Sheila:
The girl seemed cheerful and remarkably happy to see me. Why would that be? I would have started analyzing that emotion, but the shock of her outfit pretty much took away any mental debate.
The girl was dressed in long pants and a sloppy-looking shirt that seemed not only over-sized, but masculine. She was wearing heavy boots that were coated with dust and looked badly scuffed.
Nothing about the girl’s outfit was something one should wear inside a house, plus her hair was ragged and uncombed. The braid which hung down her back made me think it hadn’t been redone since I’d seen her the evening before. It frankly looked as if she’d just gotten out of bed and not brushed it at all.
“What happened?” I asked her. “Is everyone alright?”
But even while I was staring and frozen in place by the shock of it, I was wondering what could possibly have caused the girl to be so smelly and disheveled. Had she been wrestling with a Coda bear or a wood wolf? Of course, neither of those animals would have wondered into Tinkle Town and entered a house right in the middle of the village square. But if the girl hadn’t been skirmishing with a wild animal, then . . .
Shama took a step back, lifted her shoulders almost in a shrug, then raised her hands up in the air as if perplexed by my question.
“What?” she uttered, glancing about as if the emergency I was so afraid of had been something the girl hadn’t yet noticed.
“Why are you dressed in that awful costume?” I asked, taking a step back because she smelled like a dog who’d just rolled in manure.
“Oh,” Shama said, looking down at her clothes. “I’m sorry. I’m running late this morning. The boys will be down any minute. I have to run upstairs and change.”
“I see,” I said, “but why are you wearing that? What have you been doing?”
The girl shook her head and started to laugh. “I guess I do look odd. I was tending my stallion, Frey. I have to feed, water, and brush him. Plus I need to clean up the backyard twice a day.”
I guess my mouth had flown open, something not at all usual for me. But I couldn’t get a word out before she dashed off, heading for the staircase and presumably the shower. At least, I hoped so because the girl really stunk.
I watched her sprint toward the bottom of the stairs, wondering how my mother put up with such an uncultivated ruffian.
“The coffee is on,” Shama cried out as she ran up the stairs in the most unladylike manner.
I badly needed a cup of the brew, so I made sure my mouth was closed from my early morning shocks and made my way toward the room that I suspected would hold a coffee pot.
Imagine my surprise to see that the kitchen wasn’t empty. My own mother was bending over a hot skillet with a spatula in hand. Plump little cakes looked ready to turn over. She flipped every one of them with the skill of long practice.