Shelley Thomas: The Seven Tales of Trinket

She touched my sweaty hand with her own cool one and closed her eyes, not moving even to breathe for one long moment.

Then the dark-eyed girl turned to the Gypsy King and said simply, “Do not harm these two, Father. I cannot yet see the reason that they have come, but no ill wishes travel with them. They are, after all, only children.”

The Gypsy King raised a giant eyebrow at his daughter, then scowled at the pig boy and me. He took in my plain, moss-colored britches and messy plaits. His eyes moved slowly over the elegant cloak my mother had kept in the chest. Beautiful it was, of many shades and hues. I stood straighter, trying to look worthy of such a fine piece of clothing. He turned his gaze to Thomas but in less than a second he looked away. Truly, Thomas appeared to be no threat at all, with his gangly legs, stringy arms, and threadbare shirt. Thomas’s feet were big and awkward. He was like a puppy or a colt that hadn’t yet grown into himself.

The king said nothing. He turned to leave, gesturing with his hand, and all of the Gypsies stepped back together, as if in a dance. ’Twas strangely beautiful as they all faded into their caravans and tents, leaving Thomas, myself, and the Gypsy girl alone together.

She led us into the center of the camp to a small campfire. From a pot over the flames, she ladled out bowls of broth and handed them to Thomas and me, along with chunks of bread. I chanced a smile as Thomas slurped three bowls, one after the next. I did not eat so quickly, though, for I found my head full of cautious thoughts. Why was the Gypsy King so quick to obey his daughter? What kind of girl was she?

As if she read my mind, the dark-eyed girl spoke. “You wonder about me, as well you should.”

I paused, my bread midway to my bowl of broth.

“I am a liar,” she said.

I thought I must have heard her wrong, for though most people have told small lies in their lives, ’tis few who will admit even to those. I did not speak, fearing to look the fool for misunderstanding.

“They call me Feather,” she said, nodding at me to respond.

Feather . A name birds would carry on their travels with the wind.

“This is Thomas,” I said, wishing his hair looked a bit tidier, not sticking out in all directions. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and grunted a greeting. Obviously I had not chosen him for his manners. “He is the pig boy in our village. He agreed to accompany me on my quest…”

Her delicate black brows rose.

“I seek my father; he is a bard. I was hoping I might find word of him here.”

She said nothing, so I continued. “A bard is a storyteller who travels from place to place, trading songs and stories for coin.”

“I know what a bard is.” There was a hint of annoyance in her voice. I had not yet given her the information she wanted. “What is your name?”

“I am called Trinket,” I said.

“Well met, Trinket,” Feather said. “We have not encountered a storyteller on our travels since I was younger than you are now, most likely. Mayhap the tales of my father’s temper keep them away or perhaps it is his unwillingness to pay. Whatever the reason, none have stopped at our camp for a long, long while.” Thomas and I were quiet except for the sounds of chewing and swallowing, so Feather continued. “But I remember the last one’s voice, clear as a cloudless night.”

“Do you remember his name?” I asked. She shrugged.

“My father was called James the Bard. They say I have his eyes.” I opened my gray eyes wide, unblinking.

She returned my gaze for a moment, then shook her head. “I was far too short to look into the eyes of the last storyteller that came our way. Perhaps if you had his knees.” She laughed. “Maybe you would be bard for us one night?” she asked.

“Nay,” I answered. “I do not think so.”

“What is the matter? It is only the repeating of a story. Are you afraid?” she asked.

It was my turn to shrug. ’Twas not that I feared telling a tale. The fear was that I would be horrible at it.

“Well, perhaps soon you will change your mind,” Feather said. “Now, are you going to ask me about the lying or not?” She rose and stretched like a cat, the bracelets around her wrists tinkling.

It was obvious she wanted me to. And she had saved us from being tied up, so I politely inquired, “You are a liar?”

She nodded. “Yes, I lie all the time.”

What do you do when someone tells you they lie all the time? Do you believe it? Or could they be lying when they tell you that they lie?

And why does any of this matter? ’Twas what I asked myself. Why should I care if a Gypsy princess tells lies or not? It’s none of my affair at all.

Except that I felt a shiver down low on my spine. And I was most curious.

“Why do you lie?” I asked.

“Because if I don’t, I surely will die.”

Thomas choked a bit on his soup. I patted him on the back and offered him water. Feather smiled. Her dramatic words had had the desired shocking effect.

“You will die ?” I whispered. “Truly die?”

“Well, I won’t be struck with lightning and fall to the ground in agony. But my father will kill me and I would be just as dead.”

“Surely your own father wouldn’t kill you,” I said.

“I am the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, Trinket. I am a seer. With but a touch I can see the path a life will take. With but a dream I can see when death is coming. And I know without a doubt that if I stop lying, my life will be over.”

And with those words, she rose and left Thomas and me sitting with our soup, wondering which of the nearby trees would make the best shelter.

Or if the smartest thing to do would be to leave altogether.

“What’s it like, to see what is to come?” I asked Feather as we went to the stream in the morning to fetch fresh water. Thomas was helping with the chickens. He preferred his pigs to chickens, naturally, but he preferred chickens to people. And since we had decided to stay a few days with the Gypsies, we hoped to work a bit for food and information. Maybe one of the Gypsies might remember my father. I had the secret intent of asking each and every one of them.

“Imagine the worst feeling in the world.” Feather knelt to fill her bucket. “Then imagine a feeling even worse than that. That is what it feels like when a vision comes. ’Tis the curse of a seer.”

“But can’t you use your sight to help others? I would think having the sight would be a gift.”

“You would think that, of course,” she said, “but seeing the future is no gift. For I cannot undo what is to come and it only frightens people to know the truth.”

“You cannot warn people of danger?”

“Of course I can!” she reproved. She rose, her hands on her hips. “You do not understand at all.”

She stomped off, leaving me four buckets to carry, instead of my two. It took me until the sun was high to return to the camp with the pails. Indeed, my arms were sore.

Feather was waiting for me, sitting on a crooked wooden bench near the silver-haired woman in charge of the water. The woman’s soft purple skirt swayed as if underneath she tapped an impatient foot. She looked at all the pails I carried, then back at Feather’s empty arms. But she said nothing and merely pointed to where she wanted the buckets placed. Apparently, one did not question the Gypsy King’s daughter.

“I am sorry,” Feather said. “I foresaw that you would be carrying the buckets alone, but I could not understand why I would leave you. Now I know why. I was angry with you.”

I rubbed my elbow and my wrists, not responding.