9.16 The Witchling Shama
“Shama, are you ready for some pancakes?” Mrs. Penn asked. I was still too teary-eyed to engage in conversation. I sniveled into the face cloth I’d been given and said, “No, thank you. I think I’d better run out and feed Frey. I’ll just have some of the bread when I come back inside, if that’s okay with you?” The tears were for some reason almost ready to burst out of me. I ran out of the kitchen, through the dining room and toward the backdoor. It was very rude of me. I knew better than to act like that, but something was driving me. I heard the boys discussing fishing poles and bait, but they stopped and stared as I whipped by. I didn’t slow down. Something was obviously wrong with me. I’d sprung a leak. Frey neighed the moment the backdoor opened. He must be hungry, although there was still plenty of grassy weeds in the yard. He crowded me as usual, and I threw myself against his neck. He was always my crying post. He was used to it and stood perfectly still, his head draped down almost touching my back with his gentle horse breath. I let it all flow of me and then tried to rein myself back into stability. What kind of pretend mother shattered so easily. There was nothing wrong. In fact, everything was perfectly right. Yet, there I was blubbering baby tantrum tears. I didn’t hear Frank come outside. He must have tiptoed, or else my wailing was so loud I didn’t hear his tread, but he was suddenly right behind me, his arms circling about me, pulling me toward him and away from Frey. “What’s wrong, darling. How can I help?” Instead of calming me, his words sent me deeper into the insanity of happy tears. He turned me about, pulled me in even closer and just let me cry it out. I felt his hand on my back stroking, just as I’d done for the boys, but I didn’t deserve such patient soothing. I wanted to pull back, to reject his attentions, but I wilted into them. I allowed myself to cherish a moment of Frank’s caring.
9.15 The Witchling Shama
Like Old Mother, Mrs. Penn was a woman I could learn a lot from. She would definitely be one of my future role models, just like the boys could have more than one. I guess in life we got to pick and choose, selecting the qualities to copy from those we most admired. We could try out styles, mannerisms, and even ideas from those around us and then adapt them to fit our own needs. I remembered how kind Mrs. Swenson had been. She’d been another role model, not just in showing me how to run a dairy farm and be a good worker with cows and fence posts, but how to wear a heart of gold. I supposed there were lots of people whose understanding and decency could provide such good examples. I guess we just had to look for them on our path to become the person we wanted to be. I relished that thought. I’d always believed that I’d had little guidance growing up, but perhaps, I’d been absorbing the fine qualities of good folks all along. Mr. Turn had never chased me away. Instead, he’d listened and chatted while he hammered horseshoes and fixed broken tools. Mr. Tully had, too. Of course, I used to work for him, doing chores for free just because I liked him, and because it was fun to talk to an adult. But he always managed to reimburse me for my labors, handing me things from his shop. Best was when he let me pick out books from his shelf of used ones. He kept telling me I didn’t need to return them, but I always did. And here in Tinkle Town, I’d become very fond of Mrs. Penn and her wisdom. She was like Mrs. Swenson, full of heart as Old Mother would have put it. As if Mrs. Penn had picked up on what I was thinking, she turned to face me. “I’m really fond of you, too, Shama,” she said, surprising me so much that I’m sure I looked like a dolt just staring at her. “Me, too,” I said like a six-year-old. I wanted to say more, but getting that out was all I could do. Her kind words had caused my face to heat and my breath to catch. I looked away, so she wouldn’t see the tears forming in my eyes. That kindness thing really turned on my eye clouds. A mere hint of praise, and I found it tough to swallow, breathe, and hold back my personal torrent of raindrops. I spent a moment gaining control and listened into the conversation going on at the table between Frank and Frances while Mrs. Penn continued forming her perfect skillet bunnies. Frank was telling Frances about how he wanted to take the boy fishing. Carlo, too, since the younger boy had suddenly popped into the conversation with an amazing offer like that. There was a heap of good in Frank, too. He had his own strengths and wisdoms. There’d be things the boys and I could learn from him. He was rather like Mr. Tully and Mr. Turn. I smiled, understanding how many people I’d actually met that were full of heart.
9.14 The Witchling Shama
I needed to have a talk with Frank. Frances needed some help over this hurdle. I think the best thing would be if the two of them developed a relationship where they had some man-to-man chats. But was such a thought just a form of bias? Should a man be more efficient at dealing with such things than a female? But then wasn’t it really about having a model in your life that you could get guidance from? Still debating the subject in my mind, I got up and went to get the boys some milk. I supposed that Frances could have gotten it out of the ice box, but stuff like that was supposed to be my job, and besides, it got me out of the conversation about cats. “Scrambled eggs sound good?” I asked. “Pancakes,” Carlo shouted out, forgetting the quiet voice rule. When Frances shoved an elbow into his side as a reminder, Carlo sighed and added, “Sorry.” “But, please, could Mrs. Penn make them? She makes bunnies.” “I might be able to do that,” I said, thinking about elongating “the ears” of a round pancake. But Mrs. Penn had already bolted up to head to the big mixing bowl. “I better watch,” I said. “If you’re not here one day, I’d fall down in their estimation.” Mrs. Penn laughed. “Not a chance, Shama. You’ll always be their heroine, well, at least until they turn into teenagers. Then no adult ranks high.” Turn into teenagers? Did Mrs. Penn think I’d be allowed to remain here pretending to be the boys’ mother for that long? I guess my face reflected that I was thinking over her comment. She patted me on the back. “They will still love you, Shama, even when they’re arguing with everything you say,” she said. “That’s just a necessary component of growing into themselves. We don’t want teenagers to become us. We want them to blossom into their own possibilities. To get there, they have to go through a bit of an ugly side.” She laughed, but I could tell that hers was the voice of a woman who’d lived through that cycle.
9.13 The Witchling Shama
I swallowed, sipped my brew, and tried to figure out how to go on with the conversation. Although witches often had foresight, and I was wondering if my repeated dream had been some kind of forewarning or premonition, such insights were another thing that many people frowned on. Although everyone had brain jabs, which is what Old Mother had called them, most folks just ignored them. Frank was looking at me searchingly, as if he wanted to peer down into my soul and pull out the truth. Whether he would have continued our conversation, I don’t know. Neither of us had heard the front door open and close, but there was no doubt about her presence when Mrs. Penn said, “Ah, you’ve already made coffee.” She slipped into a seat next to me. “I was going to do that, but this is better. I don’t have to wait for it to brew.” She smiled, then glanced from Frank to me and back again. “Did I interrupt something? Were these serious matters you were discussing?” Seeing that neither of us were actually rushing forward with a summary of our conversation, she asked, “What did the orphanage board and the town council say?” Apparently, I’d been accepted in a semi-permanent role as house tender and child babysitter. They’d given me a salary, too. I now had money for extras, although what I would use money for was a mystery, because every time I needed something, Mrs. Penn always took over the payment. “I think Shama wants a cat,’ Frank said after a moment of silence in which we were all savoring our mugs of coffee. “I didn’t say that. Not exactly,” I said, fidgeting because I definitely didn’t want them to get a kitten for me when I was sort of expecting one to arrive via mysterious ways. Unfortunately, timing is everything, for at the exact moment that Frank mentioned that I wanted a cat, two hair-tossed and pajamaed boys stumbled into the room with big smiles on their faces. “Mommy said that cats keep the mice and rats away,” Carlo said, his eyes big with excitement. In a lower tone, the one that Frances had begun using to express his of late slightly depressed state, he said, “Yeah, but Dad said a bullet is better. Only, we still had rats and mice, and he had a rifle, which he took with him to go hunting. I don’t think he ever shot a rat.” I could almost see the thinking process going on his head. Frances was mulling over the situation between his mom and dad. He’d definitely chosen sides. But I think there might also be an element of feeling like he was betraying his father each time he made a negative comment about how things used to be.
9.12 The Witchling Shama
I suppose that Frank might have displayed a moment of surprise in his eyes at my question, but, if so, it was gone in a second. “Good morning, my dear,” he said, then stood up, poured me a cup of coffee, handed me the mug, and offered me a piece of toast. “You are certainly never boring, are you?” he said, rubbing his jaw, a habit he seemed to have even when he was freshly shaven as he was that morning. I gripped my filled mug, delighted the coffee was not only ready-made but steaming hot. I shook my head at his offer of toast and included a polite, “No thank you for the toast, and thank you so much for the coffee,” accompanied by a genuine smile of gratefulness. The truth is that I actually preferred the nutty and grainy bread as it came from the baker’s — in its natural state. Why spoil perfection? I ignored what he’d said. The villagers would have called me boring. But, what was I supposed to say to such a statement? No, I’m not or yes, I am? Figuring that lots of people had strange nighttime visions, I just brushed over the question, saying that I’d had a dream about a cat and wondered why I hadn’t seen any around. He nodded. “Yes, Tinker Town has cats. But most of them stay inside. We have an occasional cougar or coyote that sometimes enters town and prowls about. A small cat could become a tasty treat.” I reflected a moment. Although I’d been on the lookout for such predators during our overnight camping, I’d never seen one. A wild boar was enough. I mentioned the latter and told Frank the story about my encounter with the one in the words. Frank’s eyes got big, and he coughed into his hand, not so much because he’d swallowed wrong, but because I think he was trying to stop what he’d been about to say. Instead, he shook his head, drank some of his coffee, and picked up the other piece of toast on his plate. “I’m changing the conversation, because I’m still shaking over what could have happened to you and your fine stallion,” he said. “So, why, were you really asking about cats? Are you wanting a pet for the boys . . . or one for yourself?”
9.11 The Witchling Shama
That night I had the strangest dream. I was back at the side of the brook where Frey and I had spent the night. It was the place where I’d seen the grey kitten, Willow, who had told me that she was my familiar. But, of course, when I’d awoken that morning, there’d been no grey kitten, and I hadn’t seen her since. In fact, I hadn’t seen any cats in Tinkle Town. I wondered if one had slipped by and only been noticed in the depths of my mind, only to be recalled during my dream. But in my nighttime vision, I didn’t ponder cats in general. I’d dredged up that same image, Willow, the kitten with white patch on her left hind foot and the funny streak that rode down the center of her nose. When I got up the next morning, I had a feeling of great loss. It was as if that kitten was something I desperately wanted and needed. The sun’s first rays were streaming through my window. I walked over to stare down. I was looking into the side yard on the opposite side of the gate where Frey and I went in and out. There wasn’t much to see from my window, only a few rose bushes, the white kind that needed no loving care or water, yet bloomed unceasingly. But it wasn’t the rose bushes I was looking at. I think I was searching for a grey kitten, a kitten named Willow that didn’t even exist. When I entered the kitchen, there was Frank, sitting at the table. He was sipping coffee and eating toast, even though Mrs. Penn hadn’t arrived yet. I guessed that Frank had been the one responsible for making both. It was nice to know that a man could cook and fix coffee. In the village I’d never seen an adult male do more than peek in the doorway of the kitchen. “Does Tinker Town have cats?” was my immediate greeting. My mouth was having problems holding in my thoughts. I really needed to rein it in, but since I’d left the village, I’d found that almost impossible. In the village, I’d learned that no one wanted me to speak. I was the quiet mouse in the corner who cleaned and did chores, but here, it was like I was unraveling. Perhaps I was shedding the outer shell I’d wrapped around myself, turtle-like, I mused. But babbling was not only improper, but dangerous. When a person carried secrets, the mouth needed to stay closed.
9.10 The Witchling Shama
It was a quick meal, and then were back outside. The grooming of my very dirty horse was done quickly. The boys weren’t able to reach most of Frey’s back. I needed to remember to bring out the stepstool down in the basement. But both boys put in some effort. They were excited when I showed them how I cleaned out Frey’s hooves. When I told them about the frog, the soft interior region of a horse’s hoof, they laughed so hard they fell down. Frances started yelling, “Ribbit, ribbit,” pretending to be a frog. Then Carlo picked it up and started jumping about the yard. My wild stallion, as the officer liked to call him, stood absolutely still, watching them like he’d never seen the craziness of little boys. I guess he hadn’t, come to think of it. Although, Frey had been around when the village boys chased each other in the grassy public area. He’d watched as the children caught balls and ran relay races. But no hopping frog boys saying ‘ribbit.” It was no surprise when Officer Krugel, I mean, Frank, came into the backyard. The surprise was that he’d brought my saddle, its blanket pad, and the bridle. Yeah! “I’m sorry you didn’t have this for your ride, “he said. “I hope that didn’t make it dangerous for you, although you looked fine on that big guy. That is, not like you were about to fall off or anything.” He seemed nervous. I started to take my stuff from him, but he nodded his head to the shed. “I’ll take it inside if you’ll open the door. Do you have a rack for the saddle?” I’d jury-rigged a bucket for my saddle holder in the lean-to, but here, I still had nothing. I shook my head. “Mrs. Penn and I both want you to be happy here. I’ll see if I can make you one.” “Really?” I gasped. “You know how to do stuff like that?” We were standing inside the shed, and I suddenly noticed how enclosed we were. I could hear the boys pretending to be frogs, no doubt hopping about. No doubt Frey was still watching them clown around, but inside this wooden box of a shed, it felt too close, too personal. I took a step back toward the door. Frank stretched out a hand. He smiled. “I’ll figure out how to make one, Shama. Call it part of my wooing.” That was the final straw. I bolted out into the fresh air, the safety of little boys, and my own sweet stallion. Then I breathed in a long, hard breath. I think a smile crept across my face. I couldn’t be sure, but there was a warmness inside my heart that hadn’t been there before. It felt strange and a little scary, but, also, kind of nice.
9.9 The Witchling Shama
The boys came running outside when they heard us in the backyard. Both flung themselves at me. “Where did you go?” Carlo asked. “She has a right to ride if she wants to. She doesn’t have to . . .” Frances stopped and peeked up at me. I could read his face quite clearly. Both boys were upset that they hadn’t gotten to ride Frey or go with me wherever I’d gone. “I’ll tell you what. I’m kind of hungry right now, but after I get a drink and something to eat, if you help me groom Frey, I’ll let you ride him. Okay?” The cheering was so loud it brought out Mrs. Penn. “Oh, good, you’re back. Both of you, I see,” she said, giving Frank an inquiring look. He nodded, but he didn’t add anything to the look they were exchanging. Something secretive there, I could tell. If Mrs. Penn were a younger woman, I’d might have felt a touch of jealousy, but . . . Of course, I had no right to feel any such thing. What was I thinking? I tossed out some hay for Frey and gave him a sprinkling of oats, as well. He lipped those up readily. I’d been placing his food on an old tarp I’d found. I wandered if that was sufficient to keep him from getting worms. I used to get a herbal dewormer from the vet, which was a mixture of sage, chaparral, wormwood, and kelp. I guess I’d have to see if the feedstore had any. Meanwhile, as Frey was happily munching his treat, I got to work grooming some of the sand and dirt off his body. I only worked for a moment before my hunger pains attacked. I’d come back with the boys. Besides, Frey would probably do a nice roll in the dirt, coating himself with the very dirt I’d just removed. That was the nature of horses.
9.8 The Witchling Shama
“What time will the police station open in the morning?” I asked him. “Whenever I get around to it,” he said with a charming smile turned my way. “But Gerta comes by to feed prisoners first thing in the morning. The boys will be getting some good eating from the café. It’s not as delicious as Mrs. Penn’s cooking, but it’s not something anyone ever complains over.” I nodded. We’d had a meal from there the first day. I remembered. It had been amazingly scrumptious, but then everything beat wilderness living. I remembered when my diet was made up of cattail roots and wild asparagus with some dandelion blooms for color. And good old dandelion root coffee. Less than perfect for starting off the day. I giggled, realizing how picky I’d become. When we arrived at Mrs. Smith’s house, we got down off our horses. I removed the hackamore I’d jury-rigged for Frey, while Frank tied his horse at the hitching post which doubled on one side with a mailbox. I looked inside the box, but, of course, there was no mail. No one I knew from the village had any idea where I was, and besides, no one would ever bother to write to me. But, that gave me a thought. I bet I could write to the people who had been kind to me back at the village. Mrs. Swenson, Mr. Turn, the blacksmith, and maybe even Mr. Tully, the apothecary. They all deserved a note letting them know that I’d survived the villager’s stoning and was doing well. Mrs. Swenson, especially. I hoped she hadn’t worried. I’d might write to Mrs. Henderson, too, but then her husband probably wouldn’t like that. He’d been made to look bad in front of the villagers. Maybe, I’d even write to the vet, Mr. Jerry. He’d been very accommodating over the months when Frey was sick. He’d allowed me to pay my debt over a period of weeks. When others might have nagged me about my tardiness, he never did. He’d been patient and had seemed pleased that I’d actually paid him everything I owed. I guess some people never did. I suppose I got caught up in my musing over letter writing because Frank took me by the elbow and began walking me towards the front door. I pulled away. “No, I have to see Frey to his . . . to the backyard,” I said, because I certainly couldn’t call it a stable, stall, or pasture. Frank nodded and accompanied me. As Frey trotted inside, Frank even shut and locked the gate for me.
9.7 The Witchling Shama
There wasn’t a lot of conversation on the way back. I’d thought he’d want to pester me about stuff, but he seemed to know when to back off. That was another good thing about the man. I’d say that I was impressed again, but there’s no sense getting carried away. The man still got under my nerves. Apparently, Frey had galloped a considerable distance more than I’d realized. It took us an hour to get to the outskirts of the town. When we passed the sign that said, “Welcome to Tinkle Town,” I had to open the conversation to something I’d been wondering for a good long time. “Why would anyone name the town that?” I asked. “Tinkle is what toddlers say when they need to visit the toilet.” Frank broke into a huge, wide grin, one bigger than I’d yet seen on his face. In fact, he was looking more cheerful in general than when I’d first met him. What was up with that? “I wasn’t here, of course, when the town was settled, but the hearsay is that is exactly how the town got its name. The first resident, Henry Green Peach supposedly did have a child of that age. Perhaps she needed to go? I guess we’ll never know. “Mrs. Penn will tell you, if you ask, that his wife’s last name was Tinkle. Gertrude Tinkle. I guess that could be the real reason.” Having told me that bit of information, he practically fell of his horse, he was laughing so hard. I ignored his sense of humor. “Green Peach is rather funny, too.” “Better than Ripe Peach or Rotten Peach. How about Wormy Peach?” Okay, that got a smile from me. I was just learning that Frank had a sense of humor. That was ground shaking. We’d been trotting part of the way, but entering the town, we both decided that a walk was more appropriate. So, it was slow going. Especially when a couple come out into the street and halted us. “Officer Krugel, I’m Matthew’s father. This is his mother. We’d like to take our boy home now.” “Nope,” Frank said, looking the man straight in the eye, then sweeping his eyes over the woman standing beside him. “Those boys are going to do an overnighter. They need to learn that intimidating people is not okay, and throwing rocks is a criminal offense. I don’t much cotton to bullying in any form.” The woman stepped forward. “He’s just a boy. We’ll talk to him. We’ll make sure he doesn’t ever do that again. Please?” She was an attractive woman, but someone should inform her that batting her eyes and simpering with a high-pitched, baby doll attitude didn’t work much over forty. I doubted that even if she’d been straight out of school with hair-tossing and lip smacking, like the girls in the village, it would have worked on Frank. “Nope,” he said, confirming my supposition. He urged his horse forward, and I did the same. Matthew’s parents didn’t call after us. I guess they figured they’d met their match. I bet they’d be the first ones at the police station in the morning, eager to pick up their boy.