10.16 The Witchling Shama
I used to keep Frey’s deed of sale, the one I’d earned from Mr. Harrington after I’d tended his garden for a year, in my back pocket, but I’d stopped doing that when Mrs. Penn had bought me dresses to wear. I still had it, of course. It was upstairs in my room. But why should I need such proof? Why would a drunkard and a liar always be believed above my earnest statements? This was the whole crux of why Tinkle Town and maybe anywhere else I tried to live in would never work for me. I would always be judged as unfit, a stranger, an unloved extra person, and probably even a dishonest one. There could never be a place for me. Never. I removed myself from the officer’s clasp, then gingerly stood. “I will get my bill of sale, if you want to see it,” I said. “But then, it’s time for me to leave. I’m sorry, Frances and Carlo. I love you. I will always love you, but you have a home here, and I can’t stay.” No words have ever hurt worse. The expression in their eyes was a bitter stab. The boys had trusted me, and I was letting them down. Mrs. Penn, too. She was weeping. She knew I hadn’t stolen Frey. But she also realized that I’d reached my ending point. The fork in the road was tugging at me. Choosing another direction for my life seemed necessary, and she could see that in my face. I wanted Officer Krugel to announce that he didn’t need to see the bill of sale. But, of course, he couldn’t. He was tied to legalities — not emotion, not trust, not even the understanding of a person’s character. I glanced at the preacher. “Did you talk to others in the town before you decided to accompany this person to hunt me down? Did you bother to go to the jail where the documents from Judge Muffett are located? The judge issued a statement in the matter of my ownership of the horse. He also threw Mr. Barner in jail for contempt, because, you see, this man makes up fabrications. Anyone in the village would have told you that if you’d asked. But, perhaps, you prefer any drinking partner, even one who is a liar and a thief.” The officer cleared his throat. “I’d like to see that paper, Shama. I’m afraid that I legally must ask to do so. And as to the matter of your words concerning this man, if there is truth in your words, then both of them will be dealt with.” “If,” I said. “That’s exactly what I was talking about. Your doubt. If . . .” The boys were wailing louder, and the doctor had stepped in to help Mrs. Penn with them, to keep them from running to me again.
10.15 The Witchling Shama
I let out a piercing scream, then keeled over like an unpedaled bike. Apparently that set off Frey. He must have remembered Mr. Barner as the man who’d crept into the corral in the middle of the night and so stressed me out that I’d needed the blacksmith, Mr. Turn, to drag the thief out of his pen. I was told later that my horse was so confused he didn’t know what to do. He stood over me, not allowing anyone to get close, but he also peeled back his lips and greenish yellow teeth as a fierce-looking potential threat to anyone attempting to get close to me. The boys I was later told were screaming, and Mrs. Penn had sprung up to grab them back. The doctor had set forward to rescue me from the, as he thought, dangerous hooves that were rearing over my body, but Doc. couldn’t approach the horse, and then, Officer Krugel, completely ignoring the danger, had suddenly rushed forward to gather me in his arms even with Frey in panic mode. What a scene, and I’d missed it all. When my eyes fluttered open, the first thing I saw was Frank bending over me, protecting me, from a horse who would never harm me. Frank’s lips were on my forehead briefly, then his eyes were peering down at me, and he was saying over and over, “Wake up, Shama. Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it, my love.” I think it was the love part that brought me out of my stupor. I suddenly remembered how horrid the officer had been to me, and when my eyes scanned for the boys and for Frey, they also took in the presence of the man I wanted to see the least of all the villagers. Well, other than the mayor, who might be only slightly worse. Mr. Barner stood beside the exact same preacher I’d met on the road. Why were they here? Why had they come to see Officer Krugel? Questions pounded me, but I held them back. I wanted to jerk myself out of the officer’s arms, but I was limp from my faint, and I felt nauseated, too. “There she is,” Mr. Barner said. “And that’s my horse, the one she stole.” That was almost enough to send me back to the oblivion of the blackness of my earlier faint, but outrage struck me instead. “How dare you!” I thrust with a voice so shaky with anger, I felt it darken with witch magic. I took in a deep breath and stabilized my emotions. Stifling my fury took me a moment. I hardly felt the shift in the officer’s posture, the stiffness that entered his hold, the way something clanked in my mind like a heavy door slamming shut. He believed Mr. Barner. So much for dealing with whatever problem there was together.
10.14 The Witchling Shama
“Nothing any of us said at the table is going to change my mind, Shama. I realize that I’ve destroyed your confidence, your settling in here. I’m sorry for that, but sometimes change needs to clear away the rubbish. Let’s just move on.” I inhaled and corralled my sobs. “I was honored, Mrs. Penn, by your kind words. I appreciate how you wanted to give me a name, but I can’t . . .” I heard the back door swinging open and turned to look. The officer came strolling into the backyard like he owned the place. I turned back to Frey and resumed my brushing. Seeing me do so, Frances broke off his embrace, then turned about and raced over to him. “You’re mean! I hate you!” Frances shouted, then slammed his fist into the officer’s stomach. “Frances, no!” I yelled, chagrinned because this was my fault. I’d never meant to create a rift between them. Frances needed the officer’s positive attentions. He needed a worthy man. And the officer might not fill that need for me, but he seemed to be doing a good job with the boy. At least, before I’d gotten in their way. Chalk that up for another point in favor of my leaving. “See what you did with your lack of faith?” Mrs. Penn said. She was sitting over in the shade at the rickety old picnic table, the one I wasn’t sure was all that safe. I started to question its stability when the doctor appeared in the doorway. “Frank, someone’s here from the station. They’ve brought visitors.” That halted the whole ugly tableau. Frances, wrapped in the officer’s hold; Carlo ready to defend his brother, but not knowing how; me, brush in the air watching the shaky old bench Mrs. Penn was sitting on, and Frank, whose eyes had just completed his circumference of all the activity going on around him — we all froze. The officer released Frances with a warning about not hitting people. Then he turned and focused on the two people standing behind the doctor. I did, too. Only seeing their identity set off a whole new line of fear. I forgot the unreliable bench Mrs. Penn was sitting on and the horse that I was brushing. I even temporarily forgot the earlier argument. Everything fastened on the nasty face of the first man standing behind Dr. Stevens. It was Mr. Barner, the drunkard who’d once tried to steal Frey, the same man who’d later taken me to court so he could attempt once again to legally claim a horse that had never belonged to him.
10.13 The Witchling Shama
The boys came out to be with me. They fell into horse brushing as if that were their usual routine. It wasn’t. I’d never required them to do anything with Frey. He was my responsibility, and I didn’t think I should impose him on anyone. Besides, I was once again seriously considering leaving. If only I could bear the pain of separating myself from the boys. I knew they’d be fine. They had the officer and Mrs. Penn. It was me who’d become dependent on the boys’ hugs and kisses. “Why are you mad at Frank?” Frances asked. For a moment I considered what to tell him. I wanted to expose the jerk for who he really was, but I couldn’t do that to the boys. They needed the relationship. They’d become a family. Whoops, that word was a bite so hurtful, I almost couldn’t respond to Frances’ question at all. For a moment in time, I’d almost been part of a family. I’d almost been loved and cherished. But that was gone now. I was alone again. Except I still had Frey. Leaving the question unanswered, I threw my arms around Frey and sobbed out my pain. In a moment, I had two little arms surrounding me. Well, perhaps not surrounding me, but doing the best their small limbs could do to console me and offer their support. “We love you, Shama,” Carlo said. “He’s a fool, girl. Let it go. There are other fish in the river. You don’t need that one.” Mrs. Penn shouldn’t have walked out this far. What would the doctor say about that? But then her words hit me. I didn’t know why she was referring to fish . . . oh. She meant the officer. “I’m never speaking to him again,” I told her, completely forgetting that the ears of the boys were on red alert, absorbing every drop of my anguish. But I couldn’t unsay it. I couldn’t lie. Old Mother had lectured that a lie festers inside the soul. It eats away at a person’s core until there’s nothing left. For a white witch, that happens faster than pouring liquid lye on top of waste material. “Don’t say things you don’t mean,” Mrs. Penn lectured me. I just looked at her. What could I add to that? Officer Frank had betrayed my trust. He had hurt me worse than when the whole village threw rocks at me.
10.12 The Witchling Shama
Frank was the one who couldn’t let a sleeping dog lie. He brought up the fact that Mrs. Penn should write her daughter about her intentions. The moment he said that, I stood up and began clearing the table. I didn’t need to be part of that discussion. In fact, it made my pickle and bean sandwich threaten to activate my gag reflex. Tension always did that to me. Besides, I knew that Mrs. Penn and the two men would be ready for their coffee. And everyone would want to finish off the rest of the watermelon. It would be the perfect dessert to end their meal. But the moment I tried to remove myself from the upcoming conversation, the officer tugged me back down. “You need to stay and hear this,” he said. “It might make you think twice about installing yourself as a member of Mrs. Penn’s real family.” If I’d been a violent person, the beastly man might have gotten a slap across his growly bear face. As it was, I just jerked myself free and bolted away from not only him, but the ungrateful other beast who’d just eaten my lunch fixings and now sat there nodding his head in agreement. Two jerks! What do you call a double-headed monster? I didn’t know the answer to the riddle. I’d have to think on it. Inside the kitchen, I might have rattled the coffee cups a little more forcefully than usual, but I kept my opinions about the two men’s rudeness to myself. I served the coffee and the watermelon, then excused myself to start on the dishes. I had no intentions of sitting down with the ingrates again. My temper was flaring too close to the surface. In another minute, words might come flowing out of me, words that were better left buried deep inside. As I washed and cleaned, I heard Mrs. Penn’s raised voice. She was definitely not pleased with the men’s interference. But the three of them all seemed unaware that the boys were listening avidly. There was no doubt who’d the kids would side with. They were always on the Shama/Frey team. The kitchen was once more sparkling, the leftovers put away, and I was just about ready to go visit my best friend out in the backyard when the ugly officer entered the room. “Mrs. Penn insists that I need to apologize to you,” the man said. “It’s not necessary. You made your judgement of me known from the first. I’m a stray who wondered into your precious town bent on destruction. I . . .” “Wait a minute. I never said that.” “Every gesture and every scowl informed me of your attitude. Only you kept confusing me with kisses and those sweet mouthings that were all fabrications. I know you now. I don’t have to buy into your deceit.” “Whoa, falseness, fabrications? What are you talking about? I never once lied to you. I’m the one who was the fool. I believed in your goodness. I fell for your innocence. I thought I was in love with you . . . until this . . . this manipulation of yours.” I let out a squeal that would have made the death shriek of a throat-cut pig seem quiet. Then I ran out of the kitchen, through the dining room, and straight out the backdoor.
10.11 The Witchling Shama
While the two of them were occupied by table setting, I started the potatoes boiling. I didn’t bother with peeling them. The peels were healthy, Old Mother had told me. She’d often lectured me about not removing the most nutritional parts of the root vegetables. I hoped Mrs. Penn and the others wouldn’t object. The village families just thought I was being lazy when I left the skins on their potatoes. I had fresh cucumbers which I grated for a salad, along with some carrots. The boys weren’t fond of that, but then, as I’d said, they were still at the stage where vegetables were the enemy, to be endured and swallowed down so they could get to the good stuff, like cookies and candy. I sliced some bread and made roast beef sandwiches. That should appease the meat-eating doctor. I opened up some pickles for him, too. He doted on dill pickles for some reason. I thought them overly salty and preferred, like the boys, the bread and butter pickles, although I’d never understood why they were called that since they contained zero butter. I chopped the potatoes and added the rest of the ingredients for the potato salad, making it exactly like Mrs. Penn did. Mrs. Higgins in the village had often put bacon grease in hers. Mr. Spanning wanted his to have boiled eggs, and some of the other villagers demanded special spices that Mrs. Penn didn’t care for. Wasn’t it interesting how tastes differed? Speaking of food preferences, I mashed some baked beans from the dinner the night before and made my own sandwich, adding a juicy tomato and a few slices of dill pickle. It was rather a weird combination, but I thought it worth a try. I also gave myself a handful of watercress, which the grocery had delivered that morning. Yum. Carlo got the job of running upstairs to deliver the message that lunch was ready. While he was doing that, I let the officer pour lemonade. (Although Mrs. Penn usually required the boys to drink milk at every meal, I thought they’d enjoy some lemonade for lunch. I’d insist they drink milk with their snack later today. That would go great with the oatmeal cookies (with raisins) I’d made the day before.) When everyone was seated at the table, we dug in. Nobody complained about the potato skins in the potato salad, and the doctor ate four dill pickles! Mrs. Penn, although her appetite wasn’t fully back to normal, seemed to enjoy her half a sandwich, and she complimented everything, including the lemonade. She made no comment about the boys not drinking milk with their lunch. I was quite content that lunch had gone so well. At least, I was until . . .
10.10 The Witchling Shama
I started to get up then, not to take off back into the wilderness as I’d planned, but to get away from the insufferable males, who were both glaring at me. Hadn’t I been good to the doctor, feeding him along with the jerk of a police officer? But that was typical of males, I decided. They used you for their purposes and then . . . No. That wasn’t me. That was the cold hardness of anger. Old Mother would have called me out on that attitude, forcing me to see how I was projecting my personal hurt into resentment. Yes, I was feeling the sting of their distrust, but it wouldn’t be the first time, and the way life seemed to have a way of dealing out pain, I figure it wouldn’t be the last. I hugged the boys one more time then gently pushed them away. “How about I go fix some lunch while you two read to Mrs. Penn?” “I can’t read,” Carlo said. “Okay, then you can help me fix lunch. Your choice. Listen to your brother or work in the kitchen.” I was surprised at how torn Carlo looked by that decision. It wasn’t until Frances urged him to go with me that Carlo made up his mind. “Okay,” he said. “I can help.” “I will go with you, too,” the officer said, and there was nothing I could say that would be a polite way to disinvite him. The doctor scooted into my chair, leaving Frances to sit on the bed with Mrs. Penn, which was what he did most of the time, so she could see any word that he was struggling with. The three of them seemed well content, as was Willow who had done the going around in a circle maneuver, that always left her in the same place that she started out, curled up in a gentle mound, purring beside Mrs. Penn. As the three of us headed to the kitchen, Carlo with his hand entwined in mine and chattering about what his job was going to be in the kitchen, I thought about what I’d make for lunch. “We need face cloths and plates,” I answered Carlo. “Maybe Officer Krugel can help you with the plates. They’re kind of heavy.” “So, it’s back to Officer Krugel, is it?” the man said, his face as snarly as a guard dog on duty when a prowler came around. “I call him Frank, even though he’s big,” Carlo informed me. “My mom said I should always call big people by their last names, but Frank said different. He told me to call him Frank.” “That’s a good policy in general,” I said. “I mean about calling grownups by their Mr. or Mrs. name.” “Is that why you call Frank that?” “No. I call him Officer Krugel because . . .” I stopped. It wasn’t fair to pull little Carlo into my vexation. I sighed. “Do you think I should make some potato salad?” Since that was one of Carlo’s favorite foods, he gave a loud cheer of approval.
10.9 The Witchling Shama
“Frank, you’ve distressed me the most. Shama has done nothing to provoke your distrust. She has been endlessly accommodating, loving, and caring. You should receive her as a potential bonus to end your stubborn, bachelor-prone ways. You would, if only you could lay your suspicions aside and SEE her as the person she is.” Willow had leapt from my arms at the introduction of either my yells or the arrival of the two men. She was back to rubbing her head against Mrs. Penn, acting like she was Mrs. Penn’s familiar and not mine. I tried not to let that disturb me. It wasn’t like I didn’t have other matters of concern at the moment. Both boys were softly crying and clinging to me as if their heart had once more been ripped open and shredded in the anger of the moment. I knew that was my fault for being so upset by Mrs. Penn’s offer and by another rejection in trust by Officer Krugel, plus the suspicions of the doctor. I bent over and hugged the boys, doing my best to soothe them while murmuring soft words of love. My caring for them was certainly no lie. If I could take them with me, I definitely would, but they belonged in Tinkle Town, and I sometimes had doubts as to whether I would ever truly belong. My past always seemed to catch up to me. “Not, you, too, Doc. What gives you the right to lecture me about what I wish to do?” Mrs. Penn said fussing angrily at him. Whatever he’d whispered, I hadn’t heard. “You already have a daughter,” he lectured Mrs. Penn. “She’s your rightful heir and shouldn’t be displaced by the first young female who crosses your path and offers kindness while you’re ill. What would your daughter say about this idea?” “Is this the same daughter who hasn’t bothered to come to visit me in three years?” Mrs. Penn asked with an ascorbic tongue. “Besides, I never said I was going to write her and my grandchildren out of my will. I only said that I want to adopt this girl. I went ahead and bought this house from the Council. Shama can inherit it, and my daughter can have the home she grew up in — not that she wants it. “But you’re talking like I’m about to die,” she added. I have no intention of doing so. I just want to enjoy my last years on Earth, and this child is how I figure on doing that, if she’ll let me. Since Frank over there is too stupid and too prejudiced against newcomers to see it any other way, I plan to have myself a family. If the Council would let me, I would love to adopt . . .” She suddenly stopped, slapped her hand over her mouth and said, “That’s enough of that. My mouth is running away with my intentions. Shama hasn’t said yes, and so we have a stalemate.” She scooted up in bed, smoothed down the covers, and said, “Frances, are you ready to read to me now? I think you can see Shama isn’t going anywhere. I’m planning on asking if she’ll let me live here with you permanently, so we can all be a family. Would you like that? Could I be your grandma?” Frances was nodding emphatically. Then, Carlo, glancing first at me, then back at his brother again, followed suit. “Grandma,” he said. I sighed, feeling trapped. Was this a good thing? Wasn’t it what I’d always wanted? Why did I feel chills running up and down my spine?
10.8 The Witchling Shama
“That noise you heard was only Shama’s humble and amazed scream when I told her I planned to adopt her and give her my name,” Mrs. Penn declared, looking proud of herself and laughing at the two men in their struggle to enter the room, since neither of them was willing to back away and let the other go first. “Frank, let the doctor come in and verify my sanity, please. You can follow after.” I stood up, ready to retreat. Unfortunately, although Frank had followed Mrs. Penn’s order and allowed Dr. Stevens to enter the room, he still stood in the doorway, barring my exit. “I am glad you are here,” Mrs. Penn told the doctor. “Now you can both be witnesses. I plan to adopt the child. Will you attest to my wishes?” Dr. Stevens turned his head to regard me. He studied me a moment in silence. “What do you have to say to that?” he asked me. “I . . .I . . . I” A croaking frog would have been more agile of tongue than I with my dumbfounded stutter. “I see,” the doctor said. He swung about to stare at Mrs. Penn again. “What do you know of the girl’s history? She’s a vagrant, an intelligent child, it is true, but without more information about her background, we cannot be sure that she . . .” “Enough,” Mrs. Penn yelled out. “I didn’t ask your opinion. Only your witness to the fact that I have laid down my intentions.” Frank finally strolled into the room. “Did Shama put you up to this?” Was Frank back to his scowling distrust? That angered me. I whirled about. “I didn’t ask for any of this. I simply did a good deed and have paid for it ever since with . . . “You’re going to leave us,” Frances said, suddenly running into the room to thrust himself at my body, an arrow that stung both with its force and through its words. Carlo, right behind him as always, formed a second thrust of animated protest. “No. I didn’t say that. I only meant . . .” I don’t know what I would have said then. My tongue was numb with distress. My heart was an open sore. Hurt was a rumbling volcano of lava that was only one second from rupturing. “Everyone, quiet down. Shama, sit down. Boys, be still. Men, hush.” Mrs. Penn’s voice was not as strong as formerly, but it still had that element of schoolmarm demand. We all obeyed like a group of naughty little children.
10.7 The Witchling Shama
I had just brought Mrs. Penn a cup of tea. She’d returned to her bed, still weak enough to relish an afternoon nap. She motioned to put it on the table, which I did. Then she asked me to sit down so she could discuss a few things with me. Willow looked up and winked. I knew then that something was brewing, something much stronger than the weak tea I’d brought Mrs. Penn. “Willow and I have been chatting,” Mrs. Penn said. Okay, I blinked at that. In fact, my eyes must have widened fatter than the iris of a sunflower. Two possibilities: either Mrs. Penn was hallucinating or . . . A familiar could only speak to a witch. A commoner could never hear them. Was Mrs. Penn getting sick again? Had she had a relapse? “No, I can see that my words have worried you. Willow explained that you are too young to be fully developed, but she says that I, even though I have almost no white witch power, once had that tendency. I could have been a witch, had I known. But that is neither here nor there. I can hear her, Shama, and I know what you are and why you left your former home.” I bolted up, ready to run off, ready to leave Tinker Town and everyone I’d come to love. “Shama, stop,” she said, holding her hand up like I’d seen Frank do when he wanted to halt someone’s retreat. “I will not hurt you with this knowledge. In fact, I will never allow any harm to come to you. We are bonded, we two.” I cautiously resettled myself on the chair, on the edge, it’s true, but at least, I hadn’t scrambled to the door, fleeing into the wilderness of an unknown future. My eyes fastened on Mrs. Penn’s. I was listening, not understanding where this was going, but willing to hear her out. “I would like to adopt you, if you’d let me. Maybe that’s the wrong word. You are twenty, almost fully grown, but I want to give you my last name, at least. Will you let me do that?” I had not expected anything that wonderful. The breath fled my lungs as surely as if I’d fallen off Frey and been purged of air. I gasped but found no relief from the suddenness of my lack. “Willow, go to her,” Mrs. Penn commanded, and just as strangely, the kitten leaped into my arms, purring air back into my lungs. When my breaths were regular, and my huffs and puffs a mere memory, I regarded Mrs. Penn with skepticism. “Have you taken leave of your senses? If you know about me, and I don’t understand how you could know — and Willow wasn’t even with me in the village. She couldn’t see what happened there.” “She knows. Old Mother talks to her, and . . .” “Old Mother is dead.” I shot up, at the end of my tolerance for such a strange conversation. “What’s this yelling about?” Frank and Dr. Stevens cried out, storming into the room in a massive surge of masculinity that meant neither were able to get through the doorway.