5.4 The Witchling Shama
Weeding and tending to Mr. Kettern’s garden was surely worth the friendship she had with Frey. And luckily, the neighbor was willing to give her fresh produce when he had an abundance. Carrots and apples, the ones fallen to the ground, supplemented Frey’s diet. Perhaps they were the reason he had grown up to be such a handsome stallion, his coat shiny, his tail thick, and his carriage far better than one would expect from his dam and sire. Frey’s eyes were bright and intelligent, and Shama swore he understood everything she told him. Although spirited as any four-year-old steed, he always showed a willingness to do whatever she asked of him. And despite the fact that many in the town had said that she should sell Frey to repay them for the care they’d rendered to her since the day she was delivered to the town square as a baby, she’d resisted. Frey was hers. She’d earned him with her labors and with her love. But their coveting of her horse was probably another reason why the crowd had so willingly turned against her. Shama had babysat, cleaned houses, weeded gardens, and done a hundred tasks whenever asked. She had received only a bit of food in exchange, not asking for more. But it was never enough.
5.3 The Witchling Shama
She galloped her dappled grey stallion, Frey, until she saw that he was sweating and breathing hard. She quickly pulled him back into a walk. “I’m sorry, Frey, I wasn’t paying attention,” she told the stallion, patting his shoulder and wiping away the tears that had overwhelmed her when she realized that she could never return to the only home she’d ever known. Frey, who was in sincerity, her only friend, was not her familiar. He was only a horse, but one who’d been with her since she’d raised him as a colt. He’d been born to a mare that died giving birth, and no one had wanted to be bothered with a motherless foal. When they’d been about to put him down, Shama had taken the baby into her cottage and bottle fed him every hour. Despite the predictions from those around her, Frey had survived. Perhaps, that’s why they were such good friends. They were both orphans, both unwanted. Or, so Shama told him as she brushed and tended to his needs every day. But, once the colt grew into a fine young steed, the farmer wanted him back. That wasn’t fair, but Shama hadn’t argued. She’d traded two years of labor for the right to claim the stallion as hers.
5.2 The Witchling Shama
When the first rock hit, I spit fully into the face of the mayor. Then I raised my head and began to sing. My song was not a pleasing melody, but a tune blistered by hate. My song caused heartache to enter the souls of the townsfolk. Men and women lowered their heads and wept. Rocks slipped from every clenched hand, and then the townspeople collapsed into tears of despair. The townsfolk were too hardened by selfishness and loathing to feel remorse for their cruelty. It would not change their feelings towards me or make them better people. But I continued to sing my song, temporarily disabling their revenge, if revenge was the correct label, for I had never flung out anything but goodness. The mayor was right that I was a witch, but I’d never been evil. The only magic I’d ever done before that day was white magic, that kind that made a person well or helped someone in their time of need. But those deeds had been forgotten when the mayor called me a witch, and so, I continued the song until my feet took me far from the town. I paused at my shack to pick up my winter coat, to saddle my horse, and to pack some clothes and food, I continued singing even after I’d saddled up and left. I kept on singing as I galloped away, until my throat grew parched, and until the song at last died on my lips.
5.1 The Witchling Shama: The Beginning
The night still held the smells of discord. I sniffed the winds and exhaled angrily. The town had finally done it. They’d me out. I’d feared it would happen one day. I’d never been one of the town’s people, and not a day of my life had they allowed me to forget it. The mayor, no longer willing to be put off, and angered by my continued refusal to join him in his bed, had proclaimed me a Mutant Witchling, and then the stones had come flying, but the pain of them had been no more hurtful than the hate I’d seen in the faces around me. I should have been used to hate. Hadn’t I known it all my life? For twenty years the town had fostered me, yet I’d never known a friend.