10.19 The Witchling Shama
“You’re right, Shama,” the officer said, his voice sounding almost as tired as mine. “We have not lived up to your standards. I have not lived up to your standards. I have been weak. I told you I loved you, but then I quaked on the brink, allowing my feet to step back from a bluff that might have landed me into happiness. I was a coward, Shama. And I fear that I will never measure up to the goodness inside you. Forgive me. Please. “When I saw you faint, my feelings deepened. I couldn’t bear to think of you ill or dying, but yet, I allowed still another wedge to come between us. It was so easy to believe these two offensive men. Did I want to believe them, so that I would be rescued from taking that final step into the unknown? I don’t know. I don’t understand such a weakness. “I do know that Mrs. Penn saw the truth. She sees the truth and always has. She accepts you as the key to a life lived in integrity and kindness. She never doubted you, and yet, you are willing to leave her and these precious children. That’s because of me. But I don’t want you to leave either. I want you to stay with us, to continue to love us and to forgive my doubts. I want you to teach me to be the kind of person you are. “Actually, what I really want, my darling Shama, is for you to marry me and live forever at my side.” Unbelievably, in front of the kids, Mrs. Penn, the two horrid men who’d just come from the village, and the deputy, who was still standing in the doorway and waiting to see what was required of him, Officer Krugel got down on one knee and begged for my hand. I know what everyone wanted me to do, except maybe the preacher and the thief/drunkard, Mr. Barner, but I couldn’t. I’d lost my trust.
10.18 The Witchling Shasma
“You going to allow her to take off?” Mr. Barner cried out, irate because another of his plots had fallen into the dust. “Wait,” the preacher said. “We have not told you all. She may not be at fault for what this man says, but she is not an innocent. In fact she is guilty of even more vile deeds.” I knew what was coming next. Should I run for it? Should I hop on Frey and gallop out of Tinkle Town before they all gathered up their stones and pummeled me with them as my village had done? I turned and spoke. “Yes, I am guilty. I trusted people. I worked unceasingly to right wrongs that were not mine. I loved an old woman who’d promised to adopt me, but was too soon taken from me. I planted goodness wherever I could, offering assistance for team sports, for non-readers, for the poor and needy. Yes, I’m guilty, because you see, I believed that people had goodness in them.” “You speak with a forked tongue, which is to be expected, because according to the village, you are a witch.” “A witch?” I said, looking into his eyes. “What do you actually mean by that? Did you find out why the village called me a witch? Was it because of a judge who ruled in my favor? Or was it because the mayor wanted to lie with me in sin? Or could it be that greed and evil thoughts had permeated the village, and they cast about to find someone to blame? “Could that be the same reason that you, a supposed man of god, a god who is supposed to be synonymous with Agape love, points your finger at someone without proof, without cause, and for no reason other than it feels good to empty out your bowel full of hatred? “I am done with all this. I shall seek nature and the justice found in peace.” “Stop her. We cannot allow a witch to live,” the preacher screeched. I thought about the chant I’d used on the village. I could have sung it now. I could have ridden away, freezing them all once again, but I was tired, worn down with disillusion, so I just stood there.
10.17 The Witchling Shama
I recovered my paper from the drawer where I’d kept it. Then, I slowly descended the steps, casting glances right and left, scooping up more memories to recall later. That was where I’d sat with Frances, teaching him how to read. Over there, I’d worked with Carlo on catching a ball, rolling it to him over and over. On the left was the kitchen where I’d honed my skills and learned to widen my repertoire of meals, thanks to Mrs. Penn. Maybe at some future time, I could get a job as a cook, I thought, but the idea crushed me. I fought back tears, knowing that it would be a long time before I’d want to dwell among people again. The moment I exited through the backdoor into the yard, the boys, loosened from the doctor’s hold on them, flung themselves at me. “Take us with you, please,” Frances said. I wanted to say yes, but that would be selfish. I shook my head. “You need school. You need stability. You need everything this town offers you.” Carlo didn’t even attempt to beg. He was deep into his hysterical crying, devastated that I’d break my promise. For that I felt great guilt. I really did, but I knew that they’d be better without me. Mrs. Penn would be their anchor. She would provide the love they needed. “I love you,” I told them again. It was inadequate, but it was all I had to offer them. Willow had followed me. She ran over to Mrs. Penn, jumped into her lap and kissed her cheek with her cat tongue. I wished I could leave her with the boys and Mrs. Penn, but I knew I couldn’t. Willow loved Mrs. Penn, but she was my familiar. I set my carryall bag down on the ground and handed the officer my bill of sale. “If you don’t believe the officialness of that, you can also speak with Mr. Henderson in person. The village is only the next one over. I can give you a list of people who can verify what I told you. I’m sorry for the necessity of needing to do so. I’ve never lied to you or to anyone.” Officer Krugel read it over, then handed it back. “Where will you go, Shama?” I didn’t answer him. I simply picked up my bag and went to saddle Frey. With my bag strapped in place, I called out an I love you to Mrs. Penn, then led Frey toward the gate.
10.16 The Witchling Shama
I used to keep Frey’s deed of sale, the one I’d earned from Mr. Harrington after I’d tended his garden for a year, in my back pocket, but I’d stopped doing that when Mrs. Penn had bought me dresses to wear. I still had it, of course. It was upstairs in my room. But why should I need such proof? Why would a drunkard and a liar always be believed above my earnest statements? This was the whole crux of why Tinkle Town and maybe anywhere else I tried to live in would never work for me. I would always be judged as unfit, a stranger, an unloved extra person, and probably even a dishonest one. There could never be a place for me. Never. I removed myself from the officer’s clasp, then gingerly stood. “I will get my bill of sale, if you want to see it,” I said. “But then, it’s time for me to leave. I’m sorry, Frances and Carlo. I love you. I will always love you, but you have a home here, and I can’t stay.” No words have ever hurt worse. The expression in their eyes was a bitter stab. The boys had trusted me, and I was letting them down. Mrs. Penn, too. She was weeping. She knew I hadn’t stolen Frey. But she also realized that I’d reached my ending point. The fork in the road was tugging at me. Choosing another direction for my life seemed necessary, and she could see that in my face. I wanted Officer Krugel to announce that he didn’t need to see the bill of sale. But, of course, he couldn’t. He was tied to legalities — not emotion, not trust, not even the understanding of a person’s character. I glanced at the preacher. “Did you talk to others in the town before you decided to accompany this person to hunt me down? Did you bother to go to the jail where the documents from Judge Muffett are located? The judge issued a statement in the matter of my ownership of the horse. He also threw Mr. Barner in jail for contempt, because, you see, this man makes up fabrications. Anyone in the village would have told you that if you’d asked. But, perhaps, you prefer any drinking partner, even one who is a liar and a thief.” The officer cleared his throat. “I’d like to see that paper, Shama. I’m afraid that I legally must ask to do so. And as to the matter of your words concerning this man, if there is truth in your words, then both of them will be dealt with.” “If,” I said. “That’s exactly what I was talking about. Your doubt. If . . .” The boys were wailing louder, and the doctor had stepped in to help Mrs. Penn with them, to keep them from running to me again.
10.15 The Witchling Shama
I let out a piercing scream, then keeled over like an unpedaled bike. Apparently that set off Frey. He must have remembered Mr. Barner as the man who’d crept into the corral in the middle of the night and so stressed me out that I’d needed the blacksmith, Mr. Turn, to drag the thief out of his pen. I was told later that my horse was so confused he didn’t know what to do. He stood over me, not allowing anyone to get close, but he also peeled back his lips and greenish yellow teeth as a fierce-looking potential threat to anyone attempting to get close to me. The boys I was later told were screaming, and Mrs. Penn had sprung up to grab them back. The doctor had set forward to rescue me from the, as he thought, dangerous hooves that were rearing over my body, but Doc. couldn’t approach the horse, and then, Officer Krugel, completely ignoring the danger, had suddenly rushed forward to gather me in his arms even with Frey in panic mode. What a scene, and I’d missed it all. When my eyes fluttered open, the first thing I saw was Frank bending over me, protecting me, from a horse who would never harm me. Frank’s lips were on my forehead briefly, then his eyes were peering down at me, and he was saying over and over, “Wake up, Shama. Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it, my love.” I think it was the love part that brought me out of my stupor. I suddenly remembered how horrid the officer had been to me, and when my eyes scanned for the boys and for Frey, they also took in the presence of the man I wanted to see the least of all the villagers. Well, other than the mayor, who might be only slightly worse. Mr. Barner stood beside the exact same preacher I’d met on the road. Why were they here? Why had they come to see Officer Krugel? Questions pounded me, but I held them back. I wanted to jerk myself out of the officer’s arms, but I was limp from my faint, and I felt nauseated, too. “There she is,” Mr. Barner said. “And that’s my horse, the one she stole.” That was almost enough to send me back to the oblivion of the blackness of my earlier faint, but outrage struck me instead. “How dare you!” I thrust with a voice so shaky with anger, I felt it darken with witch magic. I took in a deep breath and stabilized my emotions. Stifling my fury took me a moment. I hardly felt the shift in the officer’s posture, the stiffness that entered his hold, the way something clanked in my mind like a heavy door slamming shut. He believed Mr. Barner. So much for dealing with whatever problem there was together.
10.14 The Witchling Shama
“Nothing any of us said at the table is going to change my mind, Shama. I realize that I’ve destroyed your confidence, your settling in here. I’m sorry for that, but sometimes change needs to clear away the rubbish. Let’s just move on.” I inhaled and corralled my sobs. “I was honored, Mrs. Penn, by your kind words. I appreciate how you wanted to give me a name, but I can’t . . .” I heard the back door swinging open and turned to look. The officer came strolling into the backyard like he owned the place. I turned back to Frey and resumed my brushing. Seeing me do so, Frances broke off his embrace, then turned about and raced over to him. “You’re mean! I hate you!” Frances shouted, then slammed his fist into the officer’s stomach. “Frances, no!” I yelled, chagrinned because this was my fault. I’d never meant to create a rift between them. Frances needed the officer’s positive attentions. He needed a worthy man. And the officer might not fill that need for me, but he seemed to be doing a good job with the boy. At least, before I’d gotten in their way. Chalk that up for another point in favor of my leaving. “See what you did with your lack of faith?” Mrs. Penn said. She was sitting over in the shade at the rickety old picnic table, the one I wasn’t sure was all that safe. I started to question its stability when the doctor appeared in the doorway. “Frank, someone’s here from the station. They’ve brought visitors.” That halted the whole ugly tableau. Frances, wrapped in the officer’s hold; Carlo ready to defend his brother, but not knowing how; me, brush in the air watching the shaky old bench Mrs. Penn was sitting on, and Frank, whose eyes had just completed his circumference of all the activity going on around him — we all froze. The officer released Frances with a warning about not hitting people. Then he turned and focused on the two people standing behind the doctor. I did, too. Only seeing their identity set off a whole new line of fear. I forgot the unreliable bench Mrs. Penn was sitting on and the horse that I was brushing. I even temporarily forgot the earlier argument. Everything fastened on the nasty face of the first man standing behind Dr. Stevens. It was Mr. Barner, the drunkard who’d once tried to steal Frey, the same man who’d later taken me to court so he could attempt once again to legally claim a horse that had never belonged to him.
10.13 The Witchling Shama
The boys came out to be with me. They fell into horse brushing as if that were their usual routine. It wasn’t. I’d never required them to do anything with Frey. He was my responsibility, and I didn’t think I should impose him on anyone. Besides, I was once again seriously considering leaving. If only I could bear the pain of separating myself from the boys. I knew they’d be fine. They had the officer and Mrs. Penn. It was me who’d become dependent on the boys’ hugs and kisses. “Why are you mad at Frank?” Frances asked. For a moment I considered what to tell him. I wanted to expose the jerk for who he really was, but I couldn’t do that to the boys. They needed the relationship. They’d become a family. Whoops, that word was a bite so hurtful, I almost couldn’t respond to Frances’ question at all. For a moment in time, I’d almost been part of a family. I’d almost been loved and cherished. But that was gone now. I was alone again. Except I still had Frey. Leaving the question unanswered, I threw my arms around Frey and sobbed out my pain. In a moment, I had two little arms surrounding me. Well, perhaps not surrounding me, but doing the best their small limbs could do to console me and offer their support. “We love you, Shama,” Carlo said. “He’s a fool, girl. Let it go. There are other fish in the river. You don’t need that one.” Mrs. Penn shouldn’t have walked out this far. What would the doctor say about that? But then her words hit me. I didn’t know why she was referring to fish . . . oh. She meant the officer. “I’m never speaking to him again,” I told her, completely forgetting that the ears of the boys were on red alert, absorbing every drop of my anguish. But I couldn’t unsay it. I couldn’t lie. Old Mother had lectured that a lie festers inside the soul. It eats away at a person’s core until there’s nothing left. For a white witch, that happens faster than pouring liquid lye on top of waste material. “Don’t say things you don’t mean,” Mrs. Penn lectured me. I just looked at her. What could I add to that? Officer Frank had betrayed my trust. He had hurt me worse than when the whole village threw rocks at me.
10.12 The Witchling Shama
Frank was the one who couldn’t let a sleeping dog lie. He brought up the fact that Mrs. Penn should write her daughter about her intentions. The moment he said that, I stood up and began clearing the table. I didn’t need to be part of that discussion. In fact, it made my pickle and bean sandwich threaten to activate my gag reflex. Tension always did that to me. Besides, I knew that Mrs. Penn and the two men would be ready for their coffee. And everyone would want to finish off the rest of the watermelon. It would be the perfect dessert to end their meal. But the moment I tried to remove myself from the upcoming conversation, the officer tugged me back down. “You need to stay and hear this,” he said. “It might make you think twice about installing yourself as a member of Mrs. Penn’s real family.” If I’d been a violent person, the beastly man might have gotten a slap across his growly bear face. As it was, I just jerked myself free and bolted away from not only him, but the ungrateful other beast who’d just eaten my lunch fixings and now sat there nodding his head in agreement. Two jerks! What do you call a double-headed monster? I didn’t know the answer to the riddle. I’d have to think on it. Inside the kitchen, I might have rattled the coffee cups a little more forcefully than usual, but I kept my opinions about the two men’s rudeness to myself. I served the coffee and the watermelon, then excused myself to start on the dishes. I had no intentions of sitting down with the ingrates again. My temper was flaring too close to the surface. In another minute, words might come flowing out of me, words that were better left buried deep inside. As I washed and cleaned, I heard Mrs. Penn’s raised voice. She was definitely not pleased with the men’s interference. But the three of them all seemed unaware that the boys were listening avidly. There was no doubt who’d the kids would side with. They were always on the Shama/Frey team. The kitchen was once more sparkling, the leftovers put away, and I was just about ready to go visit my best friend out in the backyard when the ugly officer entered the room. “Mrs. Penn insists that I need to apologize to you,” the man said. “It’s not necessary. You made your judgement of me known from the first. I’m a stray who wondered into your precious town bent on destruction. I . . .” “Wait a minute. I never said that.” “Every gesture and every scowl informed me of your attitude. Only you kept confusing me with kisses and those sweet mouthings that were all fabrications. I know you now. I don’t have to buy into your deceit.” “Whoa, falseness, fabrications? What are you talking about? I never once lied to you. I’m the one who was the fool. I believed in your goodness. I fell for your innocence. I thought I was in love with you . . . until this . . . this manipulation of yours.” I let out a squeal that would have made the death shriek of a throat-cut pig seem quiet. Then I ran out of the kitchen, through the dining room, and straight out the backdoor.
10.11 The Witchling Shama
While the two of them were occupied by table setting, I started the potatoes boiling. I didn’t bother with peeling them. The peels were healthy, Old Mother had told me. She’d often lectured me about not removing the most nutritional parts of the root vegetables. I hoped Mrs. Penn and the others wouldn’t object. The village families just thought I was being lazy when I left the skins on their potatoes. I had fresh cucumbers which I grated for a salad, along with some carrots. The boys weren’t fond of that, but then, as I’d said, they were still at the stage where vegetables were the enemy, to be endured and swallowed down so they could get to the good stuff, like cookies and candy. I sliced some bread and made roast beef sandwiches. That should appease the meat-eating doctor. I opened up some pickles for him, too. He doted on dill pickles for some reason. I thought them overly salty and preferred, like the boys, the bread and butter pickles, although I’d never understood why they were called that since they contained zero butter. I chopped the potatoes and added the rest of the ingredients for the potato salad, making it exactly like Mrs. Penn did. Mrs. Higgins in the village had often put bacon grease in hers. Mr. Spanning wanted his to have boiled eggs, and some of the other villagers demanded special spices that Mrs. Penn didn’t care for. Wasn’t it interesting how tastes differed? Speaking of food preferences, I mashed some baked beans from the dinner the night before and made my own sandwich, adding a juicy tomato and a few slices of dill pickle. It was rather a weird combination, but I thought it worth a try. I also gave myself a handful of watercress, which the grocery had delivered that morning. Yum. Carlo got the job of running upstairs to deliver the message that lunch was ready. While he was doing that, I let the officer pour lemonade. (Although Mrs. Penn usually required the boys to drink milk at every meal, I thought they’d enjoy some lemonade for lunch. I’d insist they drink milk with their snack later today. That would go great with the oatmeal cookies (with raisins) I’d made the day before.) When everyone was seated at the table, we dug in. Nobody complained about the potato skins in the potato salad, and the doctor ate four dill pickles! Mrs. Penn, although her appetite wasn’t fully back to normal, seemed to enjoy her half a sandwich, and she complimented everything, including the lemonade. She made no comment about the boys not drinking milk with their lunch. I was quite content that lunch had gone so well. At least, I was until . . .
10.10 The Witchling Shama
I started to get up then, not to take off back into the wilderness as I’d planned, but to get away from the insufferable males, who were both glaring at me. Hadn’t I been good to the doctor, feeding him along with the jerk of a police officer? But that was typical of males, I decided. They used you for their purposes and then . . . No. That wasn’t me. That was the cold hardness of anger. Old Mother would have called me out on that attitude, forcing me to see how I was projecting my personal hurt into resentment. Yes, I was feeling the sting of their distrust, but it wouldn’t be the first time, and the way life seemed to have a way of dealing out pain, I figure it wouldn’t be the last. I hugged the boys one more time then gently pushed them away. “How about I go fix some lunch while you two read to Mrs. Penn?” “I can’t read,” Carlo said. “Okay, then you can help me fix lunch. Your choice. Listen to your brother or work in the kitchen.” I was surprised at how torn Carlo looked by that decision. It wasn’t until Frances urged him to go with me that Carlo made up his mind. “Okay,” he said. “I can help.” “I will go with you, too,” the officer said, and there was nothing I could say that would be a polite way to disinvite him. The doctor scooted into my chair, leaving Frances to sit on the bed with Mrs. Penn, which was what he did most of the time, so she could see any word that he was struggling with. The three of them seemed well content, as was Willow who had done the going around in a circle maneuver, that always left her in the same place that she started out, curled up in a gentle mound, purring beside Mrs. Penn. As the three of us headed to the kitchen, Carlo with his hand entwined in mine and chattering about what his job was going to be in the kitchen, I thought about what I’d make for lunch. “We need face cloths and plates,” I answered Carlo. “Maybe Officer Krugel can help you with the plates. They’re kind of heavy.” “So, it’s back to Officer Krugel, is it?” the man said, his face as snarly as a guard dog on duty when a prowler came around. “I call him Frank, even though he’s big,” Carlo informed me. “My mom said I should always call big people by their last names, but Frank said different. He told me to call him Frank.” “That’s a good policy in general,” I said. “I mean about calling grownups by their Mr. or Mrs. name.” “Is that why you call Frank that?” “No. I call him Officer Krugel because . . .” I stopped. It wasn’t fair to pull little Carlo into my vexation. I sighed. “Do you think I should make some potato salad?” Since that was one of Carlo’s favorite foods, he gave a loud cheer of approval.