5. 11 The Witchling Shama
It was not a good area to gallop in. There were too many low growing plants with shoots that might trip us up, but my intent at that moment was just to get us away from the boar. Although I was still keeping my panic tightly controlled, I could feel the adrenaline sending tendrils of fear throughout me. In spite of these trembles and the urge to gallop miles away, after a moment, not hearing a chase from behind, I slowed Frey and glanced back. The boar was not coming after us. I supposed that since boars were very intelligent animals, this one might have known enough to fear the hooves of my stallion or even to be aware that some humans carried guns. Of course, I didn’t, but he wouldn’t be certain of that. For whatever reason the boar had decided not to give chase and I was greatly relieved. I patted Frey on his shoulder and soothed his worry, offering him a string of comforting words that not only praised his willingness to do battle, but thanked him for listening to my order to retreat. “Boars are dangerous, Frey. I know you could have kicked him, but a boar’s skin is thick. That might not have saved our lives. It is best always to retreat when we can, and I thank you for doing that so readily.” Frey bowed his head, pawed the ground, and nickered in response to my calming words. Whether he understood what I was telling him was not as important as the fact that I was communicating to him that the danger was past, and we could now go on our way in safety.
5. 10 The Witchling Shama
Standing in front of us, looking ready to attack, stood a five hundred pound boar with tusks like twin butcher’s knives. It grunted angrily and pawed at the ground. Its tiny eyes peered at them, flaring in pinkish red. I didn’t pause to notice the pig’s slightly spiny-looking coarse hair that appeared badly in need of a good combing. It was definitely not a creature for beauty. Nature had other intentions. But I knew how dangerous a wild boar could be. They could attack and kill both humans and horses, their muscle-piercing tusks penetrating a body so deeply, they tore down into the victim’s vital organs. Mr. Gordly had lost a horse to a boar. Although the horse’s skin had only been torn away, leaving one whole shoulder robbed of flesh, it wasn’t that which had killed the poor mare, but the bacteria that came from the assault. Despite the blacksmith’s gentle endeavor to save the mare, she had died within days from her infection. I knew that Frey was itching to engage the monstrous pig, but he didn’t understand the dangers of such an action. I put pressure on his reins and spoke calmly, even pleadingly, insisting that he back away. Frey wanted to argue. His stallion instincts fought for dominance, but with a snort of defiance, aimed at the pig, he gave in and obeyed my wishes. Still as we took one step back, then two, followed by a hesitant third step, Frey’s ears danced in nervousness, and he readied his muscles for the plunge forward that would probably take us to our deaths. But luck was with us. The boar didn’t charge. It eyed us half-blindly. A boar’s eye sight was poor even up this close. I’d been told that a male boar was not driven to attack, but instead preferred to back away from a fight if unchallenged. This one seemed to follow such directives. I insisted on a few more back steps, then I wheeled Frey around, and we galloped away.
5. 9 The Witchling Shama
The preacher had seemed a nice enough fellow, but when he arrived at the village, he would probably speak of having seen me in passing. I worried that someone might be interested enough in coming after me, not because they’d want to apologize or make it up to me for throwing rocks, but because they might want to steal Frey. With that in mind, I decided that it would be better to leave the path behind and slip into the woods. I turned Frey to the right. Leaving the well-traveled route, we headed down a bit of an incline, threaded through a section with ferns and redwoods, and moseyed back toward the sound of the babbling brook, which I could still hear, although faintly, in the distance. Frey, eager to explore a more interesting section than the dusty trail, swung his ears forward and began to prance a bit until it was necessary for me to lay my hand on his shoulder and calm him down. Although the sun had already colored the sky and been well on its way to creating some heat, as I rode under the trees, its light turned into shadows with patches of dark. A coolness permeated the air, allowing the scent of redwood bark to tease my nose enough to make me sneeze. A witch’s sneeze was often a sign of danger. I tightened my grip on the reins and scanned ahead, even more diligent than a moment before. Before I could spot what had caused my apprehension, Frey alerted me. His muscles clinched and trumpeted a warning, then he pawed the ground while spinning his head to the left.
5.8 The Witchling Shama
Just as I was thinking that I heard the approach of a trotting horse. His tread on the path told me he’d been shod. The clank of the iron shoes was different from the softer ones of my own steed. It made me wonder if horseshoes were something else I’d need to worry about. Traveling horses needed such padding for their hooves. In a moment, I spotted both horse and rider. An older male in the dark gray costume of an itinerant preacher rode a bony cinnamon-colored gelding. The horse nickered to Frey, greeting him the way friendly horses did. Frey answered back without any warning in his voice, which is how I knew the approaching horse was a gelding, not a stallion that Frey might consider an instinctual rival. The man pulled up to eye Shama. “Be with the Fates.” “Thank you, and you,” I answered him back. “Are you heading for Meritville?” he asked. I knew nothing about the road ahead. If there was a town ahead named Meritville, I supposed I would pass it by. So I nodded my head. The preacher eyed my horse, probably noting the stallion’s youth and good looks, but I didn’t think there was anything covetous in his regard. But safety came in distance, so I nodded once more, and said, “Go with the Fates” and urged Frey forward. “And you,” the man said, although he looked rather disinclined to journey on, perhaps wanting a bit of gossip. The preacher rested a moment, as if watching me, but then I heard him click to his horse and the two trotted on, heading for the village I’d just left.
5.7 The Witchling Shama
It was pleasant to wake up in such a lovely spot. I couldn’t help smiling, although my stomach gurgled and hissed at me for being so empty. Again, I lay down at the brook, washed my face and drank all the cold water my stomach could hold. It was no happier full of ice water, but I promised it I’d nibble on some of the cheese I’d brought. Frey was happily gorging on grass, completely contented to be out in the fresh air. His needs were simple, although I hated to have to explain that there would be no more apples and carrots. At least, not for a while. When I hefted up the saddle and secured it on him, Frey stood ready. He never argued about being tacked up, and even though he’d probably be happy to remain at the grassy site, he was as eager as I was to journey on. He liked seeing new things, and we’d never done that before. I returned us to the path we’d been following and continued on, my eyes searching for fruit or nut trees, berry bushes, or signs of wild carrots and other root vegetables. There might have been fish in the brook where we’d stopped, but I never ate meat. I would never ask a creature to give up its life for me. Even eggs were something I felt guilty for eating. I would not be robbing a bird’s nest for breakfast. The woods we were passing through were quiet except for the constant bird song. No other travelers seemed to be journeying on the road that day, which was a good thing because I’d been told that strangers were sometimes dangerous.
5.6 The Witchling Shama
The hour was growing late. When I had walked Frey cool, I located a likely place for a rest stop and slid off his back. I could hear a brook babbling and saw that there was a patch of grass on the bank beside it. That would do for the night. I removed Frey’s saddle and bridle. She didn’t own a halter, but Frey would never leave my side. I never needed to worry that he’d stray. “This is a pretty spot, don’t you think?” I asked him as I placed the tack down on a dry area beneath a tall oak tree. Frey nuzzled at my back and then gave a tired sounding, low pitched snort of agreement. Together we walked to the water. It was easier for Frey to bend his head and drink. I had to lie down in the dirt and cup my hands the water. But we drank away our thirst. Water was abundant and easy to find. It would be food that was difficult to locate. Well, not for Frey. He was already using his strong teeth to rip up portions of grass. He’d be content. I pulled out a stale bun my pack and nibbled at it. I was hungry enough to gobble it down in seconds, but I had no more bread. In the morning, I’d have to look for nut trees and roots. I should have been feeling scared. My life was in a turmoil with no prospects ahead, but instead I felt light-hearted. Even free. I knew I’d always been the town’s burden, but in a sense, they’d been my burden, too, because no matter how much I’d provided them with free labor, what was owed to them grew no less.
5.5 The Witchling Shama
Well, she would no longer be at their beck and call. She was free of their scorn and distaste for being a burden on their backs. As one of the teenagers had later said when she’d returned to offer her services, “That girl is nothing but a beggar that everyone has to take care of.” That had stung. Wiping the tears away, so no one saw, she’d retreated from such contempt and wept on Frey’s shoulder. When she was young, the towns people used to pass her around. She’d spent six months at twenty different households. She knew she’d been an inconvenience for many of her early years. A baby can’t help being orphaned. But by the time she was four or five years old, she’d done her best to be helpful. She’d never caused anyone trouble, never been one to break things, or to fight with their own children. But at ten years old, when she was about to be sloughed off onto a mean-spirited grouch of an old woman, she’d fled. Finding a shack, out in the badlands, one decrepit with termites and old wood, she’d taken up residence. At first, she’d been afraid to sleep inside the rickety shack, but as she grew older, she replaced bad wood with good and offered her labors at the mercantile house in exchange for nails and the rent of a few tools. Such a trade would never occur, of course, at the house of someone who had fostered her. For them, she did chores without recompense, attempting to repay them for their generosity, such as it was.
5.4 The Witchling Shama
Weeding and tending to Mr. Kettern’s garden was surely worth the friendship she had with Frey. And luckily, the neighbor was willing to give her fresh produce when he had an abundance. Carrots and apples, the ones fallen to the ground, supplemented Frey’s diet. Perhaps they were the reason he had grown up to be such a handsome stallion, his coat shiny, his tail thick, and his carriage far better than one would expect from his dam and sire. Frey’s eyes were bright and intelligent, and Shama swore he understood everything she told him. Although spirited as any four-year-old steed, he always showed a willingness to do whatever she asked of him. And despite the fact that many in the town had said that she should sell Frey to repay them for the care they’d rendered to her since the day she was delivered to the town square as a baby, she’d resisted. Frey was hers. She’d earned him with her labors and with her love. But their coveting of her horse was probably another reason why the crowd had so willingly turned against her. Shama had babysat, cleaned houses, weeded gardens, and done a hundred tasks whenever asked. She had received only a bit of food in exchange, not asking for more. But it was never enough.
5.3 The Witchling Shama
She galloped her dappled grey stallion, Frey, until she saw that he was sweating and breathing hard. She quickly pulled him back into a walk. “I’m sorry, Frey, I wasn’t paying attention,” she told the stallion, patting his shoulder and wiping away the tears that had overwhelmed her when she realized that she could never return to the only home she’d ever known. Frey, who was in sincerity, her only friend, was not her familiar. He was only a horse, but one who’d been with her since she’d raised him as a colt. He’d been born to a mare that died giving birth, and no one had wanted to be bothered with a motherless foal. When they’d been about to put him down, Shama had taken the baby into her cottage and bottle fed him every hour. Despite the predictions from those around her, Frey had survived. Perhaps, that’s why they were such good friends. They were both orphans, both unwanted. Or, so Shama told him as she brushed and tended to his needs every day. But, once the colt grew into a fine young steed, the farmer wanted him back. That wasn’t fair, but Shama hadn’t argued. She’d traded two years of labor for the right to claim the stallion as hers.
5.2 The Witchling Shama
When the first rock hit, I spit fully into the face of the mayor. Then I raised my head and began to sing. My song was not a pleasing melody, but a tune blistered by hate. My song caused heartache to enter the souls of the townsfolk. Men and women lowered their heads and wept. Rocks slipped from every clenched hand, and then the townspeople collapsed into tears of despair. The townsfolk were too hardened by selfishness and loathing to feel remorse for their cruelty. It would not change their feelings towards me or make them better people. But I continued to sing my song, temporarily disabling their revenge, if revenge was the correct label, for I had never flung out anything but goodness. The mayor was right that I was a witch, but I’d never been evil. The only magic I’d ever done before that day was white magic, that kind that made a person well or helped someone in their time of need. But those deeds had been forgotten when the mayor called me a witch, and so, I continued the song until my feet took me far from the town. I paused at my shack to pick up my winter coat, to saddle my horse, and to pack some clothes and food, I continued singing even after I’d saddled up and left. I kept on singing as I galloped away, until my throat grew parched, and until the song at last died on my lips.