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.
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.