8.20 The Witchling Shama
Once again, his eyes scanned the villagers’ faces, then he cleared his voice, and turned to address me. “Shama, I hereby relieve you of any further labor for these people. Babysitting, house cleaning, cooking, window washing, gardening, and fetching groceries over a period of ten or more years sounds more than enough payback for what these people should have given you freely. They should have viewed your presence in their households as a blessing. I doubt you were a heavy eater, and I can tell from your comportment that you caused them no excess of grief. For those who have any decency in their moral or spiritual beliefs, they should have named you, adopted you into their hearts and viewed you as a gift from Fate, do you understand, child? The burden they placed on your shoulders was not yours.” He sighed and shook his head once more. “When I asked these people if you ever caused trouble or were guilty of purposefully breaking things or disrupting their household, not a one of them could venture a single example of how you were difficult, disruptive, or argumentative, which leads me to believe that you were a model child. I think your eagerness to make amends for the supposed sin that they so unfairly placed on your shoulders, reflects the soul of an exemplary young lady.” “Thank you, your honor,” I said, but I wondered if I should explain how I never succeeded at any task. My cooking was subpar. My weeding left small unwelcome rhizomes behind, and my cleaning efforts showed smudges in the window panes. Even my activities with their children did not meet with the villagers’ expectations. One child had fallen and broken his arm while playing an outside ball sport. Another had cried when someone hurt her feelings. Repeatedly I’d been told that my failures were the result of my lack of good breeding and its accompanying social and family position. So, it seemed pointless to mention my failings to the judge, because there was nothing he could do about it. No one could change the fate of an orphan. As if watching my face for reactions, Judge Muffett waited a moment, and then continued. “Your efforts to repay these people have been earnest and willingly given, Shama. It is a pity that it was probably guilt-driven by the greed of these four families. I here forth render my judgement on this matter. From now on Shama will no longer provide free services to any of the people who petitioned for compensation for their six months tending Shama. Furthermore, in the matter of selling the horse, Frey, that proposal is rejected.” I let out a sigh of relief, probably too loudly, but it was good to have at least one of the matters resolved. These villagers’ squabble with me was now officially over. “Shama,” Judge Muffett, said, drawing my attention back to him. “You will not offer even a single service of labor to them. That means no babysitting. No gardening. No running to get them a forgotten grocery item. Do you understand? You may not work for any of the villagers, unless they pay you full compensation. Do I have your word on that, Shama?” “Yes, your honor,” I said. “Thank you.”
8.19 The Witchling Shama
I introduced the three people I had brought with me: the milkmaid (Mrs. Swenson), the apothecary (Mr. Tully,) and the former owner of Frey (Mr. Mathewson). “They will help substantiate my story,” I said. “Thank you, Miss . . . Thank you, Shama.” Judge Muffett first allowed the disputes of others to be heard before Mr. Barner was to get his opportunity to speak. It was the usual group in the village who had always and continuously griped about the cost of my care when I was a youngling. Although they hadn’t filed any legal paperwork, these house parents still wanted a chance to petition the judge for renumeration, which they said should be allotted to them with the sale of the horse, Frey. Each couple sounded bitter for being bound to me for six months. They named me, as they pointed in my direction, “that small unwanted orphan child.” I wish I could say that their outpourings had left me cold and unfeeling, but my hankie was entirely twisted and knotted by the time that group was finished harping about my earliest years which had caused them “a great financial hardship.” When the judge said it was my turn to respond to his questions, my voice had turned harsh from unexpressed tears, and a severe case of the sniffles was plaguing me from my shame at being so openly called unwanted and burdensome, the other terms that seemed to follow me around. But I drew in deep breaths and told the judge how I had been doing my best to repay these house parents by doing chores almost every day. “And for how long have you attempted to work out this debt you’ve taken on?” the judge asked. “As long as I can remember, your honor, but I remember that I fervently began at age five, feeling it my obligation to pay in order to make up for being a freeloader.” The judge snorted at that. “Why would you call yourself that?” he wanted to know. “It was what they called me, your honor, and I accept it. I should not have been their burden.” Judge Muffett shook his head, glanced back at the complaining villagers and asked for specific dates and details about who had received what labor in the past year. I relayed the chores each usually asked me to do. When the judge asked the houseparents if that was true, none denied that my statements were true. “She’s a young, feeble, and rather scrawny girl. She does what she can, but it’s not much. Her efforts can never fully recoup the expenses of rearing her,” Mr. Wilson explained. “Shama, no last name,” the judge said, then glanced back at the petitioners. “Why is it that not one of you could have spoken up and given this poor child a name? For that alone you should be stooped over with guilt and hiding your faces with shame.” Ignoring the judge’s scorn, Mr. Wallens, a second housefather stood up to speak, addressing one part of the judge’s words. “No one was willing to do so, Judge. It wasn’t just us. Her parentage was in question. No family from here, that’s for certain. Who would want to add such an unknown to their family line?” “I see,” the judge stated, but it was simple to read his face. His cheeks drew inward when his temper flared. His eyes turned a darker gray, reminding me of the color of a river stone when first seen lying at the bottom of a creek. The man’s hands flinched and sometimes even fisted, showing that although he had a professional air of calm, he was anything but.
8.18 The Witchling Shama
So when Mr. Henderson had demanded money in order for me to purchase Frey, I was desperate. I’d pleaded, begged, and promised to trade labor for my beloved colt. Finally, with his wife imploring him to be kind to me, Mr. Henderson had given in. I dug, planted, and weeded the man’s garden for an entire year, but never did I doubt that the job was worth its final reward. I’ve always been a hard worker. One could say, I’d toiled every day since babyhood. And although, I still didn’t think the arrangement was fair since I’d been given Frey as a dying foal, still, in the end, my debt was paid, and I’d received a legal bill of sale. That receipt was the one thing I made sure to always carry with me, because Mr. Barner wasn’t the only one in the village who thought I shouldn’t have such a fine piece of horse flesh, as they put it. Several of the villagers, all people who’d been my six month tenders, repeatedly complained to the mayor, saying that I owed them the horse in exchange for feeding me and keeping me safe during my early years. It was an ongoing argument that the major, mostly ignored, but it was Mr. Barner who drew up the legal documents in an attempt to steal Frey away. A date was set, and the itinerant judge arrived to hear the case. Half the town appeared that day to watch or participate in the session held in the village meeting room, (which was also the village school during most of the day.) Frey stood tied to the rail out front, unknowing that his ownership was in question. I’d been sick with worry for the weeks before, and it escalated to the point that I could barely eat on my day in court. I had my bill of sale, though. I figured that the law would have to decide in my favor (at least, I thought so, as I crossed my fingers, said a prayer to Gaia, and kissed Frey twenty-seven times for good luck.) Frey’s former owner, Mr. Henderson and the apothecary who’d sold me the vitamins, as well as Mrs. Swenson, the owner of the cow from whom I’d attained Frey’s baby milk, all attended court to bolster my case. I’d wanted the vet to come, but he was dealing with a sick sow. These pseudo friends told me not to worry as they stiffly sat in the small student chairs where bystanders needed to stay. Yet, when I looked back at them, I saw that each one of them held worry in the crevices of their eyes and in the downturn of their mouths. The judge introduced himself, asked for those who would speak to stand up, then took his place at the teacher’s desk. My legs shook so severely, I was forced to hold onto the desk in front of me, but I stated my name and named myself the defendant. “What is your last name, child?” I had to explain that I had never been given one and why. My tale was nothing new to the villagers, but I still cringed before its naked truth. The dishonor of my lack hung in the courtroom like an old, ragged spider web deserted by its maker. “You have no parent or guardian? Is there no one who can speak for you?” the judge had demanded.
8.17 The Witchling Shama
“I’m taking back my horse,” the drunkard said. “It isn’t fair what that judge said. That grey beast was supposed to be mine. I was going to buy him. I told Mr. Masterson that, but somehow you ended up with him. And you . . . you’re nothing, just a worthless girl with no name or family. You can’t have him. I’ve come to get what’s mine.” Frey had calmed down somewhat with my arrival, but he was still some distance from us, pawing at the ground and making guttural noises, warning that he didn’t like this man who was yelling at us in the middle of the night. I didn’t lower my iron frying pan either. Maybe Mr. Barner was a drunken skunk and no longer cognizant of what he was doing, but I’d heard stories about how males like him could get the upper hand and do bad things to young girls. I wasn’t an innocent entirely. Old Mother had given me the facts about such things, and if what she’d told me was true, the thought of Mr. Barner hugging me or putting his lips near mine was enough incentive to knock him in the noggin with a good solid thump. I gave the man full warning of my intention, as did Frey, who was still digging holes in the ground just slightly out of reach of Mr. Barner’s swinging lasso. Luckily, the man’s rope hurls were feeble and rarely in Frey’s proximity. In fact, the man could barely stand and almost fell over several times when he released a throw. I didn’t bother arguing with Mr. Barner. We’d already gone a round or two over who owned the horse. This was definitely not the first time I’d heard him deliver those words, which is why I mostly ignored them. I’d been given Frey when he’d barely had a chance at life. Then, after I’d nursed him for weeks, he’d not only survived, but had flourished. At six months of age, the owner who’d given me the dying foal, abruptly demanded that I return him. But nursing Frey all those weeks with a bottle full of the powdered mare’s milk and some liquid vitamins I’d bought from the apothecary, had bonded the two of us. I couldn’t imagine life without him. I was not sure I could go on without my only friend. I rarely earned cash when I worked in the village. Food, a used jacket, a tool I badly needed, even boards to replace the rotten or diseased planks of my lean-to — that’s what I was paid in exchange for my labors.
8.16 The Witchling Shama
Frey gave a second gentle nicker of comfort that instantly reassured me. No matter what happened in life, I knew there would always be this link between the two of us. I breathed in the smell of him. Others might have wrinkled their noses or let out an expression of disgust, but for me, the musky sweetness was a calming odor, one that spoke of many such years of shared hugs and kisses. I hardly heard the repeated low pitched humming that played a peaceful, drum-like vibration deep in his belly, but my shoulders relaxed, and my breath released the tension of a moment before. Absorbing our moment of calm, I reflected on how difficult it would be to have to leave Tinkle Town. If I was genuinely truthful, it wasn’t just the boys I’d miss. My thoughts traveled to Mrs. Penn and her gentle eyes, and the way she listened and always wanted to understand my needs. She felt comforting, grandmotherly. And then there was the lovely house with a real bed that was soft, cuddly and so comfortable it was like sleeping inside a cloud of warmth. I couldn’t forget the bathtub either with all that lovely hot water that came out of a metal spigot with a mere turn of a hand crank. Luxuriating in those bubbles was worth giving up a bit of sleep in the middle of the night as the boys slept. Frey had a place to stay at the yard in back of the house, and Mrs. Penn had made sure that he had fresh hay and grain. She’d even allowed me to get a curry comb and brush for him. It was true that the yard wasn’t the ideal place for him. Frey needed more space, but, at least we were safe there. There had been a night a few months back when I’d been asleep in my lean-to, and Mr. Barner had tried to steal Frey. My stallion had bugled his distress while dodging away from the rope the man was twirling. When I woke and heard my stallion raging, his screams of defiance a clear warning of a some kind of attack, I’d come raging outside, too full of adrenaline to worry about my own safety. If fury was a weapon, I was fully loaded. With my iron frying pan in hand, raised up, and ready to beat off the cougar I’d thought had pounced on Frey, I froze in place when I saw that it was Mr. Barner. I was so dumbfounded by the sight of him, still swinging his rope at Frey but missing every time, that I froze, mainly in disbelief. “What are you doing?” I cried out, my anger subdued by my astonishment. It was the middle of the night. The moon was perched in the sky like a one-eyed vulture. Because of it, I saw the man’s face clearly. His beard was askew, and I think there were chunks of tomato embedded in its stringy grayness. The man’s eyes in their sunken sockets of drunkenness glared at me. As ugly as he looked at that moment, I could have sworn he was no longer alive, but an apparition come to haunt me. I assured myself that he wasn’t dead, but only juiced up on drink and completely deserted of his senses.
8.15 The Witchling Shama
“You put the boys in jail? Isn’t that a bit harsh? If I’d known they were going to throw rocks, I would have dealt with the situation better. I’d have dismounted and had words with them.” (I was also thinking that I’d use a light spell on them. If a witch thinks of benefitting someone instead of punishing them, the spell doesn’t have any backlash. I could have found a way to correct the nastiness of the two in a manner that didn’t involve jail.) Officer Krugel was shaking his head. His finger rose into the air in a kind of scolding manner, but I don’t think he was even aware of that. I only noticed, actually, because Frey gave another warning snort. I reached out a hand and soothed him. “I’m glad you didn’t attempt that,” the man said, shifting his stance as if he was tired of standing in the middle of the dusty yard with the sun boring down on us. “Something tells me these boys are headed for the kind of trouble that their parents can’t bail them out of. When cruelty crawls its way inside a person . . .” “. . .it’s usually too late to stop its malignancy.” I said, finishing the quote. “Old Mother used to say that. She got very upset with certain people in the village. I think she believed there was a lot of malice in the hearts of many.” The officer smiled, apparently liking the fact that I knew that quote. He stretched his right foot up onto the lowest board of the corral’s fence. The posture didn’t look all that comfortable to me, but, perhaps, he needed the movement. “And you, Shama? Did you find the place you lived malignant? Were some of those people mean to you?” He was probing again, but I wasn’t going to fall under his need to investigate my past. He’d either accept me as I was or send me packing. Except for the boys I could care less which way that went. Okay, I knew I was lying to myself. It would kill me inside to have to leave now. Responding to the moment’s annoyance, Frey took a step sideways to lean into me. His low-pitched nicker was a tone of reassurance. I turned and flung my arms around his neck. This was a position we’d often shared. He was familiar with my sobs and the wetness that often sank down into his coat.
8.14 The Witchling Shama
“Good. That’s better. Tell me what the boys did to make your horse gallop you away.” I sighed, remembering too clearly how nasty the two had been. “It’s not important. They were just kids.” “Tell me. It is important. I need to know.” Someone should explain to Officer Krugel that his voice was a whip that stung. I didn’t want to cower before a man who gave orders like a military sergeant, yet, he’d said the information was important. I hesitated a moment, trying to figure out what I should do. “Why?” I said before I’d taken the time to debate whether that was appropriate to ask or not. I mean, the man was a policeman. Would defiance get me thrown into jail? Officer Krugel shook his head several times and let out a groan that caused Frey to issue a snorted blow through his nostrils. Frey’s head was erect and his ears were back, but he wasn’t offering a challenge. If he had, he would have been pawing the ground and, perhaps, lowering his head as if he wanted to charge the officer. This explosive output held a touch of alarm, but was actually Frey’s question to me as to whether this man was a danger to us. I patted Frey’s shoulder, assured him that everything was okay, then, sighing once, but accepting the necessity of discussing the tale, proceeded to relay exactly what had happened. When I ran down, after telling the officer what I remembered, I added, “It wasn’t that I thought they would injure me or anything. They were just kids. But, Frey sometimes senses more than I do. He was the one who decided they were a threat, not me.” “And when they threw rocks at you?” “They . . .” I stopped and sputtered a moment in surprise. I hadn’t known the boys had thrown rocks, but if they’d hit Frey with one, that explained why his escape from town had been such a maddened rush of speed and a full out gallop which lasted a good ten minutes. I supposed it took that long before the sting to his rump had faded completely from the place where they’d hit him and from his memory of the pain. I let out a puff of disgust. “Well, that wasn’t the first time I’ve had rocks thrown at me, but to throw them at Frey . . .” I blinked in horror at my careless spill of words, then threw my hand over my mouth as if that could stop what had already poured out. The officer’s eyes said that he’d heard me, but he chose not to pursue it. “I have already tossed the two brats in jail. They’ll be remaining there until their parents come to pick them up. I’ll make sure they both do community service hours. That will make them think twice about doing something like this again.”
8.13 The Witchling Shama
“It was your fault. You’re the big cheese in town who’s supposed to keep people from doing mischief. Two boys practically assaulted me, and Frey here practiced a horse’s favorite response to threat. He galloped me down Main Street and out into the country. Since you still have my tack and haven’t returned it, he had only a rope hackamore on with no bit in his mouth, so he took advantage, and we sped without stopping, jackrabbit-like until I could control him again. “Then when I finally got him stopped, he was heaving, and sweat was running down his sides. I had to get him to water to cool him off. We walked and walked, which I also needed to do so he wouldn’t colic, and I found this place. I’m sorry if the owner is going to get mad. I sort of drained out all his water. Well, Frey did a portion of that. He was drinking and splashing, and, as I said, I was trying to cool him down with water, and this is the result because Frey loves to play in water and that means he gets me as wet as he is.” I finally slowed my flow of explanation, and Officer Krugel dismounted and immediately burst into laughter. “I’m sorry,” he said, holding his hands up in the air as if I were the sheriff and he the one in trouble. “Here,” he said, turning to the pack on his horse. “This will help your . . . uh, outfit.” He walked closer, then tossed me a shirt jacket. Flashing through the air as it did, like a ghost or an attacker, the shirt fired up my stallion again. Frey gave out a bugle of alarm and backed away, then gave a full-throttle trumpet of warning. Again the officer threw up his hands. “No offense, Frey.” I was delighted that the man had remembered Frey’s name. Most of the villagers had just called Frey: that horse of yours, or the big gray beast. Frey was definitely not a beast, and he deserved to have an identity, but I never told anyone how much their lack of respect for him hurt me. I’d just sighed and kept going, believing that someday I’d earn everyone’s friendship (as would Frey.) I gave the officer a quick smile, then started to put my arm in the sleeve. “I’m going to get it wet, I’m afraid.” He shrugged. “It is better than broadcasting so openly that you’re indeed a fully developed woman.” Of course, I looked down at myself when he said that. My face lit on fire and shot up to the same degree of heat as the village farrier’s forge. I quickly covered myself. Once on, the shirt acted more like a robe than a shirt. (It was at least twenty sizes too big. Well, maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but it was big!)
8.12 The Witchling Shama
In between splashings I encouraged Frey to drink, which was also something necessary for his over- heated body. I limited the quantity, of course, but that wasn’t difficult since all I had to do was splash him, and he was back in the game of turning me into an old mattress, completely saturated in water. I’d just stopped his play and ordered him to take another drink when I heard the sound of a horse trotting up. The moment I heard the approaching rider, it hit me that I’d trespassed on someone’s property and would probably be lectured if not jailed for the liberties I’d taken with the owner’s corral and water trough. I looked down at the mess that Frey and I’d made. The once dry dirt inside the area had been turned into a muddy pigpen, and most of the trough water had been emptied out. Boy, was I in trouble! When I looked up to see how angry the owner was, it was with some relief, however undeserved as that might be, that it was not some angry bull of a man, but Officer Krugel. “Hi,” I said, suddenly feeling that a furious owner might actually have been a better person to apologize to. But misfortune comes and must be suitably dealt with, as Old Mother used to say. Misfortune with a big exclamation point. The officer’s face reflected little anger, though. He seemed merely perplexed by my appearance and by the fact that I was standing in someone else’s empty corral. “What in Melsville are you doing?” he asked, his lips curving in amusement. I know I should have answered right away, but it just blurted out of me, as things were inclined to do. “Who is Melsville?” Officer Krugel shook his head and actually completed the smile. “It’s just an expression we use. When Melsville was alive, he liked to clown around. He died a couple of years ago from old age, but still whenever something silly occurs, we use that phrase. Seeing you wetter than a flea dipped puppy, it seemed most appropriate here.” “Oh,” I said, too embarrassed to deal with such insults.
8.11 The Witchling Shama
I never knew how much Frey understood of human speech, but he’d decided that he didn’t like these two and wanted to get as far away as possible. Horses are not predators. They usually don’t attack if given the chance to flee. That is exactly what Frey did. He reared up, which sent the two ruffians backwards, one of them actually falling onto his rump. Then Frey took off like someone had shot pellets at him. (I later found out that at least one of the boys had thrown rocks at my horse. It is possible that one of them hit Frey in the buttocks, which is the correct label for a horse’s rear end.) I would never have wanted to gallop my horse down the main street of town, fearing that might scare or endanger someone, but Frey at no bit in his mouth, and he suddenly realized that. The hackamore, especially nicely wrapped by cloth so it wouldn’t hurt him, apparently issued little pressure on his muzzle to make him heed my urgings to slow down. I’m not sure a desert jackrabbit went as fast as our dust-heaving all out run. We’d gone at least a mile before I was able to regain control of Frey. He was breathing rapidly and sweating profusely down his shoulders. I felt bad for him and instinctively wanted to get him to some water and let him rest, but, of course, anyone who knows about horses are firmly aware that a sweating horse should not just stand in the shade to cool off. But, water was a necessity. I had no idea where I’d find any, but I kept walking Frey, until his breathing slowed. Gaia must have been looking down at me, offering her blessings, because we’d only walked about ten minutes when we came to a deserted house that still held a full water trough in its corral. I wished for a big, fat sponge, but since I didn’t have one, I just splashed Frey as best I could. I think by the time we’d arrived at the empty house, Frey was back to normal, but he liked the splashing and wanted to participate in the fun. We both ended up soaked, but I knew that his coat would dry a lot faster than I would. I probably looked like an old mattress tossed in a creek, while Frey’s coat turned shiny. He was always a handsome guy, but water cleaned, he was magnificent. I told him so, and for a moment he tossed his head and acted like a rooster showing off for its hens.