9.11 The Witchling Shama
That night I had the strangest dream. I was back at the side of the brook where Frey and I had spent the night. It was the place where I’d seen the grey kitten, Willow, who had told me that she was my familiar. But, of course, when I’d awoken that morning, there’d been no grey kitten, and I hadn’t seen her since. In fact, I hadn’t seen any cats in Tinkle Town. I wondered if one had slipped by and only been noticed in the depths of my mind, only to be recalled during my dream. But in my nighttime vision, I didn’t ponder cats in general. I’d dredged up that same image, Willow, the kitten with white patch on her left hind foot and the funny streak that rode down the center of her nose. When I got up the next morning, I had a feeling of great loss. It was as if that kitten was something I desperately wanted and needed. The sun’s first rays were streaming through my window. I walked over to stare down. I was looking into the side yard on the opposite side of the gate where Frey and I went in and out. There wasn’t much to see from my window, only a few rose bushes, the white kind that needed no loving care or water, yet bloomed unceasingly. But it wasn’t the rose bushes I was looking at. I think I was searching for a grey kitten, a kitten named Willow that didn’t even exist. When I entered the kitchen, there was Frank, sitting at the table. He was sipping coffee and eating toast, even though Mrs. Penn hadn’t arrived yet. I guessed that Frank had been the one responsible for making both. It was nice to know that a man could cook and fix coffee. In the village I’d never seen an adult male do more than peek in the doorway of the kitchen. “Does Tinker Town have cats?” was my immediate greeting. My mouth was having problems holding in my thoughts. I really needed to rein it in, but since I’d left the village, I’d found that almost impossible. In the village, I’d learned that no one wanted me to speak. I was the quiet mouse in the corner who cleaned and did chores, but here, it was like I was unraveling. Perhaps I was shedding the outer shell I’d wrapped around myself, turtle-like, I mused. But babbling was not only improper, but dangerous. When a person carried secrets, the mouth needed to stay closed.
9.10 The Witchling Shama
It was a quick meal, and then were back outside. The grooming of my very dirty horse was done quickly. The boys weren’t able to reach most of Frey’s back. I needed to remember to bring out the stepstool down in the basement. But both boys put in some effort. They were excited when I showed them how I cleaned out Frey’s hooves. When I told them about the frog, the soft interior region of a horse’s hoof, they laughed so hard they fell down. Frances started yelling, “Ribbit, ribbit,” pretending to be a frog. Then Carlo picked it up and started jumping about the yard. My wild stallion, as the officer liked to call him, stood absolutely still, watching them like he’d never seen the craziness of little boys. I guess he hadn’t, come to think of it. Although, Frey had been around when the village boys chased each other in the grassy public area. He’d watched as the children caught balls and ran relay races. But no hopping frog boys saying ‘ribbit.” It was no surprise when Officer Krugel, I mean, Frank, came into the backyard. The surprise was that he’d brought my saddle, its blanket pad, and the bridle. Yeah! “I’m sorry you didn’t have this for your ride, “he said. “I hope that didn’t make it dangerous for you, although you looked fine on that big guy. That is, not like you were about to fall off or anything.” He seemed nervous. I started to take my stuff from him, but he nodded his head to the shed. “I’ll take it inside if you’ll open the door. Do you have a rack for the saddle?” I’d jury-rigged a bucket for my saddle holder in the lean-to, but here, I still had nothing. I shook my head. “Mrs. Penn and I both want you to be happy here. I’ll see if I can make you one.” “Really?” I gasped. “You know how to do stuff like that?” We were standing inside the shed, and I suddenly noticed how enclosed we were. I could hear the boys pretending to be frogs, no doubt hopping about. No doubt Frey was still watching them clown around, but inside this wooden box of a shed, it felt too close, too personal. I took a step back toward the door. Frank stretched out a hand. He smiled. “I’ll figure out how to make one, Shama. Call it part of my wooing.” That was the final straw. I bolted out into the fresh air, the safety of little boys, and my own sweet stallion. Then I breathed in a long, hard breath. I think a smile crept across my face. I couldn’t be sure, but there was a warmness inside my heart that hadn’t been there before. It felt strange and a little scary, but, also, kind of nice.
9.9 The Witchling Shama
The boys came running outside when they heard us in the backyard. Both flung themselves at me. “Where did you go?” Carlo asked. “She has a right to ride if she wants to. She doesn’t have to . . .” Frances stopped and peeked up at me. I could read his face quite clearly. Both boys were upset that they hadn’t gotten to ride Frey or go with me wherever I’d gone. “I’ll tell you what. I’m kind of hungry right now, but after I get a drink and something to eat, if you help me groom Frey, I’ll let you ride him. Okay?” The cheering was so loud it brought out Mrs. Penn. “Oh, good, you’re back. Both of you, I see,” she said, giving Frank an inquiring look. He nodded, but he didn’t add anything to the look they were exchanging. Something secretive there, I could tell. If Mrs. Penn were a younger woman, I’d might have felt a touch of jealousy, but . . . Of course, I had no right to feel any such thing. What was I thinking? I tossed out some hay for Frey and gave him a sprinkling of oats, as well. He lipped those up readily. I’d been placing his food on an old tarp I’d found. I wandered if that was sufficient to keep him from getting worms. I used to get a herbal dewormer from the vet, which was a mixture of sage, chaparral, wormwood, and kelp. I guess I’d have to see if the feedstore had any. Meanwhile, as Frey was happily munching his treat, I got to work grooming some of the sand and dirt off his body. I only worked for a moment before my hunger pains attacked. I’d come back with the boys. Besides, Frey would probably do a nice roll in the dirt, coating himself with the very dirt I’d just removed. That was the nature of horses.
9.8 The Witchling Shama
“What time will the police station open in the morning?” I asked him. “Whenever I get around to it,” he said with a charming smile turned my way. “But Gerta comes by to feed prisoners first thing in the morning. The boys will be getting some good eating from the café. It’s not as delicious as Mrs. Penn’s cooking, but it’s not something anyone ever complains over.” I nodded. We’d had a meal from there the first day. I remembered. It had been amazingly scrumptious, but then everything beat wilderness living. I remembered when my diet was made up of cattail roots and wild asparagus with some dandelion blooms for color. And good old dandelion root coffee. Less than perfect for starting off the day. I giggled, realizing how picky I’d become. When we arrived at Mrs. Smith’s house, we got down off our horses. I removed the hackamore I’d jury-rigged for Frey, while Frank tied his horse at the hitching post which doubled on one side with a mailbox. I looked inside the box, but, of course, there was no mail. No one I knew from the village had any idea where I was, and besides, no one would ever bother to write to me. But, that gave me a thought. I bet I could write to the people who had been kind to me back at the village. Mrs. Swenson, Mr. Turn, the blacksmith, and maybe even Mr. Tully, the apothecary. They all deserved a note letting them know that I’d survived the villager’s stoning and was doing well. Mrs. Swenson, especially. I hoped she hadn’t worried. I’d might write to Mrs. Henderson, too, but then her husband probably wouldn’t like that. He’d been made to look bad in front of the villagers. Maybe, I’d even write to the vet, Mr. Jerry. He’d been very accommodating over the months when Frey was sick. He’d allowed me to pay my debt over a period of weeks. When others might have nagged me about my tardiness, he never did. He’d been patient and had seemed pleased that I’d actually paid him everything I owed. I guess some people never did. I suppose I got caught up in my musing over letter writing because Frank took me by the elbow and began walking me towards the front door. I pulled away. “No, I have to see Frey to his . . . to the backyard,” I said, because I certainly couldn’t call it a stable, stall, or pasture. Frank nodded and accompanied me. As Frey trotted inside, Frank even shut and locked the gate for me.
9.7 The Witchling Shama
There wasn’t a lot of conversation on the way back. I’d thought he’d want to pester me about stuff, but he seemed to know when to back off. That was another good thing about the man. I’d say that I was impressed again, but there’s no sense getting carried away. The man still got under my nerves. Apparently, Frey had galloped a considerable distance more than I’d realized. It took us an hour to get to the outskirts of the town. When we passed the sign that said, “Welcome to Tinkle Town,” I had to open the conversation to something I’d been wondering for a good long time. “Why would anyone name the town that?” I asked. “Tinkle is what toddlers say when they need to visit the toilet.” Frank broke into a huge, wide grin, one bigger than I’d yet seen on his face. In fact, he was looking more cheerful in general than when I’d first met him. What was up with that? “I wasn’t here, of course, when the town was settled, but the hearsay is that is exactly how the town got its name. The first resident, Henry Green Peach supposedly did have a child of that age. Perhaps she needed to go? I guess we’ll never know. “Mrs. Penn will tell you, if you ask, that his wife’s last name was Tinkle. Gertrude Tinkle. I guess that could be the real reason.” Having told me that bit of information, he practically fell of his horse, he was laughing so hard. I ignored his sense of humor. “Green Peach is rather funny, too.” “Better than Ripe Peach or Rotten Peach. How about Wormy Peach?” Okay, that got a smile from me. I was just learning that Frank had a sense of humor. That was ground shaking. We’d been trotting part of the way, but entering the town, we both decided that a walk was more appropriate. So, it was slow going. Especially when a couple come out into the street and halted us. “Officer Krugel, I’m Matthew’s father. This is his mother. We’d like to take our boy home now.” “Nope,” Frank said, looking the man straight in the eye, then sweeping his eyes over the woman standing beside him. “Those boys are going to do an overnighter. They need to learn that intimidating people is not okay, and throwing rocks is a criminal offense. I don’t much cotton to bullying in any form.” The woman stepped forward. “He’s just a boy. We’ll talk to him. We’ll make sure he doesn’t ever do that again. Please?” She was an attractive woman, but someone should inform her that batting her eyes and simpering with a high-pitched, baby doll attitude didn’t work much over forty. I doubted that even if she’d been straight out of school with hair-tossing and lip smacking, like the girls in the village, it would have worked on Frank. “Nope,” he said, confirming my supposition. He urged his horse forward, and I did the same. Matthew’s parents didn’t call after us. I guess they figured they’d met their match. I bet they’d be the first ones at the police station in the morning, eager to pick up their boy.
9.6 The Witchling Shama
I tried to get up, but found myself still stuck because he hadn’t moved. He was still sitting on my hair. Maybe it was time to cut it? First thing when I got home. Home? Yes, that’s what it was with Mrs. Penn and the boys. But as to Frank sticking his nose into the whole nesting instinct bit, that I hadn’t decided. “Please will you move, Frank?” I said, as sweetly as I could speak between gritted teeth. “Success. Now was that so hard, my darling girl?” “I burst up into a standing position, more than happy to be on my own feet again. I whistled for Frey, and he came running. His mouth was dripping green slobber. Obviously, he’d found some healthy grass. I guess this interlude was fine with him. I didn’t have a brush or curry comb to clean him up. I could see that he’d rolled in the dusty sand. Great. Just great. I glanced about, looking for leaves or a stick that I could at least scrape his back with. Sand under me could rub both him and me raw. When I saw a usable stick, I ran and grabbed it, then started to work. Meanwhile, the officer, I mean, Frank, continued to sit watching me. The end result of my stick cleaning didn’t much improve the looks of my stallion, but I was pretty sure that I’d gotten rid of anything large enough to cause irritation. Next, I had to search for a good place to mount. The fence surrounding the corral looked like the best place. I urged Frey over and boosted myself onto his back. Frank had finally gotten up. I guess he figured the show was over since I was back up on my horse. He moseyed over to his gelding, checked the horse’s cinch, picked up the reins, then hoisted himself up. It was actually the first time I’d seen him on a horse. Any rider can tell right off if someone sits a horse correctly. Frank did. He looked like he was at home in the gelding’s saddle. I was impressed.
9.5 The Witchling Shama
“I understand about Frey. He’s curious and wants to join in whatever activity we’re engaging in. But what was that you did before?” “Our kiss? I’m sure you know what a kiss is for. It was most enjoyable, wasn’t it?” he said, and his hand suddenly lifted to fondle a lock of my hair. My hair shouldn’t be undone. I’d fastened it tightly into its usual braid, but the tumble or else the water fight with Frey had loosened it enough that I’d lost my leather tie, and my hair, which must be a mess of twisted curls and knots, was falling down into my face and, apparently underneath the officer’s body because I found I couldn’t move without tugging at it. “Officer Krugel,” I said, “Please could you move off my hair?” “No. I like you captive, and you will remain that way until you call me Frank instead of Officer Krugel. That is too formal. I think we’re far beyond that, my dear.” “We’re not beyond that. You’re, you’re . . .” Again my words fled as I played back the last of his sentences. “Don’t call me dear. And we’re not . . . not . . .” “I’d like to woo you, my sweet girl.” Woo. That was marriage talk. Witches didn’t marry. Or, at least Old Mother hadn’t. Besides, marriage meant that I’d have to give him my hand, whatever that meant. And then there was the lie, or the thing I hadn’t told him and couldn’t. I shook my head. “I can’t,” I said. Frey got bored and stood up, moving away in search of grass. There wasn’t any in the corral, but the gate wasn’t shut. I supposed he’d find some in the yard where the other horse was standing, his reins dropped to the ground, which for some reason, stopped horses cold. “Whose house is this? Are they going to come back and wonder what we’re doing here?” His lips were smiling. “Avoidance?” he asked. “Sometimes a criminal does that to get out of mischief, but I think you’re just scared.” “Of course, I’m scared. Whose house is this?” “It doesn’t matter, Shama. They left. They moved away. Someone will buy it, but they haven’t yet. So you don’t need to worry over being in trouble for trespassing. Now answer me. What are you really afraid of? Are you too scared of me to call me Frank?”
9.4 The Witchling Shama
For a moment I just stared up at him, words, as I’d said, short in supply. Or maybe the tongue assault had eaten up my ability to speak. Was I to be mute from here on out? Old Mother had given me a few of the facts about what went on between a woman and a man, but I was thinking that she might have left out a few details. She had never once mentioned a man’s tongue. I would have remembered that. The officer was still staring down at me. My body was limp. Had he taken my energy away with my voice? I guess we would have remained in that position, me, lifeless as a dead bird, and the officer, muscles straining, (Were they?) holding me there in his arms, if Frey hadn’t decided to step closer and investigate this oddness going on next to him. As he was fond of doing, he leaned, his head dropping down to muzzle my face. I guess that was the last pigeon on the roost, the pigeon who sent all the others fluttering up into the air and soaring into the sky. Only we didn’t flutter. We collapsed. That didn’t bother Frey. He just sank down onto the ground with us, his legs buckling under him and his massive head still semi-attached to my cheekbone as he continued to nuzzle me for information about what we were doing. “Ack,” I let out, proving that my voice was still audible, if not profound in its utterances. The officer issued a very similar noise but in a lower range. He also let go of me, probably because he didn’t want a sniffing muzzle in his face. “What was that?” I asked, panting slightly, although I had absolutely no idea why. It wasn’t like a tongue swab equaled a run around the town’s grassy square. “A horse?” he said, looking down at me with star twinkles in his eyes and a huge smile.
9.3 The Witchling Shama
I once heard one of the younger women, Clara, who’d just given her hand to her husband in marriage. (Such a strange expression. She still had two hands, and presumably he had his own two and didn’t need hers.) But she was telling her bosom buddies how when her new husband, Peter, kissed her, she heard music. What kind of music did she hear? I always wondered about that, but I had no time to dilly dally like those young women. I had a floor to sweep and scrub. (But I couldn’t help thinking about Clara’s comment. Was the music of a kiss a light-hearted, frolicking skipping kind of dance, a sad violin sob story where no one could dance at all, or a marching band going root-at-toot-toot, parading down the center of the village?) When the officer placed his lips on mine, I didn’t hear music. I heard nothing at all, unless I counted the heavy beat of my heart, thumping up a storm. I was pressed against the man’s chest so tightly that I think I heard his heart beating, too. It seemed fast. Was that the music Clara had heard? Was it the tympanic beat of a drumming heart? I was just about to ask if he heard any music while he kissed me when he laid his lips back over mine and proceeded to deepen the interchange. His tongue actually slipped into my mouth. It was ghastly, and I was about to shove him away, when something took me over. I was a sponge soaking up soapy water. My composition completely altered. I think I even liked it. I certainly never got around to spitting his tongue out. And while I was doing all that debate about the tongue, the sponge that was me grew even more limp, and I think I actually submitted to this strange new experience. When he withdrew his tongue, I didn’t have a single word in my mouth. I couldn’t have spoken if it had been a life-or-death matter. I was too stunned, too flabbergasted or maybe I was flummoxed. I’d never used those words, and I wasn’t sure which one was most appropriate. Not that anything would be fitting after what the officer had just done. Wasn’t this the kind of thing that only happened between a husband and wife? Was this like the proposition I’d believed the officer was offering in his office that day, when I’d thought he was a black-hearted villain?
9.2 The Witchling Shama
And while I was examining my feelings about settling into Tinkle Town, I suppose if I were being honest, I’d need to mention Officer Krugle. It was true that he more or less terrified me, although I’d never mention that to him, but he also intrigued me. I would miss him, too, I decided, even though, he made my heart beat faster with his probings into my background. How much longer could I avoid his questions? And here he was, far too close The exhale of his breath was breathing down on me, and his eyes were sending goosebumps of fear. At least, I thought that’s what they were from. I swallowed harder and sought to calm myself. Should I answer him? Should I tell him that I didn’t fear him in that way? Because somehow I did trust him, and yet, I couldn’t really have faith that he wouldn’t cast me out when he had all the facts. I couldn’t rely on anyone because to do so would get me stoned, or worse, even burned at the stake. No one wanted a witch in their town. No one believed that white witches only did good. I took in air like someone drowning. Old Mother had told me once that an accumulation of lies could feel like piled bricks on a person’s chest. That’s what my body felt like. My inhales felt strained. I wondered if my lungs were getting air. Wasn’t that why people fainted, from lack of air? But his eyes were still peering down into mine. He was still too close. He was even slightly bent over me as if he wanted to . . . No, that was my imagination. The officer would not want to kiss me. I was an unnamed, a worthless, an ugly nobody. I tried to step back and fought to regain my breath, but that wasn’t possible. Frey was behind me. How had I turned around to face the man? When had I done so? My brain was swinging like a watch on a chain. Dizziness hit me, too fast to take heed. I had no warning. I simply woke to find myself in the officer’s arms. Had I fainted? That wasn’t me. It wasn’t possible. Yet, the memory of how I’d come to be enfolded against his body didn’t exist. I opened my eyes to speak. I don’t know what I planned to say, but I didn’t get the chance. His lips were touching mine, and then I sank into another plane of existence. I don’t know how to say it any other way. For in that instance, there was no me or he, only a joining, as if minds could meld as simply as heated water and sugar.