5.14 The Witchling Shama
In the dream , the kitten wanted to play and began following a string I was dangling in front of her. After a few minutes of playing with her, I realized that I needed to voyage on and told her goodbye, but she latched onto me with sharp, pointed claws. “Let go,” I told her, attempting to disentangle my flesh from her barbed points. With my words, the kitten mewed plaintively, then licked the spot where she had tackled me. I knew that she was apologizing. The meaning was so clear, it was almost like I could hear the words in my mind. Still inside the wrappings of the dream, I mounted up on Frey, but the kitten followed me. She ran up a tree trump partway and then jumped onto my horse, landing right on my lap. “I can’t take you with me,” I said. “You probably belong to someone. Besides, I don’t know where I’m going, and I have no food for a cat. Sorry.” The kitten’s claws made me wince with pain, but what happened next was a prick in my mind far sharper than her tiny nail hooks. I cried out and almost fell off Frey, the surprise of it hit me so hard. But the sting was already gone, and I was left with the knowledge that the kitten’s thoughts were as open to me as if she were a person conversing. “My name is Willow, and I am yours,” the kitten said as she curled up in my lap and began to purr loudly enough that Frey’s ears rotated backwards, as if he were listening.
5.13 The Witchling Shama
We passed by areas of mushrooms in a wide variety. I glanced at them but didn’t stop to pick any. Some of the village women were expert mushroom collectors, but I’d never been taught to sort the poisonous from the editable ones. Mrs. Cronick, who’d supposedly been one of those expert mushroomers, once picked a bad bunch, or maybe one of the unhealthy ones got included in her day’s foraging. Her neighbor found Mrs. Cronick dead one day. It was a cautionary tale for me. No mushrooms ever. By the time we reached the water, Frey and I were both fatigued from our travels and ready for a siesta. First we drank some of the very cold water. Then I unsaddled and unbridled Frey and slumped down on a nice patch of soft grass. Frey moved a few feet away to start grazing. After a moment, restlessness drove me to inspect the plants along the brook. I was delighted to find watercress. There were also several patches of monkey flower. Some even had the flowers, which made it taste sweeter. Nibbling on these salad greens with a couple of bites of my left over cheese and some of the nuts more than satisfied my appetite. I’d rarely dined so abundantly or felt so full. The sun was a bright orb in the sky, shining down on me in a midday’s fierceness, so I moved myself over to another plot of ground which resided under the shadow of a tall weeping willow tree. Then sleepiness overtook me, and I fell into a dream about a tubby little gray kitten that wanted me to pet her.
5.12 The Witchling Shama
We rested there for a moment to get our breath, then walked on through the woods, keeping our eyes out for more boars, always headed to the sound of the running water, which would be our destination for a longer break. As we walked, I kept looking for berry bushes. There was a possibility that I might find some in this neck of the woods. At one point, I found some barberry bushes. That shrub was not my favorite for scavenging because of its thorny spines, which are each a half inch long and stick out on three sides, but the tall bush, almost twelve feet tall, was filled with vast quantities of red dangling berries. I popped handfuls in my mouth, teeth-crushing the fruits eagerly since they were sweet and tasty. I offered Frey some, too. I think he preferred his usual apples and carrots, but he nibbled them willingly, splashing me with red juices as he head-tossed his satisfaction with this strange treat. When we were both full, I filled up the cloth bag that had contained the bun I’d eaten the day before. Then I shoved in some of the leaves, since they were also good eating. It was always good to have provisions for an unluckier day. Then, taking the reins, Frey and I walked forward. Good thing we were moving so slowly, or I would have missed seeing a nearby hickory nut tree. It was easy to confuse those nuts with the buckeye nut, but these were the right ones. I’d learned from Mrs. Chaning that they had multi chambers that resembled walnuts inside. The deadly buckeye had a solid nut inside, which looked a lot like an almond. I filled my knapsack with the nuts, not bothering to remove the double nut shells. Mrs. Chaning had told me that the nuts would keep longer with the shell on. But, even though I’d stuffed myself with berries a moment before, I did take time to eat a handful. The nuts when ripe, tasted like pecans. I’d eaten some before that were bitter, although even so, they weren’t harmful if you could endure their taste. But these were delicious.
5. 11 The Witchling Shama
It was not a good area to gallop in. There were too many low growing plants with shoots that might trip us up, but my intent at that moment was just to get us away from the boar. Although I was still keeping my panic tightly controlled, I could feel the adrenaline sending tendrils of fear throughout me. In spite of these trembles and the urge to gallop miles away, after a moment, not hearing a chase from behind, I slowed Frey and glanced back. The boar was not coming after us. I supposed that since boars were very intelligent animals, this one might have known enough to fear the hooves of my stallion or even to be aware that some humans carried guns. Of course, I didn’t, but he wouldn’t be certain of that. For whatever reason the boar had decided not to give chase and I was greatly relieved. I patted Frey on his shoulder and soothed his worry, offering him a string of comforting words that not only praised his willingness to do battle, but thanked him for listening to my order to retreat. “Boars are dangerous, Frey. I know you could have kicked him, but a boar’s skin is thick. That might not have saved our lives. It is best always to retreat when we can, and I thank you for doing that so readily.” Frey bowed his head, pawed the ground, and nickered in response to my calming words. Whether he understood what I was telling him was not as important as the fact that I was communicating to him that the danger was past, and we could now go on our way in safety.
5. 10 The Witchling Shama
Standing in front of us, looking ready to attack, stood a five hundred pound boar with tusks like twin butcher’s knives. It grunted angrily and pawed at the ground. Its tiny eyes peered at them, flaring in pinkish red. I didn’t pause to notice the pig’s slightly spiny-looking coarse hair that appeared badly in need of a good combing. It was definitely not a creature for beauty. Nature had other intentions. But I knew how dangerous a wild boar could be. They could attack and kill both humans and horses, their muscle-piercing tusks penetrating a body so deeply, they tore down into the victim’s vital organs. Mr. Gordly had lost a horse to a boar. Although the horse’s skin had only been torn away, leaving one whole shoulder robbed of flesh, it wasn’t that which had killed the poor mare, but the bacteria that came from the assault. Despite the blacksmith’s gentle endeavor to save the mare, she had died within days from her infection. I knew that Frey was itching to engage the monstrous pig, but he didn’t understand the dangers of such an action. I put pressure on his reins and spoke calmly, even pleadingly, insisting that he back away. Frey wanted to argue. His stallion instincts fought for dominance, but with a snort of defiance, aimed at the pig, he gave in and obeyed my wishes. Still as we took one step back, then two, followed by a hesitant third step, Frey’s ears danced in nervousness, and he readied his muscles for the plunge forward that would probably take us to our deaths. But luck was with us. The boar didn’t charge. It eyed us half-blindly. A boar’s eye sight was poor even up this close. I’d been told that a male boar was not driven to attack, but instead preferred to back away from a fight if unchallenged. This one seemed to follow such directives. I insisted on a few more back steps, then I wheeled Frey around, and we galloped away.
5. 9 The Witchling Shama
The preacher had seemed a nice enough fellow, but when he arrived at the village, he would probably speak of having seen me in passing. I worried that someone might be interested enough in coming after me, not because they’d want to apologize or make it up to me for throwing rocks, but because they might want to steal Frey. With that in mind, I decided that it would be better to leave the path behind and slip into the woods. I turned Frey to the right. Leaving the well-traveled route, we headed down a bit of an incline, threaded through a section with ferns and redwoods, and moseyed back toward the sound of the babbling brook, which I could still hear, although faintly, in the distance. Frey, eager to explore a more interesting section than the dusty trail, swung his ears forward and began to prance a bit until it was necessary for me to lay my hand on his shoulder and calm him down. Although the sun had already colored the sky and been well on its way to creating some heat, as I rode under the trees, its light turned into shadows with patches of dark. A coolness permeated the air, allowing the scent of redwood bark to tease my nose enough to make me sneeze. A witch’s sneeze was often a sign of danger. I tightened my grip on the reins and scanned ahead, even more diligent than a moment before. Before I could spot what had caused my apprehension, Frey alerted me. His muscles clinched and trumpeted a warning, then he pawed the ground while spinning his head to the left.
5.8 The Witchling Shama
Just as I was thinking that I heard the approach of a trotting horse. His tread on the path told me he’d been shod. The clank of the iron shoes was different from the softer ones of my own steed. It made me wonder if horseshoes were something else I’d need to worry about. Traveling horses needed such padding for their hooves. In a moment, I spotted both horse and rider. An older male in the dark gray costume of an itinerant preacher rode a bony cinnamon-colored gelding. The horse nickered to Frey, greeting him the way friendly horses did. Frey answered back without any warning in his voice, which is how I knew the approaching horse was a gelding, not a stallion that Frey might consider an instinctual rival. The man pulled up to eye Shama. “Be with the Fates.” “Thank you, and you,” I answered him back. “Are you heading for Meritville?” he asked. I knew nothing about the road ahead. If there was a town ahead named Meritville, I supposed I would pass it by. So I nodded my head. The preacher eyed my horse, probably noting the stallion’s youth and good looks, but I didn’t think there was anything covetous in his regard. But safety came in distance, so I nodded once more, and said, “Go with the Fates” and urged Frey forward. “And you,” the man said, although he looked rather disinclined to journey on, perhaps wanting a bit of gossip. The preacher rested a moment, as if watching me, but then I heard him click to his horse and the two trotted on, heading for the village I’d just left.
5.7 The Witchling Shama
It was pleasant to wake up in such a lovely spot. I couldn’t help smiling, although my stomach gurgled and hissed at me for being so empty. Again, I lay down at the brook, washed my face and drank all the cold water my stomach could hold. It was no happier full of ice water, but I promised it I’d nibble on some of the cheese I’d brought. Frey was happily gorging on grass, completely contented to be out in the fresh air. His needs were simple, although I hated to have to explain that there would be no more apples and carrots. At least, not for a while. When I hefted up the saddle and secured it on him, Frey stood ready. He never argued about being tacked up, and even though he’d probably be happy to remain at the grassy site, he was as eager as I was to journey on. He liked seeing new things, and we’d never done that before. I returned us to the path we’d been following and continued on, my eyes searching for fruit or nut trees, berry bushes, or signs of wild carrots and other root vegetables. There might have been fish in the brook where we’d stopped, but I never ate meat. I would never ask a creature to give up its life for me. Even eggs were something I felt guilty for eating. I would not be robbing a bird’s nest for breakfast. The woods we were passing through were quiet except for the constant bird song. No other travelers seemed to be journeying on the road that day, which was a good thing because I’d been told that strangers were sometimes dangerous.
5.6 The Witchling Shama
The hour was growing late. When I had walked Frey cool, I located a likely place for a rest stop and slid off his back. I could hear a brook babbling and saw that there was a patch of grass on the bank beside it. That would do for the night. I removed Frey’s saddle and bridle. She didn’t own a halter, but Frey would never leave my side. I never needed to worry that he’d stray. “This is a pretty spot, don’t you think?” I asked him as I placed the tack down on a dry area beneath a tall oak tree. Frey nuzzled at my back and then gave a tired sounding, low pitched snort of agreement. Together we walked to the water. It was easier for Frey to bend his head and drink. I had to lie down in the dirt and cup my hands the water. But we drank away our thirst. Water was abundant and easy to find. It would be food that was difficult to locate. Well, not for Frey. He was already using his strong teeth to rip up portions of grass. He’d be content. I pulled out a stale bun my pack and nibbled at it. I was hungry enough to gobble it down in seconds, but I had no more bread. In the morning, I’d have to look for nut trees and roots. I should have been feeling scared. My life was in a turmoil with no prospects ahead, but instead I felt light-hearted. Even free. I knew I’d always been the town’s burden, but in a sense, they’d been my burden, too, because no matter how much I’d provided them with free labor, what was owed to them grew no less.
5.5 The Witchling Shama
Well, she would no longer be at their beck and call. She was free of their scorn and distaste for being a burden on their backs. As one of the teenagers had later said when she’d returned to offer her services, “That girl is nothing but a beggar that everyone has to take care of.” That had stung. Wiping the tears away, so no one saw, she’d retreated from such contempt and wept on Frey’s shoulder. When she was young, the towns people used to pass her around. She’d spent six months at twenty different households. She knew she’d been an inconvenience for many of her early years. A baby can’t help being orphaned. But by the time she was four or five years old, she’d done her best to be helpful. She’d never caused anyone trouble, never been one to break things, or to fight with their own children. But at ten years old, when she was about to be sloughed off onto a mean-spirited grouch of an old woman, she’d fled. Finding a shack, out in the badlands, one decrepit with termites and old wood, she’d taken up residence. At first, she’d been afraid to sleep inside the rickety shack, but as she grew older, she replaced bad wood with good and offered her labors at the mercantile house in exchange for nails and the rent of a few tools. Such a trade would never occur, of course, at the house of someone who had fostered her. For them, she did chores without recompense, attempting to repay them for their generosity, such as it was.