6.13 The Witchling Shama
As the buggy sped along, I sneaked peeks at Mrs. Penn. She didn’t seem to be much of a talker, but I could tell that she was observing me. At one point, she said, “You can’t be much older than twenty-five.” I was so incensed that she thought I was that old that without pausing to think about it, I blurted out that I was only twenty. She smiled with such canniness that I realized I might have misjudged her. There was something in the look in her eyes at that point that made me think she was much wiser than I’d thought. She was a bit like Mr. Peters who had tested minute portions of herbs and chemicals to see what combinations reacted in a way that might be useful. One of my house mothers, Grandma Stevens, had said that Mr. Peters would one day blow himself up doing that, but he never did. I think he was careful in what he was doing. He never explained the purpose of his experiments, but eventually, he became so learned that everyone in the village began to visit him for help with medical problems and miscellaneous questions like how to get rid of house mice. Mrs. Penn didn’t have any chemicals or herbs with her, so I don’t know why I was comparing her to Mr. Peters. My mind just works strangely sometimes. But maybe it was because when everyone thought Mr. Peters was absolutely nuts, he was really smarter than they were. I was thinking that maybe that was true of Mrs. Penn. The town was not far away, maybe a couple of miles, and the horse pulling our buggy clip-clopped along at a steady trot, while Frey, just as I’d said he would, although he was loose, remained right beside us. At times, he even stuck his nose through the window to see what I was up to. That made me nervous. It would be horrid if Frey got his head stuck while we were moving forward. Each time he checked inside, I shooed him off, but he only nicker/whinnied as he pulled in his head, a sound I’d never heard another horse make, but which sounded exactly like a good-hearted chuckle.
6.12 The Witchling Shama
I watched as the man placed my saddle and bridle onto the seat beside him. Then, reassured that my tack would be safe, I turned to Frey and began explaining what was going to happen. Not that Frey needed such details, but he nuzzled me happily and waited to see what I would do next. Perhaps he was curious about the fact that his saddle had been placed on the buggy instead of on his back, but horses never complain about such oddities. Officer Krugle, shaking his head, probably over the silliness of my having a conversation with a horse, escorted the three of us to the buggy’s door and handed us in. Mrs. Penn was already comfortably situated. I chose the seat opposite of hers, and the boys sat down on each side of me, holding onto my arms, and wiggling their bodies as close to me as they could get. Once more I felt like I had twin burrs digging into my pseudo doggy fur. As the buggy moved forward, I wondered if I’d made a horribly bad decision. What if Officer Krugle threw me into jail for entering the boys’ house, abducting them, or something equally vile? Maybe he suspected me of having stolen my horse. It must be obvious to a trained officer that I had little money. Plus, I was an unknown. I had personal experience with towns and villages being unwelcome to strangers. As I sat on the seat quietly, ruing my choice and worrying about the outcome, the boys remained clingy but silent. Neither was sobbing anymore. What were they thinking about? Where they just in shock? What could I do to soothe their fears? (Was that like a person who’d never been on a horse, attempting to teach others how to ride?)
6.11 The Witchling Shama
The idea of being someone’s mommy horrified me. I shook my head emphatically, then looked down at Carlo’s tear-streaked face. Carlo had wheat-colored hair that frankly needed a good washing, a chubby little face that was streaked with several layers of dirt, and the most adorable deep brown eyes that were pleading earnestly with me. He was frankly as cute as a baby bunny. “Please,” seconded his older brother, who was pretty much a mirror copy, except he had eyes that held more desperation than pleading. He was hopeful, but doubtful. I could read from his eyes that he’d lost faith in miracles long ago. More than anything the heartbreak of that premature experience of disillusionment knocked me right in the stomach. Before I knew what I was doing, I agreed to ride into town with them. (No mommy stuff, though, but I decided to save a lecture about that for later.) “I won’t leave my stuff here. I’ll need my saddle, bridle, and, of course, my horse,” I told Officer Krugle. He nodded. “I’ll get the tack if you get your horse.” A head nod later, I whistled for Frey. He came at a gallop that sent the boys to their feet. They had some confidence now in Frey, but it takes a lot of fortitude to remain seated on the ground when a stallion comes charging at you. Carlo and Frances were still clinging to me, only in stand-up mode. Neither backed any further away from Frey’s approach, but thankfully, Frey was always cautious not to do any high step prancing near people. He was good about recognizing the danger of his hooves. He’d stepped on me once, and I’d reacted with a lot of screaming. Since then, he made sure not to trample people. I gave my horse another handful of berries and told him what a good boy he was. “No halter?” the officer said. I shrugged then shook my head. “Frey doesn’t need one. He follows me wherever I go. Once the boys and I get into the vehicle, he’ll practically glue himself to the buggy’s box window.”
6.10 The Witchling Shama
Only the man didn’t say what I’d assumed he would, because Mrs. Penn interrupted him. “Officer, I need to get back. I have matters to take care of. Can we all get into the buggy and head out?” I don’t think Mrs. Penn expected any argument over that, because she turned and made her way back to the conveyance, and then without any assistance, climbed up. Had she forgotten about the two little boys, or was Officer Krugle supposed to manhandle them into the vehicle? “Have you ever gotten to ride in a buggy?” I asked the boys. I was chiefly talking to Frances, since Carlo, although his sobs had settled down, was still in no condition to respond. “No, ma’am,” Frances said. “We’ve never had a chance to do that.” “Well, here’s your opportunity. It will be fun.” Geez, I couldn’t believe I was spouting such nonsense. Fun? Should a person talk about having fun only minutes after hearing how the lives of these boys had suddenly crashed? I was stripped down to wordlessness then, trying to think of something else to say when Frances said, “Please, will you go with us? Please?” “I think that’s a good idea, Shama. It would make things easier on the boys,” Officer Krugle said. I glanced up at him, surprised that he wanted me to go into town with them. “I thought you’d tell me to leave. I’m a stranger, and I don’t even know these boys. I only met them today.” “But you bonded with them.” He rubbed his cheek, like his freshly shaved chin might need a razor again. Apparently, it passed his touch inspection because he dropped his hand and curled his fingers into the belt loops on each side of his pants. “You said you were an orphan, Shama. You, of all people, should understand how these boys need you right now. You’re their only stability.” Needles and pins. I don’t know why I hadn’t expected this. Why had I thought that the clinginess of the boys would instantly change into a burst of enthusiasm when I’d suggested going for a buggy ride? And now, getting guilt trips from a policeman? Wouldn’t the boys be just fine without me? I wasn’t their family. I didn’t have any connection with them. Not really. Once more, I attempted to untangle the fingers so tightly pressing down on my skin that I would probably have bruises. Emotional manipulation by handsome officers of the law should have no effect on me. I wasn’t a fool. I closed my eyes and sought for a way to get out of the obligation he was trying to foist on me. Carlo lifted his head and stared up at me. “We don’t have a mommy anymore. Will you be our new mommy. Please?”
6.9 The Witchling Shama
“Shama,” I said, bowing to the necessity of being honest with an officer of the law. “I was just riding my horse down by the creek, not disturbing anyone when . . .” The officer took a step closer, making me wish that I could retreat back into the shadows, as was my usual nature. Only I had two young boys draped over me, and I was sitting on the ground in a tear-soaked heap. “Shama what?” the man barked out, insistent and demanding. I sighed. I supposed there was no reason to avoid the question, although I didn’t see why he needed to force me to air my personal history. But, if it would stop his belligerence, I suppose the truth was the most practical response. “I never received a last name. I’m an orphan that no one claimed.” Having to confess that stirred up more than personal disappointment. There was a certain bitterness that came with such a revealing. I’d been given a short wick in life, Old Mother used to say. Even when the candle wax was of the finest quality, a candle was still limited without a proper wick. A last name and someone to stand up for me would have given me that support, and Old Mother had intended to do that. She’d promised to adopt me, but then her lungs had filled with the sickness that swept through the town that year, and her life had sputtered out. But what business was it of this officious male anyway? I’d be out of his hair as soon as the boys were taken care of. My words apparently had some kind of impact on him. He retreated several steps as if he’d suddenly inhaled some empathy. More likely, I’d become a threat, a contamination to his sensibilities. His next words would probably be, “We don’t want you here. Get out of whatever this town was called, and don’t come back.” I’d be happy to oblige such an order, except that I couldn’t leave the boys at the moment. I identified too much with their grief. They were almost orphans, just like me.
6.8 The Witchling Shama
The officer was back in under five minutes, the disgust he’d been showing concerning my presence in the situation had now increased across the planes of his face and jawline, clear down through the rest of his posture. Did I mention that it was a nice posture, as in military straight with his chest forward and his shoulders back? If I’d been someone else, mainly one of the young ladies I’d gone to school with, I might have gushed, “Oh, he’s so very manly and (big sigh) so incredibly attractive,” with a half-suppressed twitter of a giggle and a flirtatious hair toss, while my eyes fluttered dark, curled lashes. But I was dealing with other issues and was never one to announce my observations in such matters, even if, like those girls, I ever veered into such reveries. Being independent-minded and self-reliant never allowed for those kinds of yearnings. I had learned that long ago. I wasn’t perfect, of course, I’d concealed a few childhood crushes back in school, but mine were always the kind that played hopscotch through my nighttime dreams and dried with the morning dew. When I sat at my table at school, I never even noticed that Frank’s hair fell into his deep, blue eyes in a very inviting way, or when Steffen’s singing voice sent shivers up and down my spine, or just before I left the town, how Ben’s manly cologne made me want to inhale deeper whenever he came near. Those kinds of aspirations were meant for girls with long blonde hair, pink or yellow dresses that displayed fashionable, full-sleeved cuffs, and family names that held a position in the village hierarchy. “Wake up,” the officer said, striding closer to me than before. “Didn’t you hear me ask your name?” “I’m sorry, I guess I was thinking about other things,” I apologized. I didn’t want to tell him where my thoughts had been. Let him assume it concerned the boys’ parents or something related to that. A moment passed, then he said, “You were just about to tell me your name and explain what you are doing in this area.” “I was?” I could make up a new name, or I could go with the old. But the officer’s eyes were peering into my soul. I knew he’d catch me in a lie. Did it matter anyway? News traveled between towns and villages by word of mouth, and all gossip was newsworthy. It wouldn’t take long before someone would bring word of a missing girl, dubbed the village witch, who rode a handsome, dappled gray stallion. I’d need to be long gone by then.
6.7 The Witchling Shama
Mrs. Penn was obviously outraged by the sights she’d seen inside the children’s abode, and although she was whispering to the officer, I could hear everything she said. I suspected Frances could, too. I moved my hand to cup his head, but I couldn’t block his hearing with only one hand. “That shack is a complete pig sty,” Mrs. Penn was whispering loudly in almost a hiss rather than a quiet tone. “It’s a disgrace. The children should not have been living in such a wretched environment. The smell is nose clogging. Dirty clothes, rotten food, and piles of discard are everywhere. It’s completely unsanitary. “The boy took me to the box that was supposed to contain all their clothes. There was nothing in it but rags, every garment worthless. These boys don’t even have pajamas or shoes. It’s a complete disgrace!” I knew that Frances was listening. Carlo was probably too hysterical to tune in. I increased my back patting of Frances and whispered, “I think Frey really likes your pasture. He’s ready to move in.” Inane, I know, but I had to say something to remove the sting of Mrs. Penn’s words. She was talking about what I imagined was the only home the boys had ever known. Having everything they owned called worthless and proclaiming their home a pig sty was not a recipe for soul calming. Frances gave me a wan smile then tightened his fingers around my arm. I had babysat most of the kids in my village at one time or the other. Some of them I’d gotten close to, but nothing like this. I suppose the village children’s need had never been as great as those of these dear boys. Somehow, I’d bonded with them so deeply, that the only safety they felt was in my arms. How had that happened in only a few hours with a shared meal and a short ride on my horse? Officer Krugle obviously didn’t appreciate my involvement. He cleared his throat several times and started to say something. I think he was about to order me to leave or to demand more information about my background, but then he heeded Mrs. Penn’s urging to take a look. He marched over to the shack, opened the door, and entered.
6.6 The Witchling Shama
Officer Krugle had taken a breather from demanding my personal information. I guess he hadn’t envisioned the boys breaking down as they had. But what had he expected? Did little boys ever calmly accept such a crushing blow to their existence? Perhaps, he’d believed they were like puppies and kittens — feed them and they followed you anywhere. Carlo’s screams had quieted some, but he was still wailing against my shirt, latching on to the only warmth available to him for the moment. I hoped that helped. I’d do whatever it took to ease his heartache. I wished that I knew how to do it better. I’d never tended a child suffering such a loss before. All I could do is copy what Old Mother had done to soothe my angst. She was the only kind and loving six-month foster mother I’d known. She’d taught me witchcraft and how to treat the world with compassion. While I was thinking about Old Mother, who’d died several years before, and permitting a few unkind thoughts about the officer to tarnish my good will, I carried on massaging the little one’s back and did my best to get him to calm down. I had no platitudes for him, nor did I attempt to assure him that everything would be okay. I couldn’t lie like that. I refused. I was worried that Carlo wasn’t getting enough air. I wanted to say, “Breathe, child; breathe,” but I don’t think he would have heard me. Could a child die from too many tears? Before I’d made any headway at tear cessation, Mrs. Penn and Frances returned, empty-handed. “You need to see the state of that house,” prune face said with a huff. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” She glanced at Frances, but he’d slid himself down next to me, dissolving into my lap to become a second clinging body, attached to my arm and whatever parts of me he could lean himself into. I used my other hand to massage his back, too. All I had was a body of warmth. Would that be enough for these two little boys? The selfish part of me was wondering how I’d gotten myself into this mess. I wanted nothing more than to stand up, shake myself free of this terrible grief, whistle to Frey, and journey far away from the situation, but I couldn’t do that. Dealing with someone’s need had always been my weakness. I was as likely to step away from these boys as I was to chop of an arm or leg.
6.5 The Witchling Shama
“We’ll put you in the children’s home, and everything’s going to be just fine,” Mrs. Penn added, nervously rubbing her hands like they had pine pitch on them. The woman was more than just gray-haired and wrinkle-faced with age. She was addled by coldness. How could someone tell these children that everything was going to be fine when they’d just been informed that their mother was dead and their father was in jail. Perhaps the latter was a good thing, but the children might not see it that way. These poor babies were going to find life as difficult as it had been for me. Maybe even more so. Being the child of a murderer had to be even worse than being dumped in the middle of the town square wrapped in banana leaves and nothing else. Little Carlo was still clinging like spider webbing. I tried to free myself from his hold but had no success. His fingers rewrapped faster than I could unpeel him. “Here, I’ll take the little fellow,” the woman said, as she strode over to me. At that, Carlo’s wails went up a pitch. His howls took on the sound of fingernails scratching a blackboard. I sprouted goosebumps. He honestly felt like wet plaster against my chest, and with the increase of volume and the nose slobber on my shirt, I felt my own legs starting to buckle. I collapsed in the dirt, tugging Carlo into my lap. I’m not sure he noticed. The hold on me didn’t lessen an inch, and the wet simply crawled further up my shirt. “Go do the house thing,” the officer ordered Mrs. Penn. Apparently seeing that Carlo was being taken care of, Frances manned up and prepared to follow Mrs. Penn back into the shack. “I’ll be back in a minute, Carlo,” Frances assured his brother as he charged forward, attempting to keep up with the woman’s rush to get this over with.
6.4 The Witchling Shama
I rubbed the boys’ backs and cooed meaningless babble like, “Now, now,” which is what Old Mother used to say to me whenever my emotions had overwhelmed me. Old Mother had passed on years ago, but she’d given me the role model for the person I wanted to become. Even now, I could almost hear her creaky but gentle voice, accompanied by the slow rubs on my back, which had helped my tears to subside. It was that memory that instructed me on what the boys needed, but while my hands and voice were occupied in applying the same kind of stress release for the boys as I’d been given, I couldn’t help picturing what they had earlier told me about their father slamming his fists into his wife. Had their father injured the boys’ mother worse than a broken arm? Had he beaten her in the head or hit some vital organ? “He’s in jail,” said the policeman, still giving me the eye like all this was my fault. “She was in the hospital, and he broke into her room. Then he . . .” Officer Krugle stopped, refusing to go on, but I got the picture. That poor woman. Had the father used a knife on her? Had his fists done even more harm to her delicate frame while she was suffering from the earlier bout? Obviously, something of that nature had occurred if she’d died from the second attack. Frances took the officer’s words to heart. His lips were trembling, and his body shook worse than battered tree branches in a windstorm. His tears were quieter than his brother’s. I guessed he wasn’t one for loud emotions, but this was an overwhelming shock, too big a wound to censure. I would guess that Frances probably understood even more the complete finality of his mother’s death. She would never again tuck him into bed, never soothe a booboo, or kiss his cheek as she told him how much she loved him. Was Frances already visualizing a life without his mother in it? Had he understood the part about his father being in jail and the relevance of that statement? Did he realize that his father must have killed his mother? “Boys, you’ll be coming with me,” Mrs. Penn said. “First, we’re going to go inside and get you some clothes and anything else you want, then you’ll get to ride in the buggy with me. That will be fun, won’t it?” Frances had obediently stood up, but then he simply stared at the woman, making no move to step in her direction, although she was holding out her hand to him. I think the shock had just hit his body in full measure. His skin turned ghostly. He looked like he was one second away from passing out. “You better catch him,” I cried out. “He’s going to . . .” The officer stopped glaring at me to reach out to Frances. The hand on the boy’s shoulder seemed to bolster Frances, although I was doubtful it was meant to offer support. It was more likely the man just didn’t want to have to bend over and lift the boy up from the dirt.