Shelley Thomas: The Seven Tales of Trinket

My father’s map was dotted with small coastal villages. Rugged they are, as are the people who inhabit them. You must be strong of spirit to live with the ocean as your neighbor. Sometimes, she is as gentle as a new lamb, soft and placid. You might not even know she is there, but for her salty scent and the gifts of fish she bountifully brings. But other times, she is angry. She takes things that do not belong to her, and she does not return them.

The people who live on the land are not the only ones who are at the whim of the Mistress of the Sea. There are others.

Thomas and I came over a hill and upon a village called Conelmara that looked as if it had just lost an argument with the Mistress of the Sea. The thatch was blown off the houses, trees were uprooted from the ground, bits and pieces of everything lay about.

“Perhaps this is not the best place to take shelter. These poor folk probably have not much left to eat themselves, let alone anything to share with two roamers,” I said. Checking the map, I could see there were other villages a bit farther along. I wondered if my father had told tales at every village he passed on his travels, or if he had let his stomach determine his stops.

Thomas just grunted his response.

“You know, you’ve really got to learn to converse. Ask a question or two. I get tired of hearing my own voice all the time.”

Thomas groused, “Fine. I’ve a grumble in my belly so loud and fierce it could be heard all the way to heaven and back.” He paused. “Here’s a question: What would be worse, Trinket, to be starving, but have no food, or to be dying of thirst and have no water?”

“I don’t know, Thomas.”

“Well, I can’t tell myself, because I’ve both. I’ve a thirst big enough to drink a lake and a hunger loud enough to frighten a ghost.”

“’Twould be a good story, Thomas. Mayhap if we keep going, we will find the Old Burned Man, and you can share it with him.” I laughed and tried to make light.

“Me? I’ve no wish to tell tales.”

“Mayhap… I do,” I said tentatively.

“Mayhap you what?”

“I want to tell stories. Do you think I could, Thomas?” I spoke quickly, afraid I would lose my nerve and keep my dream forever trapped inside. But since we’d left the Gypsies, I’d thought of little else.

“Well, of course you’ll be a teller, Trinket. What else could you possibly be?”

I smiled. I’d feared Thomas would tease me. His belief in me made my heart feel not quite so hollow.

“Would you sing songs, too? A good bard always has songs, you know.”

“Yes. I suppose I could write a song or two.” Already words and rhymes danced in my head, joined by fleeting melodies.

As I thought more about becoming a bard, I remembered that my mother had always encouraged my tales. She’d laugh and tell me I was like him. Like my father.

Those were, however, babes’ stories. Not what I sought at all. Now I quested for words that would sing in the hearts of those who heard them. Tales that were made of dreams. And I would need seven. Then I could stay in one place for a whole week and tell a new tale each night.

“What would you like to do then, Thomas? What do you think your path is?” The longer we talked about things other than his hunger, the better.

“I dunno. I’ve given some thought to it, though. Sometimes I feel it in my bones to be a healer.”

I gave him a look. Thomas the Pig Boy a healer? Now that would be a story.

“Oh, not for people. For animals, mayhap. Do they have those, do you think, animal healers?”

“I suppose they might.”

Looking up from where he’d been kicking a pebble down the road, Thomas groaned. “This is really a wreck of a town. But maybe we can find a meal here. Or a bed. Or both.” I had not the heart to force him on. So we stopped at a rather dilapidated house, the closest one to the road.

The owner, Mister Fergus, surprised us with his kindness, offering us chowder and warm pallets for our rest.

“You are a wiry lad, but perhaps you have strength in your bones?” said Mister Fergus. He was strong and weathered, with a roundish nose that sat atop a gray moustache. Thomas looked from side to side, then, realizing Mister Fergus was talking to him, puffed himself up a bit. “We can use a lad like ye to help us rethatch the cottages.” Thomas nodded over his fish stew. He was not a lazy lad, most days anyway, and if the work meant food in our bellies, he was more than willing.

“I am not as strong as Thomas, but I can help, too,” I offered, glad I was wearing my britches.

Mister Fergus looked me over. “Have ye an ear for a tale, lass?”

I nodded. An ear for a tale? ’Tis what my ears were meant for!

“There is a lady who lost her husband to a storm a month ago, and just the other night lost her babe, too. Nigh on crazy she is, insisting the babe is still alive. We searched and searched, but the Mistress of the Sea must have claimed him.”

I could feel tears welling in the back of my eyes. I, too, had lost loved ones. Mayhap I did not want to do this task, whatever it might be.

“She’s in need of a lass who will listen to her, dry her tears, and pat her shoulders, so the rest of us can get the work done. She’s done naught but stagger from one to the next of us, begging us to listen to her story. Begging us to keep looking for the babe.” His voice trailed off and he sighed. “In the morn, I’ll take you to her. Best you rest well now.” He motioned to the pallets he’d arranged by the hearth. “You’ll be warm enough there, I think.” Mister Fergus did not wait for me to say yes. And Thomas was asleep before I could even talk with him about it. So I laid my head on the straw and closed my eyes, but no slumber came. Thoughts of mothers without their children and children without their mothers drifted through my wakeful brain.

The sun had just peeked over the hill when Mister Fergus took me to the cottage closest to the sea.

’Twas obviously the first house to be repaired, for on its roof was fresh, new thatch. The people of Conelmara must care for this woman a great deal.

“Catriona, there’s someone here to see you,” Mister Fergus called, and with that, he shoved me inside the house, closing the door behind me.

I expected her home to be a mess, for what care would a grieving woman have for neatness and order? But it was not. Everything was tidy. Linens were folded, chairs pushed into a small table, floor swept. “Hello,” I called. “Mistress Catriona?”

She appeared in the doorway of what must have been the bedchamber. Her long hair was brushed and the green dress she wore was clean and unwrinkled. She might have been beautiful, but for the swollenness of her eyes and the purple circles underneath. She looked as if she’d shed every tear she was capable of shedding. Before she could ask, I blurted out, “I am Trinket. I am the daughter of James the Bard. I am searching for him but I’ve not found him. I’ve come to gather stories as well.” Well, that did not sound very compassionate at all. “Mister Fergus told me about your baby, and your husband, too. I am very sorry.” My voice faltered on the word baby . It was horrible to lose a parent, as well I knew, but it was dreadful to think of a baby dying. “My own mother departed this life not long ago…”

“Thank you,” she said, her voice deep and soft. “I was sorry to lose my husband. The Mistress of the Sea was greedy. ’Twas not only my man that she took. Many lost their lives that day.”