting all of my wealth, my family’s wealth, against hers.”

  We held our breaths, though we knew how it turned out. We knew that he had not triumphed, for Orla’s family was the poorest in Ringford. But still, it was painful to hear him say it.

  “I lost. We became poor because of it. In shame, I left my village a pauper. I came to Ringford to better my lot, but…”

  He reached his gnarled hand under his pillow and drew out a beautiful golden coin. “This is the coin from the bargain, the last gold this family has known. I was saving it for my burial so it wouldn’t be a burden to the family.” He grabbed Orla’s hand and pressed the coin into her palm.

  “I want ye to take it.”

  “I cannot.” Orla shook her head as she tried to pull away from the old man.

  “Ye must!” he commanded. “Worse than losing the family money was losing my dancing.” His voice caught and I looked out the window awkwardly. I would have left altogether, but Orla was between me and the door. “Money is just for buying things.” He sniffed. “Dancing is life itself. I’ll not have ye meet the same fate.”

  I could hear Orla swallow. Her eyes glassed over, but she did not cry. The full weight of her bargain landed upon us both as we stood in her great-grandfather’s bedroom. I felt the cold finger of fear tracing circles on my spine. I wondered if she felt it, too.

  “Do not be afraid, child,” the old man said gently. “You, harp girl, take her out to practice.” He waved us off.

  “That is what ye must do,” he called after us. “Practice, practice, practice!”

  A COIN AND A HOLE

  Outside, Orla tried without luck to balance her steps on the small circle of gold. Good as she was, she was not good enough to land each leap on the coin. Not only that, she practiced so hard that she wore holes in the soles of both of her shoes.

  “These will need mending,” she sighed as she unlaced the ghillies from her feet. “Have you a hand for sewing, Trinket?”

  As if I could sew with my fingers so bruised and blistered from playing the harp hour after hour!

  I shook my head. “I’ve no skill. And stitching through leather is no easy task. Have you a needle strong enough?”

  “Nay,” sighed Orla. “If I were to break one of mother’s bone needles on my shoe, she’d be more angry with me than if I lost this match.”

  “Perhaps the cobbler?”

  “’Tis worth a try,” said Orla. “Mayhap he can help me.”

  The cobbler was not at his shop. As a matter of fact, the shops were all closed. The streets were deserted and our voices echoed in the emptiness. The excitement of the competition that night must have caused everyone to go home and rest up for the big event.

  “I bet the Faerie Queen herself wears enchanted shoes made by leprechauns,” Orla complained as we walked through the empty streets of the village. “And here I am, the afternoon of the match with nothing but ruined ghillies and a gold coin.”

  Orla was beginning to lose hope. I could not let that hap
pen. There had to be a way to repair the shoes.

  And there had to be a way to thwart the Faerie Queen.

  If she was planning on changing the rules, we must plan as well.

  * * *

  Our steps echoed through the streets of the small village. The only torch still burning was at the blacksmith’s shop. We had nothing to lose, so in we went.

  The blacksmith’s apprentice was a friendly young man with hair as dark as a crow’s wing and eyes to match.

  “Can you help me?” Orla asked as she slowly pulled the gold coin from her pocket. “I’ve holes in both of my shoes and this is all I have. I’ve been practicing my dancing on this coin, for that is what the Faerie Queen will ask of me. If I cannot do it, I must never dance again.”

  “Orla, ye wee fool,” said the apprentice. “Why did ye go and do a crazy thing like that?” He looked at me accusingly, as if it had been my idea.

  “The fault is my own,” said Orla. “I was too proud of my dancing. And now I’ll never get to dance—” A small sob escaped her.

  “Now, don’t despair.” He took the gold coin from her and flipped it into the air. “’Tis about time someone beat the faerie folk at their own game.” He winked at us both. “Give me the shoes.”

  Orla untied the laces and handed the ghillies over. The smith began to measure the tips of the soles. Was he planning on patching her shoes with iron?

  “Will it cost all of the gold?” Orla whispered. “My great-grandfather wanted me to practice dancing on the coin…”

  “Nay, I’ll not charge ye at all, Orla. ’Twould be accursed money if I did.”

  He flipped the coin back to Orla, who caught it with one hand. The sight of the coin twirling through the air gave me an idea.

  “Orla, may I see the coin?” I asked.