8.30 The Witchling Shama
“I see. I think it is clear at this point that there was never any contract between you two men. I judge in favor of Shama in the matter of the horse, Frey. In addition I urge this village to reconsider their treatment of the child. Let us hope that on my return here, that progress will have been made in that pursuit.” Frey was mine. I could breathe again. The air smelled sweet. I barely heard the babble in the school house courtroom that rose up at that rendering. Perhaps it was only the buzzing of a bee too far away for alarm. Or maybe, it was just that nothing could penetrate the joy flooding through me. I heard the judge’s hammer hit the desk. “Judgement rendered. Shama retains her rightful property, the stallion, Frey. Shama is owed the sum of 20 pueks or goods worth that amount, the choice to be the claimant’s from Mr. Henderson. Are there any other matters I must attend to?” “Your honor,” Mrs. Krinkel said, standing up. “You have stated that the horse is not to be sold to pay the house parents for the child’s keep, but what of these funds she has just come into. Could they not be apportioned out to clear her debts?” “Your name, please?” “Mrs. Krinkel,” the judge repeated, nodding to her after she gave him her name. “I would gather that you did not understand my ruling for the previous house parents, so I will repeat it so I am assured that you understand it fully. In addition, Shama may no longer give her services away to any of you. She has paid all her debts. Any future requests for her labors will be in trade or coin, and you will pay her the same amount in goods or pueks as you would any other citizen of this village. Is that understood, Mrs. Krinkel?” “But she isn’t a citizen,” the woman cried out.
8.29 The Witchling Shama
However, whatever my feelings in the matter, I had no control over the raging waters of the judge’s vengeance. When a rather large sum of money was declared as fair for having done the gardening, my mouth flew open, and I gasped. So did the other people in the seats of the make-shift courtroom. If popularity had ever been my goal, I could see from my quick scan of the faces of the villagers that I’d just been pushed from zero into negative numbers. “You will provide this accounting to Shama by noon tomorrow,” the judge proclaimed. The judge called back Mr. Barner. “I am still unclear as to the contract that you had with Mr. Henderson here for the foal now called Frey. Do you have that in writing?” Mr. Barner took hold of a student desk to hold himself upright. It was apparent that his flask had continued to supply him with what I’d heard called fake courage. “Nay,” he said. “We don’t use that stuff here. Word of mouth is good enough.” “Mr. Henderson, did you have an oral agreement with Mr. Barner to sell him the foal that you later gave to Shama?” Mr. Henderson shook his head. “Mr. Barner said he wanted the foal, but he doesn’t have a coin to his name. He drinks whatever he earns, your honor, as you can see. He spoke his wishes, nothing else. We never had a agreement, written or oral.” “I see. Mr. Barner do you have a witness to this oral agreement concerning one unborn foal?” “Nah. A man’s word is his bond. Everyone knows that.” “What was the price agreed on, Mr. Barner?” “Um. I . . . I was going to work it off at Henderson’s ranch.” “Working around horses would require a sober laborer. Would Mr. Henderson agree to allowing you to work with his horses when you can barely stand up?” “He would have, if that brat over there hadn’t stolen my horse away,” Mr. Barner said, puffing his chest out as if that would make him look more trustworthy when he was one swagger away from losing his balance.
8.28 The Witchling Shama
When Mr. Henderson agreed that I had given the facts correctly, the judge narrowed his eyes and stared at the man, the distaste on the judge’s face quite prominent. “Did you give Shama a dying foal and later withdraw this questionable gift and then force her months later to work without pay in order to buy that which by oral contract you had freely given her?” Mr. Henderson stumbled over such an attack. He made uh noises, shot a glance back at me, then did his best to explain. “I’m a businessman. I can’t give away prize animals. That horse of hers is worth a considerable amount. I did give her a really good bargain in trade.” “No. You cheated her,” the judge stated. “Did you listen to her tale of how she kept that foal alive? Would you have nursed it as tenderly or as capably? By your own words, it seemed you didn’t want to bother doing so. This child, has from what I’ve observed, received almost no support from this town, other than Mrs. Swenson and someone called Old Mother, who has apparently passed on. But that is not something I feel should be addressed in court, although a weighty amount of guilt should sit on the shoulders of every citizen of this town in treating this innocent child so poorly. But from a legal standing, if not the moral one that I just pointed out, you took advantage of this child to make her labor in your garden when she had already endured great hardship in tending this foal, even being forced to increase her debt to provide the ailing colt with what he needed: vet bills, sustenance, and hours of doctoring. In addition to straining her health under this heavy load, she apparently had to work off th debt this caused since you didn’t provide any manner of support for the foal’s care.” “Although I was called here to this village in order to address Mr. Barner’s complaint, yet, I have the freedom to confront other injustices. Tell me, Mr. Henderson, for how many hours did this child dig, weed, and tend that garden of yours? What price would someone else have received for such employment?” Mr. Henderson had only done me a favor in coming to the court session. With the judge’s assault, I regretted having asked Frey’s former owner to attend my trial. I’d never meant to have Mr. Henderson publicly embarrassed in front of the villagers or to force him to have to pay me for the gardening. However, Old Mother did have another saying that seemed to apply: Karma sometimes lies in wait before sinking in her fangs.
8.27 The Witchling Shama
“I didn’t understand. I’d gotten permission to take the foal. Frey would have died if I hadn’t rescued him. But, I knew how little power I had in the village. I couldn’t stand up to a wealthy rancher. So, I did a lot of begging and, finally, because of Mr. Henderson’s wife, who I think took pity on me, it was agreed that I could work for the two of them to earn the sale price of my stallion. “I worked for over a year prepping, seeding, watering, and weeding the vegetable garden they have in their backyard. At the end of that year, Mr. Henderson wrote out the deed of sale you have in your hand so that no one could ever say that Frey wasn’t mine. But, unfortunately, even that legal document hasn’t kept people from telling me that I didn’t deserve a stallion like Frey.” I suppose I sounded bitter, but deservedly so. I had done everything right, and yet, my reward always seemed to be another kick in the teeth. I missed Old Mother’s ready quotations for life’s travails. I missed her friendship and kindness. When the judge allowed me to go back to my seat, I felt limp as an old stalk of celery. I slid into the seat and could barely hold my back straight. I felt the urge to slide down to the floor and curl up for a good nap. Of course, I didn’t. There was too much at stake. I sent another prayer to Gaia and sorted through the sayings of Old Mother. Surely she would have given me something to cling to. Why couldn’t I remember one that dealt with deceit and the wavering lines of Fate? Mrs. Swenson received the judge’s warmth and a friendly smile. He praised her faith in me and said he hoped that the karma she deserved would come to her. He was more matter of fact with the apothecary, only wanting confirmation as to the facts I’d presented. He dismissed those two, then called for Mr. Henderson. “Do you agree with Shama’s statements?” the judge asked. It amazed me to see the judge’s indrawn cheeks, the clenched fists, and an additional tell, a tic in the corner of his left eye.
8.26 The Witchling Shama
“But after I’d worked off my debt to her, the vet, and the apothecary where I bought Frey’s vitamins, I wanted to move back home. I think Mrs. Swenson understood that. I lived in an old, restored lean-to. I’d done that all by myself, replacing termite-infested boards with new ones and propping up places where the lean-to needed fixing. I was proud of my efforts, and I’m sure you understand that home means the place you hold inside your heart. “Frey and I had become best friends. I know people would say that makes no sense, but he listens when I talk to him. He rumbles deep inside, purring like a cat at times, because I tell my worries and my dreams, and he patiently endures my tears when I sob into his glossy coat because sometimes life gets me down. Please don’t take him away from me. I couldn’t bear that. Please, your honor.” I broke down then, weeping like a toddler who has an ouchy on her elbow. I knew it was childish. I was trying to stop. After a moment someone brought me a second cloth, and I stifled back my tears and brought myself back under control. Then I apologized to the judge and waited to hear if he would ask me anything more. “I need you to continue, child. Tell me about the deed of sale that you showed me,” he said with the soft voice of someone truly compassionate. “I raised Frey, as I was telling you. We went everywhere together. When I worked at people’s houses, he waited out in front. I never needed to tie him up, as he is now. He didn’t wander. “Apparently someone told Mr. Henderson about my handsome stallion, and Mr. Henderson came to see me at my lean-to. He seemed surprised that the foal had survived, and he did what most horse people do. He admired Frey with his hands and eyes. But then Mr. Henderson told me that I couldn’t own the horse unless I paid for him.”
8.25 The Witchling Shama
I learned to sleep in increments of five. I cat napped minutes. But then the next problem hit. We’d gone through all the milk I had in the refrigerator. Once again, I had no idea what to do. But brains are inventive, and luckily, by then, Frey was up and about. He was running circles around me, in fact. He felt good. We left my lean-to, and I zombie-jogged to Mrs. Swenson’s. I didn’t have any money for milk or for food, but she took me into her barn, fixed me some food, fed Frey, and took care of both of us for a couple of weeks. I might have starved if she hadn’t been the kind lady she is. And if I’d starved, then Frey would have, too, because he was still nursing my silly tee shirt. “I guess it sounds like the whole tale was going great. All problems surmounted, only that wasn’t true at all. Frey didn’t get his mother’s colostrum, which meant he had no protection from disease and he didn’t get all the nutrients he needed. And he developed diarrhea. Things were bad, and he was getting weaker. That was when Mrs. Swenson got her vet to come see Frey. Again, I still had no money, nothing to trade, and I was still more or less in a fog of sleeplessness. But Mrs. Swenson paid for the vet and for the mare replacement powder, and she even found a lactating mare so that Frey could get some of the real stuff. “Judge Muffett, if I ever find a gold mine, I’m signing it over to Mrs. Swenson because she saved Frey’s life and mine. It was a whole month before I got myself together enough to start working on the farm. I learned how to milk cows and dig fence posts. “I also discovered that there are good people living here in the village, people who do things because they have what Old Mother, the old woman who mentored me before she passed, used to call: a heart full of trees, flowers, and the wonderful understanding of love.
8.24 The Witchling Shama
“He was just a newborn, but he weighed an awful lot. I was fourteen at the time and kind of spindly, but I carried that foal all the way home. It just about killed my arms, and I was panting, but I had to save that foal. It wasn’t a choice. It was like a need so great I’d have sooner let my arms fall off than give up before I got him home. “But I made it there. I set him down in my only blanket. Then I wiped him dry. I guess that warmed him up because he started trying to get up. I knew he wanted milk. I’d bought some the day before from Mrs. Swenson. She owns a dairy cow, and Molly’s milk is delicious. “I knew I needed to get the little fellow to drink. I figured his mother was warm or would have been if she were alive. So, I got out a pan and heated some of Molly’s milk. I didn’t want to burn the foal’s tongue, so I didn’t get it really hot, though. But when that was done, I didn’t know what to do next. Foals need their mother’s udders to drink. It was a dilemma, but the foal was looking like standing up was almost about to happen, and the purpose for that was to drink milk. “I took one of my tee shirts and crinkled up the edge of it into a V. Then I dipped that into the warm milk. It took a while to convince him to try it, but I didn’t have any choice. I couldn’t let that foal die. It might have been a whole twenty minutes before that stubborn little boy finally figured out that the rag I was sticking into his mouth tasted good. And then he got greedy. I kept dipping and letting him suck, dip, suck, dip . . . on and on until finally, he got so drowsy, he just lay down again and fell asleep. “Frey. That’s the name I gave him. Frey was using my only blanket, so I had to cuddle in with him. That was okay because I think the smell of horse is a wondrous smell. It’s like everything good in the world, you know?” I sighed, then smiled at the memory. “I guess you think that the hard part was done, but it wasn’t. The foal wanted to eat again in about ten minutes. And then again and again. I found out later, when I looked back at the torture of that night without any sleep, that a newborn foal nurses at least ten times every hour! “I turned into a zombie during that time. I hardly got any sleep. I was lucky if I could steal a bite of bread or cheese, then it was back to nursing. Night and day. It was constant. By the end of that week I was no longer a zombie, I was barely lucid. I was sleeping on my feet tired.
8.23 The Witchling Shama
“I moved in closer and bent down. ‘How do you make them breathe?’ I asked. “Mr. Henderson sighed as heavy as a lonely bull cow, not that Mr. Henderson is a bull cow. I just meant that it was the same low pitched bellow sound. Both the bull cow and Mr. Henderson sounded like they were grieving. “Anyway, he showed me how to breathe into the foal’s mouth and nostrils. I started doing that, and he started pumping the foal’s heart. We kept doing that for about ten or fifteen minutes, and finally we saw a sign that the foal had started breathing on his own. It was like a miracle.” “We kept working on the foal, making sure he was going to live. I was happy to do that. At that moment, the most important thing in all the world was for that foal to live.” “And the foal kept right on breathing, but the mare, his mother, was looking worse. In fact, she was dying. I don’t really understand what happened. I bet Mr. Henderson could tell you, but I was still keeping my eyes on the foal. That baby horse was the only thing that mattered to me at that moment. I knew Mr. Henderson loved his mare. I was really sad about that, but happy about the foal being alive. “But then, Mr. Henderson said something horrible. It was the worst thing I’d ever heard. Well, one of them, anyway. He said that a foal without its mother always dies. “You can’t imagine that moment. We’d just made the baby live, and Mr. Henderson was sending the baby to his doom. “How do you keep a foal from dying, Mr. Henderson? Tell me, please. I’ll do whatever it takes. I’ll make him live,” I’d said. “Just give it up, Shama. There’s no hope.” “I could tell Mr. Henderson was already resigned to the foal dying. When someone loses hope like that, they stop believing all things are possible. I knew I had to get that foal away from his dead mother and Mr. Henderson’s lack of faith, so, I asked Mr. Henderson if I could take the foal and keep him, and Mr. Henderson said, yes.” “He told me later that he was in shock, or he’d never have let me to take that dying foal to my little lean to. But I did ask him a second time, and then he said, ‘Yes. Take him. Do whatever you want with the carcass. Now get, Shama.’”
8.22 The Witchling Shama
Unfortunately, that was the switch that restarted the man’s speeches, only this time, he’d halted his swaying body almost at the point where I was sitting. His eyes sought me out. “You’re a real nothing, girl. I’m not going to let you steal my horse. No, siree. You’re one ugly female. You got dull hair and a rope of a body. You aren’t never gonna find a husband. And that horse is mine, right, Judge?” I shed no tears over the drunkard’s disparagement. It wasn’t anything I hadn’t heard from numerous members of the village elite already. But Judge Muffett did not accept Mr. Barner’s words as lightly as I had. He hit the wooden hammer on a couple of files atop the teacher’s desk, and said, “I find you in contempt, Mr. Barner.” I didn’t know exactly what that meant, but I was grateful that the judge’s irritation was not for me, but for Mr. Barner. We were given a recess, which was kind of funny because I’d thought a recess only happened at school. Except, come to think of it, this whole court session was taking place in the school building, so I guess it made sense to call it recess. I wanted to go outside and check on Frey, but a policeman at the door said I needed to stay inside. After I sipped water from a small paper cup someone was handing out and returned from my sudden dash to the toilet room at the end of the hall, I heard the announcement that it was time to go back inside. Just like in school, recess was always too short. I’d barely touched my bottom to my seat before the judge called me to the front. “Tell me how you got the stallion named Frey,” Judge Muffett ordered. I explained how I sometimes did chores for Mr. Henderson. Not the free kind, but the trade kind. I’d heard that his mare was due to foal, so I’d been stopping by almost daily to see if maybe the foal had come. “When I arrived that day, I saw that Mr. Henderson was bent over his prize mare and had just pulled the foal out of its mother. I edged over to take a good look. I’d never seen a new born, and I’d heard that they were able to stand up on their wobbly legs, sometimes in as little as fifteen minutes.” The judge nodded. He seemed very patient with his listening. Most people weren’t. They wanted a story finished before the person telling it could even paint the picture. “Mr. Henderson must have felt my presence. He looked up and shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Shama. The little one didn’t make it. I couldn’t get him to breathe.’ ”
8.21 The Witchling Shama
Judge Muffett had dismissed the group from the court session then, refusing to allow them to remain, even when Mr. Wessen requested it. “Honestly, you people sicken me,” the judge said. “Be gone.” The gasps in the courtroom were many, but no one spoke or attempted to disagree. I’d been told earlier by several individuals that Judge Muffett was well known for his thoughtful deliberations and for rendering fair judgements. He was also the highest authority in our circuit, and villagers like us were honored that he would offer his services for the kind of trivial cases found in a tiny village such as ours. After Judge Muffett heard a case and stated his decision, there could be no do-overs or additions to add later. When his judgement was rendered, the case was closed, and the decision was final. I’d been glad to hear such things about him, but he was still an unknown. The big test was about to come. Could he understand that Frey was my best friend and the only family I had? Would he mock such thoughts and discard them as foolishness? He had been kind to me so far. I could only hope that he would be equally as empathetic when he made his judgement about Frey. I couldn’t even think about losing my stallion. Surely the fates would not be so cruel. It was Mr. Barner’s turn, then, to state his case. Apparently, he’d been sipping his flask during the preceding case, and when he sauntered up to the judge’s bench, he looked a bit unsteady. His speech sounded slurred when he stated his name, and his opening statement was a ramble that lacked coherency. Judge Muffet did not once interrupt Mr. Barner’s speech as the man explained why the horse now living at my shack belonged to him. The judge was giving the man an unbelievable amount of attention, despite the basic illogic of the premise and the fact that Mr. Barner’s presentation often lapsed and spun in directions that included tangents no one else could follow. The judge glanced over at me now and then, but still sat perfectly still, his hands steepled like a mountain peak. Finally, Mr. Barner seemed to slow down, pausing to issue a series of hiccups, stops and starts. “That’s her fault, you know, Judge. That girl stares at you, and you get confused. She thinks she can manage a stallion. But no girl should be riding a stallion.” The man turned to swagger back to his seat, but the turn proved more difficult than he’d expected, and for a moment he looked like he might topple over. At the last second, he straightened himself up and started to go forward again, only to twirl about and stop again, like a top whose spin had slowed to the point of collapse. “Are you finished, Mr. Barner?” the judge asked.