5.24 The Witchling Shama
I hadn’t received an answer about where their parents were, but it was possible the boys were just too excited about seeing Frey that they couldn’t take a moment to respond. When they begged to be allowed to pet Frey, I gave them permission, but I turned his head to look at me, making sure that he wasn’t going to decide to bite one of them. He had never bitten anyone, but I knew such things were possible. All animals were volatile, (even, or especially, humans.) The older boy told me that his name was Frances. The younger boy was Carlo. I finally found out that their mother had disappeared the day before, and their father was out looking for her. “He left you all alone?” I asked, trying not to reflect disapproval on my face. But couldn’t the man have found a babysitter or taken the boys with him? The boys were as young as I’d suspected. Little Carlo was only four. Frances said he was seven, but I doubted that. His missing teeth put him closer to six, if Mrs. Banner’s children were average tooth losers. “Did your father say you could play near the creek?” I asked. “He didn’t say we couldn’t,” Frances said, pushing out his chest as if that made him seem older. “Where do you think your mother went?” I asked, curiosity overriding good manners. My question didn’t seem to bother Frances. He shrugged, then offered. “She probably went to the doctor. Dad hit her pretty hard. Last time he busted her nose. This time she might have gotten a broken arm. Dad was really drunk.”
5.23 The Witchling Shama
The afternoon had cooled off. A soft breeze sped us on our way. We reached a patch where it was safe to trot and then canter for a bit. Both of us enjoyed that. I know Frey wanted to gallop, but the ground was too soft for that, and I wouldn’t take a chance of gopher holes breaking one of his legs. I reined him only a few minutes later when I heard talking. We slowed and I dismounted, wanting to see who was up ahead before we disturbed them. I whispered to Frey that I didn’t want him to make any noise, but I never knew how much he understood. Obviously not that, because the moment we rounded the bend, still following the curves of the stream, Frey let out a bugle of warning. I shushed him, but it was too late. The announcement of our presence was loud and startling in the quiet of the afternoon. Even the birds who’d noisily been chattering away a moment before closed their beaks and guardedly watched. But our alarm proved to be for nothing. It was only two little boys: one, maybe six or seven years old, and the other one looked no more than four. I searched for the adult who should be nearby, but no one seemed to be with them. “Where are your parents?” I asked, blurting it out like it was my right to question the children. But even the rudeness of my question didn’t seem to bother them. They were glassy-eyed over Frey. “Your horse is so big,” the littler one gushed. The other boy pushed him behind in a protective manner and said, “Yeah, and beautiful. I wish we had a horse. I’d ride him every day if I had a horse. Is this one yours?”
5.22 The Witchling Shama
I was lucky to be slightly dark of skin. My eyes were green and my hair a dark, brownish red, so I had few problem with sunburns, but I was always cautious. When I thought I’d dried off enough from my icy water bath, I moved under a tall tree and let its shade filter the sun’s harshness. I think Frey was also taking a nap. It was hard to tell since he often slept standing up, his eyes at half-mast, as if partly awake so that if a cougar or wolf approached, he’d be ready to gallop off. At the moment, he was resting his right fore leg, barely touching the ground with the front of his hoof. As I eyed his position, Frey shifted so that the left fore leg got a moment of rest. He flinched suddenly, apparently becoming aware that I was watching him. Frey’s eyes opened fully, and he nickered softly, turning his head slightly to glance at me. He removed the lock position that takes over the body of a sleep-standing horse and firmly planted all four feet. Then he took a step toward me and nuzzled me because I was still lying there on the ground. Perhaps that was a summons to get up and get back on the road. I yawned, stretched, stood, then stretched some more. Although the grass was soft, the ground underneath it wasn’t. My body felt stiff. I did a couple of simple exercises and heard my back crack back into position. What an ugly sound. Was I getting old?
5.21 The Witchling Shama
We passed a turtle lying in the sun, and, later, several small frogs croaked as we passed by. Both creatures fled from our presence, plopping back into the water as if we were predators come to eat them. Later as we rode on, we saw a beautiful red fox. It had a snow-white breast, perky ears, a black button nose, and an amazingly gorgeous tail. I yearned to reach out and touch the fox. I wondered if people ever kept such animals as pets. This one was wild, of course, and didn’t stick around to discuss the question with me. When we stopped for lunch and a siesta, I removed Frey’s tack. He quickly let me know that he was ready for another roll in the grass. His circles and the way his legs looked like he was about to collapse were sure signs of his intent. I suppose such maneuvers were the result of my failure to relieve his itchiness since I had no curry comb. I’d also heard that dust kept animals free from fly bites. I hoped so, at least that would provide a good reason for his dirt collection. But already he felt like sandpaper when I petted him. I ate my fill of watercress and miner’s lettuce and then sat down to gnaw at my cattail shoots. Once again, after I’d bathed in the stream, being careful not to get close and personal with any snakes, I sat in the sun to dry off and grew sleepy.
5.20 The Witchling Shama
Using a stick, I took a moment to dig up some of the stems which were buried underground. Meanwhile, while I was enjoying my tasty snack, Frey happily grazed. The grasses looked lush by the stream. We had only left that area behind for bit when we came to a blue elderberry bush. I had to fight off some birds who were feasting there, but I told them I wouldn’t stay long. I feasted and then filled up my bag with the blueberry-like berries. As we continued our ride, meandering along the stream, which seemed more active here, bubbling over pebbles and larger rocks, we were lucky to see butterflies and dragonflies flittering about. A patch of cardinal flowers provided a crimson splash of color, which delighted my eyes. At one point, a snake slithered across our path, sliding its way through the rushes. I was not knowledgeable about snakes. I figured it was best to just leave all of them alone. Frey, who’d probably never seen a snake before, merely flinched at its movement, but kept going, undisturbed by its presence. Unfortunately, I didn’t feel quite the same. The thought of sleeping on the ground when a snake decided to glide closer to me gave me the shivers. Not very white witchy of me, I’ll admit, but I’d never had anyone to discuss witchcraft with, and although I naturally abhorred any kind of cruelty towards animals, I wasn’t sure how I felt about not being snake sympathetic. Perhaps snakes were in the same category as mosquitoes and poisonous spiders.
5.19 The Witchling Shama
It was a pleasant day for a ride. Frey, having rested well, seemed bouncy with energy. I’d checked his feet to make sure that his hooves were okay. The days of travel didn’t even show: no hoof cracks or swellings. The path through the woods and here by the stream held soft dirt, and I didn’t weigh much for a stallion of his size, so I lay my worry over needing to have him shod aside. His legs, also, appeared sound, and his muscled body looked strong and healthy. Travel, actually, seemed to agree with him. I did wish I’d grabbed his brush before I left the house. Although I’d used a fat leaf from one of the water plants, elk clover, I think, it didn’t do much for brushing out the dirt on Frey’s flanks. Of course, one of the joys of being a horse was the freedom to roll in the dirt, and Frey had taken advantage of that. It left his light gray coat dull. He looked exactly like a horse who’d been pastured instead of stabled. Maybe that was a good thing, because should we meet another on the road, Frey’s dull and dirty coat might not draw the traveler’s avaricious eyes. The brook we were following was flowing southeast, which was fine with me. I had no destination in mind, only riding far away from the place where I’d almost been stoned. Whether I came to a town or not would be fine with me. I had few coins to spend, and I wasn’t yet ready to seek employment. I wanted to put more miles between the village and my final stop. Frey and I paused several times to harvest thick strands of cattails. The rhizomes were starchy and needed to be scraped or sucked. I saved those for later and feasted on the flower stocks.
5.18 The Witchling Shama
I whistled to Frey and when he came over, I saddled him up. It was a temptation to stay in such a pleasant spot, but I knew I must ride on. Although I’d met my needs for temporary sustenance, there was more to life than mere provisions. Somewhere on the road ahead, I’d find a home. That would be my destination and my goal. As I swung into the saddle and headed out, I thought about the dream I’d had about a small gray kitten who wanted to accompany me on my explorations. Other people had dreams that were mere fantasies and worry carriers, but I often saw foretellings of what would be. I wondered if I would actually encounter a cat. As we progressed, following the brook’s path, I smiled at the way my dream cat had named herself Willow. Obviously, that part I’d filled in after lying down under the shady willow tree. Perhaps the rest of the dream was just that, a blending of yearnings because, indeed, I had always wanted a cat. A few of the houses where I’d stayed had kept yard cats for controlling rats and mice. They weren’t tame enough to get close to. Every time I’d attempted to pet one, he’d run away. The storekeeper, Mr. Brown, owned a marmalade cat, a big orange one with tiger-like stripes. Buttercup had let me pet her sometimes, and her rumble of a purr had sounded exactly like my dream cat’s throaty vibration. Could it be that I’d been recalling Buttercup and my desire to pet and hold her? But then, why had I pictured Willow so vividly as being gray?
5.17 The Witchling Shama
I guess everyone harbors unanswered questions that plague them on their sleepless nights. I had tumbled mine about my head many times over the years, especially when I started school with the other village children who tormented and ostracized me for my unknown parentage. They flaunted their namesakes, bragging in front of me about how some ancestor of theirs had done this or that. Nice, if you can drum up that kind of history. I wasn’t sure how the kids thought they could take the credit for someone a hundred years ago, no matter what he’d done. In fact, I found it strange that many in the village blamed me for my lack. It wasn’t like I’d chosen such a beginning. If I’d had any say in the matter, I would have asked for parents and a home that didn’t rotate every six months. I’d have wanted to be given a last name and a heritage. Grandparents would have been nice, as well as aunts, uncles, and cousins. Maybe even a brother or sister, or even a bunch of siblings. Family. I’d never known what that was like. I’d always been an outsider peeking in through the window of what others had. I walked down to the brook and washed my face. Enough whining for what I didn’t have. I was lucky. I’d been given a prize that no one in the village had. Two, in fact. I had my best friend, Frey, and I had the freedom to choose my life. I could go anywhere I wanted. And someday, I would find a family and make myself part of a whole instead of just looking through the window of what I’d really, really like to have.
5.16 The Witchling Shama
I babbled on a bit, telling Frey all about my funny dream. His ears flicked back and forth, which was the only sign I had that he was listening. But after a moment of that, he went back to grazing, and I figured he was tired of hearing about my dream and my retelling of the story of Mrs. Pearson’s goat. He was right. Such things were in the past. I didn’t mention how I’d seen a rock in Mrs. Pearson’s hand when the village had turned on me, even though I’d given her free labor over a span of many years. I would need to bathe such remembrances from my mind so as not to become bitter over the town’s assault on me. What was done was a raw sore, but I needed to be thankful for the fact that they hadn’t just left me in the town square the day I showed up, a naked baby wrapped up in a huge banana leaf. I’d often wondered over the years why a mother would do that. Had she been too sick to take care of me? Had I been unwanted? Was I the result of an embarrassing situation the mother had found herself in? I suspected that either she or my father were witches. My powers had to have come from somewhere. And if one of them had witch knowledge, why had they not prevented an unwanted pregnancy? Why had they chosen that particular village to leave their discarded baby? I doubted my parents had been people from the village where I grew up. Someone would have noticed a pregnancy, especially of an unmarried woman. But, I supposed, the mystery would never be unraveled. It had happened. I’d been born and left. The village assumed I was an orphan.
5.15 The Witchling Shama
I woke up then, sat up, and stretched. Frey, who was standing right beside me, resting as I had been, nickered softly. “That was a crazy dream,” I told my horse. “Like you would permit a cat to ride on you. I bet that would spook you worse than the time Mrs. Parson’s goat got loose and decided to nibble on your tail.” I laughed at the memory. Poor Frey had probably been drifting off, standing in front of the Mrs. Parson’s house while I weeded the woman’s front yard. I was reaching down to clean out a patch of nasty weeds from between the rose bushes when Frey let out a scream and started bucking. Frey was wearing a saddle, and I was afraid he’d break the girth holding it on. I sprang up and rushed over to soothe him, but he’d already figured out that there was no mountain lion or coyote attacking, but only a bleating goat, who’d already run off. Mrs. Parson had come running out of her house about then and saw her precious goat fleeing. “What did you do to my Bonnie?” she’d demanded, her face the blotched red of enraged fury. I’d tried to explain, but Mrs. Parson was beyond listening. She blamed Frey and me for Bonnie escaping from her pen. Although I spent an hour catching and returning the escaped goat, Mrs. Parson never forgave us, and my services in her garden were at an end. That, in itself was not a bad thing since it wasn’t a job I got paid for, and although most of the villagers offered me a meal, Mrs. Parson never had, figuring that I was only doing what was owed to her for the six months I’d spent in her house when I was seven.