I introduced the three people I had brought with me: the milkmaid (Mrs. Swenson), the apothecary (Mr. Tully,) and the former owner of Frey (Mr. Mathewson). “They will help substantiate my story,” I said.
“Thank you, Miss . . . Thank you, Shama.”
Judge Muffett first allowed the disputes of others to be heard before Mr. Barner was to get his opportunity to speak. It was the usual group in the village who had always and continuously griped about the cost of my care when I was a youngling. Although they hadn’t filed any legal paperwork, these house parents still wanted a chance to petition the judge for renumeration, which they said should be allotted to them with the sale of the horse, Frey. Each couple sounded bitter for being bound to me for six months. They named me, as they pointed in my direction, “that small unwanted orphan child.”
I wish I could say that their outpourings had left me cold and unfeeling, but my hankie was entirely twisted and knotted by the time that group was finished harping about my earliest years which had caused them “a great financial hardship.”
When the judge said it was my turn to respond to his questions, my voice had turned harsh from unexpressed tears, and a severe case of the sniffles was plaguing me from my shame at being so openly called unwanted and burdensome, the other terms that seemed to follow me around. But I drew in deep breaths and told the judge how I had been doing my best to repay these house parents by doing chores almost every day.
“And for how long have you attempted to work out this debt you’ve taken on?” the judge asked.
“As long as I can remember, your honor, but I remember that I fervently began at age five, feeling it my obligation to pay in order to make up for being a freeloader.”
The judge snorted at that. “Why would you call yourself that?” he wanted to know.
“It was what they called me, your honor, and I accept it. I should not have been their burden.”
Judge Muffett shook his head, glanced back at the complaining villagers and asked for specific dates and details about who had received what labor in the past year. I relayed the chores each usually asked me to do. When the judge asked the houseparents if that was true, none denied that my statements were true.
“She’s a young, feeble, and rather scrawny girl. She does what she can, but it’s not much. Her efforts can never fully recoup the expenses of rearing her,” Mr. Wilson explained.
“Shama, no last name,” the judge said, then glanced back at the petitioners. “Why is it that not one of you could have spoken up and given this poor child a name? For that alone you should be stooped over with guilt and hiding your faces with shame.”
Ignoring the judge’s scorn, Mr. Wallens, a second housefather stood up to speak, addressing one part of the judge’s words. “No one was willing to do so, Judge. It wasn’t just us. Her parentage was in question. No family from here, that’s for certain. Who would want to add such an unknown to their family line?”
“I see,” the judge stated, but it was simple to read his face. His cheeks drew inward when his temper flared. His eyes turned a darker gray, reminding me of the color of a river stone when first seen lying at the bottom of a creek. The man’s hands flinched and sometimes even fisted, showing that although he had a professional air of calm, he was anything but.