8.7 The Witchling Shama
I blinked back a tear from what I’d witnessed that day, how they’d cursed and spit at me. I was the one who’d weeded their gardens, cleaned their houses, and taken care of their children. I’d organized games of sports for their kids. I’d not only lived in their houses at various times, but had continually visited, helping their kids with reading or math, doing odd jobs, baking cookies for the family. They knew me. And yet, with a word from the mayor, they’d forgotten all that. It had apparently slipped their minds that I’d never said an unkind word no matter how anyone treated me. They’d forgotten how I’d cooked those Sunday dinners they’d raved over and all the times I’d taken care of the sick: emptying bedpans, cleaning up vomit, bathing the dying or dead. And then, even after I restored that old shack and no longer lived with them, I’d kept working for them, doing the chores they hated, tending to their kids. I’d worked so hard for what I owned, but when I chanted myself free from the peril of their sudden hatred of me and returned to my shack, I’d feared to take the time to pack well. My money pot. I should have grabbed that, at least, but I’d been in such a panic, fearing that my witchcraft couldn’t hold the villagers for long, knowing that I had given proof to exactly what the mayor had said. My body had ached from the stones that had hit me, and I’d honestly been terrified, my hands shaking, my breathing erratic and shallow. Would they really have killed me? Would the hate I saw in their eyes drive them that far if they caught me? As I galloped away, I regretted most that I’d left Frey’s grooming tools behind. I should have grabbed his brush and currycomb, some oats and apples. My bed had a brand-new comforter. My clothes — I wished that I’d taken a moment to grab some of them. The garments were all second hand, of course, but I’d earned every shirt, pant and coat by my own wages. Yet, feeling sorry for how I’d been treated by the village would never achieve anything. Look where I’d found myself — inside this heart of goodness named Mrs. Penn. And the boys loved me. Me! It was almost like I’d discovered a real family, people who saw me as a person, not just as someone to slave for them. I wiped a tear and brought myself back to the present and to the fact that Mrs. Penn was eyeing me with sympathy. Had she been watching me this whole time as my brain backtracked over the past? Could she read into my heart and see my utter desolation of a life charred by one moment of uncontrolled mob rage? I took a sip of water and tried to push away the horror of those memories. That part of my life was over. I didn’t need to go back there. It could only haunt me if I let it, or so I told myself. But whether that was true or not, I didn’t need to worry about it now.
8.6 The Witchling Shama
But gossip didn’t need facts to inspire it, I’d long ago witnessed. Gossip was scandalous fiction spun for the sole purpose of catching the fascination of others who would gather around the speaker to listen to anything, even the preposterous like broom flying women. That was why the mayor’s accusations about me being a witch caught fire and spread so eagerly. It was sensationalism in its finest, namely that a person not well-liked and the village burden would, of course, be guilty of secret dealings with wickedness. Old Mother had told me that throughout history witches were often the scapegoats of natural events. When floods arrived, the old widow who lived in the town’s shabbiest cottage, was the one to be blamed. When a dreaded disease swept through a town, the crooked-backed hag who lived in the run down shack down the road was obviously its cause. Misfortune was always soothed by finger pointing. Yet, in my village that day, there had been no calamity, no disease running amok, no strange infestation of rats, raccoons or rattlesnakes — only the excitement of naming me guilty of everything that had ever befallen them. In such a manner, all of their past hurts were avenged by the simple act of picking up a stone and preparing to throw it. I’d known the village hatred of me was a bonfire ready to combust, especially after the traveling judge attempted to blame them for their treatment of me. Frey was a big part of their restless anger and jealousy. No one else owned such a beautiful horse, the stallion of everyone’s desire, and I’d refused to part with him. So although the village knew the mayor was a lecher who preyed on the innocent maidens of the village, the words he’d uttered were all it took. Witch, he’d named me. Evil doer. That instantly explained my wondrous stallion, the hut I’d hammered and formed into a dwelling, and the way I’d gone from household servant to independent woman. Witch, the ultimate sin of a female. No one had bothered to learn that a Green Witch’s essence was Goodness. We would no sooner desire to hurt someone than to burn down a forest or bring injury to one of Gaia’s creatures, (which, of course, included people.) But the villagers had not been dealing with logic at that point. They’d sought atonement against life’s pains and anguish, their bitterness over what my industry had brought me, and the guilt the judge had made them feel.
8.5 The Witchling Shama
I suppose we witches got a pardon for eating plants because they were actually a form of life. But we had to eat something, and their life energy aided us in a special way. In exchange we honored them and never recklessly misused them. (That was one of my internal conflicts. How could pulling weeds be considered following our belief system? Wasn’t it being judgmental, declaring a preference in plants? Did the fact that weeds served no purpose (to us) and were often ugly — did that mean that their life force should be doomed? When I asked about that, Old Mother, who’d taught me many of the traditions of my sect, had ordered me to stop overthinking. But how could one stop pondering such discrepancies?) My thoughts were running away with me again. I wasn’t about to reveal my views on religion and/or witchcraft with Mrs. Penn, so why was I musing over them at this moment? I knew better than to discuss these things with Mrs. Penn. Most folks were not only appalled, but scared by the idea of magical beings. In the minds of the village, witches consorted with the devil, which couldn’t be further from the truth. (They had never known that Old Mother had been a full witch. They just thought she’d been a kindly old woman who knew more herbal recipes than the apothecarist.) I think the village mind believed that witches spent their nights in the sky, darting about on broomsticks and cackling over the malicious deeds they planned to hurl out on those they disliked. I’d heard gossip from one of the village ladies that they had observed witches meeting in secret midnight circles, dancing nude in the night’s moonlight, and casting spells while sacrificing rabbits or other timid woodland animals. To my knowledge that had never happened, at least, not in our village, and Old Mother had told me once that she and I were the only witches in the village. (I certainly could not imagine Old Mother taking off her clothes to participate in such a witchy ceremony. Her raggedy dark gowns of stiff broadcloth, had been part of her, melded to her wrinkles and her thin, brittle bones. And to think she could ever balance on a broomstick was absurd. She’d needed a cane just to hobble about the cobblestones in front of the general store.
8.4 The Witchling Shama
I put down the bread, folded my hands, and waited for Mrs. Penn to probe my personal convictions about being a vegetarian, but she didn’t. She just said, “First, we’ll need to find out what the boys like, then how to best cook those choices. Variety is good, and so we should rotate their dinners. Don’t you agree? “You don’t mind my stepping in for a while, do you?” she added. “I love to cook, and doing so for just myself is absolutely no fun at all. Cooking for someone who appreciates good food like these boys do — and that man of yours,” she said with a wink and a big smile, “why that’s the spice of life.” I ignored her comment about the officer. I think Mrs. Penn was a complete romantic. I supposed since she was widowed and no longer had that kind of expectation for herself, she gained joy by trying to matchmake for others. I’d seen that in the village where some of the elderly women enjoyed trying to push young couples together, as if teens couldn’t figure out such heart and roses stuff on their own. But as to the other — I’d never known anyone quite like Mrs. Penn. She was goodness incarnate. She wanted to help me out with the cooking? That was great news. I’d felt like I was drowning in all that needed to be done. Thinking about it, I got choked up trying to respond to her kindness. Tears threatened and my throat closed off from the emotion of it. I guess I had that tendency whenever someone treated me kindly — formerly a situation so rare that I’d had no problem with watery eyes back in the village where I grew up, but since I’d arrived in Tinkle Town, I’d succumbed to tears far too often. “I don’t eat meat,” I blurted out suddenly worried that she’d hold that against me. “You’re aware of that, right?” Mrs. Penn nodded and continued to smile at me, like I was one of her favorite people. “But the boys will be getting meat,” she said. “They need it for healthy growing.” I had no idea if such a thing was true, but I wasn’t one to make choices for other people. Let the boys eat dead animals as long as they wanted, but I wasn’t about to. White witches lost their power taking the lives of animals, unless it was in self-defense, and even then, there were procedures that we must do to compensate for such a loss. I hadn’t known that essential fact until I’d moved in with Old Mother. She taught me the ways of witches, recognizing that essence in me when I hadn’t even recognized the truth of my heritage. In fact, I’d at first resisted her designation. Only when I found that she was right, that I could control certain things like fire, water, and plant growth, had I finally accepted that I was indeed a witch. But that hadn’t changed my eating habits. When I was young, I’d discovered that my attempts to swallow meat had made me ill. I’d grown up with a preference for cheese, eggs, and plant products, abstaining from what the families usually ate. At least as long as I could remember. And, of course, none of the families had cared what I ate. I doubt they’d even noticed.
8.3 The Witchling Shama
After our emotional moment, I wiped away the boys’ tears with the sleeve of my dress, then told them to go back to their seats so we could all eat something. I guess their trauma departed with the idea of getting food in their bellies. They both scrambled off my lap and practically ran to their chairs. While the boys were chewing on their roast beef sandwiches, and Mrs. Penn and I were enjoying our tomato, cottage cheese, and lettuce salads, Mrs. Penn explained that she was not interested in taking my job away from me and, in fact, was quite pleased with how I was interacting with and taking care of the boys. She’d already said that before, but it was reassuring to hear again. I mentioned that I felt guilty that I hadn’t been doing my share of labor around the house. “I’m going to work with the boys on academics after we finish our meal,” I told her. “And I guess it’s time to do some laundry.” “You’re doing fine. No one expects you to jump right in and do everything at once. An acclimation period is needed for every new job,” she assured me. I nibbled on a piece of bread. It was really tasty since it was the whole wheat kind with lovely seed kernels and nuts. Mrs. Penn was watching me. I hadn’t made a sound of enjoyment, but I guess she could tell from my face that I was savoring the bread. “The bakery down the street is going to deliver a loaf of that bread daily,” Mrs. Penn told me “And the local market will be dropping off a box with fresh milk, cheese and produce every other day. It may be that we’ll be able to get the butcher’s shop to deliver some meat for the children. I wanted to talk with you about that first.”
8.2 The Witchling Shama
Frances had hesitated a moment, still picking up emotions from the air, but he sprang up then and made his way to my side in a rush as great as Carlo’s. He also flung himself at me, surrounding my body with his arms and practically smothering his little brother as he did so. But Carlo didn’t even squeak. He just fastened his barnacles tighter. “Carlo and I love you,” Frances said. “And I agree with my brother. Mommy’s gone. She can’t ever come back. And like Carlo said, I want you to be our mommy. Please stay with us forever and ever.” Once more I could barely breathe. My emotions were too intense for that. I had people who loved me. For the first time ever! The thought pierced my soul and gave me such a flooding of happiness that I could barely believe in the wonder of it. I was loved! What a joyous thought. What an astounding revelation. In addition to that I still had a temporary home. I wasn’t being kicked out. I pulled Frances up onto my lap beside Carlo and hugged them both, then kissed each of their darling little faces with a noisy pucker. Frances, at the age when such things might be offensive, sighed with happiness, then stretched up to kiss me back. His kiss was slightly wet on my cheek, but I didn’t mind. It conveyed everything I’d always wanted, someone who loved me. “Yes, I’ll stay,” I told them, which came out as croaky as a meadow pond frog’s call. “Yes, I’ll stay with you, and I’ll try to be like your mother. I won’t be as good as your real mommy was because I don’t know that much about being one. You’ll have to teach me sometimes, okay?” “Mrs. Penn, too,” Frances said. “She can teach you. She knows everything.” “Yeah,” Carlo piped up. “She knows how to cook. But you know horses. That’s big.” I laughed, and then I looked up at the two adults still sitting at the table. Mrs. Penn cleared her throat and gave me a thumbs up. I glanced over at Officer Krugle, but his face wasn’t reflecting anything. He abruptly stood up, and without saying another word, left the table. I heard the front door close behind him with a large bang. Strange man, I thought. Couldn’t he have said something, even if merely to bid us a farewell? But my view of the world was limited by the scant contact I’d had with other males. Some of them had been kind, like the blacksmith and the vet, Dr. Peters. They’d never glared at me, then raged off, slamming a door without reason. I had lived in many households with pseudo fathers, but they’d never paid any attention to me, ignoring my presence among their children, unless, as I got older, it was to grumble over the food I’d prepared or to point out a spot they’d noticed on a window that I’d missed. So, what did I know about the male species? Besides, I’d never met anyone quite like Officer Krugle. Maybe he was a one of a kind. I sighed, but then squeezed my boys once again and smiled at Mrs. Penn.
8.1 The Witchling Shama
The boys had been watching this scene with big eyes, eyes full of fear. Their small rolling toys were held firmly grasped in their hands. Neither of them were playing with them or fidgeting in their seats as they usually did. Maybe they’d been finding the air as difficult to breathe in as I had. “You can’t go. You’re our new mommy,” Carlo wailed and bolted up out of his chair to launch himself at my legs, where he clung like a sea barnacle, wailing banshee-like. “Hold it!” Officer Krugel yelled out, his voice almost drowning out Carlo’s, although one was high pitched and heart stopping, while his was deep-throated and panicked. “That’s not what I said. That’s not what I meant! “Carlo, stop that. Let me speak,” he shouted. Maybe the banshee’s wail lowered a decibel, but Carlo’s tears didn’t. He was sobbing bathtub overflow quantities. I had my hand on the boy’s back, trying to soothe him, wondering what I could say that wasn’t a lie, although I was avidly watching the officer’s face, trying to read it to make sense of the words: that’s not what I meant. Resigned to speaking over the full-blown storm going on at my knee, the man continued, again in yell mode. “I only wanted to know if you were happy here. I wasn’t suggesting anything else.” I opened my mouth to take in air, hope breathing for me. My heart slowed from top speed to race worthy. I froze on the man’s face, searching it, trying to figure out what was going on. “Shama, as Mrs. Penn said, you’ve been doing a fine job. The board is meeting this evening, which is the reason I stopped by. I just wanted to know if everything was okay on your end. I needed to ask if we could count on you to stay?” His words sounded rushed and frantic, like he was desperate to undo what he’d unknowingly done. I let out a squeaky breath, drew in a shaky gulp of air, patted Carlo’s head, and then lifted him into my lap. “Everything’s good,” I told the child. “Carlo, it’s going to be okay. I’m not going anywhere. I love you guys too much. They’d have to pry me away from . . .” Whoops, not a good thing to say. I sounded both needy and demanding. I corrected my sentence. “I’m never willingly leaving you and Frances. I promise.” Luckily, the officer didn’t pick up on the unimplied threat flowing from my relief bubble. His eyes scanned Carlo, then me, then glanced at Mrs. Penn. What he saw freed him slightly from the tense moment. He breathed a sigh of relief, and said, “Good, that’s all settled.” Only it wasn’t. Not with Mrs. Penn. She was still glaring at him, her eyes stern, her head a shake of irritation, and her posture looked like she was thinking about throwing something at the officer. “I should knock you on the head with a newspaper,” she issued with a most unladylike hiss of scorn. “You have aged this poor girl’s heart several years with those careless words of yours. And you can see what you did to little Carlo here. You have to be cautious with your words, Frank. Shama’s not one of those criminals or drunkards you usually consort with. Shama has feelings.”
7.31 The Witchling Shama
“So,” Officer Krugle said, his eyes skimming my naked feet, as if that was the most important thing to take note of. “So,” he said again, as his gaze circumnavigated my appearance, then fixated on my wet hair. Feeling my steady glare, perhaps, he shifted, then rotated his long legs into a different position. “Has this been a pleasant stay for you, Shama?” he asked. I shot a glance at Mrs. Penn. Had I done something wrong? Were the two of them about to kick me out of both the house and town? How long would I have to prepare for my departure? How could I say goodbye to the boys? I sank into the nearest chair. Had Mrs. Penn decided to assume my job of taking care of the boys? I hadn’t found time to teach Frances yet. I was going to do so after dinner, but Mrs. Penn and Officer Krugle didn’t know that. I closed my eyes and thought back over the last two days. Yes, I’d been negligent. I should have done the cooking. I should have cleaned the house. I’d been as lazy as Mr. Brown’s fat marmalade cat when she was lying in the path of a sunbeam. “I’ll do better. I promise,” I said, hoping to redeem the situation. “I’m going to work with Frances on his reading after we eat, and I was just thinking about doing some heavy house cleaning. The porch probably needs sweeping, too.” I thought a moment, wondering what else I should add. Should I propose preparing the next meal? I crossed my fingers, although I really didn’t believe in such superstitions. Still, anything was worth trying if it allowed me more time with Frances and Carlo. “Stop that, Frank. Can’t you see that you’re scaring her?” Mrs. Penn said, her voice sharp with irritation. “Why do you do that?” she exclaimed, frowning at him. He looked surprised by her attack, glanced at me again, his eyes once more examining my hair as if having wet hair was a crime. I drew in a shallow breath, but the suspense of not knowing my fate had taken all the air out of the room. I tried to inhale again, as I searched Mrs. Penn’s face for explanation. Better to get it over with, I decided. If they were going to cut me off, it was best I knew right now. I’d already gotten so attached to the boys that leaving them was going to tear me in two. Better to know immediately so I could rip out the graft and move on. The idea reminded me of a honeybee. Once it stung, its barbed stinger stuck. Nature told the poor insect to fly away, but doing so meant that its body was torn apart from the inside. The stinger remained, and the bee died. Luckily that wasn’t me. Frey and I would survive. It would only feel like my heart was being ripped away when I rode off, heading back into aloneness. “No one is taking your place, Shama. We made an excellent decision in hiring you for the job,” Mrs. Penn told me with a reassuring nod and a smile that warmed her face. “Breathe, young lady. Everything’s fine. We want you to stay. The boys need you, and so do Frank and I. You’re a cool draft of water that has made our days fresh and exciting. Please, don’t even think of leaving us.”
7.30 The Witchling Shama
I was no longer the pristine clean young woman I’d been at the start of the day when the boys and I entered the house. I told them we must all head upstairs and get cleaned up, because, like me, they were no longer looking that fresh either. I started their bathwater, then followed them to Carlo’s bedroom. Frances went off to choose some casual clothes, as I’d called them, and Carlo picked out the tee shirt and pants he wanted to wear. Then, I marched them down the hall, checked the bath’s water temperature, and told them I’d stay outside the bathroom while they bathed, if they promised to take care of each other. “No water play. Mrs. Penn will have a meal ready soon.” They nodded and sped into the room. I could hear them discussing how hungry they were, so I figured it would be a quick bath. When they came out about ten minutes later, it was doubtful how much scrubbing they’d done, but although I’d bathed younger boys, I’d never had to do much with the older ones. Their mothers had usually supervised them, while I was off getting a meal ready or cleaning something. I sent the boys downstairs to sit at the table with Mrs. Penn, then I slithered into the still warm water. I was even quicker than Carlo and Frances and was dressed and ready to join them except for my hair. I’d been forced to wash it again since it was full of dust and horsehair, but I didn’t want to braid it. I toweled it as dry as I could, then left it down with a small towel across my shoulders to absorb the wet. I could have worn my new shoes, but, like the boys, I just headed down the stairs shoeless. Mrs. Penn hadn’t seemed upset before. Perhaps she’d allow me such freedom when no one else was present. “Simple plans never lay flat,” Mrs. Orthra had once said. “I’d never quite understood how plans could be flat or what she’d meant by that, but as I walked into the room with the boys, I saw that Mrs. Penn, and Officer Krugel were both sitting in the kitchen, I suddenly understood the concept. Plans were apparently always full of wrinkles, wrinkles that were as restless as a group of maggots exposed to the light.
7.29 The Witchling Shama
And Frey? He stopped munching and paused to watch them. He seemed fascinated by the two little boys, and his ears did a dance, while his head swung so he could keep an eye on them as they darted around the yard. Of course, I cautioned the boys not to get close to the stallion’s rear end. Everyone needs to know that horses don’t see well, and when something comes up behind them, their instincts tell them to kick out because it might be a cougar (or a goat nibbling at his tail.) But Frey didn’t seem skittish about their activity. I think he enjoyed watching them. I put elbow grease into my brushing of the stallion. He really, really needed it. Dirt and old hair went flying every which way. Soon, I’d have a pile on the ground. The boys stopped to watch me for a few minutes, but then they resumed their chasing each other around the yard. Had I once had that much energy? Sometimes, watching the two younglings made me feel old. After the two of them tired of playing tag, Frances started tossing the gray ball the officer had given them, while Carlo tried to catch it, but the little guy missed every time. He didn’t seem to have much of an eye for hand awareness, but I figured that was only due to his age. Were other four years old able to catch a ball? Carlo was a good sport about not catching the ball, though. He just laughed and ran to fetch i each time. I tried to remember if the children I’d worked with back in the village could do such things at his age. I was pretty sure, as I thought back to how we’d played ball games in the town’s grassy strip of the village circle that they could. I thought I remembered even the three-year-olds being able to catch a ball as big as this one. But maybe Carlo had just never had the opportunity to practice such things? Had the boys ever played toss with a ball before coming here?