6.23 The Witchling Shama
“Do you always carry on conversations with your horse?” the officer said, having sneaked up behind me while I was scolding Frey. I let out a burst of air. An uh, ack, or something equivalent. The man had startled me. I gently put down Frey’s hoof and stared at the guy. Why was he so tall? Every time I glanced at him, he seemed bigger. “You bedded the boys down?” I asked. “Yes, and I told them a story. They were yawning, and their eyes started sagging almost the moment they got out of the warm water. They were so tired, they didn’t even protest about wearing a woman’s nightgown.” I gave Frey a gentle pat on his hind quarters, told him to enjoy his grazing, and informed him that I was going inside. He gave me a nickered grunt, the sound he made that meant okay. Only someone who has been around horses knows that they may have fewer words than humans, but they still communicate well. They ear twitch, head roll, nod, hoof stamp, and make a variety of utterings that horse people more or less understand. Frey, since he’d grown up with me, had more vocals than most, and he expected me to know the meaning of all of them. Anyway, whether he understood my words or not, he tramped away, still flicking his tail, hitting his flank on each side. I definitely needed bug spray, or at least some material to sew him a head protector and a tail lengthener. I wondered if the house had some old curtains left to rot, lying in a basement or attic. Did the house have a basement or attic? Before the officer could get a word in, I started badgering him about it. “How would I know?” he said, shaking his head and standing in the way people do when they reject whatever you’re trying to tell them. “This is only the second time I’ve been in the house, and the first time was only to . . .” “Check that the old lady was dead?” I said, taking note of his hesitance to fill in that detail. The expression on his face registered one part disgust that I’d said it so blatantly, one part chagrin that he hadn’t, and something else, which I couldn’t quite latch onto. The man was a mystery. I wondered what his wife was like.
6.22 The Witchling Shama
After it was clean, I placed the basin on a flat surface and used a hose to fill it. Frey, watching me intently, as always, slurped up the water right off, not even waiting for me to finish my task. He pretty much emptied the water out, so I let the basin fill up again. When Frey began playing in it, splashing the water all about with his muzzle, I shooed him away, but that warned me that this tiny basin wouldn’t work as a watering trough, not for my mischievous one. The backyard held a small shed. I walked over to inspect it. The tiny structure, about the same size as the lean-to that I’d restored and lived in, was both immaculate and almost empty. I assumed the deceased woman had used it as a tool shed. Perhaps she’d once kept a garden in her yard and grown vegetables or flowers, although I’d seen no sign of that — no enclosed plot of wood or brick, as those I’d tended in the village. But since the whole yard was currently overgrown by weeds, it was hard to tell. If I were staying long, I’d harness the boys to start some peas, beans, and carrots. “Growing things was a good way to heal from inner wounds,” Old Mother used to tell me. Presently, the inside of the shed displayed only a few tools, each neatly hung on a nail on the left wall. I was pleased to see a shovel, which I could use to clean up after Frey, but a wheelbarrow was lacking. Where could I cart Frey’s manure to anyway? I guessed that a garbage bin would have to do since there was really no room to start a compost heap, and the neighbors would understandably complain if my horse’s manure drew flies to the area. However, the small shed would do fine to keep my tack safe from the elements. I could store hay and grain in the shed, too. If I had any chance to earn money, I’d could add a couple more nails to the wall and hang the curry comb and horse brush I needed to buy. I’d left his old ones behind in my rush to get away. Poor Frey hadn’t had a proper grooming since I’d been stoned out of the village. Meanwhile, I checked Frey’s hooves, making use of the hoof pick that I’d always kept in my pocket. Frey thankfully liked anything I did to him, lapping up the attention like a dog. Unfortunately, his only bad habit was leaning on me. With only three legs, I could see how he might feel a bit unbalanced, but he slept on three, so there was no excuse for me to become his leaning post. I ranted at him for a moment about that, and he twitched his tail, managing to knock me in the forehead while I was working on his back hoof. But that was probably due to a fly attacking him rather than sassing me for my lecture. I wondered if, when I got paid for that mythical job I was imagining, I should splurge on some fly spray.
6.21 The Witchling Shama
I closed the door and took a moment to think. First, I needed to look at the backyard to see if Mrs. Penn was right about it being suitable for a horse. I hunted for the door to the back, then walked outside to check the yard. Sure enough, although the area wasn’t laid out for a horse, it looked like the backyard would work temporarily. The grounds were full of tall weeds and an overgrown lawn that Frey would quickly restore to the right length. I found the gate out to the front and whistled. Frey came running, slipping right through the opening, not fazed by the way he was trotting into an enclosed area. Once Frey was inside, I secured the gate, checking that the latch was adequate. Frey nickered and nuzzled me for a moment, but then he looked around and seemed to like what he saw. For Frey, anywhere there was ample grazing was okay with him. He nosed about for a moment, then returned for a pat. “It’s okay, boy,” I told him. “We’re going to stay here a bit.” Frey was loose and saddleless, so there was nothing I needed to do, except find a bucket for water. The fact that Frey didn’t have his saddle on reminded me that I needed to get my tack back from the buggy seat. I’d ask the officer about that after his stint at bathing the boys was finished. I found a flat porcelain bowl that looked like it had once been used for face washing or shaving. It would serve my purpose after a good cleaning. I set to work right off, “It only takes soap, hand grease, and good intent,” Mrs. Stevens used to direct me when I was cleaning her floors. Luckily this bowl was a lot smaller than Mrs. Steven’s floors.
6.20 The Witchling Shama
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Penn. “We need those new clothes right now. Okay if I leave now so I can pick up some things for the boys?” She was talking to me, so I nodded. I could already see, as I stared in at the bathroom, that there were towels and an almost new bar of soap on the rim of the tub. Someone had even placed shampoo in a caddy in the corner. “Wait here, boys,” I said. Then, I headed back to the bigger of the three rooms and searched through the drawers. Mrs. Smith had an entire drawer full of nightgowns. If I could talk the boys into wearing one after their shower, that would provide them with something to sleep in. Carrying two of them, I returned to the boys who were standing in the exact same spot, still gawking at the bathtub. “Officer Krugle, do you think you could help the boys with their baths?” I asked, since he was standing there in a daze and not doing anything. I could see he wanted to dodge that bullet, and Frances was shouting out that he was too big to need someone to bathe him, but I figured it would be easier on the boy’s pride if a man assisted this operation than a woman. Apparently, the officer came to the same conclusion. He took the nightgowns from me with a raised eyebrow, recognizing that they were for a woman and not two little boys, but then he nodded, which I guess was a sign of approval.
6.19 The Witchling Shama
We walked in through the varnished wood front door, then stopped. I think my mouth dropped open, and the boys were stunned into silence. “Is this a real house?” Marco asked. “Of course, it is,” Frances said, but then he looked up at me. “It is, isn’t it? Are we going to live here? Can we touch the furniture and sit on it?” Mrs. Penn was smiling broadly. She squatted down to look both boys in the eyes. “This is going to be your house — at least, for a while,” she said, glancing up at the officer. “You can touch the furnishings, but always with clean hands. And if your clothes are clean, you can sit on the chairs and couch. But no rough housing. Okay?” “Okay,” Frances said, “but what is rough housing?” “No kicking, screaming, wrestling or ball games inside,” I told them. “That’s what Mom always says,” Frances told us, then remembering that she wouldn’t be saying that anymore. His lower lip began to tremble, and his eyes filled with tears that he quickly wiped away. “I wonder if there are bedrooms for you boys,” I said, hurriedly, hoping to give Frances a moment to recuperate. The boys sprinted ahead, running up the stairs so they could be the first to peer behind each closed door of upstairs. “There’s a bed in this one,” Carlo said. Frances was already opening a second door. He let us know that it, too, had a bed. A third room held another. The boys started hopping up and down in their excitement. “Do we get to sleep in a real bed?” Frances asked. “Not until you’ve had a bath,” I told them, sternly. “Let’s check out the bathroom.” Their eyes got big. “You mean there’s a bathtub inside?” Frances said, his voice sounding hoarse from the surprise of it.
6.18 The Witchling Shama
Without any further discussions with Officer Krugle about propositions, the four of us headed in the direction of Mrs. Smith’s house. The moment we stepped outside the Police Station, Frey gave us his full attention. He bugled at the sight of me and let out a couple of gravelly low-pitched neighs, letting me know that he hadn’t liked it when I’d stayed away so long. Then he rolled his head about as he did when he was demonstrating his prowess, did a quick mini rear which he repeated several times for full effect while continuing to vocalize his stallion challenges, pawed at the ground rather like a raging bull, then followed after us meekly. The officer started frowning again. “He’s too much horse for a young girl like you,” which made me glare at the man for insulting my ability to deal with the stallion. I mean, honestly, I’d raised Frey since he was a baby. Of course, I could handle him. “He’s really pretty,” Carlo said, sighing, I think because he was hoping for another ride. “Can you call a boy horse pretty?” Frances wanted to know. I smiled down at them and nodded. “He liked it when you call him pretty. He’s vain.” Frances halted and stared up at me. “What does that mean?” he asked. Mrs. Penn had gone up ahead. The woman was a speedy walker when she wanted to be. She bustled down the walkway and was already twisting the key in the door’s lock. She glanced back as if entreating us to hurry up, although she said nothing. “Well, it usually means someone likes to look in the mirror a lot, but horses don’t do that. Frey just knows he looks good when he’s showing off. He’s pretending to be wild to make you think he’s a super horse.” Frances nodded but stopped again. This time he was staring at the house. The cottage sat on a side street, not far from the police station. It was painted in a pale bluish gray. The white window frames made it look charming. Pink roses lined the walkway up to the front porch, with a healthy lawn on each side. On the side of the porch sat a small table with three chairs and to its left, a hanging swing for sitting. Carlo skipped ahead and then stood staring at the swing. Can I sit on it?” he wanted to know. “Later,” Mrs. Penn told him, as she opened the door and held it for us. I guess she didn’t see the look on Carlo’s face. It was like someone had just taken his ice cream cone away. “Wait here, Frey,” I ordered my horse. He dropped his head instantly to nibble at the short grass of the lawn. Thank goodness he was easy to please. I patted Carlo and whispered in his ear. “We’ll be back in a moment to sit on the swing. OK?”
6.17 The Witchling Shama
“For a few days?” I asked, considering it. I didn’t want to stick around here with a rather inquisitive policeman trying to unravel my secrets, but the boys . . . I looked down at the two wild-haired, smudgy faced boys staring up at me with hopeful eyes. With a sinking feeling deep in my soul that hit me right smack in the belly, I knew I couldn’t turn away from the needs of these two little boys. A true witch, a white witch, was driven to give aid wherever it was asked. For a moment I recalled my journey: the freedom of drifting from place to place without obligations or duties, of sleeping under the stars and enjoying the solitude of nature — that was hard to cast off, but I really had no choice. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll stay with Carlo and Frances for a while.” Frances hugged me tighter and said, “Thank you.” Little Carlo sighed contentedly, or with as much contentment as he could seize in the current situation. Then he whispered, “I’m glad you’re our mommy now.” That was not good. I started to correct him, but Mrs. Penn was saying something to me. I paused to listen. “Mrs. Smith passed on a week or so ago. Her house stands empty with no heirs to take it over. It should do nicely for you three. And I will make sure that food is delivered, and we’ll provide clothes for the boys and anything else needed.” I swallowed hard and drew in a great, big breath. “That sounds really nice — about the house and everything, but I have a horse to tend. He and I always . . .” Mrs. Penn interrupted, as she seemed prone to do, her prominent beak of a nose seemingly posed to peck away all obstacles in her path. “Mrs. Smith’s house has a big yard. That should suffice. I’ll order some hay for the horse.”
6.16 The Witchling Shama
I didn’t want to ask, afraid that might deflate the boys even further. Did they understand that their father had caused their mother’s death, or were they still in shock, not really taking in the whole picture? I wasn’t positive they understood that they wouldn’t be going back to their home. Sure, their shack of an abode was run down and piled with disarray, but home is home, especially to two boys who’d known no other. I shifted Carlo, and he turned to face me, his head sinking into my neck as if I were the pillow for his bed, if he’d had one. He wasn’t crying, but he felt limp, too overcome by emotion to even protest the series of devastations that had entered his life. I used one hand to massage his back. “You were so brave to ride Frey,” I said. “He’s really tall, isn’t he?” Both boys perked up at that. “Can we ride him again sometime?” Frances asked. Officer Krugle’s attention repositioned itself, so that I was his main focus again. “What if we had a proposition for you, Shama?” the man asked. A proposition was a bad thing. It meant that a man wanted you to move in with him without marriage. Surely the officer wouldn’t suggest such a thing in front of the boys and Mrs. Penn. I guess I’d let out a gasp, because Mrs. Penn took note and rushed in to smooth it out. “Officer Krugle doesn’t mean that kind of proposition, Shama. He is asking if you’d be willing to take care of the boys for a few days. “Not for a few . . .” the officer interrupted. “For a few days, just until things get settled,” Mrs. Penn corrected him.
6.15 The Witchling Shama
The officer’s eyes scanned me once more, as if each piece of information he pried out of me added to his picture of who I was. Truthfully, I guess it did, but I was determined not to give him the last item, about my being a witch. Most towns didn’t like those with had even a tiny bit of power. Such females were deemed difficult, unruly, and sometimes, evil. The inside of the policeman’s station was stark. It needed green plants and fresh flowers. Even a picture on the wall would soften the atmosphere, but I sat down in the simple wooden chair where he’d directed me and said nothing. The boys were being extremely quiet, as well. Their eyes were huge circles of fear. I lifted Carlo up and set him down in my lap. Frances crawled up on his own, sliding onto the side of my chair as if he’d been invited. I hugged them both. I didn’t bother telling them that everything would be okay. It wouldn’t be. Their mother was dead. Their father was in prison. Their life would go on in some fashion, but in a far different manner than they were accustomed to. False platitudes should not be used to cheer them up. The officer eyed me again, his glance taking in the position of the boys. Mrs. Penn noticed, too, and said, “See. It’s just what I told you, Frank. We can’t separate them. The widow Smith’s house would do nicely. There’s really no room in the facility.” Since I had no idea what they were talking about, I tuned out and instead continued my surveillance of the police station. Where was the holding pen with the bad guys who were behind bars? Was the door on the back wall, the entryway to the cells? Was the boys’ father inside there right now? Should the boys be invited to see him? Would they want to?
6.14 The Witchling Shama
As Officer Krugle drove us into the town, I began to wonder exactly where he’d take us. I didn’t have long to guess. We stopped right in front of a sign that said, Tingle Town Police Station. I waited for Mrs. Penn to make her move, and apparently she was delaying her departure for Officer Krugle. Only after the buggy shifted as his weight left the box seat, and then the buggy door opened, did Mrs. Penn get up. Then she acted like a lady, taking his hand as if she couldn’t dismount on her own. I came next, since I was the sandwich filling between two little boys, neither of whom were willing to leave the buggy until I did. I dismounted gracefully, but Frey almost knocked me over in his excitement because I was finally getting out of the buggy. If I’d had a clean shirt on, the grass green slime of his friendly snort would have smeared it, but as it was, you could hardly tell it had dirtied me any. His nickers were a flooding of relief, telling me he’d been worried about me. Maybe in his mind, being in a buggy was the equivalent of being kept in a jail cell. “Let’s go into the office. Will your horse wait for you without a halter? There’s no pasture anywhere around here,” the officer said, like I couldn’t see that with my own eyes. I nodded. “He’s used to standing around while I clean houses or weed gardens.” Immediately, I wished I hadn’t volunteered that information. What was with my overly eager flapping mouth?