Shelley Thomas: The Seven Tales of Trinket

Thomas and I barely spoke for fear of being overheard. The men of Foresthill were everywhere, it seemed, watching when we ate, even when we slept.

However, none of them could stay awake for three days. ’Twas near the end of the third day when even Lothar’s eyes failed him and closed. Thomas and I gathered our things, and faster than an owl can blink, we left the men of Foresthill, and headed back to the Gypsy camp.

“I think it’s a stupid plan, Trinket,” Thomas said, out of breath from running. “Well, not all of it. The part where you got them to stay awake so they would be too tired to give chase, that was brilliant.” I smiled. “And the bread part was good, too.” He patted his sack, still filled with the loaves.

“But the part where we go back to the Gypsy camp is dumb. We should go off in the other direction. They will just find us again.”

“The other direction leads to Foresthill!” I snapped, pointing to the place on the east side of my father’s map where in faded letters it said Lands of Foresthill . That was the last place I wanted to go. I could not tell from the map how large the lands were, since it only showed the edge of them. But if my father ventured there often, he would have drawn it better, I thought. If we traveled west we would eventually hit the villages on the coast, even if we didn’t find the Gypsy camp again.

“Besides, I’ve got to try to warn Feather,” I said. “She showed us kindness. Kindness should always be repaid. How could I live with myself if I didn’t try to tell her that the men of Foresthill are just waiting to carry her off?”

Thomas humphed. But he followed.

We walked through the night till dawn, only going in circles twice. Once the sun began to rise, finding west was much easier. When we reached the outskirts of the Gypsy camp, we met Feather, carrying the water buckets.

“Feather!” I cried, running to hug her.

“I thought you left. Off on your journey to see a bald, burned-up old teller,” she said, though she hugged me just as tightly.

“No, I’ve come to warn you. Feather, you are in danger.”

“I know,” she said. “I know.”

And we raced back to the camp as if demons were on our heels.

I could feel them before I heard them. And I heard them before I saw them. Six horses as dark as a moonless night. Atop them, six riders, all men. The men of Foresthill.

“We come for the seer,” the tall man said to the forming crowd. Many Gypsies had gathered at the sound of the hooves, their knives drawn.

This must be the violence and battle Feather saw in the red sunrise.

The Gypsy King came out of his tent, his sword glinting in the morning light. “Who asks for my daughter?”

One of the riders guided his horse forward. “I am Lothar of Foresthill.”

“Lothar is it?” asked the king. “And what do you, Lothar, want from my daughter?”

The Gypsies formed a barrier in front of Feather, Thomas, and me. I chanced a glance at Feather, but I could not read her face.

“She is a seer. We require a seer.” He pointed to where Thomas and I stood next to Feather. Apparently, our escape hadn’t gone unnoticed. Unfortunately, we had led them right to Feather.

Lothar was prepared for the possibility that the king would not part with his seer, let alone his daughter. The men of Foresthill began to advance.

“You need but to ask… and pay,” the king responded slyly, motioning for his men to lower their knives. He grabbed Feather’s arm and propelled her toward Lothar. The Gypsies parted and the king’s daughter stood before the tall man on the horse.

“You?” he said, looking at Feather with puzzled eyes. He glanced over at Thomas and me. Did he understand yet that he had been tricked?

Feather said nothing. Perhaps she was afraid, but her shoulders were straight and strong.

She remained silent. She put out her palm and waited. Lothar got down and pulled his brown leather glove from his hand. He placed his hand, palm up, into Feather’s own.

“Wait!” the king cried. “We have not talked of price.”

The king took Lothar aside and their dark heads bent in negotiation. I could not make out anything they said, so I turned my attention to Feather. She was staring off toward Foresthill. Thinking of a lie.

Or perhaps genuinely seeing.

When the price was agreed upon, Lothar returned to Feather and gave her his hand.

“I have already earned the right to see my future,” he said. “I have obeyed the ways of the fates.”

Feather shot me a quizzical look, a smile tugging at her lips, then turned her head back to the large hand before her.

She pondered Lothar’s palm for an incredibly long time. For a while, the silence did not seem to bother anyone. Then small coughs came from the crowd. I could hear the restlessness grow. Finally, her father approached.

“Feather, if you see so much, I will have to charge Lothar more.” It was a joke and the Gypsies laughed, but there was a hard edge to the king’s voice.

Feather looked up and blinked a few times. An unshed tear sat upon her eyelashes, waiting to drop.

Then she spoke. She did not use her low, seer voice, but instead the voice I was accustomed to hearing when we spoke to each other as friends.

“Sir, you must go now. Back to your home. Neither side will be the victor, for there is another threat…”

“And my wife? What news of my wife? Has the babe been born?”

There was silence.

“I see terrible sorrow.”

Lothar’s head snapped up and his eyes filled with pain. He mounted his horse and sped off, throwing a small bag of gold behind him. His men followed.

The Gypsy King could not grab the bag fast enough. “Well done, my girl. I shall perhaps have to increase your bride price.” He smiled at his daughter with no warmth, patting her shoulder absently as if she were a horse who had won a race, or a dog who had fetched a bone.

Feather did not even nod in acknowledgment. As they touched, I saw Feather shiver as something invisible passed from his skin through her own. She stood for a moment, as if in a trance, and then shook her head and walked away from the Gypsy King.

“Let us go, Trinket,” said Thomas. “None of this bodes well for us. We should have left by now.”

“Aye, you are right, Thomas. But Feather has become my friend. I do not know if it is the right thing to do, to leave her like this. Perhaps we should—”

I could not finish my sentence. Perhaps we should what? Wait and talk to Feather? Become further entwined in the daily lives of these Gypsies? Become so attached that I would never be able to go, never be able to find my father? Never be able to find the one story I most needed? With effort, I stopped my spinning mind. These were thoughts I did not want to think.

I entered Feather’s exquisite tent, my fingers caressing the silken flap. ’Twas the softest thing I’d ever felt and I could have touched it forever, but then I looked back at Thomas. He bounced lightly from one foot to the other, as if he needed to use the bushes, but I knew better.

“Do not take too long,” he said. “Please.”

And I would not. Thomas had been patient, and I had no wish to torment him, especially since I agreed with him. We needed to leave this place.

“Oh, you are still here. I thought you would have gone.” Feather did not look up at me. She sat, staring at a lovely piece of cloth. “For my bridal dress, someday,” she said softly as she folded the fabric. She did not even glance in my direction, but continued folding various pieces of beautiful clothing and placing them in a bag.

“You are going to run away.”