7.18 The Witchling Shama
I apparently fell asleep in the chair, because when I opened my eyes, it was to see both the officer and Mrs. Penn at the open door, peering in. “The boys couldn’t sleep?” Mrs. Penn whispered. I shook my head, stood up, folded the blanket I’d used to cover me, and placed it back on the chair. I tiptoed over to the door where the two had been standing and slipped past them as they stepped away. Both of them were smiling at me, despite the fact that I must look a sight, my hair in a mess, my feet bare, and my robe in disarray. I hoped my face didn’t show the crinkles caused by impressions from the chair or sleep residue in the cracks of my eyes. I touched my mouth to check for slobber residue, but at least found that absent. Neither said anything about my falling asleep in Carlo’s room, and their faces didn’t reflect disapproval of my present slovenliness. I took one more look at the boys, both still in a sound sleep, their bodies wrapped around each other with the bed bears firmly clutched between them. Then I closed the door quietly. When I turned around, I saw that Officer Krugel’s face once more displayed its usual distrust. Perhaps he thought I’d crept into Carlo’s room for some dubious reason — like stealing the child’s teddy bear? But what would he imagine I’d get out of sleeping in a chair instead of my comfortable bed — other than a crook in my neck and a stiff body? I gave the man a look that was far from friendly and marched back to my room. “I’m going to take a quick bath and get dressed,” I said, practically slamming my bedroom door in their faces. I’d apologize later, I said to myself, ashamed at my behavior, but it was Officer Krugle who had set me off again. He had no right to glare at me like I was an evil witch. Whoops, I was a witch — except a good one. White magic only. I’d never used anything but herbs and other natural ingredients. Besides, he didn’t know that about me. I’d kept that tiny detail a secret. I bathed as quickly as when I’d slipped into frigid creek water the day before, pulled on my new dress, and descended the stairs. My first order of business was to give a formal apology to Mrs. Penn. Then I needed to refill Frey’s water and give him some hay. Only after that could I sip the coffee I smelled brewing. Oh, luscious brew! My mouth watered for the bitter perfection of a steaming mugful.
7.17 The Witchling Shama
Carlo’s eyes were closed, his breathing soft and steady. “Can I sleep in here with my brother tonight?” Frances asked, his eyes partially closed as well, half asleep as he spoke. I nodded, which I doubt he saw and tucked both boys in. ”Sure. I think that’s a good idea. He needs his brother here with him.” I started to stand up, to make my way back to my own room, but Frances was still awake. I could see that he was still fighting being dragged down into sleep. Maybe he was as scared as Carlo. “Please, can you stay with us a while?” Frances asked. I smiled and nodded again. “Do you want me to sing you a song? I know one that one of my house mothers used to sing to her children.” When Frances murmured a yes and sighed sleepily. I drew in a breath and began to recall the words to the lullaby I’d heard so long ago. It took me back to the moment when I’d realized that I wasn’t one of the children, not one who mattered. I was alone in my room next door to theirs, and the mother was in her children’s room, singing to them. I could hear the song. She couldn’t prevent that, but I got no tuck in, no sweet kiss, and carried the bitter knowledge that the song was not being sung for me. I’d often slept with tears coating my lashes, wishing I had a mother who’d come in and sing for me, but at least I had that song. Carlo’s room had the same easy chair as mine did. There was also a fuzzy, warm plaid blanket across its top. I wrapped the blanket around me and began the lullaby. As I did, I thought about how these two sweet boys no longer had a mother who could come into their room and sing to them, but they had me. I would tuck them in, kiss them, and sing to them every night . . . at least until I was sent on my way.
7.16 The Witchling Shama
“Is the bear a boy or a girl?” I asked him. “A boy ‘cause my bear sleeps with me.” “Okay. Then what’s your favorite boy’s name?” At that moment, the door opened and another face popped through the opening. “How come you’re in here with Carlo?” Frances wanted to know. “We’re naming the bear,” Carlo explained. I noticed that Frances had his bear in hand. “Come on, crawl into bed with your brother so you don’t get cold.” “As if he’d been waiting for permission, Frances took a running leap, threw back the covers, and crawled into his brother’s bed. A quick hug passed between the two of them, then Frances stared up at me. “He was crying, wasn’t he?” I nodded, then brought up the challenge again. “What did you name your bear?” I asked. Frances hugged his brother again, then, as if pondering whether he should tell me, he said. “You told me to name him, so I called him Pink Nose.” Carlo started to giggle. “Pink Nose,” he said. “Why did you name him that? Oh,” he said, noticing that Frances’ bear had a pink button for a nose. The button on his bear was white. “Okay, but I’m not calling my bear White Nose. I think I’ll call him Squeezy because he’s nice to squeeze.” “Good name,” I said before Frances could jeer, if he intended to, although Frances seemed very attuned to his little brother’s feelings. Maybe he wouldn’t have. “Do you know why everyone loves their bed bear?” I asked. Both boys shook their head, although Carlo was already sliding further down into his bed and at the same time, producing great big yawns. Frances puffed up the pillow on his side of the bed and wiggled into what for him seemed to be a sleep-ready position. “A bed bear listens to everything you want to tell him, and he never laughs at you or tells anyone what you said. He always keeps all your secrets. And, as Carlo said, he’s super squeezable.”
7.15 The Witchling Shama
It was not a sweet slumber kind of night. As tired as I was, I still couldn’t sleep. I pulled on a robe and went downstairs for a book from the bookshelf in the living room. The book I chose was a mystery about a missing cat, which reminded me of the strange dream I’d had back at the creek, about a gray cat named Willow who’d said he or she was my familiar. My bed was cold, so I left my robe on, but, even so, the sheets felt stiff, and no matter how I wiggled, even with a book in hand, I couldn’t get comfortable. Finally, I got up, tightened my robe, and moved to the easy chair in the room’s corner. There was a light beside it and a warm, fuzzy throw blanket. I managed to read a few pages of the book before thoughts about Willow disrupted me. I wondered if it was possible to have a cat in the house the boys and I were staying in. Would Mrs. Penn reject the idea of cat hair on the couch? I was possibly in a kind of twilight sleep, the state where a person gets when they’re thinking about something and start to nod off, when I heard Carlo crying. Of course, I couldn’t ignore that. I tiptoed into the hall, then knocked softly at his door. I don’t think he heard me. His sobs were escalating. “Can’t sleep, Sweetie?” I asked him. “I miss my mommy,” he wailed even louder. I sat down on the bed. “I know,” I said, as gently as I could. “What did you name your teddy?” I asked, pointing to the bear snuggled in his arms. Carlo tears stopped a moment as he thought about that. “Doesn’t he already have a name?” I shook my head, while smoothing down the blankets around his small body. “No, the person who loves him and shares secrets with him gets to name his teddy. Is that you?” Carlo stared at me a moment. “I don’t know what to name him. I never had a bear before.” “What’s your favorite name?” “Shama,” he said, giving me a quivery smile.
7.14 The Witchling Shama
It was going to be our first night in the house. I wondered what would happen next. Surely Mrs. Penn and the officer wouldn’t stay much later. It wasn’t dark yet, but it would be soon. We’d only been inside for a few minutes, the boys speedily returning to their wheeled toys, when Mrs. Penn brought up that exact subject. “Shama, are you going to be okay here all alone?” she asked, her face wrinkled in worry. “I’ve been alone . . .” I started to say, most of my life, but I didn’t want to leak any more of my sad history. “I’ve been alone a lot,” I ended up saying. “Frey and I were camping out in the woods by ourselves. Of course, he won’t be sleeping beside me, which will be weird.” That thought must have made me pale because Officer Krugle stepped in. “I’ll stay with her,” he said. Both Mrs. Penn and I gasped. “You certainly will not,” she said. “Don’t you realize how that would seem?” “I’m a policeman,” the officer said, as if that alone covered all morality issues. He shrugged and shook his head as if we were the ones who were responsible for such silliness. “I’ll be fine,” I told them, although I was feeling even more uncertain because I’d inadvertently landed myself in an unfamiliar house, amid a town full of strangers who might possibly be better rock throwers than the villagers. “I don’t get scared easily, and the boys are here,” I said as much to reassure myself as Mrs. Penn and the officer. “And Frey is just outside. He’d bugle if something was amiss.” Mrs. Penn’s face was still stormy as she glared at the man who’d basically intruded all day. (Well, except for when we went down into what could have been a spooky basement and especially, when we journeyed up into the attic that might have been roach and rat invested. It was nice to have been accompanied by someone when I confronted the dark unknown.) “All right, then, Shama. Boys, it’s time for bed. You two behave yourself for Shama. I’ll see you all at breakfast, okay?” Mrs. Penn said, turning back to me again as if asking if that was okay. I nodded, although it didn’t seem like Mrs. Penn needed permission. Yet, it was nice to think that she’d be returning. For some reason, I found her company companionable. Mrs. Penn took the officer’s arm and led him to the front door. “Sweet dreams, Shama,” she said, then marched Officer Krugle out the door as if she thought he might suddenly back away and demand that he should stay.
7.13 The Witchling Shama
The boys were back to chasing each other. They called it tag, but it looked like they were just having fun running about the yard. They were obviously feeling energetic after having a nap and good food in their bellies. Frey was watching them. I could tell that he wanted to play with them, but I had my hand on his mane, demanding that he stay beside me. Frey loved to play chase with me, but I was a lot bigger than Carlo and Frances. If he were to run after them, it might frighten them. Frey had absolutely no idea how big he was, and although he was agile, he couldn’t help weighing an enormous amount. One tumble with him and the boys would be pancakes or get an accident kick in the head. “Sorry, Frey. They’re just too small to play with you.” His ears did a flip flop as if listening, but his eyes stayed fastened on the activities of the boys. He pawed his hoof once in protest, but I sent a resounding, “No.” The officer frowned. “What’s wrong with the horse now?” “His name is Frey, and there’s nothing wrong with him.” I lowered my head and calmed myself down. The man hadn’t meant to insult Frey. He was just not a horse person. I sighed, then relented and explained. “Frey doesn’t understand that he’s a fully grown stallion. He thinks he’s still a colt and he wants to play with the boys. Seeing them running around having fun makes him want to join in, but he can’t. They’re just too little to play chase with him.” “Are you telling me that your horse chases you sometimes just for fun?” Mrs. Penn asked, fanning her face. “If that horse started running after me, I’d be jumping up on a table or something. He’s a big guy!” She’d glanced over at the picnic table next to the house. It looked a little rickety. I wasn’t sure it would hold her weight, but I just smiled. “The moment you stopped running, so would Frey. It’s not like he’d be trying to catch you. He just likes the fun of it.” I think a mosquito made a dive at the man’s face. He slapped at it, then said, “It’s time to go inside before the bugs eat us up.” Nobody else was getting attacked, but I shrugged, hugged Frey good night, and gathered the boys.
7.12 The Witchling Shama
“Then the boys will have something easier to feed Frey when they want to, and the grain will make Frey’s coat shiny again. The brush and curry comb will help with that, too. I had such things at my shack where I lived, but I had to leave in a big rush. I forgot to grab them. Since then I’ve been using leaves, but Frey likes to roll, which really pushes the dirt and mud down deep. With the proper tools, you’ll see how beautiful he truly is.” I realized suddenly that I was being overly loquacious, although both Mrs. Penn and the officer were watching and listening intently. What was so interesting in what I’d said? Surely, they knew about horse grooming. Did they wonder if I’d been careless or selfish for not packing the things Frey needed? It wasn’t like me to talk about myself, and I never babbled. I was normally tighter of lip than Mr. Cutworthy, who was a confirmed hermit, only entered the village for an occasional food item. It was said that he didn’t even speak when he came into the general store, only grunted and pointed. Not that I was a grunter. I answered questions in as succinct a manner as I could. I’d learned long ago that people wanted to talk at me and not listen to anything I had to say. And why would I be worthy of voicing my opinion anyway? I was basically uneducated, although Old Mother used to say that I seemed smarter than the average villager and claimed that I was skillfully articulate. In fact, she once warned me that I should hide being too erudite, a word I had to look up on my daily library visit. But how could the brain, as it skimmed through appropriate words to use in the context of a sentence, discard a word just because others might resent its scholastic nature? I wondered endlessly about such things, always questioning my nature and the world around me. Old Mother said that such reflections would truthfully benefit everyone. But she also advised me to keep such thoughts to myself. Perhaps I had erred here, although I didn’t think I’d used any of the bookish vocabulary Old Mother had always counseled me to avoid. The cart/wagon was pulling out of the yard. I watched as the man stopped, then closed the gate. I left Frey to go check that the gate’s lever mechanism had been properly fastened. It wasn’t that Frey would run away, but he might get into mischief. He had no hesitations about eating people’s front yard flowers or nosing at their windows to see what they were doing inside. And if there was a goat around, he’d chase it. He’d never forgiven the one that had chewed on his tail.
7.11 The Witchling Shama
He began nickering softly, the kind he’d started when he was a foal. It was the equivalent of a cat’s purr, telling me that despite the excitement of a horse at the gate, he was willing to be loved and babied. He leaned into me, getting closer. Unfortunately, he no longer had the weight of a foal. I briskly ordered him to stand on his own feet and pushed back against his breast slightly. He understood the censure and stopped leaning, but his head remained dropped over my chest, and his baby nickers continued. Meanwhile, the driver had backed sufficiently into the area so he could unload the hay. I called out that I’d very much appreciate it if he’d put the bales into the shed. As I watched, glancing now and then around Frey’s big head, which was more or less blocking my sight of the shed, I could tell that the man was doing exactly that. When he’d finished, I asked about a water tub for Frey. The man took a look at the basin I was using, chuckled, then said, “Sure, I’ve got one, but they’re not cheap.” Mrs. Penn stepped forward. “I’ll cover the cost,” she said. “Anything else you need for your horse, Shama?” “Um, a curry comb, a brush, and some fly spray? But I promise I’ll pay you back as soon as I get . . .” “Enough. We’ve already discussed that, Shama,” Mrs. Penn said curtly. “Does your horse need some grain and bags of carrots, or anything else of the sort?” Wow. Mrs. Penn deserved a plaque for generosity. I hated to add to my growing list of things I owed her for, but this was for Frey . . . “Please, to both of those. Thank you so much.”
7.10 The Witchling Shama
I was just thinking about using some of the rags in the basement to make toys, when a knock at the gate sent Frey into a high energy nervousness. He nickered his high-pitched greeting to a fellow horse, then wheeled about and with his ears jetted forward, trotted toward the sound of a small wagon being backing up into the area. Frey understood the nature of vehicles. He wouldn’t get in the way, but he was very excited about another horse approaching. He did a couple of threatening rears with his hooves pawing the air as if he were a wild stallion proclaiming his mares. His bugles sounded fierce. “Frey,” I called. “Back away. You’re just getting some hay. No challenges from anyone. And I bet the horse pulling that wagon is a gelding.” Frey’s ears flickered, listening to my words, as usual, but as to whether my words calmed him any, it was doubtful, because he was now issuing even louder battle cries, pawing the ground, and tossing his head up and down to show how dominant he was. Mrs. Penn had backed both herself and the children away from the stallion’s posturing, and the officer, a man stouter, but perhaps less wise, was advancing toward me, probably in order to grab at my dress and propel me back. Unheeding such things, I strode forward, spoke sharply to Frey, then circled my arms around his neck. Stallions have thick necks. I couldn’t reach to encircle the full span of him, but Frey didn’t know that. He halted his frantic motions and went completely still in his efforts not to do me any harm. As I’d said before, he’d learned not to step on me, not because he had the sense to know that he might damage my feet, but because the one time he’d done so, I’d screamed piercingly. Frey did not want me to scream again. He began nickering softly, the kind he’d started when he was a foal. It was the equivalent of a cat’s purr, telling me that despite the excitement of a horse at the gate, he was willing to be loved and babied. He leaned into me, getting closer. Unfortunately he no longer had the weight of a foal. I curtly told him to stand on his own feet and pushed back slightly. He understood the censure and stopped leaning, but his head remained dropped over my chest, and his baby nickers continued. Meanwhile, the driver had backed sufficiently into the area so he could unload the hay. I called out that I’d very much appreciate it if he’d put the bales into the shed, and as I watched, glancing now and then around the big head more or less blocking my sight of the shed, I could tell that the man was doing exactly that. When he’d finished, I asked about a water tub for Frey. He took a look at the basin I was using, chuckled, then said, “Sure, I’ve got one, but they’re not cheap.” Mrs. Penn, bravely stepped forward then. “I’ll cover the cost,” she said. “Anything else you need for your horse, Shama?” “Um, a curry comb, a brush, and some fly spray? But I promise I’ll pay you back as soon as I get . . .” “Enough. We’ve already discussed that, Shama,” Mrs. Penn said curtly. “Does your horse need some grain and bags of carrots, or anything else of that sort?” Wow. Mrs. Penn deserved a plaque for generosity. I hated to add to my growing list of things I owed her for, but this was for Frey . . . “Please, to both of those. Thank you so much.” “Then the boys will have something easier to feed Frey when they want to, and the grain will make Frey shiny again,” I explained. “The brush and curry comb will help with that, too. I had both at my shack, but I had to leave in kind of a rush. I forgot to grab them. Since then I’ve been using leaves, but Frey likes to roll, which really pushes the dirt and mud down deep. With the proper tools, you’ll see how beautiful he truly is.” I realized suddenly that I was babbling, although both Mrs. Penn and the officer were watching and listening intently. What was so fascinating in what I’d said? It wasn’t like me to talk about myself. I was normally tighter of lip than Mr. Cutworthy, who was a confirmed hermit, only coming into the village for an occasional food item. It was said that he didn’t even speak when he came into the general store, only grunted and pointed. Not that I was a grunter, but I’d learned long ago that people wanted to talk at me and not listen to anything I had to say. The cart/wagon had pulled out of the yard. I watched as the man closed the gate. I left Frey to go check that the lever was properly fastened. It wasn’t that Frey would run away, but he might get into mischief. He had no hesitations about eating people’s front yard flowers or nosing at their windows to see what they were doing inside. And if there was a goat around, he’d chase it. He’d never forgiven the one that had chewed on his tail.
7.9 The Witchling Shama
Just like his big brother, Carlo kept his hand more or less steady and firm. But when Frey’s teeth descended, Carlo took a step back, and the apple dropped to the ground. Frances scurried forward and picked it up, then placed it back onto Carlo’s hand. “Try again, Carlo. You can do I,” Frances encouraged. Carlo bravely held the treat balanced in his hand the second time, and Frey took the whole apple in his mouth, something he didn’t usually do. When I fed Frey apples, he sliced and diced with his rather large teeth, managing to slobber all over me as he enjoyed the treat. But not with little Carlo. Frey was so neat and quiet about the process, one would think he was an old horse, practically ready to be put out into the pasture for retirement. Frey was such a good boy. I told him so several times, feeling as proud of him as if he really was my baby. I complimented his good manners, then hugged his neck. Frey’s ears did a flipflop as he listened to my voice. Then he nickered softly and having finished crunching and munching the apple, he butted my chest, hopeful for more yummies. I think he could smell the carrots in my pocket. Mrs. Penn and Officer Krugle had stood a short distance away, watching the children’s interactions with Frey. Since both boys had shared their treat, backed away, and were suddenly involved in a fierce game of tag where Frances was running slowly enough so that Carlo could catch him, I expected some wise crack from the officer about how I was always talking to my horse, but the man said nothing. The man’s eyes were studying the stallion, no doubt noting the clean lines of Frey’s carriage and his dished face, denoting the fact that Frey must have had a sire with hot blood, even though that supposedly wasn’t true. (Unless the farmer had sneaked his mare into an Arabian stud’s pen when no one was looking. Would Mr. Harrington have done that? Sure, if he thought he could get away with it.) I wondered, not for the first time, why Officer Krugel didn’t need to be at the police office or out on call. He’d been with us, practically non-stop, since he’d picked up the boys and me from their parents’ house. Surely we three (well, four, if you added Frey) didn’t rank that high for the best use of the man’s time. But maybe Tinkle Town had a low crime rate, and the man usually spent most of his time waiting around in the station, practically twiddling his thumbs. I refilled Frey’s water basin and watched as he quickly drained it. Normally, when Frey wasn’t thirsty, he splashed in the water, playing with its spray, but he was a serious drinker at the moment. No time for such wasteful practices. As I refilled the basin again, I thought about an even bigger problem. Boredom. A stallion with nothing to do would often make trouble, gnawing on wood, tormenting the lawn furniture, or working on the gate lock in case he could make an escape. To prevent such mischief, I’d need to provide something for Frey’s entertainment — and quickly. My mind recalled a couple of flat balls I’d seen in one of the attic boxes. If I could find a ball pump, one of the balls could go to the boys, but if I kept the other ball in its flattened state, Frey would have something to toss up and flip about with his teeth. He’d love that.