10.11 The Witchling Shama
While the two of them were occupied by table setting, I started the potatoes boiling. I didn’t bother with peeling them. The peels were healthy, Old Mother had told me. She’d often lectured me about not removing the most nutritional parts of the root vegetables. I hoped Mrs. Penn and the others wouldn’t object. The village families just thought I was being lazy when I left the skins on their potatoes. I had fresh cucumbers which I grated for a salad, along with some carrots. The boys weren’t fond of that, but then, as I’d said, they were still at the stage where vegetables were the enemy, to be endured and swallowed down so they could get to the good stuff, like cookies and candy. I sliced some bread and made roast beef sandwiches. That should appease the meat-eating doctor. I opened up some pickles for him, too. He doted on dill pickles for some reason. I thought them overly salty and preferred, like the boys, the bread and butter pickles, although I’d never understood why they were called that since they contained zero butter. I chopped the potatoes and added the rest of the ingredients for the potato salad, making it exactly like Mrs. Penn did. Mrs. Higgins in the village had often put bacon grease in hers. Mr. Spanning wanted his to have boiled eggs, and some of the other villagers demanded special spices that Mrs. Penn didn’t care for. Wasn’t it interesting how tastes differed? Speaking of food preferences, I mashed some baked beans from the dinner the night before and made my own sandwich, adding a juicy tomato and a few slices of dill pickle. It was rather a weird combination, but I thought it worth a try. I also gave myself a handful of watercress, which the grocery had delivered that morning. Yum. Carlo got the job of running upstairs to deliver the message that lunch was ready. While he was doing that, I let the officer pour lemonade. (Although Mrs. Penn usually required the boys to drink milk at every meal, I thought they’d enjoy some lemonade for lunch. I’d insist they drink milk with their snack later today. That would go great with the oatmeal cookies (with raisins) I’d made the day before.) When everyone was seated at the table, we dug in. Nobody complained about the potato skins in the potato salad, and the doctor ate four dill pickles! Mrs. Penn, although her appetite wasn’t fully back to normal, seemed to enjoy her half a sandwich, and she complimented everything, including the lemonade. She made no comment about the boys not drinking milk with their lunch. I was quite content that lunch had gone so well. At least, I was until . . .
10.10 The Witchling Shama
I started to get up then, not to take off back into the wilderness as I’d planned, but to get away from the insufferable males, who were both glaring at me. Hadn’t I been good to the doctor, feeding him along with the jerk of a police officer? But that was typical of males, I decided. They used you for their purposes and then . . . No. That wasn’t me. That was the cold hardness of anger. Old Mother would have called me out on that attitude, forcing me to see how I was projecting my personal hurt into resentment. Yes, I was feeling the sting of their distrust, but it wouldn’t be the first time, and the way life seemed to have a way of dealing out pain, I figure it wouldn’t be the last. I hugged the boys one more time then gently pushed them away. “How about I go fix some lunch while you two read to Mrs. Penn?” “I can’t read,” Carlo said. “Okay, then you can help me fix lunch. Your choice. Listen to your brother or work in the kitchen.” I was surprised at how torn Carlo looked by that decision. It wasn’t until Frances urged him to go with me that Carlo made up his mind. “Okay,” he said. “I can help.” “I will go with you, too,” the officer said, and there was nothing I could say that would be a polite way to disinvite him. The doctor scooted into my chair, leaving Frances to sit on the bed with Mrs. Penn, which was what he did most of the time, so she could see any word that he was struggling with. The three of them seemed well content, as was Willow who had done the going around in a circle maneuver, that always left her in the same place that she started out, curled up in a gentle mound, purring beside Mrs. Penn. As the three of us headed to the kitchen, Carlo with his hand entwined in mine and chattering about what his job was going to be in the kitchen, I thought about what I’d make for lunch. “We need face cloths and plates,” I answered Carlo. “Maybe Officer Krugel can help you with the plates. They’re kind of heavy.” “So, it’s back to Officer Krugel, is it?” the man said, his face as snarly as a guard dog on duty when a prowler came around. “I call him Frank, even though he’s big,” Carlo informed me. “My mom said I should always call big people by their last names, but Frank said different. He told me to call him Frank.” “That’s a good policy in general,” I said. “I mean about calling grownups by their Mr. or Mrs. name.” “Is that why you call Frank that?” “No. I call him Officer Krugel because . . .” I stopped. It wasn’t fair to pull little Carlo into my vexation. I sighed. “Do you think I should make some potato salad?” Since that was one of Carlo’s favorite foods, he gave a loud cheer of approval.
10.9 The Witchling Shama
“Frank, you’ve distressed me the most. Shama has done nothing to provoke your distrust. She has been endlessly accommodating, loving, and caring. You should receive her as a potential bonus to end your stubborn, bachelor-prone ways. You would, if only you could lay your suspicions aside and SEE her as the person she is.” Willow had leapt from my arms at the introduction of either my yells or the arrival of the two men. She was back to rubbing her head against Mrs. Penn, acting like she was Mrs. Penn’s familiar and not mine. I tried not to let that disturb me. It wasn’t like I didn’t have other matters of concern at the moment. Both boys were softly crying and clinging to me as if their heart had once more been ripped open and shredded in the anger of the moment. I knew that was my fault for being so upset by Mrs. Penn’s offer and by another rejection in trust by Officer Krugel, plus the suspicions of the doctor. I bent over and hugged the boys, doing my best to soothe them while murmuring soft words of love. My caring for them was certainly no lie. If I could take them with me, I definitely would, but they belonged in Tinkle Town, and I sometimes had doubts as to whether I would ever truly belong. My past always seemed to catch up to me. “Not, you, too, Doc. What gives you the right to lecture me about what I wish to do?” Mrs. Penn said fussing angrily at him. Whatever he’d whispered, I hadn’t heard. “You already have a daughter,” he lectured Mrs. Penn. “She’s your rightful heir and shouldn’t be displaced by the first young female who crosses your path and offers kindness while you’re ill. What would your daughter say about this idea?” “Is this the same daughter who hasn’t bothered to come to visit me in three years?” Mrs. Penn asked with an ascorbic tongue. “Besides, I never said I was going to write her and my grandchildren out of my will. I only said that I want to adopt this girl. I went ahead and bought this house from the Council. Shama can inherit it, and my daughter can have the home she grew up in — not that she wants it. “But you’re talking like I’m about to die,” she added. I have no intention of doing so. I just want to enjoy my last years on Earth, and this child is how I figure on doing that, if she’ll let me. Since Frank over there is too stupid and too prejudiced against newcomers to see it any other way, I plan to have myself a family. If the Council would let me, I would love to adopt . . .” She suddenly stopped, slapped her hand over her mouth and said, “That’s enough of that. My mouth is running away with my intentions. Shama hasn’t said yes, and so we have a stalemate.” She scooted up in bed, smoothed down the covers, and said, “Frances, are you ready to read to me now? I think you can see Shama isn’t going anywhere. I’m planning on asking if she’ll let me live here with you permanently, so we can all be a family. Would you like that? Could I be your grandma?” Frances was nodding emphatically. Then, Carlo, glancing first at me, then back at his brother again, followed suit. “Grandma,” he said. I sighed, feeling trapped. Was this a good thing? Wasn’t it what I’d always wanted? Why did I feel chills running up and down my spine?
10.8 The Witchling Shama
“That noise you heard was only Shama’s humble and amazed scream when I told her I planned to adopt her and give her my name,” Mrs. Penn declared, looking proud of herself and laughing at the two men in their struggle to enter the room, since neither of them was willing to back away and let the other go first. “Frank, let the doctor come in and verify my sanity, please. You can follow after.” I stood up, ready to retreat. Unfortunately, although Frank had followed Mrs. Penn’s order and allowed Dr. Stevens to enter the room, he still stood in the doorway, barring my exit. “I am glad you are here,” Mrs. Penn told the doctor. “Now you can both be witnesses. I plan to adopt the child. Will you attest to my wishes?” Dr. Stevens turned his head to regard me. He studied me a moment in silence. “What do you have to say to that?” he asked me. “I . . .I . . . I” A croaking frog would have been more agile of tongue than I with my dumbfounded stutter. “I see,” the doctor said. He swung about to stare at Mrs. Penn again. “What do you know of the girl’s history? She’s a vagrant, an intelligent child, it is true, but without more information about her background, we cannot be sure that she . . .” “Enough,” Mrs. Penn yelled out. “I didn’t ask your opinion. Only your witness to the fact that I have laid down my intentions.” Frank finally strolled into the room. “Did Shama put you up to this?” Was Frank back to his scowling distrust? That angered me. I whirled about. “I didn’t ask for any of this. I simply did a good deed and have paid for it ever since with . . . “You’re going to leave us,” Frances said, suddenly running into the room to thrust himself at my body, an arrow that stung both with its force and through its words. Carlo, right behind him as always, formed a second thrust of animated protest. “No. I didn’t say that. I only meant . . .” I don’t know what I would have said then. My tongue was numb with distress. My heart was an open sore. Hurt was a rumbling volcano of lava that was only one second from rupturing. “Everyone, quiet down. Shama, sit down. Boys, be still. Men, hush.” Mrs. Penn’s voice was not as strong as formerly, but it still had that element of schoolmarm demand. We all obeyed like a group of naughty little children.
10.7 The Witchling Shama
I had just brought Mrs. Penn a cup of tea. She’d returned to her bed, still weak enough to relish an afternoon nap. She motioned to put it on the table, which I did. Then she asked me to sit down so she could discuss a few things with me. Willow looked up and winked. I knew then that something was brewing, something much stronger than the weak tea I’d brought Mrs. Penn. “Willow and I have been chatting,” Mrs. Penn said. Okay, I blinked at that. In fact, my eyes must have widened fatter than the iris of a sunflower. Two possibilities: either Mrs. Penn was hallucinating or . . . A familiar could only speak to a witch. A commoner could never hear them. Was Mrs. Penn getting sick again? Had she had a relapse? “No, I can see that my words have worried you. Willow explained that you are too young to be fully developed, but she says that I, even though I have almost no white witch power, once had that tendency. I could have been a witch, had I known. But that is neither here nor there. I can hear her, Shama, and I know what you are and why you left your former home.” I bolted up, ready to run off, ready to leave Tinker Town and everyone I’d come to love. “Shama, stop,” she said, holding her hand up like I’d seen Frank do when he wanted to halt someone’s retreat. “I will not hurt you with this knowledge. In fact, I will never allow any harm to come to you. We are bonded, we two.” I cautiously resettled myself on the chair, on the edge, it’s true, but at least, I hadn’t scrambled to the door, fleeing into the wilderness of an unknown future. My eyes fastened on Mrs. Penn’s. I was listening, not understanding where this was going, but willing to hear her out. “I would like to adopt you, if you’d let me. Maybe that’s the wrong word. You are twenty, almost fully grown, but I want to give you my last name, at least. Will you let me do that?” I had not expected anything that wonderful. The breath fled my lungs as surely as if I’d fallen off Frey and been purged of air. I gasped but found no relief from the suddenness of my lack. “Willow, go to her,” Mrs. Penn commanded, and just as strangely, the kitten leaped into my arms, purring air back into my lungs. When my breaths were regular, and my huffs and puffs a mere memory, I regarded Mrs. Penn with skepticism. “Have you taken leave of your senses? If you know about me, and I don’t understand how you could know — and Willow wasn’t even with me in the village. She couldn’t see what happened there.” “She knows. Old Mother talks to her, and . . .” “Old Mother is dead.” I shot up, at the end of my tolerance for such a strange conversation. “What’s this yelling about?” Frank and Dr. Stevens cried out, storming into the room in a massive surge of masculinity that meant neither were able to get through the doorway.
10.6 The Witchling Shama
From that day on, Mrs. Penn slowly recovered. Dr. Stevens said it was due to the medicine he’d given her, and I didn’t argue, knowing that his formula for what ailed Mrs. Penn used the very same ingredients I had recommended. But I knew something he didn’t. It was the purr of my familiar that had kept Mrs. Penn from diving down into death’s spiral. Willow had saved her life. The two had bonded during their time together, the kitten spending almost every moment beside her in the bed. The soups I’d been fixing Mrs. Penn were replaced soon by normal meals. Willow, who up to that time had never been willing to eat from anyone’s dish but mine, began accepting pieces of meat or vegetables that Mrs. Penn offered her. Poor Frey was feeling rejected since Willow was spending so little time with him. I promised the stallion extra treats and began grooming him twice a day to help make up for his loneliness. The boys helped, too, although Carlo only liked the feeding carrots part. Grooming, even with a step stool, was not agreeable to him. I think he was afraid of being up high, or having Frey move unexpectantly which he feared might send him tumbling down to the ground. Frances dutifully began reading to Mrs. Penn, and, of course, Carlo, his forever shadow, sat beside him and listened. It was good for all three of them, and Willow purred the whole time, obviously delighted by all the positive vibes flowing about the room. A week later, Dr. Stevens declared Mrs. Penn able to get up for a bit. Then the reading activity moved into the living room. Carlo liked that better because he could sit on the ground playing with his toys while listening to the purring cat, his big brother’s reading, and Mrs. Penn’s light discourse. And me? I was as happy as the rest of them. Maybe even more so. Life was turning sweet as the boy’s favorite banana ice cream. (Not my favorite, but no one else liked vanilla.) Oh, and Frank, who still spent most of his off hours at the house, had completely stopped glaring at me. Old Mother used to warn me that When Nature is plump, the fattened fawn grows lazy. That had made no sense at the time. Nature’s weaning process usually took place during times of scarcity, but Old Mother was the smartest person I’d ever met. She knew things that no one else did. She was right about this, too. I was the fattened fawn.
10.5 The Witchling Shama
After dinner, Frank volunteered to do the dishes. He got the boys to help. (I cringed a little at that, wondering what the kitchen floor would look like when the dishes were done, but I also knew that it was a good thing when boys were taught that kitchen duty was not a woman’s thing. Learning that meal prep required clean-up was also a useful concept.) Dr. Stevens and I entered the room where Mrs. Penn was sleeping. I was carrying a tray of food, and he had his medical bag. Mrs. Penn opened her eyes and ordered me to take the food away, saying that the sight and smell of it made her feel ill. I offered to fix her some soup, but she didn’t act like that would be welcome either. Meanwhile, the doctor and I made sure that our patient drank some water. I had brought some apple juice, as well, but Mrs. Penn wasn’t willing to even take a sip of that. Dr. Stevens did his doctor thing, administered some liquid medications, which he assured Mrs. Penn and me would fix her right up, then departed. The moment he left, Willow came running into the room, jumped up on the bed and walked her way up to Mrs. Penn. I tried to stop the kitten, but she dodged my efforts. Meanwhile, her purr was so loud that Mrs. Penn opened her eyes. “Why, Willow has come to see me,” Mrs. Penn said, sounding so pleased that I stopped trying to stop Willow from rubbing her kitty face against Mrs. Penn. “Should I take her away?” I asked. Mrs. Penn shook her head, smiled at me, and spoke. “Absolutely not. I feel better with Willow here. Will you let her stay with me? Please?” “You remember that she’s only a kitten. Any moment now she’ll decide to jump on a toe she thinks is wiggling, lick your cheek, or attack your hair.” Mrs. Penn actually let out a giggle. A girlishly cute giggle! “Oh, I hope so,” she said. She reached out and petted the kitty, stroking her head, then under her chin. Willow’s purr grew even louder, although I wouldn’t have thought such a thing were possible. I mean, it was already so loud, it sounded like the boys when they crooned along with one of the songs I sang to them at night. “Oh, my,” Mrs. Penn giggled again. “I think I’d love a cup of tea. Would you mind making one for me, Shama?” Of course I agreed. I left Willow as she was, up on the bed, snuggling right on top of Mrs. Penn’s pillow. The purr was still going, Mrs. Penn was chatting to the kitten, and both of them looked as content as a small child with his first ice cream cone. When I returned with the cup of tea, it was to find both kitten and Mrs. Penn fast asleep, both tucked under the blankets. I set the cup of tea by the bedside, in case Mrs. Penn woke up later, but I figured it had been a wasted trip — except, I could hear the exhale of Mrs. Penn’s gentle snores. Her breathing sounded better, no longer as congested. Her chest wasn’t heaving giant whistles and lengthy stressed breaths, either. I left the door open in case Willow needed to leave, but just before I exited the room, I met the half-opened eye of a fuzzy kitten. Thank you, Willow, I thought in witch tongue. The kitten yawned, tucked her head back under the cover, and purred with a renewed and mighty motor.
10.4 The Witchling Shama
That whole day, Mrs. Penn spent in bed. We tiptoed about the house, making sure not to wake her. Frank, although he left to do whatever officers do in the daytime when they’re not irritating the heck out of people like me, popped in for lunch and returned again at dinnertime. I was in the kitchen, putting the last touches on the green beans and mashing the already cooked potatoes when I heard a heavy knock at the door. Dr. Stevens, I thought to myself, recognizing the door basher. Frank called out that he’d let the doctor in. I was glad, because I had a pot roast to get out of the oven, and I still wanted to fix a green salad, although I knew the boys wouldn’t be enthusiastic about it. They weren’t vegetable fans. Frances, in particular, always tried to hide anything green under the unfinished leftovers on his plate. I’d already warned him about stomach aches and that the failure to eat vegetables might stunt his growth. I hoped that wasn’t a lie. I’d have to ask the doctor privately. “But he wants to look like Frank,” Carlo had said when I’d told Frances that needing vegetables to grow tall. Carlo looked worried about that. “Will Frances get muscles if he doesn’t eat vegetables?” Frank snorted, but backed me up. He pretended to like vegetables, but I was pretty sure that he felt more or less the way the boys did. Perhaps it was a male thing, I surmised, reflecting back on some of the fathers back in the village who had also frowned at the pile of greens on their plate. I’d had to start frying bacon and mixing it in the greens to get them interested in vegetables. I wondered if that would improve Frances’ reception to them. I had the full dinner on the table when Dr. Green sat down by the plate I’d laid out for him. Before sitting next to the boys, I asked the doctor if we should assist Mrs. Penn to the table, but he shook his head. “She’s better off resting. After dinner, we can take her something, but I’d rather she kept to her bed.” So, we sat down to partake. I had my usual salad, which the doctor frowned at. “You need meat, young lady,” he said, looking like he was ready to give me a full lecture on nutrition. “She never eats meat,” Frances said. “And she never gets sick. She told us that.” “Yeah, and she rides like she’s part horse,” Carlo said. It was hard not to chuckle over that. It was a strange thing to say, but Carlo’s meaning was clear. I rode well, not that I looked like a horse (I hoped.) Anyway, the doctor got caught up in his eating and forgot his lecture. His preoccupation with his meal meant that I was free to enjoy my salad. (It didn’t have meat, but it did have peas, cheese, and a sprinkling of walnuts, so my protein sources were well supplied.) Willow, who almost always sat on the floor beside me, eyed the doctor with a suspicious eye, but remained in her place, patiently waiting for my leftovers. (Yes, one would assume that a cat would not eat salad, but Willow had odd eating habits. Only rarely did she take a piece of meat from one of the boys, and then only to be friendly, not with great eagerness. I worried that cats were naturally carnivores and needed meat for their sustenance, but cats are cats, which means they can’t be argued with. Obstinacy and self-reliance are in their persona.)
10.3 The Witchling Shama
“Too bad we can’t fetch Bill. He’d love it here,” I said wistfully. “I think people would be kinder to him and old Clarence in Tinkle Town.” “Was Bill your boyfriend? Should I be jealous?” I laughed. “Sure. Bill was my boyfriend. He and his horse Clarence.” “Real competition, I see,” Frank said, kidding me, but looking a touch worried. “Tell me about him. How old is Bill?” “His thirties, I guess. I don’t know why they sometimes called him Old Bill. He should have been Young Bill.” I’d walked over to the faucet and the bar of soap I kept next to it. I began to soap up my hands with a good, solid lather to remove any nastiness from my manure collecting. Frank followed me, his lips twisted into a sour expression that didn’t look like he was enjoying the conversation anymore. “Did Bill ask you out? Were you dating?” I laughed again. “No one dated where I was from. Not ever. When a boy liked a girl he just started showing up for meals in the young woman’s house. Then the two would sit on the porch swing or play a game with the younger kids while her parents kept watch. As for me, I never had anyone take an interest in me. I had no family, no last name. You know that.” “What does having a family or a last name have to do with it?” Frank had grabbed my arm to stop me from walking away. I looked down at his hand and cleared my throat to get him to remove his overly possessive hold. If he understood my throat clearing, he ignored it. “What does not having a family or a last name have to do with not getting yourself a beau? Obviously, you and Old Bill had something going on.” I jerked my arm away. “Bill was not my beau. He was a man with the mental age of a five year old. Probably, Carlos is smarter than he was. But Bill was kind, and he liked me. No one else did for a very long time. “Wow. Explain that one, Shama, although you still haven’t answered my other question. I absolutely do not understand about the things that went on in that village of yours.” “Which is good,” I snapped, hopefully ending the conversation, “because I don’t want to talk about it. That’s my past, and I left it behind. Hopefully, the future will be better.” I mock laughed, trying to show that the subject was thoroughly closed and that we needed to move on. I hoped the officer would finally get the message and stop his constant inquisitions.
10.2 The Witchling Shama
Since the boys were enjoying themselves chasing each other around, I figured it would be a good time to scoop up some manure. Cleaning was an everyday practice with horses. Flies and angry neighbors made it a necessity. I still didn’t have a wheelbarrow, but doing clean-up regularly kept my load from being too great. I was using the shovel I’d found in the shed. I think it was a snow shovel with a flat portion and a long handle. Of course, I’d accidentally dropped plops on my way to the garbage bin. “That’s not practical,” the man said, watching me with an amused look on his very handsome face. “You need some kind of cart, and how are you going to deal with dumping the garbage can when it’s all full?” “That’s a good question,” said. “Don’t you have someone who comes around to pick up the trash?” The officer, Frank, shook his head and tried to take the shovel away from me. I held on, so, of course, more plops hit the dirt. “Let me do it. You don’t have to do everything by yourself.” Another head shake from me, and Frank shrugged his shoulders and gave up. I quickly cleaned the piles that had fallen off the shovel and tossed Frey’s goodies in the trashcan. “Nope,” Frank said. “No garbage collection now. We used to have a guy who did that, but he moved away, retiring to the village where his children live. You know his old house. It’s the one with the corral and the trough you emptied out.” That announcement caused me to dump a whole shovelful. Exasperated by my carelessness, I sighed, then scraped the stinky stuff back into a pile that I could lift and carry again “Bill used to take care of our village trash,” I said, remembering the way he’d smiled at me whenever he saw me. Bill had been a nice man in his thirties, but unfortunately, according to Old Mother, he’d been born wrong and had the brain of a child. Bill liked to talk and talk, even though he really didn’t have much to say. The villagers were rude to him and said he wasted their time. The children made fun of him. I’d liked Bill and used to bring him cookies whenever I made some. Bill loved to pet Frey, although he had his own pal, an ancient nag with bones like a skeleton horse. The gelding’s name was Clarence, and Old Bill said that his “old bag of bones” was his best friend in all the world. How could you not like someone who talked to his horse and shared half of each cookie with his best friend, the carthorse? Once I deposited the last bit of poop into the bin, I turned to face Frank. “So where do we dump the trash, and how is it going to get there?”