Shelley Thomas: The Seven Tales of Trinket

“You see, that is what it is like for me. I see things, but I do not understand them. I do not know what to tell people…”

“So you lie?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you not just tell them the truth?” I asked.

Feather led me to a small tree near a beautiful tent made of dark ruby and golden silks. We sat in the shade of its branches. Feather glanced from side to side, then whispered, “Because I don’t understand what I see. How can I explain what I don’t understand?”

I did not have an answer.

“I see flashes when I touch a hand or search into a palm. But then again, maybe they are just thoughts, the same as you have a thousand times a day. Sometimes, I see nothing at all. And people won’t pay gold coins for nothing at all. There is an expectation, you see. Seventh daughters of seventh daughters have the sight . Everyone knows that.” Feather cut her eyes to where a line was beginning to form outside of the tent and lowered her voice even further. “Perhaps I have no gift at all… but…”

“But?”

“But there are things that I know will come to pass, but I have no words to explain them and then…”

“You started lying.”

“Well yes, to keep my father happy, though even he cannot tell whether my words are truthful or not. I like to think of it this way. I can either foretell the future—or I can create it.” Her face turned smug and there was something in her eyes that made the hairs on my arms stand straight up. “Whatever I predict, well, it happens simply because I say it will.”

“That makes you very powerful.”

“Doesn’t it, though?” Feather smiled. She had found a way to become an even more imposing figure than her father, the Gypsy King.

Was even he bound by her prophecies, true or false?

“Why are you telling me this?” I asked, not to be impolite, but out of curiosity. I had just met the girl the night before and now she was confiding her secrets.

“Why indeed,” Feather said, as if to herself. “I do not know. But for some reason, it feels good to be truthful at least to one person.”

I nodded. I understood about truth. Wasn’t I searching for truth myself?

At that moment, the very figure of the Gypsy King loomed over Feather’s head.

“Do not neglect your duties, daughter,” he scolded. “Do you not see the line? There is gold to be made. Leave the chores to the girl.” He dismissed me with a wave of his hand. “Go. And let the seer do her work.”

He dragged Feather by the arm until she shook him off and walked of her own accord to the lovely tent with dark silks covering the entryway. Winding through the camp was a line of Gypsies and folks who must have traveled from nearby villages we’d not yet encountered. The procession trailed past the bushes and into the forest. Feather turned toward me before she entered the tent, her dark eyes sad. She glanced up at her father, who was not looking, and made a face.

“You should have heard the lies I told today,” Feather whispered to me a few nights later as we huddled under a quilt by the small fire Thomas had built near our campsite by an old tree. It was just far enough away from the Gypsies’ caravans that Thomas felt it safe to sleep. He’d not forgotten how quickly they could pull out their knives. He had already fallen asleep, his snores gentle and rhythmic. “I told a man he would marry a woman far better for him than the selfish one he pines for,” she continued. “And I told an old woman her young grandson would get more work done if he were fed well rather than beaten with a stick.”

“And what will happen now?”

“Well, I might have just changed the future. But I am not certain. I will know next week, when they come back, of course.”

“What if they are angry because your fortune did not come to pass?”

“Oh, I shall place the failure of the fortune back upon them. Oh, you must do more to earn such a future, I will say. The fates are fair. Sometimes gold payment isn’t enough. ”

“So truly, you just stall for a while,” I said.

“Of course. Sometimes up to three times. Or I think of tasks for them to do to keep them busy. Then they come back with more gold to hear their new fate. It is good business, really, to keep them wanting more.” She rubbed her temples with her fingertips. “Oh, but I do grow tired of it all sometimes. Especially thinking of new lies. It makes my head ache.”

We were quiet then. There was comfort in the hush of the night. Was this what it had been like for my father? Meeting strangers, sharing meals, becoming friends? Had he become so intertwined with life in a town or village that he stayed there and never came back?

Perhaps he had. However, I would not be so easily distracted from my quest. And I was finding out nothing from the Gypsies about a storyteller who might have visited them five years ago. Each time I asked about James the Bard, I was met with shrugs or shaking heads. Even if they did know anything about him, I had a feeling that they’d not tell. Though the Gypsies fed Thomas and me for our work, and tolerated our presence, none of them had offered us a sleeping place inside their caravans. Thomas thought that was fine enough, for he claimed he’d always have to sleep with one eye open.

Only Feather had offered friendship. However, I was not following my father’s map in order to make friends.

“I think we shall leave soon,” I confessed. “Thomas was eavesdropping on the people waiting in line for their fortunes. He heard that an old bard is telling stories but a day or two from here. Maybe he knew my father. I am thinking that bards likely know of other bards; perhaps they are even friends.”

“Ah yes, you and your precious quest.” There was no emotion in Feather’s voice. I could not tell if she foresaw our leaving or if it surprised her. Either way, she was not pleased.

“He is called Fergal the Bald and he is quite famous,” I said. I wanted to say, And I do not want to stay here much longer lest it become too hard to leave , but I had better manners than that. “And there is another teller, the Old Burned Man, who is but a few days in the other direction.”

“Ew. Bald and burned? They sound so unsightly. I myself would like a handsome bard.” Feather sighed. “I wager that your father was a handsome bard. What was his name again?”

“James,” I said. “James the Bard. And yes, he was handsome.” When I closed my eyes, I could still see his dark wavy hair. I could feel the smoothness of his cheek against mine as he hugged me before I slept. And I could see his clear gray eyes. The same as my own.

Feather shrugged. The name meant nothing to her. “Why do you seek a father who doesn’t even want you? After all, ’twas his choice to leave and not return.”

Her words were harsh, though I did not think she meant to be so cruel. And it was a question I had asked myself again and again.

“Of course, mayhap he has not returned because he is dead,” she added.

Yes. I had considered that as well.

“I am looking for the truth,” I confided, at last trying to put into words the longings of my heart. “I must know .”

Feather took my hand in hers, placed her other hand over it, and closed her eyes.

“I have to find out,” I said. “Why would a man who loved his wife and child leave and never come back?”

When she opened her eyes, she spoke in a whisper.

“Trinket, why do you seek only that story? There are many out there, you know. And you, with the blood of a bard! Were you to collect several tales, say seven, why you could trade for food and shelter for a whole week. Maybe even coin. It must be better than hauling buckets of water. You are a teller, Trinket, whether you believe it now or not.”