Shelley Thomas: The Seven Tales of Trinket

“Where is the foul hound?” Lord John bellowed as he charged into the room, sword drawn. He pointed his weapon at Finn and cried in anguish, “You will die now, you filthy cur!” And he raised the sword over his head, ready to swipe at the back of Finn’s bloodied neck.

“No!” I screamed with all my might. I stepped between the man and the beast, which was foolish, for Lord John was crazed. He only had eyes for the hound. Too late, I realized he would kill me in order to destroy the dog, if that’s what he had to do. “No!” I cried again, cowering now, in a useless attempt to save myself from the blow.

“My Lord!” The Old Burned Man’s ragged voice ripped through the air, louder than I’d ever heard him. He tried to grab Lord John’s arms from behind.

“I’ll have your head, man!” yelled Lord John. “The horrible beast attacked my son!”

“Nay! He did not attack! Finn did not attack the babe!” Breathlessly, I pointed behind the bed. “Can you not see?” I ran to the bed and held the child up.

The Old Burned Man did not let go of the lord. The two men struggled until finally, Lord John shifted his gaze from Finn to me and the babe.

“Look!” the Old Burned Man said, forcing Lord John’s vision to the floor near the bed.

There, bleeding on the cold stones, was a large black wolf.

“What in…” the lord began, but did not finish as he realized what had happened. The hound had not attacked the child. The wolf had. He’d probably crept in through the open tower door, though he must have been sly indeed to get inside the castle walls in the first place. And Finn had protected the babe from the wolf. The fury faded from the lord’s eyes as his sword clattered to the ground.

He ran to me, gathered the lad in his arms, and sank to the floor, weeping.

Gradually at first, so stealthily that none of us noticed, the black wolf rose slowly, teeth bared, and emitted a low, demonic growl.

We all froze. I glanced at the Old Burned Man, whose intense gaze willed me not to move, not even to breathe.

Thomas skidded into the room. He ran past the lord and the bard, straight toward me, and unknowingly placed himself between Finn and the wolf.

“Trinket! What in the world…?” Thomas gasped, bending down to the wounded dog. A snarl made him turn around.

He stepped back, but it was too late.

The wolf lunged at Thomas.

I screamed.

The wolf sank his claws into Thomas’s shoulder and pulled him roughly to the ground. Thomas cried out as he went down, but when his head slammed against the floor, he fell silent.

Whether ’twas the shrieks of the quick battle or the unnatural quiet that followed that roused him, Finn, injured and bleeding though he was, sprang at the wolf. The wolf released his hold on Thomas and growled again, his dark eyes fairly screaming, I have nothing to lose now, hound. My life is forfeit. But I’ll not cross into death without taking a human child with me.

But Finn, brave, strong Finn, could not be taken down. Their fight waged on, hound versus demon-wolf, creating a barrier between poor Thomas and myself.

“Thomas!” I cried.

But he did not answer. I could see naught but his still form on the ground, a puddle of red surrounding him.

I tried to go to him, but the firm hands of the Old Burned Man held me back.

“You can’t help him if the wolf takes you as well.”

The wolf latched onto Finn’s throat, but in that instant, Lord John was there, still holding his babe in one arm and thrusting his sword into the wolf with the other.

“Look away, my son,” Lord John cried. He held the whimpering boy close, shielding his eyes from the grisly scene.

“Thomas!” I yelled, tears making it hard to see in front of me. I stumbled away from where Finn lay breathless beside the dead wolf.

Thomas was still. So still. I put my head down to feel his breath on my cheek.

So very faint. But there nonetheless. He lived.

The useless nurse returned with her lady, both gasping from running up the stairs.

“The babe!” cried the nurse, pointing to where Lord John stood with the child in his arms. Lord John’s lips moved, as if he were praying silently. The lady let out a strangled cry and then dashed across the room to her husband and their babe.

“I’m so sorry, lass. I know he was your friend,” the nurse panted as she approached Thomas and me, wiping her nose on her sleeve. “A pity to lose one so young and strong. Died like a hero, he did, trying to save the lord’s son.”

She reached for my arm.

“Go away!” I screamed, using every bit of my voice. “He’s not dead.”

But she was not to be stopped. “Mayhap not yet, but soon most likely. Wolf gashes are nasty and foul. Do ye not see all the blood on the floor?”

I held firm to Thomas, lest she try to wrestle me away. I would not leave him, and I would not let him leave me.

We had been through too much together.

“If you be so certain he is going to pass, then you best get the priest,” said the Old Burned Man. The nurse nodded, then turned and ran back down the stairs, her footsteps and wheezing fading into nothing.

I cradled Thomas’s body in my arms. He did not move.

“Trinket.”

The voice was even rougher than usual, and right against my ear.

I did not answer.

“The bargaining coin. I know you have one. I saw you rubbing it before you told your tales.” The Old Burned Man’s hand was gentle on my shoulder and he patted my hair as if he were soothing a horse.

“Do ye have it still, the bargaining coin? The faerie gold?” he persisted.

I sniffled against Thomas and nodded.

“Place it on the floor, next to Thomas,” he whispered. “Quickly, there is little time.”

I released Thomas and reached in my pocket for the warm coin. I looked over to where Lord John and his lady were still sobbing over their son, planting kisses on all his fingers and toes. They noticed nothing in the room but the babe. Finn was panting and bleeding. The sword stuck out of the wolf and glinted in the last bits of afternoon sun that streamed through the castle window.

“Quickly, now,” the Old Burned Man said. “Place it next to Thomas.”

And so I looked into the gray eyes of my father, which shone silver with unshed tears, and set the gold coin next to Thomas’s own head.

In a blink, the coin glimmered and was gone.

The blood vanished.

And Thomas’s eyelids fluttered, just like they did in the mornings when he first awoke.

“What happened?” Thomas asked, his voice raspy and tired sounding.

Then he sat up. “The wolf! Finn!” he cried, and rushed over to where the hound lay suffering.

Thomas was just as skilled with dogs as with swine. Finn let him examine his injuries and stroke his bloodied coat. “’Twill be all right, Sir Hound,” Thomas murmured. “Ye’ve done well today. Your sire would be proud.”

He knew not the danger he’d just been in. He did not even know that I had bargained his life back with the use of the coin the Faerie Queen had given me. I watched him tend the hound, as tears of gratefulness trailed down my cheeks.

When I turned around, I found the Old Burned Man staring at me.

He blinked twice, then cleared his throat and said, “You are brave, Story Lass.”

“The coin,” I said, “how did you know?”

“I thought all bards knew the tale of the bargaining coin,” he said quietly.

I should have thanked him. I should have thrown myself at his feet and thanked him a thousand times for saving Thomas.

But I had no words.

In a bluster of robes and legs, the priest and nurse bolted into the room.

“Him!” the nurse cried, pointing to Thomas. Puzzlement filled her eyes as she took in the dead wolf, the injured dog, and the quite lively boy. “He—there was blood—and he—” she sputtered.