9.6 The Witchling Shama
I tried to get up, but found myself still stuck because he hadn’t moved. He was still sitting on my hair. Maybe it was time to cut it? First thing when I got home. Home? Yes, that’s what it was with Mrs. Penn and the boys. But as to Frank sticking his nose into the whole nesting instinct bit, that I hadn’t decided. “Please will you move, Frank?” I said, as sweetly as I could speak between gritted teeth. “Success. Now was that so hard, my darling girl?” “I burst up into a standing position, more than happy to be on my own feet again. I whistled for Frey, and he came running. His mouth was dripping green slobber. Obviously, he’d found some healthy grass. I guess this interlude was fine with him. I didn’t have a brush or curry comb to clean him up. I could see that he’d rolled in the dusty sand. Great. Just great. I glanced about, looking for leaves or a stick that I could at least scrape his back with. Sand under me could rub both him and me raw. When I saw a usable stick, I ran and grabbed it, then started to work. Meanwhile, the officer, I mean, Frank, continued to sit watching me. The end result of my stick cleaning didn’t much improve the looks of my stallion, but I was pretty sure that I’d gotten rid of anything large enough to cause irritation. Next, I had to search for a good place to mount. The fence surrounding the corral looked like the best place. I urged Frey over and boosted myself onto his back. Frank had finally gotten up. I guess he figured the show was over since I was back up on my horse. He moseyed over to his gelding, checked the horse’s cinch, picked up the reins, then hoisted himself up. It was actually the first time I’d seen him on a horse. Any rider can tell right off if someone sits a horse correctly. Frank did. He looked like he was at home in the gelding’s saddle. I was impressed.
9.5 The Witchling Shama
“I understand about Frey. He’s curious and wants to join in whatever activity we’re engaging in. But what was that you did before?” “Our kiss? I’m sure you know what a kiss is for. It was most enjoyable, wasn’t it?” he said, and his hand suddenly lifted to fondle a lock of my hair. My hair shouldn’t be undone. I’d fastened it tightly into its usual braid, but the tumble or else the water fight with Frey had loosened it enough that I’d lost my leather tie, and my hair, which must be a mess of twisted curls and knots, was falling down into my face and, apparently underneath the officer’s body because I found I couldn’t move without tugging at it. “Officer Krugel,” I said, “Please could you move off my hair?” “No. I like you captive, and you will remain that way until you call me Frank instead of Officer Krugel. That is too formal. I think we’re far beyond that, my dear.” “We’re not beyond that. You’re, you’re . . .” Again my words fled as I played back the last of his sentences. “Don’t call me dear. And we’re not . . . not . . .” “I’d like to woo you, my sweet girl.” Woo. That was marriage talk. Witches didn’t marry. Or, at least Old Mother hadn’t. Besides, marriage meant that I’d have to give him my hand, whatever that meant. And then there was the lie, or the thing I hadn’t told him and couldn’t. I shook my head. “I can’t,” I said. Frey got bored and stood up, moving away in search of grass. There wasn’t any in the corral, but the gate wasn’t shut. I supposed he’d find some in the yard where the other horse was standing, his reins dropped to the ground, which for some reason, stopped horses cold. “Whose house is this? Are they going to come back and wonder what we’re doing here?” His lips were smiling. “Avoidance?” he asked. “Sometimes a criminal does that to get out of mischief, but I think you’re just scared.” “Of course, I’m scared. Whose house is this?” “It doesn’t matter, Shama. They left. They moved away. Someone will buy it, but they haven’t yet. So you don’t need to worry over being in trouble for trespassing. Now answer me. What are you really afraid of? Are you too scared of me to call me Frank?”
9.4 The Witchling Shama
For a moment I just stared up at him, words, as I’d said, short in supply. Or maybe the tongue assault had eaten up my ability to speak. Was I to be mute from here on out? Old Mother had given me a few of the facts about what went on between a woman and a man, but I was thinking that she might have left out a few details. She had never once mentioned a man’s tongue. I would have remembered that. The officer was still staring down at me. My body was limp. Had he taken my energy away with my voice? I guess we would have remained in that position, me, lifeless as a dead bird, and the officer, muscles straining, (Were they?) holding me there in his arms, if Frey hadn’t decided to step closer and investigate this oddness going on next to him. As he was fond of doing, he leaned, his head dropping down to muzzle my face. I guess that was the last pigeon on the roost, the pigeon who sent all the others fluttering up into the air and soaring into the sky. Only we didn’t flutter. We collapsed. That didn’t bother Frey. He just sank down onto the ground with us, his legs buckling under him and his massive head still semi-attached to my cheekbone as he continued to nuzzle me for information about what we were doing. “Ack,” I let out, proving that my voice was still audible, if not profound in its utterances. The officer issued a very similar noise but in a lower range. He also let go of me, probably because he didn’t want a sniffing muzzle in his face. “What was that?” I asked, panting slightly, although I had absolutely no idea why. It wasn’t like a tongue swab equaled a run around the town’s grassy square. “A horse?” he said, looking down at me with star twinkles in his eyes and a huge smile.
9.3 The Witchling Shama
I once heard one of the younger women, Clara, who’d just given her hand to her husband in marriage. (Such a strange expression. She still had two hands, and presumably he had his own two and didn’t need hers.) But she was telling her bosom buddies how when her new husband, Peter, kissed her, she heard music. What kind of music did she hear? I always wondered about that, but I had no time to dilly dally like those young women. I had a floor to sweep and scrub. (But I couldn’t help thinking about Clara’s comment. Was the music of a kiss a light-hearted, frolicking skipping kind of dance, a sad violin sob story where no one could dance at all, or a marching band going root-at-toot-toot, parading down the center of the village?) When the officer placed his lips on mine, I didn’t hear music. I heard nothing at all, unless I counted the heavy beat of my heart, thumping up a storm. I was pressed against the man’s chest so tightly that I think I heard his heart beating, too. It seemed fast. Was that the music Clara had heard? Was it the tympanic beat of a drumming heart? I was just about to ask if he heard any music while he kissed me when he laid his lips back over mine and proceeded to deepen the interchange. His tongue actually slipped into my mouth. It was ghastly, and I was about to shove him away, when something took me over. I was a sponge soaking up soapy water. My composition completely altered. I think I even liked it. I certainly never got around to spitting his tongue out. And while I was doing all that debate about the tongue, the sponge that was me grew even more limp, and I think I actually submitted to this strange new experience. When he withdrew his tongue, I didn’t have a single word in my mouth. I couldn’t have spoken if it had been a life-or-death matter. I was too stunned, too flabbergasted or maybe I was flummoxed. I’d never used those words, and I wasn’t sure which one was most appropriate. Not that anything would be fitting after what the officer had just done. Wasn’t this the kind of thing that only happened between a husband and wife? Was this like the proposition I’d believed the officer was offering in his office that day, when I’d thought he was a black-hearted villain?
9.2 The Witchling Shama
And while I was examining my feelings about settling into Tinkle Town, I suppose if I were being honest, I’d need to mention Officer Krugle. It was true that he more or less terrified me, although I’d never mention that to him, but he also intrigued me. I would miss him, too, I decided, even though, he made my heart beat faster with his probings into my background. How much longer could I avoid his questions? And here he was, far too close The exhale of his breath was breathing down on me, and his eyes were sending goosebumps of fear. At least, I thought that’s what they were from. I swallowed harder and sought to calm myself. Should I answer him? Should I tell him that I didn’t fear him in that way? Because somehow I did trust him, and yet, I couldn’t really have faith that he wouldn’t cast me out when he had all the facts. I couldn’t rely on anyone because to do so would get me stoned, or worse, even burned at the stake. No one wanted a witch in their town. No one believed that white witches only did good. I took in air like someone drowning. Old Mother had told me once that an accumulation of lies could feel like piled bricks on a person’s chest. That’s what my body felt like. My inhales felt strained. I wondered if my lungs were getting air. Wasn’t that why people fainted, from lack of air? But his eyes were still peering down into mine. He was still too close. He was even slightly bent over me as if he wanted to . . . No, that was my imagination. The officer would not want to kiss me. I was an unnamed, a worthless, an ugly nobody. I tried to step back and fought to regain my breath, but that wasn’t possible. Frey was behind me. How had I turned around to face the man? When had I done so? My brain was swinging like a watch on a chain. Dizziness hit me, too fast to take heed. I had no warning. I simply woke to find myself in the officer’s arms. Had I fainted? That wasn’t me. It wasn’t possible. Yet, the memory of how I’d come to be enfolded against his body didn’t exist. I opened my eyes to speak. I don’t know what I planned to say, but I didn’t get the chance. His lips were touching mine, and then I sank into another plane of existence. I don’t know how to say it any other way. For in that instance, there was no me or he, only a joining, as if minds could meld as simply as heated water and sugar.
9.1 The Witchling Shama
I heard someone creeping up behind me. For a second it sprung my alarms. I was back fighting the evil village mayor, but I was not so far gone that I couldn’t pull myself together. The officer was nothing like the mayor. I knew that deep in my soul. Still, when the man placed his hand on my shoulder and turned me around to face him, I cringed from his touch. “I would never hurt you, Shama. Do not tremble so.” I couldn’t look the man in the eyes. I stared at a rock in the dirt, the mixture of sand and dust that coated the ground. At anything but into the eyes that were piercing me with the intensity of their gaze. Mrs. Penn cooked us delicious meals. I knew that she wouldn’t always be doing that. I’d soon have to take over and feed the boys and myself, but that was okay, because there would be a supply of proper food. Mrs. Penn had once mentioned that I’d been almost skeleton thin when I’d first arrived. I was proud of the way I’d survived in nature, but I had probably not been getting all that my body needed. I could see the results. My hair was shinier now, and I felt better. I think I looked better, too. In the village where I’d lived before, sometimes, good food had been hard to come by. I’d been given the cheapest and the least nutritious items in exchange for my labors. Not that the families couldn’t afford more, but because they didn’t feel I deserved better. It was different here. Would I ever find another place that fit me so well? I had two boys who loved me, a friend in Mrs. Penn, and a blossoming acceptance from the townspeople when I visited their shops or when a delivery person dropped off groceries. No. It was a complete lie to say that it didn’t matter if this officer sent me packing. I’d been nesting in, as Old Mother used to put it. My feet had grown roots to anchor me, or perhaps, it would be more honest to say, my heart had.
8.31 The Witchling Shama
The judge’s eyes held darts of scorn, but Mrs. Krinkel probably didn’t see it. As for the others watching this court of renderings, the excitement of the day was almost over, but I feared that the deep resentment emanating from them over the words and his judgement would remain, and probably even multiply. It wouldn’t be Judge Muffett who would suffer for the verdict. It would be me who might soon find herself without a single job to pay for hay for Frey and food for myself. In the days that followed, I was right to be anxious about the people’s reception of it, nor did I receive a single payment from Mr. Henderson. Once Judge Muffett left, I guess the village decided that his decisions were more or less rendered invalid. Only the contempt charge was made to stand, and that was only because the judge himself walked Mr. Barner to the village cell and ordered his incarceration. I wished that my analysis had not been so correct about the villagers. It was little more than a week later that Mr. Barner, freshly released from his contempt jailing, attacked Frey outside my lean-to dwelling. He was drunk and I handled him — in the end with the frying pan in my hand. I didn’t kill the man, but I’m sure I left him with a really bad headache. Then a few days later, the mayor, probably realizing that no one would defend me, cornered me as I stepped out of the grain and feed store. I twisted away from the arms that seized me, but that was not the end of it. Perhaps the mayor believed that I’d fallen so low that I’d have to bow down to his offer. I screamed and threatened, but he, like the Mr. Barner, didn’t listen. When he tried to drag me away in the direction of his house, I had to kick him in the area that Old Mother had taught me. Then I punched him in the eye. The chain of events, that kind-hearted Judge Muffett set in motion, sped to that moment in the village park, the same place I’d supposedly been found wrapped in a banana leaf. There the mayor launched his pseudo witches’ trial, followed by the villagers’ flying rocks. My mind seemed to enjoy unraveling my sanity, pushing me back to the life I’d once lived. I was still clinging to Frey, my eyes streaming over from something I I’d tried to shut away. What had the officer said to cause my flight back into horror?
8.30 The Witchling Shama
“I see. I think it is clear at this point that there was never any contract between you two men. I judge in favor of Shama in the matter of the horse, Frey. In addition I urge this village to reconsider their treatment of the child. Let us hope that on my return here, that progress will have been made in that pursuit.” Frey was mine. I could breathe again. The air smelled sweet. I barely heard the babble in the school house courtroom that rose up at that rendering. Perhaps it was only the buzzing of a bee too far away for alarm. Or maybe, it was just that nothing could penetrate the joy flooding through me. I heard the judge’s hammer hit the desk. “Judgement rendered. Shama retains her rightful property, the stallion, Frey. Shama is owed the sum of 20 pueks or goods worth that amount, the choice to be the claimant’s from Mr. Henderson. Are there any other matters I must attend to?” “Your honor,” Mrs. Krinkel said, standing up. “You have stated that the horse is not to be sold to pay the house parents for the child’s keep, but what of these funds she has just come into. Could they not be apportioned out to clear her debts?” “Your name, please?” “Mrs. Krinkel,” the judge repeated, nodding to her after she gave him her name. “I would gather that you did not understand my ruling for the previous house parents, so I will repeat it so I am assured that you understand it fully. In addition, Shama may no longer give her services away to any of you. She has paid all her debts. Any future requests for her labors will be in trade or coin, and you will pay her the same amount in goods or pueks as you would any other citizen of this village. Is that understood, Mrs. Krinkel?” “But she isn’t a citizen,” the woman cried out.
8.29 The Witchling Shama
However, whatever my feelings in the matter, I had no control over the raging waters of the judge’s vengeance. When a rather large sum of money was declared as fair for having done the gardening, my mouth flew open, and I gasped. So did the other people in the seats of the make-shift courtroom. If popularity had ever been my goal, I could see from my quick scan of the faces of the villagers that I’d just been pushed from zero into negative numbers. “You will provide this accounting to Shama by noon tomorrow,” the judge proclaimed. The judge called back Mr. Barner. “I am still unclear as to the contract that you had with Mr. Henderson here for the foal now called Frey. Do you have that in writing?” Mr. Barner took hold of a student desk to hold himself upright. It was apparent that his flask had continued to supply him with what I’d heard called fake courage. “Nay,” he said. “We don’t use that stuff here. Word of mouth is good enough.” “Mr. Henderson, did you have an oral agreement with Mr. Barner to sell him the foal that you later gave to Shama?” Mr. Henderson shook his head. “Mr. Barner said he wanted the foal, but he doesn’t have a coin to his name. He drinks whatever he earns, your honor, as you can see. He spoke his wishes, nothing else. We never had a agreement, written or oral.” “I see. Mr. Barner do you have a witness to this oral agreement concerning one unborn foal?” “Nah. A man’s word is his bond. Everyone knows that.” “What was the price agreed on, Mr. Barner?” “Um. I . . . I was going to work it off at Henderson’s ranch.” “Working around horses would require a sober laborer. Would Mr. Henderson agree to allowing you to work with his horses when you can barely stand up?” “He would have, if that brat over there hadn’t stolen my horse away,” Mr. Barner said, puffing his chest out as if that would make him look more trustworthy when he was one swagger away from losing his balance.
8.28 The Witchling Shama
When Mr. Henderson agreed that I had given the facts correctly, the judge narrowed his eyes and stared at the man, the distaste on the judge’s face quite prominent. “Did you give Shama a dying foal and later withdraw this questionable gift and then force her months later to work without pay in order to buy that which by oral contract you had freely given her?” Mr. Henderson stumbled over such an attack. He made uh noises, shot a glance back at me, then did his best to explain. “I’m a businessman. I can’t give away prize animals. That horse of hers is worth a considerable amount. I did give her a really good bargain in trade.” “No. You cheated her,” the judge stated. “Did you listen to her tale of how she kept that foal alive? Would you have nursed it as tenderly or as capably? By your own words, it seemed you didn’t want to bother doing so. This child, has from what I’ve observed, received almost no support from this town, other than Mrs. Swenson and someone called Old Mother, who has apparently passed on. But that is not something I feel should be addressed in court, although a weighty amount of guilt should sit on the shoulders of every citizen of this town in treating this innocent child so poorly. But from a legal standing, if not the moral one that I just pointed out, you took advantage of this child to make her labor in your garden when she had already endured great hardship in tending this foal, even being forced to increase her debt to provide the ailing colt with what he needed: vet bills, sustenance, and hours of doctoring. In addition to straining her health under this heavy load, she apparently had to work off th debt this caused since you didn’t provide any manner of support for the foal’s care.” “Although I was called here to this village in order to address Mr. Barner’s complaint, yet, I have the freedom to confront other injustices. Tell me, Mr. Henderson, for how many hours did this child dig, weed, and tend that garden of yours? What price would someone else have received for such employment?” Mr. Henderson had only done me a favor in coming to the court session. With the judge’s assault, I regretted having asked Frey’s former owner to attend my trial. I’d never meant to have Mr. Henderson publicly embarrassed in front of the villagers or to force him to have to pay me for the gardening. However, Old Mother did have another saying that seemed to apply: Karma sometimes lies in wait before sinking in her fangs.