6.8 The Witchling Shama
The officer was back in under five minutes, the disgust he’d been showing concerning my presence in the situation had now increased across the planes of his face and jawline, clear down through the rest of his posture. Did I mention that it was a nice posture, as in military straight with his chest forward and his shoulders back? If I’d been someone else, mainly one of the young ladies I’d gone to school with, I might have gushed, “Oh, he’s so very manly and (big sigh) so incredibly attractive,” with a half-suppressed twitter of a giggle and a flirtatious hair toss, while my eyes fluttered dark, curled lashes. But I was dealing with other issues and was never one to announce my observations in such matters, even if, like those girls, I ever veered into such reveries. Being independent-minded and self-reliant never allowed for those kinds of yearnings. I had learned that long ago. I wasn’t perfect, of course, I’d concealed a few childhood crushes back in school, but mine were always the kind that played hopscotch through my nighttime dreams and dried with the morning dew. When I sat at my table at school, I never even noticed that Frank’s hair fell into his deep, blue eyes in a very inviting way, or when Steffen’s singing voice sent shivers up and down my spine, or just before I left the town, how Ben’s manly cologne made me want to inhale deeper whenever he came near. Those kinds of aspirations were meant for girls with long blonde hair, pink or yellow dresses that displayed fashionable, full-sleeved cuffs, and family names that held a position in the village hierarchy. “Wake up,” the officer said, striding closer to me than before. “Didn’t you hear me ask your name?” “I’m sorry, I guess I was thinking about other things,” I apologized. I didn’t want to tell him where my thoughts had been. Let him assume it concerned the boys’ parents or something related to that. A moment passed, then he said, “You were just about to tell me your name and explain what you are doing in this area.” “I was?” I could make up a new name, or I could go with the old. But the officer’s eyes were peering into my soul. I knew he’d catch me in a lie. Did it matter anyway? News traveled between towns and villages by word of mouth, and all gossip was newsworthy. It wouldn’t take long before someone would bring word of a missing girl, dubbed the village witch, who rode a handsome, dappled gray stallion. I’d need to be long gone by then.
6.7 The Witchling Shama
Mrs. Penn was obviously outraged by the sights she’d seen inside the children’s abode, and although she was whispering to the officer, I could hear everything she said. I suspected Frances could, too. I moved my hand to cup his head, but I couldn’t block his hearing with only one hand. “That shack is a complete pig sty,” Mrs. Penn was whispering loudly in almost a hiss rather than a quiet tone. “It’s a disgrace. The children should not have been living in such a wretched environment. The smell is nose clogging. Dirty clothes, rotten food, and piles of discard are everywhere. It’s completely unsanitary. “The boy took me to the box that was supposed to contain all their clothes. There was nothing in it but rags, every garment worthless. These boys don’t even have pajamas or shoes. It’s a complete disgrace!” I knew that Frances was listening. Carlo was probably too hysterical to tune in. I increased my back patting of Frances and whispered, “I think Frey really likes your pasture. He’s ready to move in.” Inane, I know, but I had to say something to remove the sting of Mrs. Penn’s words. She was talking about what I imagined was the only home the boys had ever known. Having everything they owned called worthless and proclaiming their home a pig sty was not a recipe for soul calming. Frances gave me a wan smile then tightened his fingers around my arm. I had babysat most of the kids in my village at one time or the other. Some of them I’d gotten close to, but nothing like this. I suppose the village children’s need had never been as great as those of these dear boys. Somehow, I’d bonded with them so deeply, that the only safety they felt was in my arms. How had that happened in only a few hours with a shared meal and a short ride on my horse? Officer Krugle obviously didn’t appreciate my involvement. He cleared his throat several times and started to say something. I think he was about to order me to leave or to demand more information about my background, but then he heeded Mrs. Penn’s urging to take a look. He marched over to the shack, opened the door, and entered.
6.6 The Witchling Shama
Officer Krugle had taken a breather from demanding my personal information. I guess he hadn’t envisioned the boys breaking down as they had. But what had he expected? Did little boys ever calmly accept such a crushing blow to their existence? Perhaps, he’d believed they were like puppies and kittens — feed them and they followed you anywhere. Carlo’s screams had quieted some, but he was still wailing against my shirt, latching on to the only warmth available to him for the moment. I hoped that helped. I’d do whatever it took to ease his heartache. I wished that I knew how to do it better. I’d never tended a child suffering such a loss before. All I could do is copy what Old Mother had done to soothe my angst. She was the only kind and loving six-month foster mother I’d known. She’d taught me witchcraft and how to treat the world with compassion. While I was thinking about Old Mother, who’d died several years before, and permitting a few unkind thoughts about the officer to tarnish my good will, I carried on massaging the little one’s back and did my best to get him to calm down. I had no platitudes for him, nor did I attempt to assure him that everything would be okay. I couldn’t lie like that. I refused. I was worried that Carlo wasn’t getting enough air. I wanted to say, “Breathe, child; breathe,” but I don’t think he would have heard me. Could a child die from too many tears? Before I’d made any headway at tear cessation, Mrs. Penn and Frances returned, empty-handed. “You need to see the state of that house,” prune face said with a huff. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” She glanced at Frances, but he’d slid himself down next to me, dissolving into my lap to become a second clinging body, attached to my arm and whatever parts of me he could lean himself into. I used my other hand to massage his back, too. All I had was a body of warmth. Would that be enough for these two little boys? The selfish part of me was wondering how I’d gotten myself into this mess. I wanted nothing more than to stand up, shake myself free of this terrible grief, whistle to Frey, and journey far away from the situation, but I couldn’t do that. Dealing with someone’s need had always been my weakness. I was as likely to step away from these boys as I was to chop of an arm or leg.
6.5 The Witchling Shama
“We’ll put you in the children’s home, and everything’s going to be just fine,” Mrs. Penn added, nervously rubbing her hands like they had pine pitch on them. The woman was more than just gray-haired and wrinkle-faced with age. She was addled by coldness. How could someone tell these children that everything was going to be fine when they’d just been informed that their mother was dead and their father was in jail. Perhaps the latter was a good thing, but the children might not see it that way. These poor babies were going to find life as difficult as it had been for me. Maybe even more so. Being the child of a murderer had to be even worse than being dumped in the middle of the town square wrapped in banana leaves and nothing else. Little Carlo was still clinging like spider webbing. I tried to free myself from his hold but had no success. His fingers rewrapped faster than I could unpeel him. “Here, I’ll take the little fellow,” the woman said, as she strode over to me. At that, Carlo’s wails went up a pitch. His howls took on the sound of fingernails scratching a blackboard. I sprouted goosebumps. He honestly felt like wet plaster against my chest, and with the increase of volume and the nose slobber on my shirt, I felt my own legs starting to buckle. I collapsed in the dirt, tugging Carlo into my lap. I’m not sure he noticed. The hold on me didn’t lessen an inch, and the wet simply crawled further up my shirt. “Go do the house thing,” the officer ordered Mrs. Penn. Apparently seeing that Carlo was being taken care of, Frances manned up and prepared to follow Mrs. Penn back into the shack. “I’ll be back in a minute, Carlo,” Frances assured his brother as he charged forward, attempting to keep up with the woman’s rush to get this over with.
6.4 The Witchling Shama
I rubbed the boys’ backs and cooed meaningless babble like, “Now, now,” which is what Old Mother used to say to me whenever my emotions had overwhelmed me. Old Mother had passed on years ago, but she’d given me the role model for the person I wanted to become. Even now, I could almost hear her creaky but gentle voice, accompanied by the slow rubs on my back, which had helped my tears to subside. It was that memory that instructed me on what the boys needed, but while my hands and voice were occupied in applying the same kind of stress release for the boys as I’d been given, I couldn’t help picturing what they had earlier told me about their father slamming his fists into his wife. Had their father injured the boys’ mother worse than a broken arm? Had he beaten her in the head or hit some vital organ? “He’s in jail,” said the policeman, still giving me the eye like all this was my fault. “She was in the hospital, and he broke into her room. Then he . . .” Officer Krugle stopped, refusing to go on, but I got the picture. That poor woman. Had the father used a knife on her? Had his fists done even more harm to her delicate frame while she was suffering from the earlier bout? Obviously, something of that nature had occurred if she’d died from the second attack. Frances took the officer’s words to heart. His lips were trembling, and his body shook worse than battered tree branches in a windstorm. His tears were quieter than his brother’s. I guessed he wasn’t one for loud emotions, but this was an overwhelming shock, too big a wound to censure. I would guess that Frances probably understood even more the complete finality of his mother’s death. She would never again tuck him into bed, never soothe a booboo, or kiss his cheek as she told him how much she loved him. Was Frances already visualizing a life without his mother in it? Had he understood the part about his father being in jail and the relevance of that statement? Did he realize that his father must have killed his mother? “Boys, you’ll be coming with me,” Mrs. Penn said. “First, we’re going to go inside and get you some clothes and anything else you want, then you’ll get to ride in the buggy with me. That will be fun, won’t it?” Frances had obediently stood up, but then he simply stared at the woman, making no move to step in her direction, although she was holding out her hand to him. I think the shock had just hit his body in full measure. His skin turned ghostly. He looked like he was one second away from passing out. “You better catch him,” I cried out. “He’s going to . . .” The officer stopped glaring at me to reach out to Frances. The hand on the boy’s shoulder seemed to bolster Frances, although I was doubtful it was meant to offer support. It was more likely the man just didn’t want to have to bend over and lift the boy up from the dirt.
6.3 The Witchling Shama
The woman stepped forward. “Boys, my name is Mrs. Penn, and I’m going to take care of you for a while. But first, I’m afraid I have some very bad news about your mother.” We were outside where the air was fresh and wholesome, only something about Mrs. Penn’s body posture and facial expression sucked away all breathable air. Carlo, attuned to the gloom that had settle over us, let out a whimper. Frances took a step in his direction, wanting to soothe his little brother, but I had a bad feeling that he wasn’t going to be able to do that. Some things didn’t improve even with a helping of brotherly love. Mrs. Penn took a deep breath, like she was the one needing support and said, “You see, your mother apparently took ill and . . . and she died.” I didn’t know the appropriate way to tell two little boys that their mother had passed on, but I had my doubts that this woman was much of an expert doling it out. But, what could one say to make something that horrible into a more palatable statement? “That’s a lie,” Frances shouted out, glaring fiercely at the woman. “She had a broken arm or something. She’s not dead.” Carlo stared at his brother a moment, then turned around so he wasn’t looking at Mrs. Penn. He threw his arms about my waist. His tears accompanied ear-curdling screams. His grip on me was as tight as the vise holding a horse shoe in place when the blacksmith was pounding on it. My mouth dried up from the surge of empathy I felt for his pain. Poor little tyke. What had he done to deserve this? “Where is the boys’ father?” I demanded, as I patted and massaged little Carlo’s back and tried not to hear the anguish in his sobs.
6.2 The Witchling Shama
I patted his shoulder, then watched as he took off, first at a trot and then a surge forward into a gallop as the grass beckoned him. “Pretty horse,” the man said. “Aren’t you afraid he’ll run off?” “He comes when she whistles,” Frances gushed, his eyes glued to the stallion’s departure, which was suddenly quite a show because Frey had decided to give a couple of stretchy rear kicks and bucks that were truly spectacular. Only a horse like Frey could go from placid plug to wild stallion in seconds. “You let the boys ride him?” the man said, observing Frey’s mischievousness as much as the boys were. But on his face was not the same look of admiration. His eyes were dark with displeasure, and his face looked all puckered up like he’d tasted something unpleasant. I shrugged. If he wasn’t a horse person, he’d never understand, but I tried. “Frey would never hurt the boys. He was a perfect gentleman with them.” “We didn’t fall off,” Carlo said proudly. I wasn’t sure that helped, but I gave him a smile. “Yes, Carlo. You were very brave. Frey liked having you ride him.” Disbelief had spread across the policeman’s face as his eyes raked me with skepticism. I doubted he was through dealing with me, but for the moment he turned his attention back to the boys. “Children, we need to take you into town. I’m afraid you can’t stay here anymore,” the man said. “And, young woman, I’d like to know just exactly where you came from and what your business with these boys and the town is.”
6.1 The Witchling Shama
Once again, my thoughts dallied, as they were prone to do of late. For some reason, I was admiring the pretty picture of manhood who stood before me rather than responding to his question. The officer had jet black hair, a bit longish in back, just the way I thought all men should wear it. I liked the way his hair was obviously clean and not overly oiled as some in my former village had worn it. His hair looked soft as cat fur and a piece of it dangled low on his forehead, making him look younger than the coldness of his eyes suggested. He had a fine molded face with a pleasant nose, cheek bones that were rough-hewn enough to be extremely handsome, but not angular so that they looked sharp. I would be lying if I didn’t mention his well-developed muscles and his tight stomach and thighs, not that I noticed such things, of course. I brought my mind back to more significant matters, like the question he’d asked. I dodged that and instead offered him an explanation for my presence. “I found these two boys down by the creek. I thought they were awfully young to be so near the water without supervision, so I walked them home. Unfortunately, there was nobody here.” “So, you’d just arrived?” “The lady fed us,” Frances said, grinning his missing tooth smile. “And we got to ride on her horse!” Carlo chipped in. Frey suddenly decided to make his presence known. He nickered softly and pawed at the ground, then gave my back a determined nudge, indicating that he thought it was time to continue on with our travels. I turned to face him. I could have walked him over to his saddle, then tacked up so that we could ride on, but, instead, I slid off his bridle and said, “Go on back to the pasture, Frey.”
5.31 The Witchling Shama
My hopefulness for the return of the boys’ parent, turned to astonishment when I saw that the buggy was driven by a uniformed policeman. A gray-haired older woman sat inside the conveyance, one arm hanging out the open window and her head bent sideways so she could see us. “Is that your grandmother?” I asked the boys, pointing at the buggy rider. “Never saw her before,” Frances told me, as I lifted his younger brother down off Frey. “We don’t have any other folks. Mom and Dad is all there is.” The buggy stopped, and the man climbed down from the box seat, then opened the door and helped the woman out. They definitely weren’t a couple. The man was young and filled out his uniform in a rather nice manner. The woman was in her late sixties and clothed in a fashionable navy blue dress with white piping down the sides. She had on boots that looked new and clean. I sighed, attempting not to be envious of such wealth. I turned and lifted Frances down off Frey. When I set him on the ground beside his brother, both boys grabbed at my shirt and clung like flour paste. The couple, who weren’t a couple, romantically, at least, walked over to us. The officer had a threatening manner in his walk and the kind of glint in his eyes that said he was fully capable of attacking at any moment. I thought that his being on full alert was strange, since there was nobody here but the boys and me. Did we look dangerous to a policeman? “Are you Frances and Carlo?” the man asked, staring at the boys, while keeping me under his keen eye, as if he suspected me of being some kind of violent criminal.
5.30 The Witchling Shama
I suppose Frey’s willingness to obey such a summons might also be due to the fact that I usually offered him carrots and apples when I called him. I had none that day, but I gave him a handful of the berries from my backpack. He’d lipped those quite happily. The boys started begging for a ride. Since neither parent had yet arrived, I decided that sitting on my horse might be okay. I lifted up the older boy, then placed young Carlo in front of him. Both clung to Frey’s mane, gripping it so tightly I could tell that they were scared. But neither asked to be set back down on the ground. Frey seemed to understand that he must be calm and well mannered. I think he realized that he couldn’t do his usual prancing about. With the two boys on his back, as I began to lead him forward, he moved ploddingly like an old, half-dead plug. The boys’ faces had paled. Frances was shaking, still unsure about being up so high, but Carlo was grinning so widely, it was as if he’d been offered a miracle. “Are you okay up there?” I asked, just to make sure. Even though, before I’d placed them on his back, I’d gotten the boys’ promises to be quiet, but they were both too excited to keep their voices low. In a moment, after their fear ebbed, they were yelling to giddy-up and gallop. But even that didn’t disturb Frey. I walked them all around the yard before returning to the front door. I was just about to put the children back on their own feet when I heard the clip-clop of a horse approaching.