9.21 The Witchling Shama
So, things were going great. I knew that soon Frances would be heading off to school, and I was resigned to that, and I believed that it would be good for him. Mrs. Penn had commented that Carlo would need me more then. Carlo had another two years before he could start at the Tinker Town School. Frank, the sometimes irksome officer, had stepped back slightly in the forcefulness of his wooing, giving me space, although he was still a steady presence in our household. (Carlo even called him Dad once.) Frank said he liked Mrs. Penn’s cooking and so he came to partake of her fried chicken, meat loaves, and pot roasts, but she said, winking at me, that it wasn’t her table servings that kept the officer in attendance. One Saturday between afternoon and time for dinner prep, I took a good look at Mrs. Penn and saw that she looked drained and almost flat, if that makes sense. Her face was pale, and she lacked her usual sparkle and animation. I asked her about it, and she admitted to feeling tired. I practically dragged her into one of the two downstairs bedrooms and urged her to take a nap. I pulled back the covers and watched as she slipped underneath. It was worrisome to see her looking “sickly” as the villagers put it when one of them dropped by to peek in on Old Mother in those final days. I returned to the kitchen and completed the meal prep. When the boys stormed in for dinner and Frank, looking freshly showered and handsome as ever, sat down at the table, I explained about putting Mrs. Penn to bed. “She doesn’t look well. Should we call the doctor?” I asked. I think Frank tried to read my face to see the seriousness of the situation, but then he said, “Dr. Benter is over in Bristle delivering a baby. That’s a good three hours away, and when he does get back into town he’s going to be thoroughly worn out. And, of course, babies seem to happen in the wee hours of the morning, so he probably won’t arrive in Tinkle Town much earlier than sun rise. Then, he’ll need rest. Let’s see how Mrs. Penn feels in the morning. If you can get her to stay here all night, that would be a good thing. Then we can keep a watch over her.” Frank didn’t stay in the house during the night, so I didn’t know what he was saying about “we can keep a watch over her,” but I nodded, relieved that, even if he hadn’t bothered to look in at her, he believed that she was probably just overly tired. I guess he hadn’t seen how quickly someone her age could succumb to pneumonia, which is what the doctor had told me killed my beloved Old Mother.
9.20 The Witchling Shama
Both boys had learned to guide Frey about the yard with a subtle lean of their bodies, and Frances had even survived a gentle trot without falling off. Of course, Frey had modified his gait to hobby horse smoothness. He was, as always, the perfect steed for each of my two youthful spitfires who liked to yell giddy-up when they were still only unbalanced collections of body parts on his high and overly broad back. But although they were short on riding skills, their enthusiasm and tenacity made up for the rest. Frances had broken through his fear of the b and d reading challenge and was progressing. He was already starting on the easiest of the beginner books that Mrs. Smith had stored in the attic boxes. Frances had a tendency to give up easily, and I’d been alarmed that he might have some other problem in his ability to sound out words, but instead of trying to persuade him to continue with Mrs. Smith’s beginning readers, he and I had written stories together. Since we made the tales all about Willow, Frey, and the people he knew, plus pancakes, (We always had to include the word pancakes.) his resistance to reading seemed to lessen, and he stopped hesitating and was doing better. After that, he would often take his stories to Carlo and read the whole collection to his little brother. Everyone enjoyed that. Even Willow would draw near and sit beside the boys to hear the latest fictional tale of how Carlo and Frances had found a magic rock and wished themselves into the land of Tinker where they ate pancakes every day and slept with a cat named Willow. Frey was often part of the tale. too. He galloped them into their adventures. Increasingly Frank was in them, too. Mrs. Penn and I seemed mere after thoughts, only fitted inside the tale because Frances thought we should be involved. Mrs. Penn was always placed in the kitchen making pancakes, while I was usually outside grooming Frey. (If that was how Frances saw the females in his life, I’d have to work on his bias, but for the moment, I just deemed it a success that he wanted to read and write.)
9.19 The Witchling Shama
As to Frank and Mrs. Penn, Willow seemed almost invisible. They both tried to become her friend, bending down to pet her head, attempting to touch the secretive underside of her chin, but Willow was a phantom-like twist who slipped away mid-pet. Most of the time she hid and watched from underneath a table or chair, in a dark corner, or hidden beneath a stray blanket left to warm a sitting body on the couch. Nor could she be enticed by a piece of bacon or other delicious tidbit, if Frank or Mrs. Penn offered it. She only ate what I gave her, abstaining from the food a cat should eat — the meats and the fish of the feline diet. She liked scrambled eggs and would occasionally nibble at a pancake, if one of the boys offered it to her, But the source of her nutrition was almost always the remnants from my plate, which she patiently waited for, perched on the floor with one jade- green eye only partly opened and the other appearing closed in sleep. Of course, if anyone moved, both of Willow’s eyes shot open as her attention focused on the movement. Mrs. Penn was the one to notice that Willow’s eyes seemed to change color at that point, going from the normal slightly bluish green of restful relaxation to a startling mint green — or as Mrs. Penn liked to put it, the exact hue of a Granny Smith apple. Frank, always one to calm such things down, would add, “It’s only the light’s reflection. Nothing more.” Meanwhile, the days had formed a flow of normalness. Frank and the boys had gone on that fishing trip they’d discussed, which Carlo didn’t much enjoy but Frances raved over. (It seemed that Carlo thought worms on fish hooks and seasickness-inducing row boats were not as exciting as they’d once sounded.) I surmised that on the next fishing time only Frances would wish to accompany Frank, something I thought which would be good for the older boy. I still worried about the sadness in his eyes and continued to believe that giving him the chance to chat one-on-one with Frank might brighten his gloom. Even if that didn’t help him leave the past behind, at least talking about it might corral it into a more manageable memory. It seemed that even a six-year-old — or almost seven-year-old, as Frances kept claiming to be — could hold onto guilt as skillfully as an adult. Frances believed, although we’d told him numerous times that there was nothing he could have done, that it was somehow his fault for not saving their mother from their father’s violence.
9.18 The Witchling Shama
Frank thought the kitten belonged to one of the nearby houses. He went door to door to check that someone wasn’t missing their pet, but I knew the truth. The cat hadn’t said more than mew to me, but I was positive that this was the younger version of the cat, Willow, from my dreams. Working with Old Mother had taught me that in the witch world, there were always going to be things we didn’t understand. Everyone admits to that, but those of us who walk moments in alternate worlds, feeding on the magic, absorbing it into our systems so we can utilize it for good, we know in a deeper sense that there are elements to life that can’t be examined too closely. Sometimes, the phantoms of reality have no explanations. With Willow, how she’d entered my dreams before she was even born, that was, perhaps, one of the biggest questions of my twenty years of life, but I sensed that Frank and I would find no answers. Magic drifted in time. It had no anchors. Willow was vividly alive back in that creek bed dream and during the dreams I’d encountered in my chamber here, and yet she wasn’t. But now, without question, she’d entered my daytime life to become the familiar she’d promised to become. I just needed to let her grow up a bit. As I’d predicted, Frank couldn’t find anyone missing a grey kitten. He couldn’t find a mother cat who’d delivered kittens about her age either. So, for him, I know that the mystery of Willow’s presence vaguely annoyed him. The officer was a person firmly entrenched in certainty. For him, reality held reason and stability. Of course, I didn’t disillusion him. The Fates, also known as Gaia, sent each of us an individual cup of life. As we drink of it, we take in what we are meant to have. Frank was perfect just the way he was. And so was Willow. She quickly adapted to the household, being playful for the boys, following strings and absorbing pets and lap holdings as any normal kitten would, but she made it clear from the start that I was her special one. She’d often spend time with one of the boys until he fell asleep, but then she’d always accompany me to bed, where she’d crawl under the blankets and make herself a sprawling bundle of slightly scratchy claws and fur. But I never woke to find her with me. I think she spent the majority of her night outside with Frey. They became almost as close as the kitten was with me.
9.17 The Witchling Shama
At last when my tears settled down into a monotonous sniff, sniff, I pulled away. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I never cry like this. I’m . . .” “Human?” he said, tugging me gently back so that I form-fitted with his chest. “Have I told you how amazing I think you are? The fact that you might cry like other females does not alarm me at all. In fact, it might worry me if you didn’t.” That sounded a little like a male bias statement. I twirled it about my brain a moment, checking it over, then just mentally shrugged. If I cried when I was happy, then I supposed Frank could have his occasional “I’m a big bad male, and you’re only a little female statements . . . once in a while. I was erasing that criticism from my mind when I heard the oddest sound. It was like someone gasping for breath or calling out for help when they couldn’t speak. I froze and listened for a repetition and heard it again.’ “What is that?” I asked, We both turned toward the sound. Somehow a tiny gray kitten had managed to get itself locked up in the yard with Frey. It was sitting on top the old picnic table making strange little peeps and ehs. I disentangled myself from Frank and ran over to the little baby. “Where did you come from?” Of course, I picked it up, and at that moment I saw the distinctive markings. The white muzzle, the white paw on his hind leg. It was Willow, yet, not Willow, because in my dream, she had been much bigger. Her tiny pink tongue reached out and licked my chin. “Mew,” she said, this time sounding more like a cat than a bird. I petted her head and rubbed under her chin. The mercantile store owner’s marmalade cat had taught me how to do that. If I didn’t do it correctly, she used to swat me. Mr. Brown would shake his head at me. “Why do you bother with that grumpy, old cat?” he’d asked, but what he didn’t understand was that with a cat, it was a privilege to pet them, an honor when they allowed it. If you were really lucky, and you did everything just right, a cat would even purr, that gentle vibration of warm joy that entered your heart and made you smile. So, thanks to Marmalade, as I’d called the cat, since Mr. Brown had never even named it, I knew exactly how to please this little one.
9.16 The Witchling Shama
“Shama, are you ready for some pancakes?” Mrs. Penn asked. I was still too teary-eyed to engage in conversation. I sniveled into the face cloth I’d been given and said, “No, thank you. I think I’d better run out and feed Frey. I’ll just have some of the bread when I come back inside, if that’s okay with you?” The tears were for some reason almost ready to burst out of me. I ran out of the kitchen, through the dining room and toward the backdoor. It was very rude of me. I knew better than to act like that, but something was driving me. I heard the boys discussing fishing poles and bait, but they stopped and stared as I whipped by. I didn’t slow down. Something was obviously wrong with me. I’d sprung a leak. Frey neighed the moment the backdoor opened. He must be hungry, although there was still plenty of grassy weeds in the yard. He crowded me as usual, and I threw myself against his neck. He was always my crying post. He was used to it and stood perfectly still, his head draped down almost touching my back with his gentle horse breath. I let it all flow of me and then tried to rein myself back into stability. What kind of pretend mother shattered so easily. There was nothing wrong. In fact, everything was perfectly right. Yet, there I was blubbering baby tantrum tears. I didn’t hear Frank come outside. He must have tiptoed, or else my wailing was so loud I didn’t hear his tread, but he was suddenly right behind me, his arms circling about me, pulling me toward him and away from Frey. “What’s wrong, darling. How can I help?” Instead of calming me, his words sent me deeper into the insanity of happy tears. He turned me about, pulled me in even closer and just let me cry it out. I felt his hand on my back stroking, just as I’d done for the boys, but I didn’t deserve such patient soothing. I wanted to pull back, to reject his attentions, but I wilted into them. I allowed myself to cherish a moment of Frank’s caring.
9.15 The Witchling Shama
Like Old Mother, Mrs. Penn was a woman I could learn a lot from. She would definitely be one of my future role models, just like the boys could have more than one. I guess in life we got to pick and choose, selecting the qualities to copy from those we most admired. We could try out styles, mannerisms, and even ideas from those around us and then adapt them to fit our own needs. I remembered how kind Mrs. Swenson had been. She’d been another role model, not just in showing me how to run a dairy farm and be a good worker with cows and fence posts, but how to wear a heart of gold. I supposed there were lots of people whose understanding and decency could provide such good examples. I guess we just had to look for them on our path to become the person we wanted to be. I relished that thought. I’d always believed that I’d had little guidance growing up, but perhaps, I’d been absorbing the fine qualities of good folks all along. Mr. Turn had never chased me away. Instead, he’d listened and chatted while he hammered horseshoes and fixed broken tools. Mr. Tully had, too. Of course, I used to work for him, doing chores for free just because I liked him, and because it was fun to talk to an adult. But he always managed to reimburse me for my labors, handing me things from his shop. Best was when he let me pick out books from his shelf of used ones. He kept telling me I didn’t need to return them, but I always did. And here in Tinkle Town, I’d become very fond of Mrs. Penn and her wisdom. She was like Mrs. Swenson, full of heart as Old Mother would have put it. As if Mrs. Penn had picked up on what I was thinking, she turned to face me. “I’m really fond of you, too, Shama,” she said, surprising me so much that I’m sure I looked like a dolt just staring at her. “Me, too,” I said like a six-year-old. I wanted to say more, but getting that out was all I could do. Her kind words had caused my face to heat and my breath to catch. I looked away, so she wouldn’t see the tears forming in my eyes. That kindness thing really turned on my eye clouds. A mere hint of praise, and I found it tough to swallow, breathe, and hold back my personal torrent of raindrops. I spent a moment gaining control and listened into the conversation going on at the table between Frank and Frances while Mrs. Penn continued forming her perfect skillet bunnies. Frank was telling Frances about how he wanted to take the boy fishing. Carlo, too, since the younger boy had suddenly popped into the conversation with an amazing offer like that. There was a heap of good in Frank, too. He had his own strengths and wisdoms. There’d be things the boys and I could learn from him. He was rather like Mr. Tully and Mr. Turn. I smiled, understanding how many people I’d actually met that were full of heart.
9.14 The Witchling Shama
I needed to have a talk with Frank. Frances needed some help over this hurdle. I think the best thing would be if the two of them developed a relationship where they had some man-to-man chats. But was such a thought just a form of bias? Should a man be more efficient at dealing with such things than a female? But then wasn’t it really about having a model in your life that you could get guidance from? Still debating the subject in my mind, I got up and went to get the boys some milk. I supposed that Frances could have gotten it out of the ice box, but stuff like that was supposed to be my job, and besides, it got me out of the conversation about cats. “Scrambled eggs sound good?” I asked. “Pancakes,” Carlo shouted out, forgetting the quiet voice rule. When Frances shoved an elbow into his side as a reminder, Carlo sighed and added, “Sorry.” “But, please, could Mrs. Penn make them? She makes bunnies.” “I might be able to do that,” I said, thinking about elongating “the ears” of a round pancake. But Mrs. Penn had already bolted up to head to the big mixing bowl. “I better watch,” I said. “If you’re not here one day, I’d fall down in their estimation.” Mrs. Penn laughed. “Not a chance, Shama. You’ll always be their heroine, well, at least until they turn into teenagers. Then no adult ranks high.” Turn into teenagers? Did Mrs. Penn think I’d be allowed to remain here pretending to be the boys’ mother for that long? I guess my face reflected that I was thinking over her comment. She patted me on the back. “They will still love you, Shama, even when they’re arguing with everything you say,” she said. “That’s just a necessary component of growing into themselves. We don’t want teenagers to become us. We want them to blossom into their own possibilities. To get there, they have to go through a bit of an ugly side.” She laughed, but I could tell that hers was the voice of a woman who’d lived through that cycle.
9.13 The Witchling Shama
I swallowed, sipped my brew, and tried to figure out how to go on with the conversation. Although witches often had foresight, and I was wondering if my repeated dream had been some kind of forewarning or premonition, such insights were another thing that many people frowned on. Although everyone had brain jabs, which is what Old Mother had called them, most folks just ignored them. Frank was looking at me searchingly, as if he wanted to peer down into my soul and pull out the truth. Whether he would have continued our conversation, I don’t know. Neither of us had heard the front door open and close, but there was no doubt about her presence when Mrs. Penn said, “Ah, you’ve already made coffee.” She slipped into a seat next to me. “I was going to do that, but this is better. I don’t have to wait for it to brew.” She smiled, then glanced from Frank to me and back again. “Did I interrupt something? Were these serious matters you were discussing?” Seeing that neither of us were actually rushing forward with a summary of our conversation, she asked, “What did the orphanage board and the town council say?” Apparently, I’d been accepted in a semi-permanent role as house tender and child babysitter. They’d given me a salary, too. I now had money for extras, although what I would use money for was a mystery, because every time I needed something, Mrs. Penn always took over the payment. “I think Shama wants a cat,’ Frank said after a moment of silence in which we were all savoring our mugs of coffee. “I didn’t say that. Not exactly,” I said, fidgeting because I definitely didn’t want them to get a kitten for me when I was sort of expecting one to arrive via mysterious ways. Unfortunately, timing is everything, for at the exact moment that Frank mentioned that I wanted a cat, two hair-tossed and pajamaed boys stumbled into the room with big smiles on their faces. “Mommy said that cats keep the mice and rats away,” Carlo said, his eyes big with excitement. In a lower tone, the one that Frances had begun using to express his of late slightly depressed state, he said, “Yeah, but Dad said a bullet is better. Only, we still had rats and mice, and he had a rifle, which he took with him to go hunting. I don’t think he ever shot a rat.” I could almost see the thinking process going on his head. Frances was mulling over the situation between his mom and dad. He’d definitely chosen sides. But I think there might also be an element of feeling like he was betraying his father each time he made a negative comment about how things used to be.
9.12 The Witchling Shama
I suppose that Frank might have displayed a moment of surprise in his eyes at my question, but, if so, it was gone in a second. “Good morning, my dear,” he said, then stood up, poured me a cup of coffee, handed me the mug, and offered me a piece of toast. “You are certainly never boring, are you?” he said, rubbing his jaw, a habit he seemed to have even when he was freshly shaven as he was that morning. I gripped my filled mug, delighted the coffee was not only ready-made but steaming hot. I shook my head at his offer of toast and included a polite, “No thank you for the toast, and thank you so much for the coffee,” accompanied by a genuine smile of gratefulness. The truth is that I actually preferred the nutty and grainy bread as it came from the baker’s — in its natural state. Why spoil perfection? I ignored what he’d said. The villagers would have called me boring. But, what was I supposed to say to such a statement? No, I’m not or yes, I am? Figuring that lots of people had strange nighttime visions, I just brushed over the question, saying that I’d had a dream about a cat and wondered why I hadn’t seen any around. He nodded. “Yes, Tinker Town has cats. But most of them stay inside. We have an occasional cougar or coyote that sometimes enters town and prowls about. A small cat could become a tasty treat.” I reflected a moment. Although I’d been on the lookout for such predators during our overnight camping, I’d never seen one. A wild boar was enough. I mentioned the latter and told Frank the story about my encounter with the one in the words. Frank’s eyes got big, and he coughed into his hand, not so much because he’d swallowed wrong, but because I think he was trying to stop what he’d been about to say. Instead, he shook his head, drank some of his coffee, and picked up the other piece of toast on his plate. “I’m changing the conversation, because I’m still shaking over what could have happened to you and your fine stallion,” he said. “So, why, were you really asking about cats? Are you wanting a pet for the boys . . . or one for yourself?”