5.29 The Witchling Shama
This bush looked like it was in its second year because it had flowering stalks blooming with attractive white flowers. The dead give-away (pardon my pun) was the purple splotching on the stems. I’d been taught by Granny Biglo that everything about poison hemlock is toxic, from the leaves, seeds, and flowers, clear down to the stems and roots. I warned the boys about the danger of it, but they said they knew. Their mother had told them not to touch the bush or go near it. So why did their mother allow the obnoxious thing to flower and multiply in their yard? I found that puzzling. Did it have something to do with a husband who kept beating her up in his drunken rages? Had she intended to use it to allay her problems? I had earlier taken the saddle and bridle off Frey so he could forage. I’d placed my tack on the ground, not seeing a fence or other place to put them, but my saddle had occupied the ground often enough while I was resting by the river. It wouldn’t hurt it, only it had made me anxious to leave it where I couldn’t see it while I was inside the shack. I was relieved to find that it was still in the same place. This place was apparently so isolated that no one came by. I whistled for Frey, and he came running. The boys were impressed with that. They wanted to know how I’d trained my horse to come to me. I wasn’t sure I ever had. It was just that I’d raised Frey from a baby, and I think he sometimes believed I was his mother, so of course, he came running.
5.28 The Witchling Shama
On inspection, the items looked safe. I opened a jar of apricots and took a whiff. The seal had made a tiny poof sound, indicating that it had been sealed adequately with the paraffin their mother had used. The apricots smelled sweet. “Get three bowls and spoons,” I said, hoping there would be some clean enough to use. I’d seen some dishes in one of the lower cupboards. Frances brought the bowls over and found some clean utensils. Before even looking over the other three jars, I spooned up an equal portion for each bowl, and we ate. Delicious. But two growing boys needed more than a small bowl of apricots. I checked the other bowls to find beets, peas, and applesauce. I figured the boys would be happy with the last jar, so I opened it first. Surprisingly, the boys and I were hungry enough to eat some of each one of the jars. In fact, by the time we were finished, we’d emptied them all. Afterwards, we rinsed out our bowls, then filled them with water. The tap seemed to supply decent-tasting water. We each drank most of a bowlful. I washed all the empty jars and placed them neatly on the sink. I suppose if the father didn’t come soon, I’d feel obliged to wash the rests of the dishes, but the whole shack gave me shivers of distaste. I really didn’t want to stay inside any longer than I needed to. “Let’s go see how Frey is doing,” I suggested, and they cheered. Apparently, they were just as eager to leave the squalor as I was. We walked out into the sunshine and fresh air. It was great to breathe air that didn’t smell like damp rot or worse. Although the property where their dwelling was located wasn’t filled with rubbish, it certainly wasn’t attractive. Weeds grew here and there, barbed and wicked. I think one of the bushes was poison hemlock, not a good thing to have near two curious little boys.
5.27 The Witchling Shama
“It’s dark down there,” Carlo added, his eyes widening in apprehension, either because he was terrified at the idea of going down those basement steps into a dark unknown, or because he was afraid I wouldn’t be brave enough to descend into the abyss in search of food. Heading down into a damp and probably spider-filled basement was something I wasn’t eager to do, but needs must rule timidity, as Mr. Stimms, the blacksmith used to tell me whenever I flinched at the way he enflamed his forge with an air-blowing bellow. I opened the door and, holding onto the wall, crept down into the bowels of a very unpleasant-smelling basement. Through the light from the door, with two scared little boys peering down at me, I could see a wall with some jars of food. I grabbed up a few, slid them into my ever present backpack, and climbed back up the stairs. I had no idea what I’d managed to find. I’d only see once I was back into the light. At the top of the stairs, the boys were half-salivating at the prospect of food. “What did you find?” they asked. I walked over to the table and pulled out the jars, one by one. I didn’t know when someone had canned these items. I worried about botulism, but as I questioned the boys, they told me that their mom had recently cooked and preserved fruits from the orchard’s trees.
5.26 The Witchling Shama
No one was home, just as the boys had suspected. They invited me inside and asked if I’d fix some food for them. I was leery about stepping inside with no parent present, but the boys complained about being really, really hungry. They said they hadn’t been given dinner the night before. I told them I’d try to fix them something, but it would depend on what they had in the cupboards. The place was a mess inside. Clothes lay strewn about on the floor and on several chairs. All of the chairs and the couch had patched holes that didn’t completely cover the stuffing that was spilling out of the cushions. Bowls with remnants of food sat on a coffee table made out of a tree trunk. The discards held mold-growing gardens, and the smell emanating from them detracted from any beauty one could see in their green and pus-colored bacteria. In the corner a huge pile of rusted and dirty farm equipment made an interesting centerpiece. I supposed I was being judgmental, but it seemed like a miserable-looking and rather dangerous home for two precious boys. I continued on through the living room, such as it was, and scurried into the kitchen. I was already predicting a sink full of dishes, which is exactly what I found. Some of the dishes were sitting in water, but from the oily surface at the top of it, I doubted any attempts at washing up had been recent. An old icebox stood against one wall. It was unplugged and empty. The cupboards held only cockroaches and one small brown mouse. Frances, watching me with sad eyes, sighed. “There might be food in the basement, but we’re not allowed to go down the stairs.”
5.25 The Witchling Shama
Carlo, who’d been petting Frey on the leg, which was as high as he could reach, turned to look at me. “Mommy cried.” I knew I should have backed away. I had no business getting involved in someone else’s problems, but the little ones had been playing really close to the creek, hitting the water with a stick that meant they were only one missed step away from falling in. In my opinion, neither boy was old enough to be on his own. Could I live with walking away and leaving them to drown or get hurt in some other way with no one to call for help? “Come on. Frey, my horse, and I will walk you home. Have you eaten?” Both boys shook their heads. I figured that their head shakes were related to my question about food, since Carlo placed his hand in mine and looked perfectly ready to put his faith in me to solve all problems. I hoped that their father would be there when we reached their house, a non-drunk and nonviolent version, of course. On the way, Frances asked me lots of questions about Frey. He didn’t even know what horses ate, and he kept wanting to know if he could ride Frey. I wasn’t against letting him sit on top of the stallion, but I didn’t think I should do so without a parent’s permission. “Daddy won’t mind. He never cares what we do,” Frances told me, matter-of-factly. I hoped that wasn’t true, but what did I know about family relationships like theirs? We arrived at their residence. To call it a shack would have been an insult to what I’d constructed from my old termite-invested lean-to, but I guessed that home was wherever you settled, and this was the place where the boys dwelt.
5.24 The Witchling Shama
I hadn’t received an answer about where their parents were, but it was possible the boys were just too excited about seeing Frey that they couldn’t take a moment to respond. When they begged to be allowed to pet Frey, I gave them permission, but I turned his head to look at me, making sure that he wasn’t going to decide to bite one of them. He had never bitten anyone, but I knew such things were possible. All animals were volatile, (even, or especially, humans.) The older boy told me that his name was Frances. The younger boy was Carlo. I finally found out that their mother had disappeared the day before, and their father was out looking for her. “He left you all alone?” I asked, trying not to reflect disapproval on my face. But couldn’t the man have found a babysitter or taken the boys with him? The boys were as young as I’d suspected. Little Carlo was only four. Frances said he was seven, but I doubted that. His missing teeth put him closer to six, if Mrs. Banner’s children were average tooth losers. “Did your father say you could play near the creek?” I asked. “He didn’t say we couldn’t,” Frances said, pushing out his chest as if that made him seem older. “Where do you think your mother went?” I asked, curiosity overriding good manners. My question didn’t seem to bother Frances. He shrugged, then offered. “She probably went to the doctor. Dad hit her pretty hard. Last time he busted her nose. This time she might have gotten a broken arm. Dad was really drunk.”
5.23 The Witchling Shama
The afternoon had cooled off. A soft breeze sped us on our way. We reached a patch where it was safe to trot and then canter for a bit. Both of us enjoyed that. I know Frey wanted to gallop, but the ground was too soft for that, and I wouldn’t take a chance of gopher holes breaking one of his legs. I reined him only a few minutes later when I heard talking. We slowed and I dismounted, wanting to see who was up ahead before we disturbed them. I whispered to Frey that I didn’t want him to make any noise, but I never knew how much he understood. Obviously not that, because the moment we rounded the bend, still following the curves of the stream, Frey let out a bugle of warning. I shushed him, but it was too late. The announcement of our presence was loud and startling in the quiet of the afternoon. Even the birds who’d noisily been chattering away a moment before closed their beaks and guardedly watched. But our alarm proved to be for nothing. It was only two little boys: one, maybe six or seven years old, and the other one looked no more than four. I searched for the adult who should be nearby, but no one seemed to be with them. “Where are your parents?” I asked, blurting it out like it was my right to question the children. But even the rudeness of my question didn’t seem to bother them. They were glassy-eyed over Frey. “Your horse is so big,” the littler one gushed. The other boy pushed him behind in a protective manner and said, “Yeah, and beautiful. I wish we had a horse. I’d ride him every day if I had a horse. Is this one yours?”
5.22 The Witchling Shama
I was lucky to be slightly dark of skin. My eyes were green and my hair a dark, brownish red, so I had few problem with sunburns, but I was always cautious. When I thought I’d dried off enough from my icy water bath, I moved under a tall tree and let its shade filter the sun’s harshness. I think Frey was also taking a nap. It was hard to tell since he often slept standing up, his eyes at half-mast, as if partly awake so that if a cougar or wolf approached, he’d be ready to gallop off. At the moment, he was resting his right fore leg, barely touching the ground with the front of his hoof. As I eyed his position, Frey shifted so that the left fore leg got a moment of rest. He flinched suddenly, apparently becoming aware that I was watching him. Frey’s eyes opened fully, and he nickered softly, turning his head slightly to glance at me. He removed the lock position that takes over the body of a sleep-standing horse and firmly planted all four feet. Then he took a step toward me and nuzzled me because I was still lying there on the ground. Perhaps that was a summons to get up and get back on the road. I yawned, stretched, stood, then stretched some more. Although the grass was soft, the ground underneath it wasn’t. My body felt stiff. I did a couple of simple exercises and heard my back crack back into position. What an ugly sound. Was I getting old?
5.21 The Witchling Shama
We passed a turtle lying in the sun, and, later, several small frogs croaked as we passed by. Both creatures fled from our presence, plopping back into the water as if we were predators come to eat them. Later as we rode on, we saw a beautiful red fox. It had a snow-white breast, perky ears, a black button nose, and an amazingly gorgeous tail. I yearned to reach out and touch the fox. I wondered if people ever kept such animals as pets. This one was wild, of course, and didn’t stick around to discuss the question with me. When we stopped for lunch and a siesta, I removed Frey’s tack. He quickly let me know that he was ready for another roll in the grass. His circles and the way his legs looked like he was about to collapse were sure signs of his intent. I suppose such maneuvers were the result of my failure to relieve his itchiness since I had no curry comb. I’d also heard that dust kept animals free from fly bites. I hoped so, at least that would provide a good reason for his dirt collection. But already he felt like sandpaper when I petted him. I ate my fill of watercress and miner’s lettuce and then sat down to gnaw at my cattail shoots. Once again, after I’d bathed in the stream, being careful not to get close and personal with any snakes, I sat in the sun to dry off and grew sleepy.
5.20 The Witchling Shama
Using a stick, I took a moment to dig up some of the stems which were buried underground. Meanwhile, while I was enjoying my tasty snack, Frey happily grazed. The grasses looked lush by the stream. We had only left that area behind for bit when we came to a blue elderberry bush. I had to fight off some birds who were feasting there, but I told them I wouldn’t stay long. I feasted and then filled up my bag with the blueberry-like berries. As we continued our ride, meandering along the stream, which seemed more active here, bubbling over pebbles and larger rocks, we were lucky to see butterflies and dragonflies flittering about. A patch of cardinal flowers provided a crimson splash of color, which delighted my eyes. At one point, a snake slithered across our path, sliding its way through the rushes. I was not knowledgeable about snakes. I figured it was best to just leave all of them alone. Frey, who’d probably never seen a snake before, merely flinched at its movement, but kept going, undisturbed by its presence. Unfortunately, I didn’t feel quite the same. The thought of sleeping on the ground when a snake decided to glide closer to me gave me the shivers. Not very white witchy of me, I’ll admit, but I’d never had anyone to discuss witchcraft with, and although I naturally abhorred any kind of cruelty towards animals, I wasn’t sure how I felt about not being snake sympathetic. Perhaps snakes were in the same category as mosquitoes and poisonous spiders.