10.1 The Witchling Shama
After I finished the dishes, I worked with Frances on his reading and drilled him on his addition facts. He seemed to have a good head for numbers and liked doing word problems. Carlo wrinkled up his nose and said they were tetious, which after a bit of time, I figured out that Carlo had heard Mrs. Penn saying it (frequently) to Frank. The word Carlo meant was tedious. It was a very big word for such a little boy, but he seemed to have grasped the meaning perfectly. But like Frances, I never found mathematics tedious. I thought math was as smooth and fluid as a poem, part magic and part logic. I loved the consistency of it, yet, also admired how it rippled snakelike in contortions that kept one occupied by its adaptability. I mean, take three numbers: 3, 4, 7. The family of them plays with each other: 3 + 4 = 7, and 4+3 = 7, 7 – 3 = 4 and 7- 4 =3. But then in multiplication, and it becomes a brand new family with a 12 involved: 3 x 4 = 12, 4 x 3 = 12 and then there was division with all the fun ways of writing it. Yes, it was like a complete story with all the characters being numerals. I frankly loved manipulating its dance moves. I told Frances my joy with being a juggler of numerals, and once the boys heard what a juggler was, they insisted on going outside to become jugglers. We first filled up a couple of unmatched socks Mrs. Smith had shoved into the basket down in the basement. Stuffed with rags and a bit of sandy dirt from a pile in the corner of the yard, our juggling balls were ready. Of course, they were very inferior for our game, but we didn’t have any others. It seemed better than nothing. We carried the “balls” over to the side where we wouldn’t fall over the picnic table. We started with one, just tossing it up and catching it. (I was thinking that apples might work better, but Frey wouldn’t like us tossing them anywhere other than into his mouth.) Carlo lasted about two minutes. Frances persisted at least twice that long, but, even catching one sock ball seemed to defeat him. When I showed him how a real juggler could work three balls at once, his eyes popped big and he cried out, “You’re wonderful, Shama. I’m going to be just like you when I grow up.” That was a rather laughable sentiment, but I didn’t even crack a smile. I was too busy concentrating on keeping my fake balls in the air. When I finally dropped them, Frey moved in to pick up one with his teeth, then ran off with it. Willow swooped in on a second ball, swatting it about as if I’d made the thing just for her. Meanwhile, the boys bent over in laughter as they watched our juggling balls disappear as play toys for our two resident animals. Once the boys stopped laughing, they shrugged, not caring in the least that their juggling practice was over. They were already bored with the activity and ready to play tag.
9.30 The Witchling Shama
We were sitting at the table talking, or rather Dr. Stevens was. He was telling me about cases and the treatments he’d rendered. He’d already offered to let me go with him on the next call for his services. “She will not be attending patients with you,” Frank said as he entered the room. “She has a job taking care of the boys . . . and now a sick Mrs. Penn.” I looked over at Frank, surprised that he’d said that. What gave him the right to put his foot down about what I could and couldn’t do? Dr. Stevens hoisted himself up. “I guess I’ve overstayed my welcome. It was nice chatting with you, Shama. If the officer ever allows you some freedom and you want to . . .” “Thank you, Doctor, for coming over to check on Mrs. Penn. When should we expect you to return?” Frank had been very rude. I felt like my mouth must be gaping wide with exasperation, even though I knew it was perfectly and politely closed. Yet, my temper was rising, my blood boiling inside me. How dare Frank more or less forbid me to accompany the doctor out on a case! The moment the doctor left, I opened my mouth, ready to lambast Frank’s uppity manner. But Frank was already raising his hand for my attention in the traditional stop that all policemen seemed to master. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that without explaining first. It’s just that Doctor Stevens has a reputation for making advances on ladies. Maybe it’s all hearsay and hot wind. I don’t know, but I do know that if you accompanied him alone, it would scar you with the very worst reputation. The town people would think that you . . .” He stopped, not quite knowing how to proceed. “Oh,” I said. “But I thought Dr. Stevens was sweet on Mrs. Penn. Why would anyone think he’d be interested in me?” Frank laughed, then shoved into the chair beside me. He picked up my hand and kissed it. “You are too modest. You do know that you’re beautiful, right? You’re vivacious, honest, caring, and . . . everything any man would desire in a woman . . . uh, friend.” I withdrew my hand, but not with any jerk of displeasure. It was only that Frank’s words made me feel awkward, and, besides, I had dishes to wash. (And there was that kiss he’d given me before he went out to feed Frey. My cheeks still felt hot from that.) “Did everything go okay with Frey?” I said needing to think about what Frank had said about Dr. Stevens. I certainly didn’t want a repeat of the village mayor’s advances, but it was hard to picture the kindly doctor, who was probably in his seventies, in a role such as that.
9.29 The Witchling Shama
Dr. Stevens ate everything I’d fixed and drank the rest of the coffee. Mrs. Penn only nibbled on some eggs and took the tiniest bite of one pancake. I saw the doctor observing that. I think he was more worried than I’d thought. The boys had gone to play with some blocks Frank had brought down from the attic. They were loud and full of giggles, but it was a happy sound. Mrs. Penn smiled to hear it. But the moment she finished her coffee, she decided to go lie down again, and both the doctor and I accompanied her to her room. When she crawled into bed, the doctor stuck a thermometer in her mouth and used a stethoscope on her chest. Whatever he heard seemed to change his tune. “Madame, you are not to get out of this bed, except to use the toilet. Your heart is racing, and you have a low grade fever.” Old Mother’s illness had started out the same way. The coldness of terror struck me in that moment. I wanted to cry out to Gaia and to rush out and hunt for some willow tree bark. Or, maybe meadowsweet shrub would be closer. “You get some rest now,” Dr. Stevens ordered. I doubted Mrs. Penn’s resting would be a problem. Her eye lids were sagging before we left the room. The moment we were far enough away from Mrs. Penn’s room not to disturb her, I asked Dr. Stevens if he knew where we could find some willow tree bark or meadowsweet. “Meadowsweet? You’d find that in the marshes or swamps. Maybe out by the river? But not around here. As to a white willow tree, I can’t say I’ve seen that around here, but luckily I do have some willow bark powder. Let’s see if that’s the right prescription for what ails our friend, shall we?” “She won’t die, will she? It isn’t pneumonia?” He stopped and turned to study me. “No. She isn’t going to die, young lady. She may have a touch of bronchitis. If she starts coughing more, we’ll treat her with the syrup of squills. Are you familiar with it?” Since he started explaining how to make it and other treatments like peppermint and mustard plasters, I led the way back to the table and poured each of us more coffee. I completely forgot about Frey and whether Frank was doing okay with my horse. Dr. Stevens was filling me up with knowledge, one of the things I loved most.
9.28 The Witchling Shama
“So, you made the boys some bunny pancakes. Good for you, Shama. I’m proud of you.” Mrs. Penn was smiling and looking better than the day before, but something was still off. Perhaps there were more dark shadows under her eyes. Her cheeks looked flushed, too. I wasn’t at all sure that the doctor knew what he was talking about. Mrs. Penn still looked sickly to me. “Pancakes?” Dr. Stevens said. “I don’t suppose there are any more?” He looked so wistfully in my direction that I couldn’t do anything but bolt up and go mix up more. “Does he get bunny pancakes, too?” Frances asked. “Frank did,” Carlo said. “With eggs and ham?” I asked the man and then turned after seeing his eager nod. Frank followed me into the kitchen and said, “How can I help?” I let him fetch the eggs, ham, and milk from the icebox. Then I started up the process all over again. Meanwhile, I could hear Frey neighing. I was much later than usual, and he was worried. “I know nothing about making bunny pancakes. Do you want me to go feed your horse?” Frank asked. Wow. The man was being very brave. I bit my lip, wondering if I should let him. What would Frey do when Frank went out there without me? But Frey was a friendly horse. He’d never hurt anyone. I nodded. “He gets one flake of hay,” I said . . . and a kiss.” Frank stopped, turned around and twirled me around to face him. “The only one I plan to kiss is you, sweetheart,” he said, and he did, right there in the kitchen. When he let go of me, I didn’t know what to say. I guess I’d teased him when I’d said that about kissing my horse, but I hadn’t meant . . . “Stop worrying, darling. I was itching to do that anyway.” The door swung closed behind him a moment later, and I wheeled about to set two thick ham slices on the frying pan and continued mixing the pancakes. But inside my body, my blood was speeding up and down my veins and doing somersaults, I was pretty sure.
9.27 The Witchling Shama
Frank had sounded confident that a night’s rest would soothe whatever ailed Mrs. Penn. I hoped so. Old Mother had given me the recipes for several curatives, but I’d left them back in the village. Besides, practicing even witchy white magic wasn’t a good idea, not if I didn’t want a repeat of the village’s stoning assault. We played and read quietly that evening. Even the boys seemed subdued, no doubt worrying about their bunny pancakes. (Okay, that’s not fair. The boys were sweet. I’m sure they were as worried as I was about Mrs. Penn.) After they went to bed and Frank said his good night, I went and checked on Mrs. Penn. She didn’t wake when I opened the door and peeked in. That didn’t seem like the lively Mrs. Penn that I knew. I woke up in the night and peeked in again. She was still sleeping, but I was relieved to see her breast still rising and falling. She was alive, at least. When I got up in the morning, I dashed in even before I dressed. Mrs. Penn hadn’t moved. She was still asleep, and her cheeks at first glance seemed slightly blue, but I wasn’t sure about that. Was I imagining such a thing because I was fearful of seeing her go the way Old Mother had? When Frank arrived for breakfast, I fed him bunny pancakes. The boys said I made them perfectly, but I was already biting my lip and hoping that Frank would eat speedily and go fetch the doctor. On his second cup of coffee and his second stack of pancakes with scrambled eggs and ham slices, I asked as nicely as my frazzled patience could tolerate. “There is no need,” a voice called out. Mrs. Penn was just walking out from the room where she’d stayed. I thrust myself out of the chair and ran to her, almost as poorly mannered as the boys. But I couldn’t help myself. I squeezed her thin body with more gusto than was appropriate and kissed her cheek with all the delicacy of a slobbery puppy (although I actually didn’t slobber.) “I’m so glad you’re okay. You are, aren’t you?” I asked, examining her face for signs that she looked blue again. I stretched up a hand to feel her forehead. I started to apologize for my impetuous behavior, but she just smiled at me, and said it was the best morning greeting she’d had in years. A knock sounded at the door, not in the least tentative. It was loud and forceful, demanding even. I instantly knew that it wasn’t one of our frequent grocery deliveries. “There’s Dr. Stevens now,” Frank told me. Mrs. Penn patted me on the cheek, then threw a resentful look at Frank. “Well, let the old buzzard in,” she snapped. Dr. Stevens turned out to be a very nice elderly gentleman, who I think had an eye for Mrs. Penn. His full head of magnolia white hair was as long and showy as the blooms of that tree, although he didn’t smell as aromatic, or rather the manly scent that clung to him was more pipe smoke and reminiscent of cherry wood. The doctor examined Mrs. Penn as much as she allowed him to and then declared her “probably okay.” For that he received a stern look from Mrs. Penn and a rather undignified tongue click that she issued as she made her way toward the table. Instead of her usual grace, gliding into the chair like a belle, she dropped down as heavily as I did when I was completely warn out. Frank handed her a fresh cup of coffee and insisted that the doctor sit down at the table, too. He also got a mug of brew and slid his chair even closer to Mrs. Penn. Frank did introductions. The boys smiled. I was a bit more cautious, wondering what “probably okay” meant. I intended to ask him some serious questions about that, but before I could, the boys let out what they’d bottled up for several minutes. “We got bunnies!” Carlo said. The doctor, mystified by the subject, tilted his head and looked at the three of us for an explanation. “Yeah, Shama cooks!” Frances said, grinning from ear to ear because he was just starting to feel familiar enough with me to tease.
9.26 The Witchling Shama
But village life had never been the equal of my stay in Tinker Town, where I felt like I might actually fit in. The biggest component of that was Mrs. Penn, who was someone I adored, which is why I couldn’t bear to see her feeling poorly. If she should become gravely ill and even worse, die, I’d never be able to remain in Tinker Town. Another loss like Old Mother’s would undo me in the worst of ways. I’d become a hermit like Mr. Cutworthy, unable to speak a single word. Or perhaps I’d turn grouchy as Mrs. Fedner, the one that people called the Mean Queen. Maybe I’d even turn into old drunk Mr. Barner, who stumbled in a wavery path as he walked, sometimes even falling down to snore away the alcoholic spirits in his body. (Of course, the latter was the least possible since I’d never drunk anything stiffer than stale water, which had made me sicker than Dr. Peter’s old wolf hound the time he’d managed to dig out some rotted meat from a village garbage can.) I suddenly realized that Carlo had been tugging at my shirt, frantic with worry. Frances was next to him, his jaw clenched, his lips pressed tight. He was staring at me with uncertainty. I guess I’d temporarily turned into someone with the staring disease, those mentally unbalanced who went inside themselves and never came back out. How could I have gone off into my own world and left these precious boys on their own? It was cruel of me to have worried them. I circled my arms around the two of them and drew them closer. “I’m sorry,” I said. “My mind slipped back into something painful, something from my childhood. I was remembering Old Mother.” “Our mother?” Carlo said, crawling up into my lap as assuredly as if he knew it was the safest place to be in times of confusion. “I pulled Frances up, too. He didn’t pull away. He wrapped his arms around my neck and kissed me on the cheek. “You were sad. Did your mommy die, too?” Carlo asked, laying his head against my collar bone. “I never knew my mother. Remember, I was an orphan. Old Mother was the woman who took me in. She loved me, and I loved her. But then she . . . well, she was old. Really old, and the doctor said she had pneumonia.” “So, she died like our mother did. I miss my mommy. We can be sad together. Okay?” Frances was being very quiet, but he chimed in then. “Frank says we’re going to be a family. A new family.” I looked up and across the table. Frank turned red. He mouthed, “sorry.” But there was something good in what he’d promised the boys. Frances and Frank were right. We were forming a new family. But we needed Mrs. Penn to be part of it.
9.25 The Witchling Shama
Then Mr. Turn, the blacksmith, hired me to stack logs for the fire and to haul away spent ashes. His was my favorite place to work, although it was also the hottest because he kept the forge going most of the time. But he treated me like an adult, asking my opinion about things. Sometimes he even asked me to tell him what a letter said or to summarize the village newsletter since he’d never learned to read. Mr. Brown was the third person to take pity on my need. He allowed me to stack merchandise and to help out with the customers in his mercantile business. Mr. Brown was the owner of the marmalade cat that I admired. He kept the cat for rat and mouse patrol, but mainly the pudgy animal slept on the low counter under the cash drawer. Marmalade did not become a friend, but I enjoyed the occasional petting under the chin he permitted. Thus, after Old Mother’s death, I began to chisel out a new beginning. And for a few years, I had a goal. I wanted to restore the shack where I was living. So, doing odd jobs allowed me to earn a few wooden boards, nails, and other materials. Thanks to Mr. Brown’s generosity, I was even able to borrow the tools I needed. During that time, I dodged the Council, just in case they were still searching for me. I was only thirteen, and I worried that they’d insist I be supervised by a house owner. Perhaps the Council forgot about me, or, maybe, they knew that I was working with the three businessmen. I have no idea, but I was allowed to go my own way, and no one tried to apprehend me during those years. Of course, I still returned each day to work in at least three different households. There, I did chores in an attempt to repay the people who’d taken me in during my earlier years: gardening, babysitting, cleaning, cooking or whatever they requested. I worked a total of three hours each day for them, one hour at each house unless they wanted me to manage a team sport for the village. That usually took more time than the three hours I’d mentally scheduled, but it was good for children.
9.24 The Witchling Shama
They took Old Mother away the next morning. Long bereavements in a house were not permitted, not since the village was attacked by diseases that almost wiped it out. Despite Dr. Peter’s words, it was scarcely an hour later when the villagers came to scavenge furniture and any of Old Mother’s possessions they found of value. Throughout that torture, I sat at the table, my head bowed, my dry eyes, two stinging torments because I hadn’t slept all night, nor moved from my position at the table. None of the villagers spoke to me. No one tried to soothe my anguish. Perhaps they didn’t even see me until that evening when I was asked to move because the table and chairs were being carted away. And then, when I stood up, I went to see what was left of my personal things. Nothing. Even the few pieces of clothing I’d earned in my labors had all been taken. It was then that I noticed that the house had been completely stripped bare. No food remained, no dishes, no books, not even the brews Old Mother had handed out to the sick and needy. When I saw that everything was gone, I was furious with myself. I had not taken a single remembrance of the woman I’d loved, the one who was also the only person who’d ever loved me. I left the empty house and walked for hours. The sky grew dark. I lay down and slept. The next morning, I walked some more. I found a low-hanging apple, one shriveled from age. That was my meal for the day. I stumbled forward, almost blindly, nibbling on wild carrots, finding an old walnut tree that still bore fruit. A nearby creek gave water for my parched lips and throat. I became a wild woman then, living off the land, wondering about without purpose. Still in mourning, still senseless about the future. The only thing I held onto was that I would not return to live with Mrs. Fedner. The day came when they were to bury Old Mother. I didn’t dare openly visit, fearing they would force me back into their web, toss me into Mrs. Fedner’s house of bitterness. I watched Old Mother’s funeral from a distance. A Council member said some words, and each of the villagers stepped forward to throw a fistful of dirt into the already dug hole. I resisted the urge to join them. Old Mother would have understood. She used to tell me that funeral rites were for the people who lived, not for those already departed. “Goodbye, Old Mother. I love you,” I said. Then I turned about and continued my aimless roaming of the countryside. My stomach pained me. My thirst was back. I returned to the creek. A deer and her fawn were drinking. I waited for them to finish. Then I bent down and drank my fill as they had done. The next day I found an old shack. It was a mess with boards sagging from rot. Termites had munched. It was cave-in ready, just waiting for the next wind or rainstorm. I knew better than to crawl inside. Instead, I lay down in front of it and slept. At the end of a week, having spent time dragging away bad boards and stabilizing good ones, I was determined to make the shack livable. I knew it would need a lot of work and materials that I had no money for. I was quite capable of supplying labor for the restoration. But for the latter, that took some time to figure out. I knew, though, that some people would hire me. It was only my fear that the Council might object and force their will on me that held me back. In the end, it seemed unavoidable. Mr. Tully in the apothecary, was the first to give me chores. I stacked goods in his store, mopped the floors of his shop, dusted shelves, and cleaned windows.
9.23 The Witchling Shama
I didn’t weep. My throat was parched, my eyes dry as a wind-bruised land. I couldn’t speak after my parting words to her. I couldn’t look at Dr. Peters either. I think I was afraid he’d say something like “She’s with God now” or “She lived a good life.” Such platitudes would have felt like acid. But, thankfully, he remained silent, his head bowed, his hands in a prayer position, although I don’t think he wasn’t appealing to Heaven for her safe passage. Obviously, he knew she’d never dwell with the villagers’ version of a male god. Perhaps he knew Old Mother was a witch, although he never said. After a bit, Dr. Peters cleared his throat a couple of times, and urged me to accompany him into the kitchen. When I ignored him, and continued sitting there, not speaking or moving, he finally lifted me out of my chair and walked me into the kitchen. I suppose I was inanimate, a walking corpse that still breathed. I hardly remember. I recalled that the doctor lit a fire and settled the kettle onto its iron pedestal. I saw that, yet I was in some kind of spell of yearning. I stood where he’d placed me, wishing with all my might that I could join Old Mother. Why couldn’t I accompany her to Gaia’s side? We could continue our existence then, helping the goddess to serve Nature, doing whatever those who served her did. “Sit down,” the doctor said suddenly, breaking my trance. Obedient, as I’d been trained to be, I slid into the chair, still not meeting his eyes, bereft of purpose. I’d realized in that moment, when he’d addressed me, that Gaia had rejected me. Perhaps I wasn’t worthy. Perhaps I had more years of suffering to live, but, for whatever reason, she demanded that I stay stuck on this plane of existence. I accepted that, yet I still couldn’t get my mind to function. It was frozen on Old Mother’s departure and what her loss would mean. I could not accept the thought of living without her. How could I go on? How did anyone ever continue when a loved one died? She would be missed with every breath I took. As I sat there at the table with Dr. Peters, wishing I was still at Old Mother’s side, holding her hand, hearing her soft voice, I realized that I was alone again. Old Mother had saved me from what the village children called the Mean Queen, grouchiest woman in the entire village. Mrs. Fedner was to have taken me on years ago, but Old Mother refused to let me go, telling the villagers I could stay with her from then on. She’d told the Council that she planned to adopt me, too, just as soon as she earned the legal fees. But months and years had passed . There’d been no flow of money. My adoption never happened. I might have gotten a last name if it had. But, I never even found out what Old Mother’s last name was. Dreams are always crushed in the daylight when reality takes hold again. Dr. Peters had dug in the cookie jar for the money Old Mother had told him was there, but I doubted there’d been enough for his night’s services. Still, he tried to give the coins to me, saying that I’d need them to make my way to my next house. Those words brought me to life more than the hot mug of tea he’d poured for each of us. “I won’t be going to Mrs. Fedner. They can’t make me.” “Shama, where else could you go?” He was a kindly man, a bachelor, so he couldn’t invite me to live with him. I understood such things, even though I thought that customs and traditions were often impediments to what might have been the perfect solution. Dr. Peters could have trained me, and I could have assisted him in his work. That made perfect sense to me, but it couldn’t be. We both knew that the Council would never approve. “I won’t go there,” I said, still not taking a sip of my tea, although he had drunk most of his. “Stay for a week. I’ll tell the Council that it’s necessary for your heartbreak. They won’t like it, Shama, but it’s all the time I can buy you.”
9.22 The Witchling Shama
On that last day when Dr. Peters examined Old Mother once again, he stayed with me throughout the night. He never tried to reassure me. In fact, he did the opposite, telling me that Old Mother had only a few hours to live, but I wasn’t ready to hear that. I guess I still believed in miracles. Old Mother was lucid then. She spoke to both of us, telling the doctor where he could find some money to pay for her care, and informing me that everything she owned was to belong to me after her death. I hadn’t wanted to hear that. I’d brushed her words away, telling her that she would soon get better and we could once more hunt for herbs in the woods and make potions for the sick. “You were the sweet smelling flower of my old age, Shama. I am grateful that you shared your company and your youth with me. I love you, child,” she’d said. I was holding her hand. I squeezed it gently and whispered that I loved her, too. “Please get well,” I whispered. She started coughing then, and the doctor moved closer, but in a moment, her cough stopped. Her breath was a steady wheezing and grating noise that told me that each breath she took caused her pain. I wanted to fix it, to make her well again. I ran my mind over all the witchy things she’d taught me, but nothing relieved lungs so badly consumed by fluid. “Isn’t there something we can . . .?” I asked the doctor. “I’m dying, Shama. He can’t help me . . . nor . . . can you,” Old Mother had said, her voice so unlike what I’d come to know that it sounded like a stranger’s “Doctor, see that Shama . . . gets . . . everything. Don’t let . . . the villagers . . .” Another coughing fit seized her body and almost lifted her into the air. I wondered for a moment if the goddess was taking her, but the rattling throat noses told me she was still with us. “She cannot live here, Matilda,” the doctor said. “The village will take back the cottage and seize all the furniture. You know it wasn’t yours to keep,” he told her with the soft voice of someone who cared, who maybe even had loved her once. That was the first time I’d ever heard her real first name. Even the villagers called her Old Mother. “Do you want some water?” I asked mainly to be doing something, but she shook her head. “Help the child, Sam. Please.” Those were Old Mother’s last words. Her body wilted in on itself then, shriveling into the empty shell that a body takes on after the soul departs. My lungs collapsed in that moment, too. No air. My heart almost stopped its frantic beating. I knew she was gone, wouldn’t hurt anymore, and couldn’t hear me, but I leaned forward and kissed her cheek once more. “I love you,” I’d said.