8.17 The Witchling Shama
“I’m taking back my horse,” the drunkard said. “It isn’t fair what that judge said. That grey beast was supposed to be mine. I was going to buy him. I told Mr. Masterson that, but somehow you ended up with him. And you . . . you’re nothing, just a worthless girl with no name or family. You can’t have him. I’ve come to get what’s mine.” Frey had calmed down somewhat with my arrival, but he was still some distance from us, pawing at the ground and making guttural noises, warning that he didn’t like this man who was yelling at us in the middle of the night. I didn’t lower my iron frying pan either. Maybe Mr. Barner was a drunken skunk and no longer cognizant of what he was doing, but I’d heard stories about how males like him could get the upper hand and do bad things to young girls. I wasn’t an innocent entirely. Old Mother had given me the facts about such things, and if what she’d told me was true, the thought of Mr. Barner hugging me or putting his lips near mine was enough incentive to knock him in the noggin with a good solid thump. I gave the man full warning of my intention, as did Frey, who was still digging holes in the ground just slightly out of reach of Mr. Barner’s swinging lasso. Luckily, the man’s rope hurls were feeble and rarely in Frey’s proximity. In fact, the man could barely stand and almost fell over several times when he released a throw. I didn’t bother arguing with Mr. Barner. We’d already gone a round or two over who owned the horse. This was definitely not the first time I’d heard him deliver those words, which is why I mostly ignored them. I’d been given Frey when he’d barely had a chance at life. Then, after I’d nursed him for weeks, he’d not only survived, but had flourished. At six months of age, the owner who’d given me the dying foal, abruptly demanded that I return him. But nursing Frey all those weeks with a bottle full of the powdered mare’s milk and some liquid vitamins I’d bought from the apothecary, had bonded the two of us. I couldn’t imagine life without him. I was not sure I could go on without my only friend. I rarely earned cash when I worked in the village. Food, a used jacket, a tool I badly needed, even boards to replace the rotten or diseased planks of my lean-to — that’s what I was paid in exchange for my labors.
8.16 The Witchling Shama
Frey gave a second gentle nicker of comfort that instantly reassured me. No matter what happened in life, I knew there would always be this link between the two of us. I breathed in the smell of him. Others might have wrinkled their noses or let out an expression of disgust, but for me, the musky sweetness was a calming odor, one that spoke of many such years of shared hugs and kisses. I hardly heard the repeated low pitched humming that played a peaceful, drum-like vibration deep in his belly, but my shoulders relaxed, and my breath released the tension of a moment before. Absorbing our moment of calm, I reflected on how difficult it would be to have to leave Tinkle Town. If I was genuinely truthful, it wasn’t just the boys I’d miss. My thoughts traveled to Mrs. Penn and her gentle eyes, and the way she listened and always wanted to understand my needs. She felt comforting, grandmotherly. And then there was the lovely house with a real bed that was soft, cuddly and so comfortable it was like sleeping inside a cloud of warmth. I couldn’t forget the bathtub either with all that lovely hot water that came out of a metal spigot with a mere turn of a hand crank. Luxuriating in those bubbles was worth giving up a bit of sleep in the middle of the night as the boys slept. Frey had a place to stay at the yard in back of the house, and Mrs. Penn had made sure that he had fresh hay and grain. She’d even allowed me to get a curry comb and brush for him. It was true that the yard wasn’t the ideal place for him. Frey needed more space, but, at least we were safe there. There had been a night a few months back when I’d been asleep in my lean-to, and Mr. Barner had tried to steal Frey. My stallion had bugled his distress while dodging away from the rope the man was twirling. When I woke and heard my stallion raging, his screams of defiance a clear warning of a some kind of attack, I’d come raging outside, too full of adrenaline to worry about my own safety. If fury was a weapon, I was fully loaded. With my iron frying pan in hand, raised up, and ready to beat off the cougar I’d thought had pounced on Frey, I froze in place when I saw that it was Mr. Barner. I was so dumbfounded by the sight of him, still swinging his rope at Frey but missing every time, that I froze, mainly in disbelief. “What are you doing?” I cried out, my anger subdued by my astonishment. It was the middle of the night. The moon was perched in the sky like a one-eyed vulture. Because of it, I saw the man’s face clearly. His beard was askew, and I think there were chunks of tomato embedded in its stringy grayness. The man’s eyes in their sunken sockets of drunkenness glared at me. As ugly as he looked at that moment, I could have sworn he was no longer alive, but an apparition come to haunt me. I assured myself that he wasn’t dead, but only juiced up on drink and completely deserted of his senses.
8.15 The Witchling Shama
“You put the boys in jail? Isn’t that a bit harsh? If I’d known they were going to throw rocks, I would have dealt with the situation better. I’d have dismounted and had words with them.” (I was also thinking that I’d use a light spell on them. If a witch thinks of benefitting someone instead of punishing them, the spell doesn’t have any backlash. I could have found a way to correct the nastiness of the two in a manner that didn’t involve jail.) Officer Krugel was shaking his head. His finger rose into the air in a kind of scolding manner, but I don’t think he was even aware of that. I only noticed, actually, because Frey gave another warning snort. I reached out a hand and soothed him. “I’m glad you didn’t attempt that,” the man said, shifting his stance as if he was tired of standing in the middle of the dusty yard with the sun boring down on us. “Something tells me these boys are headed for the kind of trouble that their parents can’t bail them out of. When cruelty crawls its way inside a person . . .” “. . .it’s usually too late to stop its malignancy.” I said, finishing the quote. “Old Mother used to say that. She got very upset with certain people in the village. I think she believed there was a lot of malice in the hearts of many.” The officer smiled, apparently liking the fact that I knew that quote. He stretched his right foot up onto the lowest board of the corral’s fence. The posture didn’t look all that comfortable to me, but, perhaps, he needed the movement. “And you, Shama? Did you find the place you lived malignant? Were some of those people mean to you?” He was probing again, but I wasn’t going to fall under his need to investigate my past. He’d either accept me as I was or send me packing. Except for the boys I could care less which way that went. Okay, I knew I was lying to myself. It would kill me inside to have to leave now. Responding to the moment’s annoyance, Frey took a step sideways to lean into me. His low-pitched nicker was a tone of reassurance. I turned and flung my arms around his neck. This was a position we’d often shared. He was familiar with my sobs and the wetness that often sank down into his coat.
8.14 The Witchling Shama
“Good. That’s better. Tell me what the boys did to make your horse gallop you away.” I sighed, remembering too clearly how nasty the two had been. “It’s not important. They were just kids.” “Tell me. It is important. I need to know.” Someone should explain to Officer Krugel that his voice was a whip that stung. I didn’t want to cower before a man who gave orders like a military sergeant, yet, he’d said the information was important. I hesitated a moment, trying to figure out what I should do. “Why?” I said before I’d taken the time to debate whether that was appropriate to ask or not. I mean, the man was a policeman. Would defiance get me thrown into jail? Officer Krugel shook his head several times and let out a groan that caused Frey to issue a snorted blow through his nostrils. Frey’s head was erect and his ears were back, but he wasn’t offering a challenge. If he had, he would have been pawing the ground and, perhaps, lowering his head as if he wanted to charge the officer. This explosive output held a touch of alarm, but was actually Frey’s question to me as to whether this man was a danger to us. I patted Frey’s shoulder, assured him that everything was okay, then, sighing once, but accepting the necessity of discussing the tale, proceeded to relay exactly what had happened. When I ran down, after telling the officer what I remembered, I added, “It wasn’t that I thought they would injure me or anything. They were just kids. But, Frey sometimes senses more than I do. He was the one who decided they were a threat, not me.” “And when they threw rocks at you?” “They . . .” I stopped and sputtered a moment in surprise. I hadn’t known the boys had thrown rocks, but if they’d hit Frey with one, that explained why his escape from town had been such a maddened rush of speed and a full out gallop which lasted a good ten minutes. I supposed it took that long before the sting to his rump had faded completely from the place where they’d hit him and from his memory of the pain. I let out a puff of disgust. “Well, that wasn’t the first time I’ve had rocks thrown at me, but to throw them at Frey . . .” I blinked in horror at my careless spill of words, then threw my hand over my mouth as if that could stop what had already poured out. The officer’s eyes said that he’d heard me, but he chose not to pursue it. “I have already tossed the two brats in jail. They’ll be remaining there until their parents come to pick them up. I’ll make sure they both do community service hours. That will make them think twice about doing something like this again.”
8.13 The Witchling Shama
“It was your fault. You’re the big cheese in town who’s supposed to keep people from doing mischief. Two boys practically assaulted me, and Frey here practiced a horse’s favorite response to threat. He galloped me down Main Street and out into the country. Since you still have my tack and haven’t returned it, he had only a rope hackamore on with no bit in his mouth, so he took advantage, and we sped without stopping, jackrabbit-like until I could control him again. “Then when I finally got him stopped, he was heaving, and sweat was running down his sides. I had to get him to water to cool him off. We walked and walked, which I also needed to do so he wouldn’t colic, and I found this place. I’m sorry if the owner is going to get mad. I sort of drained out all his water. Well, Frey did a portion of that. He was drinking and splashing, and, as I said, I was trying to cool him down with water, and this is the result because Frey loves to play in water and that means he gets me as wet as he is.” I finally slowed my flow of explanation, and Officer Krugel dismounted and immediately burst into laughter. “I’m sorry,” he said, holding his hands up in the air as if I were the sheriff and he the one in trouble. “Here,” he said, turning to the pack on his horse. “This will help your . . . uh, outfit.” He walked closer, then tossed me a shirt jacket. Flashing through the air as it did, like a ghost or an attacker, the shirt fired up my stallion again. Frey gave out a bugle of alarm and backed away, then gave a full-throttle trumpet of warning. Again the officer threw up his hands. “No offense, Frey.” I was delighted that the man had remembered Frey’s name. Most of the villagers had just called Frey: that horse of yours, or the big gray beast. Frey was definitely not a beast, and he deserved to have an identity, but I never told anyone how much their lack of respect for him hurt me. I’d just sighed and kept going, believing that someday I’d earn everyone’s friendship (as would Frey.) I gave the officer a quick smile, then started to put my arm in the sleeve. “I’m going to get it wet, I’m afraid.” He shrugged. “It is better than broadcasting so openly that you’re indeed a fully developed woman.” Of course, I looked down at myself when he said that. My face lit on fire and shot up to the same degree of heat as the village farrier’s forge. I quickly covered myself. Once on, the shirt acted more like a robe than a shirt. (It was at least twenty sizes too big. Well, maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but it was big!)
8.12 The Witchling Shama
In between splashings I encouraged Frey to drink, which was also something necessary for his over- heated body. I limited the quantity, of course, but that wasn’t difficult since all I had to do was splash him, and he was back in the game of turning me into an old mattress, completely saturated in water. I’d just stopped his play and ordered him to take another drink when I heard the sound of a horse trotting up. The moment I heard the approaching rider, it hit me that I’d trespassed on someone’s property and would probably be lectured if not jailed for the liberties I’d taken with the owner’s corral and water trough. I looked down at the mess that Frey and I’d made. The once dry dirt inside the area had been turned into a muddy pigpen, and most of the trough water had been emptied out. Boy, was I in trouble! When I looked up to see how angry the owner was, it was with some relief, however undeserved as that might be, that it was not some angry bull of a man, but Officer Krugel. “Hi,” I said, suddenly feeling that a furious owner might actually have been a better person to apologize to. But misfortune comes and must be suitably dealt with, as Old Mother used to say. Misfortune with a big exclamation point. The officer’s face reflected little anger, though. He seemed merely perplexed by my appearance and by the fact that I was standing in someone else’s empty corral. “What in Melsville are you doing?” he asked, his lips curving in amusement. I know I should have answered right away, but it just blurted out of me, as things were inclined to do. “Who is Melsville?” Officer Krugel shook his head and actually completed the smile. “It’s just an expression we use. When Melsville was alive, he liked to clown around. He died a couple of years ago from old age, but still whenever something silly occurs, we use that phrase. Seeing you wetter than a flea dipped puppy, it seemed most appropriate here.” “Oh,” I said, too embarrassed to deal with such insults.
8.11 The Witchling Shama
I never knew how much Frey understood of human speech, but he’d decided that he didn’t like these two and wanted to get as far away as possible. Horses are not predators. They usually don’t attack if given the chance to flee. That is exactly what Frey did. He reared up, which sent the two ruffians backwards, one of them actually falling onto his rump. Then Frey took off like someone had shot pellets at him. (I later found out that at least one of the boys had thrown rocks at my horse. It is possible that one of them hit Frey in the buttocks, which is the correct label for a horse’s rear end.) I would never have wanted to gallop my horse down the main street of town, fearing that might scare or endanger someone, but Frey at no bit in his mouth, and he suddenly realized that. The hackamore, especially nicely wrapped by cloth so it wouldn’t hurt him, apparently issued little pressure on his muzzle to make him heed my urgings to slow down. I’m not sure a desert jackrabbit went as fast as our dust-heaving all out run. We’d gone at least a mile before I was able to regain control of Frey. He was breathing rapidly and sweating profusely down his shoulders. I felt bad for him and instinctively wanted to get him to some water and let him rest, but, of course, anyone who knows about horses are firmly aware that a sweating horse should not just stand in the shade to cool off. But, water was a necessity. I had no idea where I’d find any, but I kept walking Frey, until his breathing slowed. Gaia must have been looking down at me, offering her blessings, because we’d only walked about ten minutes when we came to a deserted house that still held a full water trough in its corral. I wished for a big, fat sponge, but since I didn’t have one, I just splashed Frey as best I could. I think by the time we’d arrived at the empty house, Frey was back to normal, but he liked the splashing and wanted to participate in the fun. We both ended up soaked, but I knew that his coat would dry a lot faster than I would. I probably looked like an old mattress tossed in a creek, while Frey’s coat turned shiny. He was always a handsome guy, but water cleaned, he was magnificent. I told him so, and for a moment he tossed his head and acted like a rooster showing off for its hens.
8.10 The Witchling Shama
Walking Frey forward, as we passed through the small path from the backyard to head out to the town proper, I realized that the elevation of the front porch was perfect for me to get up on Frey. Eager to get started, Frey was intelligent enough to know that he needed to stand still for me to get up onto his back. Sometimes it really paid to have a clever horse. Once I was in place, the prancing resumed, as did the ground pawing and his nickered entreaties to gallop. I hoped Frey wouldn’t give me a hard time, adding a few bucks and rears to his routine. He wouldn’t throw me off. My seat was firm, but it wouldn’t do my hands any favors if I had to argue with a horse determined to let out a bit of his wildness. I simmered him down with words and soft tones. He was listening. His ears were doing their flick flack of attention: forward as he took note of his surroundings and back towards me, as he attended to my words and, hopefully, the point I was trying to make. The day was beautiful, not too hot or cold. I was wearing only a tee shirt, and it felt just right. My long pants were thick enough for good protection from the chaffing I would get if I’d worn short pants (or a dress.) I wished for a hat, but I hadn’t grabbed my riding hat when I’d escaped from the village and rushed to gather essentials at my hut. The sun on my face would burn my tender skin if I stayed exposed too long, but, Beggars can’t be selective, as Old Mother used to say. Since neither of us were beggars, I’m not sure why she harped on that. I guessed that reduced circumstances had kind of been the equivalent of beggars in her eyes. Frey and I had hit mid-town and were walking along the street through the main section when a couple of boys dashed out, almost in front of us. “Where’d you get that horse?” they jeered at me. I was quite familiar with the sometime burgeoning antagonism of preteens. These two seemed well on their way to full bully status. “He belongs to me,” I said, hoping that would suffice to make them back away, but, even though Frey, feeling the maliciousness of the two, was doing his fancy dance of I want to get away from these people, the boys continued to push their nasty act. “Yeah? Prove it,” the smaller of the two boys said. “Get out of the way. I don’t want my horse to run you down,” I said. “You threatening us, little girl?” the bigger one sneered.
8.9 The Witchling Shama
“I have good news for you, buddy. We’re leaving the yard and going for a ride. That should make you super happy, right?” I doubt that Frey, my dappled-grey stallion, understood what I was saying, but he was delighted I was standing in the yard with him. As I did some major grooming, he practically purred, making a low rumble deep in his chest. For some horses, I think that was the first stage of a warning, but it was Frey’s way of telling me he was ecstatic over the attention. I checked his hooves for rocks and scolded him when he sagged against me. Perhaps that was his idea of cuddling, but twelve hundred pounds of a leaning hug is not appreciated. I had explained that to him before, but he sometimes forgot. There were no rocks or problems with his hoofs. Frey was an easy keeper in that respect. I don’t remember him ever picking up a single pebble, at least, not one that needed to be pried out. I still didn’t have my saddle back from the officer’s possession of it. In fact, I didn’t even have my bridle, which seemed a necessary component for guiding a horse, but I’d had to use a simply made hackamore before I’d saved up enough money to buy my leather bridle. The rope hanging in the shed was perfect for hackamore making, although a bit rough for Frey’s nose. I’d need to wrap the band with a rag I’d brought from the basement. I measured out the rope and found it to be long enough, about twelve feet, which was perfect, actually. I folded it in half, made a knot, then slipped that over Frey’s muzzle, then hooked another piece over his poll, and knotted that. The result provided me with reins. Next, I added some protection for the roughness of the rope on Frey’s muzzle, wrapping the fabric of the rag securely so it wouldn’t flap up and startle him. That done, we were ready to go for our ride. I wished I could use a rag for my hands, since the coarseness of the rope was scratchy and unpleasant to the feel, but I needed to have a feel for him and a rag would interfere with that, and it might even make me lose my grip on the rope reins. I’d probably have chaff marks if I used the hackamore too long, but I didn’t yet own any gloves, and it was urgent that we both get some release from our confinement. I led Frey to the gate. He was prancing, excited that we were going out for a ride. The only problem left was my lack of a mounting block. At my hut back in the village, when I’d wanted to ride Frey without a saddle, I’d used a boulder that had already been in place for such a need. Here, I hadn’t seen anything conveniently located. I closed the gate behind us, attempting to calm my restless stallion. He was behaving rather well for not being ridden in several days, but he was still a handful, especially when the lead rope was already burning my hand from restraining him.
8.8 The Witchling Shama
When the meal was over, I tried as I always did to help Mrs. Penn with the clean-up, but she shook her head. “Hush, child. I’ll do it. I bet that horse of yours would like a nice bit of exercise. Leave the boys to me, and you take a break and enjoy yourself. We’ll be fine. I’ll find an activity for them.” “But, it’s my responsibility. I can’t . . .” “Yes, you can. Go on now. As young as you are, you deserve some fun. You go get some sunshine and freedom. I don’t want to see you back here for a couple of hours, you hear me?” I’d actually been worrying about Frey. Stallions need to stretch their legs. They can’t be cooped up in a small backyard without getting themselves into mischief. They’re just not made that way, Gaia knows. So, although I had serious reservations about deserving the break that Mrs. Penn had just given me, I ran upstairs, changed my clothes, and dashed back down. I didn’t have to explain anything to the boys. Mrs. Penn was already asking them if they’d help her bake cookies. Their enthusiasm was loud enough to be heard out in the street. I ran by, kissed each little fellow, and said, “I’ll be back in a little bit. You be good, ok?” “We’re making cookies,” Carlo said, and Frances, although he didn’t add anything to his brother’s statement, was beaming just as widely. I’m not sure either of them registered that I was heading for the back door. They were already learning how to measure flour. Frey, as I’d feared, had accepted the tediousness of his small quarters as an excuse for mischief. He was busy working on the gate’s latch. I don’t think he’d head off on his own even if he got the gate open, but a challenge is always fun if you’re a bored stallion. When he heard me come out of the house, he wheeled about and came at me like a toboggan going downhill. “Whoa,” I said, trying to force his brakes into action. Of course, I wasn’t really worried. Frey could turn instantly. In fact, that was his favorite sport back in the village. He’d chase his ball all about, pivoting and spinning about like a piece of driftwood in river rapids. Sure enough, he slammed on the brakes and gently dropped his head on my chest, ready for a pleasant moment of petting.