10.6 The Witchling Shama
From that day on, Mrs. Penn slowly recovered. Dr. Stevens said it was due to the medicine he’d given her, and I didn’t argue, knowing that his formula for what ailed Mrs. Penn used the very same ingredients I had recommended. But I knew something he didn’t. It was the purr of my familiar that had kept Mrs. Penn from diving down into death’s spiral. Willow had saved her life. The two had bonded during their time together, the kitten spending almost every moment beside her in the bed. The soups I’d been fixing Mrs. Penn were replaced soon by normal meals. Willow, who up to that time had never been willing to eat from anyone’s dish but mine, began accepting pieces of meat or vegetables that Mrs. Penn offered her. Poor Frey was feeling rejected since Willow was spending so little time with him. I promised the stallion extra treats and began grooming him twice a day to help make up for his loneliness. The boys helped, too, although Carlo only liked the feeding carrots part. Grooming, even with a step stool, was not agreeable to him. I think he was afraid of being up high, or having Frey move unexpectantly which he feared might send him tumbling down to the ground. Frances dutifully began reading to Mrs. Penn, and, of course, Carlo, his forever shadow, sat beside him and listened. It was good for all three of them, and Willow purred the whole time, obviously delighted by all the positive vibes flowing about the room. A week later, Dr. Stevens declared Mrs. Penn able to get up for a bit. Then the reading activity moved into the living room. Carlo liked that better because he could sit on the ground playing with his toys while listening to the purring cat, his big brother’s reading, and Mrs. Penn’s light discourse. And me? I was as happy as the rest of them. Maybe even more so. Life was turning sweet as the boy’s favorite banana ice cream. (Not my favorite, but no one else liked vanilla.) Oh, and Frank, who still spent most of his off hours at the house, had completely stopped glaring at me. Old Mother used to warn me that When Nature is plump, the fattened fawn grows lazy. That had made no sense at the time. Nature’s weaning process usually took place during times of scarcity, but Old Mother was the smartest person I’d ever met. She knew things that no one else did. She was right about this, too. I was the fattened fawn.
10.5 The Witchling Shama
After dinner, Frank volunteered to do the dishes. He got the boys to help. (I cringed a little at that, wondering what the kitchen floor would look like when the dishes were done, but I also knew that it was a good thing when boys were taught that kitchen duty was not a woman’s thing. Learning that meal prep required clean-up was also a useful concept.) Dr. Stevens and I entered the room where Mrs. Penn was sleeping. I was carrying a tray of food, and he had his medical bag. Mrs. Penn opened her eyes and ordered me to take the food away, saying that the sight and smell of it made her feel ill. I offered to fix her some soup, but she didn’t act like that would be welcome either. Meanwhile, the doctor and I made sure that our patient drank some water. I had brought some apple juice, as well, but Mrs. Penn wasn’t willing to even take a sip of that. Dr. Stevens did his doctor thing, administered some liquid medications, which he assured Mrs. Penn and me would fix her right up, then departed. The moment he left, Willow came running into the room, jumped up on the bed and walked her way up to Mrs. Penn. I tried to stop the kitten, but she dodged my efforts. Meanwhile, her purr was so loud that Mrs. Penn opened her eyes. “Why, Willow has come to see me,” Mrs. Penn said, sounding so pleased that I stopped trying to stop Willow from rubbing her kitty face against Mrs. Penn. “Should I take her away?” I asked. Mrs. Penn shook her head, smiled at me, and spoke. “Absolutely not. I feel better with Willow here. Will you let her stay with me? Please?” “You remember that she’s only a kitten. Any moment now she’ll decide to jump on a toe she thinks is wiggling, lick your cheek, or attack your hair.” Mrs. Penn actually let out a giggle. A girlishly cute giggle! “Oh, I hope so,” she said. She reached out and petted the kitty, stroking her head, then under her chin. Willow’s purr grew even louder, although I wouldn’t have thought such a thing were possible. I mean, it was already so loud, it sounded like the boys when they crooned along with one of the songs I sang to them at night. “Oh, my,” Mrs. Penn giggled again. “I think I’d love a cup of tea. Would you mind making one for me, Shama?” Of course I agreed. I left Willow as she was, up on the bed, snuggling right on top of Mrs. Penn’s pillow. The purr was still going, Mrs. Penn was chatting to the kitten, and both of them looked as content as a small child with his first ice cream cone. When I returned with the cup of tea, it was to find both kitten and Mrs. Penn fast asleep, both tucked under the blankets. I set the cup of tea by the bedside, in case Mrs. Penn woke up later, but I figured it had been a wasted trip — except, I could hear the exhale of Mrs. Penn’s gentle snores. Her breathing sounded better, no longer as congested. Her chest wasn’t heaving giant whistles and lengthy stressed breaths, either. I left the door open in case Willow needed to leave, but just before I exited the room, I met the half-opened eye of a fuzzy kitten. Thank you, Willow, I thought in witch tongue. The kitten yawned, tucked her head back under the cover, and purred with a renewed and mighty motor.
10.4 The Witchling Shama
That whole day, Mrs. Penn spent in bed. We tiptoed about the house, making sure not to wake her. Frank, although he left to do whatever officers do in the daytime when they’re not irritating the heck out of people like me, popped in for lunch and returned again at dinnertime. I was in the kitchen, putting the last touches on the green beans and mashing the already cooked potatoes when I heard a heavy knock at the door. Dr. Stevens, I thought to myself, recognizing the door basher. Frank called out that he’d let the doctor in. I was glad, because I had a pot roast to get out of the oven, and I still wanted to fix a green salad, although I knew the boys wouldn’t be enthusiastic about it. They weren’t vegetable fans. Frances, in particular, always tried to hide anything green under the unfinished leftovers on his plate. I’d already warned him about stomach aches and that the failure to eat vegetables might stunt his growth. I hoped that wasn’t a lie. I’d have to ask the doctor privately. “But he wants to look like Frank,” Carlo had said when I’d told Frances that needing vegetables to grow tall. Carlo looked worried about that. “Will Frances get muscles if he doesn’t eat vegetables?” Frank snorted, but backed me up. He pretended to like vegetables, but I was pretty sure that he felt more or less the way the boys did. Perhaps it was a male thing, I surmised, reflecting back on some of the fathers back in the village who had also frowned at the pile of greens on their plate. I’d had to start frying bacon and mixing it in the greens to get them interested in vegetables. I wondered if that would improve Frances’ reception to them. I had the full dinner on the table when Dr. Green sat down by the plate I’d laid out for him. Before sitting next to the boys, I asked the doctor if we should assist Mrs. Penn to the table, but he shook his head. “She’s better off resting. After dinner, we can take her something, but I’d rather she kept to her bed.” So, we sat down to partake. I had my usual salad, which the doctor frowned at. “You need meat, young lady,” he said, looking like he was ready to give me a full lecture on nutrition. “She never eats meat,” Frances said. “And she never gets sick. She told us that.” “Yeah, and she rides like she’s part horse,” Carlo said. It was hard not to chuckle over that. It was a strange thing to say, but Carlo’s meaning was clear. I rode well, not that I looked like a horse (I hoped.) Anyway, the doctor got caught up in his eating and forgot his lecture. His preoccupation with his meal meant that I was free to enjoy my salad. (It didn’t have meat, but it did have peas, cheese, and a sprinkling of walnuts, so my protein sources were well supplied.) Willow, who almost always sat on the floor beside me, eyed the doctor with a suspicious eye, but remained in her place, patiently waiting for my leftovers. (Yes, one would assume that a cat would not eat salad, but Willow had odd eating habits. Only rarely did she take a piece of meat from one of the boys, and then only to be friendly, not with great eagerness. I worried that cats were naturally carnivores and needed meat for their sustenance, but cats are cats, which means they can’t be argued with. Obstinacy and self-reliance are in their persona.)
10.3 The Witchling Shama
“Too bad we can’t fetch Bill. He’d love it here,” I said wistfully. “I think people would be kinder to him and old Clarence in Tinkle Town.” “Was Bill your boyfriend? Should I be jealous?” I laughed. “Sure. Bill was my boyfriend. He and his horse Clarence.” “Real competition, I see,” Frank said, kidding me, but looking a touch worried. “Tell me about him. How old is Bill?” “His thirties, I guess. I don’t know why they sometimes called him Old Bill. He should have been Young Bill.” I’d walked over to the faucet and the bar of soap I kept next to it. I began to soap up my hands with a good, solid lather to remove any nastiness from my manure collecting. Frank followed me, his lips twisted into a sour expression that didn’t look like he was enjoying the conversation anymore. “Did Bill ask you out? Were you dating?” I laughed again. “No one dated where I was from. Not ever. When a boy liked a girl he just started showing up for meals in the young woman’s house. Then the two would sit on the porch swing or play a game with the younger kids while her parents kept watch. As for me, I never had anyone take an interest in me. I had no family, no last name. You know that.” “What does having a family or a last name have to do with it?” Frank had grabbed my arm to stop me from walking away. I looked down at his hand and cleared my throat to get him to remove his overly possessive hold. If he understood my throat clearing, he ignored it. “What does not having a family or a last name have to do with not getting yourself a beau? Obviously, you and Old Bill had something going on.” I jerked my arm away. “Bill was not my beau. He was a man with the mental age of a five year old. Probably, Carlos is smarter than he was. But Bill was kind, and he liked me. No one else did for a very long time. “Wow. Explain that one, Shama, although you still haven’t answered my other question. I absolutely do not understand about the things that went on in that village of yours.” “Which is good,” I snapped, hopefully ending the conversation, “because I don’t want to talk about it. That’s my past, and I left it behind. Hopefully, the future will be better.” I mock laughed, trying to show that the subject was thoroughly closed and that we needed to move on. I hoped the officer would finally get the message and stop his constant inquisitions.
10.2 The Witchling Shama
Since the boys were enjoying themselves chasing each other around, I figured it would be a good time to scoop up some manure. Cleaning was an everyday practice with horses. Flies and angry neighbors made it a necessity. I still didn’t have a wheelbarrow, but doing clean-up regularly kept my load from being too great. I was using the shovel I’d found in the shed. I think it was a snow shovel with a flat portion and a long handle. Of course, I’d accidentally dropped plops on my way to the garbage bin. “That’s not practical,” the man said, watching me with an amused look on his very handsome face. “You need some kind of cart, and how are you going to deal with dumping the garbage can when it’s all full?” “That’s a good question,” said. “Don’t you have someone who comes around to pick up the trash?” The officer, Frank, shook his head and tried to take the shovel away from me. I held on, so, of course, more plops hit the dirt. “Let me do it. You don’t have to do everything by yourself.” Another head shake from me, and Frank shrugged his shoulders and gave up. I quickly cleaned the piles that had fallen off the shovel and tossed Frey’s goodies in the trashcan. “Nope,” Frank said. “No garbage collection now. We used to have a guy who did that, but he moved away, retiring to the village where his children live. You know his old house. It’s the one with the corral and the trough you emptied out.” That announcement caused me to dump a whole shovelful. Exasperated by my carelessness, I sighed, then scraped the stinky stuff back into a pile that I could lift and carry again “Bill used to take care of our village trash,” I said, remembering the way he’d smiled at me whenever he saw me. Bill had been a nice man in his thirties, but unfortunately, according to Old Mother, he’d been born wrong and had the brain of a child. Bill liked to talk and talk, even though he really didn’t have much to say. The villagers were rude to him and said he wasted their time. The children made fun of him. I’d liked Bill and used to bring him cookies whenever I made some. Bill loved to pet Frey, although he had his own pal, an ancient nag with bones like a skeleton horse. The gelding’s name was Clarence, and Old Bill said that his “old bag of bones” was his best friend in all the world. How could you not like someone who talked to his horse and shared half of each cookie with his best friend, the carthorse? Once I deposited the last bit of poop into the bin, I turned to face Frank. “So where do we dump the trash, and how is it going to get there?”
10.1 The Witchling Shama
After I finished the dishes, I worked with Frances on his reading and drilled him on his addition facts. He seemed to have a good head for numbers and liked doing word problems. Carlo wrinkled up his nose and said they were tetious, which after a bit of time, I figured out that Carlo had heard Mrs. Penn saying it (frequently) to Frank. The word Carlo meant was tedious. It was a very big word for such a little boy, but he seemed to have grasped the meaning perfectly. But like Frances, I never found mathematics tedious. I thought math was as smooth and fluid as a poem, part magic and part logic. I loved the consistency of it, yet, also admired how it rippled snakelike in contortions that kept one occupied by its adaptability. I mean, take three numbers: 3, 4, 7. The family of them plays with each other: 3 + 4 = 7, and 4+3 = 7, 7 – 3 = 4 and 7- 4 =3. But then in multiplication, and it becomes a brand new family with a 12 involved: 3 x 4 = 12, 4 x 3 = 12 and then there was division with all the fun ways of writing it. Yes, it was like a complete story with all the characters being numerals. I frankly loved manipulating its dance moves. I told Frances my joy with being a juggler of numerals, and once the boys heard what a juggler was, they insisted on going outside to become jugglers. We first filled up a couple of unmatched socks Mrs. Smith had shoved into the basket down in the basement. Stuffed with rags and a bit of sandy dirt from a pile in the corner of the yard, our juggling balls were ready. Of course, they were very inferior for our game, but we didn’t have any others. It seemed better than nothing. We carried the “balls” over to the side where we wouldn’t fall over the picnic table. We started with one, just tossing it up and catching it. (I was thinking that apples might work better, but Frey wouldn’t like us tossing them anywhere other than into his mouth.) Carlo lasted about two minutes. Frances persisted at least twice that long, but, even catching one sock ball seemed to defeat him. When I showed him how a real juggler could work three balls at once, his eyes popped big and he cried out, “You’re wonderful, Shama. I’m going to be just like you when I grow up.” That was a rather laughable sentiment, but I didn’t even crack a smile. I was too busy concentrating on keeping my fake balls in the air. When I finally dropped them, Frey moved in to pick up one with his teeth, then ran off with it. Willow swooped in on a second ball, swatting it about as if I’d made the thing just for her. Meanwhile, the boys bent over in laughter as they watched our juggling balls disappear as play toys for our two resident animals. Once the boys stopped laughing, they shrugged, not caring in the least that their juggling practice was over. They were already bored with the activity and ready to play tag.
9.30 The Witchling Shama
We were sitting at the table talking, or rather Dr. Stevens was. He was telling me about cases and the treatments he’d rendered. He’d already offered to let me go with him on the next call for his services. “She will not be attending patients with you,” Frank said as he entered the room. “She has a job taking care of the boys . . . and now a sick Mrs. Penn.” I looked over at Frank, surprised that he’d said that. What gave him the right to put his foot down about what I could and couldn’t do? Dr. Stevens hoisted himself up. “I guess I’ve overstayed my welcome. It was nice chatting with you, Shama. If the officer ever allows you some freedom and you want to . . .” “Thank you, Doctor, for coming over to check on Mrs. Penn. When should we expect you to return?” Frank had been very rude. I felt like my mouth must be gaping wide with exasperation, even though I knew it was perfectly and politely closed. Yet, my temper was rising, my blood boiling inside me. How dare Frank more or less forbid me to accompany the doctor out on a case! The moment the doctor left, I opened my mouth, ready to lambast Frank’s uppity manner. But Frank was already raising his hand for my attention in the traditional stop that all policemen seemed to master. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that without explaining first. It’s just that Doctor Stevens has a reputation for making advances on ladies. Maybe it’s all hearsay and hot wind. I don’t know, but I do know that if you accompanied him alone, it would scar you with the very worst reputation. The town people would think that you . . .” He stopped, not quite knowing how to proceed. “Oh,” I said. “But I thought Dr. Stevens was sweet on Mrs. Penn. Why would anyone think he’d be interested in me?” Frank laughed, then shoved into the chair beside me. He picked up my hand and kissed it. “You are too modest. You do know that you’re beautiful, right? You’re vivacious, honest, caring, and . . . everything any man would desire in a woman . . . uh, friend.” I withdrew my hand, but not with any jerk of displeasure. It was only that Frank’s words made me feel awkward, and, besides, I had dishes to wash. (And there was that kiss he’d given me before he went out to feed Frey. My cheeks still felt hot from that.) “Did everything go okay with Frey?” I said needing to think about what Frank had said about Dr. Stevens. I certainly didn’t want a repeat of the village mayor’s advances, but it was hard to picture the kindly doctor, who was probably in his seventies, in a role such as that.
9.29 The Witchling Shama
Dr. Stevens ate everything I’d fixed and drank the rest of the coffee. Mrs. Penn only nibbled on some eggs and took the tiniest bite of one pancake. I saw the doctor observing that. I think he was more worried than I’d thought. The boys had gone to play with some blocks Frank had brought down from the attic. They were loud and full of giggles, but it was a happy sound. Mrs. Penn smiled to hear it. But the moment she finished her coffee, she decided to go lie down again, and both the doctor and I accompanied her to her room. When she crawled into bed, the doctor stuck a thermometer in her mouth and used a stethoscope on her chest. Whatever he heard seemed to change his tune. “Madame, you are not to get out of this bed, except to use the toilet. Your heart is racing, and you have a low grade fever.” Old Mother’s illness had started out the same way. The coldness of terror struck me in that moment. I wanted to cry out to Gaia and to rush out and hunt for some willow tree bark. Or, maybe meadowsweet shrub would be closer. “You get some rest now,” Dr. Stevens ordered. I doubted Mrs. Penn’s resting would be a problem. Her eye lids were sagging before we left the room. The moment we were far enough away from Mrs. Penn’s room not to disturb her, I asked Dr. Stevens if he knew where we could find some willow tree bark or meadowsweet. “Meadowsweet? You’d find that in the marshes or swamps. Maybe out by the river? But not around here. As to a white willow tree, I can’t say I’ve seen that around here, but luckily I do have some willow bark powder. Let’s see if that’s the right prescription for what ails our friend, shall we?” “She won’t die, will she? It isn’t pneumonia?” He stopped and turned to study me. “No. She isn’t going to die, young lady. She may have a touch of bronchitis. If she starts coughing more, we’ll treat her with the syrup of squills. Are you familiar with it?” Since he started explaining how to make it and other treatments like peppermint and mustard plasters, I led the way back to the table and poured each of us more coffee. I completely forgot about Frey and whether Frank was doing okay with my horse. Dr. Stevens was filling me up with knowledge, one of the things I loved most.
9.28 The Witchling Shama
“So, you made the boys some bunny pancakes. Good for you, Shama. I’m proud of you.” Mrs. Penn was smiling and looking better than the day before, but something was still off. Perhaps there were more dark shadows under her eyes. Her cheeks looked flushed, too. I wasn’t at all sure that the doctor knew what he was talking about. Mrs. Penn still looked sickly to me. “Pancakes?” Dr. Stevens said. “I don’t suppose there are any more?” He looked so wistfully in my direction that I couldn’t do anything but bolt up and go mix up more. “Does he get bunny pancakes, too?” Frances asked. “Frank did,” Carlo said. “With eggs and ham?” I asked the man and then turned after seeing his eager nod. Frank followed me into the kitchen and said, “How can I help?” I let him fetch the eggs, ham, and milk from the icebox. Then I started up the process all over again. Meanwhile, I could hear Frey neighing. I was much later than usual, and he was worried. “I know nothing about making bunny pancakes. Do you want me to go feed your horse?” Frank asked. Wow. The man was being very brave. I bit my lip, wondering if I should let him. What would Frey do when Frank went out there without me? But Frey was a friendly horse. He’d never hurt anyone. I nodded. “He gets one flake of hay,” I said . . . and a kiss.” Frank stopped, turned around and twirled me around to face him. “The only one I plan to kiss is you, sweetheart,” he said, and he did, right there in the kitchen. When he let go of me, I didn’t know what to say. I guess I’d teased him when I’d said that about kissing my horse, but I hadn’t meant . . . “Stop worrying, darling. I was itching to do that anyway.” The door swung closed behind him a moment later, and I wheeled about to set two thick ham slices on the frying pan and continued mixing the pancakes. But inside my body, my blood was speeding up and down my veins and doing somersaults, I was pretty sure.
9.27 The Witchling Shama
Frank had sounded confident that a night’s rest would soothe whatever ailed Mrs. Penn. I hoped so. Old Mother had given me the recipes for several curatives, but I’d left them back in the village. Besides, practicing even witchy white magic wasn’t a good idea, not if I didn’t want a repeat of the village’s stoning assault. We played and read quietly that evening. Even the boys seemed subdued, no doubt worrying about their bunny pancakes. (Okay, that’s not fair. The boys were sweet. I’m sure they were as worried as I was about Mrs. Penn.) After they went to bed and Frank said his good night, I went and checked on Mrs. Penn. She didn’t wake when I opened the door and peeked in. That didn’t seem like the lively Mrs. Penn that I knew. I woke up in the night and peeked in again. She was still sleeping, but I was relieved to see her breast still rising and falling. She was alive, at least. When I got up in the morning, I dashed in even before I dressed. Mrs. Penn hadn’t moved. She was still asleep, and her cheeks at first glance seemed slightly blue, but I wasn’t sure about that. Was I imagining such a thing because I was fearful of seeing her go the way Old Mother had? When Frank arrived for breakfast, I fed him bunny pancakes. The boys said I made them perfectly, but I was already biting my lip and hoping that Frank would eat speedily and go fetch the doctor. On his second cup of coffee and his second stack of pancakes with scrambled eggs and ham slices, I asked as nicely as my frazzled patience could tolerate. “There is no need,” a voice called out. Mrs. Penn was just walking out from the room where she’d stayed. I thrust myself out of the chair and ran to her, almost as poorly mannered as the boys. But I couldn’t help myself. I squeezed her thin body with more gusto than was appropriate and kissed her cheek with all the delicacy of a slobbery puppy (although I actually didn’t slobber.) “I’m so glad you’re okay. You are, aren’t you?” I asked, examining her face for signs that she looked blue again. I stretched up a hand to feel her forehead. I started to apologize for my impetuous behavior, but she just smiled at me, and said it was the best morning greeting she’d had in years. A knock sounded at the door, not in the least tentative. It was loud and forceful, demanding even. I instantly knew that it wasn’t one of our frequent grocery deliveries. “There’s Dr. Stevens now,” Frank told me. Mrs. Penn patted me on the cheek, then threw a resentful look at Frank. “Well, let the old buzzard in,” she snapped. Dr. Stevens turned out to be a very nice elderly gentleman, who I think had an eye for Mrs. Penn. His full head of magnolia white hair was as long and showy as the blooms of that tree, although he didn’t smell as aromatic, or rather the manly scent that clung to him was more pipe smoke and reminiscent of cherry wood. The doctor examined Mrs. Penn as much as she allowed him to and then declared her “probably okay.” For that he received a stern look from Mrs. Penn and a rather undignified tongue click that she issued as she made her way toward the table. Instead of her usual grace, gliding into the chair like a belle, she dropped down as heavily as I did when I was completely warn out. Frank handed her a fresh cup of coffee and insisted that the doctor sit down at the table, too. He also got a mug of brew and slid his chair even closer to Mrs. Penn. Frank did introductions. The boys smiled. I was a bit more cautious, wondering what “probably okay” meant. I intended to ask him some serious questions about that, but before I could, the boys let out what they’d bottled up for several minutes. “We got bunnies!” Carlo said. The doctor, mystified by the subject, tilted his head and looked at the three of us for an explanation. “Yeah, Shama cooks!” Frances said, grinning from ear to ear because he was just starting to feel familiar enough with me to tease.