6.30 The Witchling Shama
I was still holding the two teddy bears. I turned back to hand them to Mrs. Penn, but she shook her head. “You give those bears to the boys. I think it’s just what they need.” Officer Kruger hadn’t said anything since the moment we climbed down from the attic. I glanced at him, but his face was as uncommunicative as it had been back at the boys’ shack. Up in the attic, I’d felt a moment of closeness with him. Perhaps this was the return of his normal taciturn expression. Maybe he’d just slipped into human for a moment. I smiled at Mrs. Penn and thanked her, then headed for the boys’ rooms. As I’d predicted, both brothers were in Carlo’s room. I knocked. Carlo was the first to get to the door. “Mommy,” he said. Frances corrected him, telling his brother to call me Shama. “Our mother is in heaven.” Carlo’s eyes filled with moisture. He stared at the floor, but then he noticed that I was wiggling something out from under the dress. “What’s that?” he asked. “This one is for you,” I said. “And this one is for Frances’ bed. It will look nice there.” Just as I’d hoped, when Carlo grabbed onto his bear, Frances accepted his, as well. He stared at it a moment. “What do I do with this?” “They first need names. Then?” I shrugged, leaving the matter up to him. “I’m heading for the bathtub. Do either of you need to use the toilet first? I may be in there a long time. I need to soak,” I told them, laughing. They placed their bears on the bed, then ran for the bathroom. No tripping in clothes that didn’t fit them. I smiled as I picked up the nightgowns they’d worn and carried the gowns to my room.
6.29 The Witchling Shama
“We shall strive to draw out more of those smiles,” Mrs. Penn said. “And now, I think it is time for you to take a long bath and relax a bit. I bought you a dress. I hope you like it.” I froze. She’d bought something for me? Again, my eyes glanced at Officer Krugle. Had he authorized that? Would I be beholden to him? Mrs. Penn took out another parcel and unwrapped a full length, baby blue dress. It was beautiful and NEW. I’d always worn hand-me-downs, most of them faded and badly treated. Like the boys, the shock of Mrs. Penn giving me such a present, made my jaw drop, and my mouth gape open. Embarrassingly, my eyes watered. “It’s lovely, Mrs. Penn, but I can’t take it,” I said. My voice cracked, and I swatted at tears. My nose started running, and I was wishing I’d taken one of the rags I’d found in the basement, so I’d have something for such a moment. I remembered how several house owners had scolded me for not carrying a hankie, never realizing that I didn’t have one, and it was my fault for spending every coin on Frey’s needs instead of something practical like that. Officer Krugle handed me a small cloth, the kind meant especially for dealing with sniffles. I took it and thanked him, even more discomfited. Why were they being so nice to me? I used the cloth, then wadded it up in my hand. I hadn’t reached out for the dress, as much as I’d wanted to. Neither of them, apparently understood such things. I guessed I’d have to explain. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Penn, but I don’t have any money. I can’t afford a dress like that, well, any dress, at the moment, and I don’t have any idea when I could pay you back.” I turned to make my escape before they said something that would shame me further, but Mrs. Penn’s hand flew out to grab my elbow. “Nonsense, girl. We have more or less hired you to take care of those boys. You have to have something suitable to wear. I will not hear any more excuses. Now, go get cleaned up. Frank and I will fix something for all of us to eat. You take your time, Shama. When the boys come out, we’ll watch them.” “There are books and toys up in the attic,” I offered, hoping the officer would volunteer to bring them down. “Frank will get them,” Mrs. Penn said, as if the man was a servant she could order around.
6.28 The Witchling Shama
The boys must have heard us talking. They came out into the living room, yawning and stretching their arms, as sleepy children do. They were having some difficulties walking in their long, flowing nightgowns. Carlo, especially. I thought he might trip over the hem and fall, but he quickly recovered his balance. Mrs. Penn greeted them and told them she’d been shopping for them. I don’t think either boy knew what to make of that. They stared at her, not speaking a word. “Here,” she said. “I bought you pajamas, a pair of pants and a shirt, plus underwear. It isn’t enough to last long. We’ll plan on going shopping together tomorrow, but this will provide you with something to wear in the meantime.” Mrs. Penn was holding out the parcels to Frances. He reached out to accept them, but his mouth was ajar in the oddest way. I guessed he’d never realized you could go to the store and buy ready-made clothes. He’d probably only had second hand clothes before, and those had looked too small and ready for a rag pile. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said, after he regained his voice. “Thank you,” Carlo echoed him. “Do we really get to keep them?” Mrs. Penn laughed softly, then touched the younger boy’s arm. “They are yours now until you outgrow them.” When I’d first seen Mrs. Penn, I thought she’d been calcified into limestone. She’d seemed to look down her nose at the three of us until we’d journeyed with her in the buggy. But now, I saw that she had a softer side. Her wrinkled face had laugh lines. I would have hugged her, if I’d been brave enough. The boys stumbled off, as fast as they could walk in over-sized nightgowns that dragged on the ground and streamed out behind them. I watched them go, then smiled at Mrs. Penn. “You are so kind. For a moment they’ve forgotten what happened. They’re so excited by having new clothes.” I allowed my gaze to include both the officer and Mrs. Penn. I wasn’t sure where the money had come from for the boys’ clothes, but the way their faces had looked was worth every coin I’d ever earned. I desperately needed to get a job so I could not only buy the things I needed for Frey, but also for Carlo and Frances. They deserved such happiness.
6.27 The Witchling Shama
I left that first box open, figuring that the boys would enjoy its contents, and moved on to a second one. It held coats of all sizes and a heap of shoes, some looking almost new. Hopefully some of the things in that box would fit the boys. Wouldn’t that be great if they could wear what was in the box! The third and fourth boxes held items that Mrs. Smith had used for teaching. I figured that those items would be great for working with the boys. Carlo was too young, probably, but not Frances. He should already know how to read, and I could, at least, start that process. I’d tutored several of the villager’s children who’d been having trouble. Although their parents would never admit that my efforts had done much to help the boys, I’d seen their growth. Another package wrapped in oil cloth was probably books Mrs. Smith used to read to her students. I hoped so. That would be as useful as the clothing I’d found. I firmly believed that reading to children was one way to get them enthused about books, and I’d observed how it gave the village children the impetus to read on their own. Even the very little preschoolers tried to follow along when I was reading out loud, matching words to what they were hearing as I repeated a story over and over. Then when I’d played a game with them, missing a word or saying something wrong in a story they were familiar with, they’d laughed, but they started pointing to the word and saying, that’s not right, Shama. “Shama,” a voice suddenly called out. A woman’s head was staring up at us from the bottom of the ladder. Mrs. Penn had come back from her shopping trip. “I found some boxes up here that might have shoes and coats for the boys. We’ll have to check the sizes, of course,” I told her. “Wonderful,” the woman said. “Is Frank up there with you?” Frank. I’d heard her call the officer by his name once or twice, but to be that familiar with him seemed something I didn’t dare try. “Officer Krugle is here. He accompanied me up the ladder,” I informed her. “Come on,” the man said, rather sharply, as if embarrassed to have been caught accompanying me on my attic exploration. “We can explore more later. It’s probably time for the boys to be waking up anyway, or they won’t sleep through the night.” As tired as the two had been and after going through the stress of this day, I doubted that was true, but I nodded and started down the stairs, carrying the teddy bears from the box. I knew that Frances would consider himself too old for one, but it would be good for him to have one at night. Even seven-year-olds, as Frances claimed to be, needed something to hold on to so they felt secure in dark times.
6.26 The Witchling Shama
The floorboards, when I advanced a gingerly step inside, seemed safe and strong. I heard not a single creak or squeak as I edged forward. Still treading lightly for fear of a board giving way to my weight, I shuffled along on tiptoes of caution. I remembered how a house father, Mr. Peters, had once journeyed into his attic and put his foot through the ceiling’s floor. He’d almost fallen straight through and down into the next level of the house. His accident had caused him a broken ankle and extensive ceiling repair. But there seemed no danger of that here, because Officer Krugle was stamping big footedly behind me, and he seemed to have no anxiety of plunging through the rafters. Since he probably weighed twice what I did, I figured the attic base must be sound. In the center of the large expanse, we found close to twenty wooden boxes, none of them labeled. They were fastened with twine, but Mrs. Smith had used square knots to assure easy access. I opened one of the boxes and found children’s toys: a couple of teddy bears, still in good shape, some push toys with wheels, and a sampling of children’s books, all tied up in oil cloth to preserve them. “Did Mrs. Smith have children?” I asked, surprised to find such things in her attic. Officer Kruggel nodded, then gave a rather mournful sigh. “Yes. She had two sons. Both died many years ago. One fell of a horse as a teenager, and another, I think, he was six or seven, died from a medical problem. A bad heart perhaps? Mrs. Smith’s husband passed on even before the boys did. I don’t remember the reason for his death. Probably an illness. We didn’t have a doctor here for a long time.” He cleared his throat a couple of times before he could go on, making me think that the man might be more empathetic than he pretended with his cold eyes and impassive face. “Mrs. Smith was the town’s schoolteacher for probably thirty years, so, I guess you could say, she had a lot of children to tend to, even after her own were dead and buried.” I smiled, liking the emotion I heard in his words. It was a nice thought, but my heart ached for the woman. To have lost her family like that was a cruelness of the Fates. When she retired, she must have been even more isolated in this house all by herself. No one should ever die alone. People should take their last breaths with their loving family surrounding them. At least, that’s what I would prefer when I reached that stage in my life.
6.25 The Witchling Shama
We found an almost perfectly square line on the ceiling of Mrs. Smith’s living room, painted so evenly, it wasn’t noticeable unless you were searching for it. A pull rope handle was attached, but it was the same color as the paint, which made it perfectly camouflaged. I tugged on the rope, not waiting for the officer to show off his muscles. As I’d imagined, my sustained yank brought down a ladder, the kind permanently attached to the ceiling. I glanced back at the officer. He was giving me a look that said he found it amusing that I’d lowered the ladder by myself. I guess it would have been more lady-like to allow him to do the tugging, but being weak and feminine wasn’t a game I played. When he saw my glance, he waved his hand, indicating that I should lead the way. I had never seen a fold down ladder before. I wasn’t sure how trustworthy it was, but when I wiggled it, it seemed stable enough to proceed. Inhaling a breath of courage, I carefully climbed up the steps. I really wanted to see inside the attic, but I had trepidations. Rats and mice often made their way into such dark quarters. As I reached the top, I stopped to listen, but I didn’t hear anything scampering about. “You want me to go first?” the officer asked. To have allowed him to enter first would have been impossible at that point without retreating back down the stairs. Holding on with a firm grip to the sides of the ladder, I shook my head and took another step upward into the void. One would think that a horseback rider, comfortable with being a good ten feet off the ground, would have no fear of heights, but such was not the case with me. Ladders frightened me. Climbing into darkness was the icing on the top of that terror. But Old Mother used to say: Fear is only one more challenge to be conquered, and life is its own ladder of ascending steps, each more difficult, but often strangely beguiling. I smiled, recalling the impact Old Mother had made on my life. Memories were not the only inheritance a loved one left when they departed. The pearls of their wisdom were, perhaps, the true treasure they bequeathed. I used my hand to feel for the wall on the left, and purposely steered my mind away from Old Mother. Strangely, my mind slid easily in another direction as I found myself comparing my passage into an unfamiliar attic with cave exploration. Both held darkness, risk, and rats. (Although I had far more sense than to journey into an unmarked cavern from which cavers and spelunkers sometimes never returned. Surely investigating someone’s attic was not as hazardous, nor should it be such a precarious one-way trip.) My exploring hand touched the long string of a pull cord, almost exactly like the one we’d found in the basement. When I tugged at it, an electric bulb lit up the surrounding area, making the attic if not friendly, at least more appealing. I saw no vermin or any indications that there might be some in hiding. Everything was as dust and cobweb free as the rest of the house. The breath I’d unknowingly been holding in, released. At that moment, I secretly mocked my earlier qualms, discarding visions of deep, dark caverns and allowing a prick of curiosity to send me forward.
6.24 The Witchling Shama
So, of course, there was nothing to do but search the house. Behind a door in the kitchen, we discovered brick stairs that led down into a genuinely nice basement. The staircase had a pull cord light that allowed us to see inside. It was obvious that the basement had been used frequently by Mrs. Smith, because, like the rest of the house, it was entirely free of spider webs and dirt. Down at the bottom, we found shelves with rows of canned vegetables and fruits and a whole section full of preserves of multiple varieties, all nicely labeled. A few wooden boxes were filled with items, each one covered by a tarp. I scrounged inside each of them and was delighted to find rags in one, cleaning items in another, and in the third, a brand new coffee pot and a shiny kettle for making tea. Next to the bins, Mrs. Smith had kept a handy wooden cart that could be used for grocery shopping. I wondered how she’d managed to tote it up and down the stairs on her own, but maybe she used it in her younger years, when such an obstacle was not a hindrance. The cart looked brand new. Beside it sat a small wooden step stool. I guessed she’d used that to reach the top of her shelves. I could almost picture her stepping onto it to reach up for a jar of pickles. That probably hadn’t been safe for an elderly woman, but we all did things that weren’t entirely recommended. Mrs. Smith must have been a very proud and independent woman, unwilling to ask for help. I wondered if she’d had family nearby or neighbors she could call on. The basement also held two portable sinks with stoppers and run-off drains that looked like they drained out into the backyard. One basin was, of course, for the soapy water and the other for the rinse, and both were set up in a position so that fresh water could fill them as needed. There was also a lovely washing board with not even a hint of rust on it. Mrs. Smith had owned the very latest in efficiency. When I’d thoroughly inspected all that, plus her array of brooms, mops, a couple of yardsticks, a spare clothes line, and other items, hanging on the wall, we returned back up to the kitchen and went in search of an attic just in case there could possibly be one of those, as well.
6.23 The Witchling Shama
“Do you always carry on conversations with your horse?” the officer said, having sneaked up behind me while I was scolding Frey. I let out a burst of air. An uh, ack, or something equivalent. The man had startled me. I gently put down Frey’s hoof and stared at the guy. Why was he so tall? Every time I glanced at him, he seemed bigger. “You bedded the boys down?” I asked. “Yes, and I told them a story. They were yawning, and their eyes started sagging almost the moment they got out of the warm water. They were so tired, they didn’t even protest about wearing a woman’s nightgown.” I gave Frey a gentle pat on his hind quarters, told him to enjoy his grazing, and informed him that I was going inside. He gave me a nickered grunt, the sound he made that meant okay. Only someone who has been around horses knows that they may have fewer words than humans, but they still communicate well. They ear twitch, head roll, nod, hoof stamp, and make a variety of utterings that horse people more or less understand. Frey, since he’d grown up with me, had more vocals than most, and he expected me to know the meaning of all of them. Anyway, whether he understood my words or not, he tramped away, still flicking his tail, hitting his flank on each side. I definitely needed bug spray, or at least some material to sew him a head protector and a tail lengthener. I wondered if the house had some old curtains left to rot, lying in a basement or attic. Did the house have a basement or attic? Before the officer could get a word in, I started badgering him about it. “How would I know?” he said, shaking his head and standing in the way people do when they reject whatever you’re trying to tell them. “This is only the second time I’ve been in the house, and the first time was only to . . .” “Check that the old lady was dead?” I said, taking note of his hesitance to fill in that detail. The expression on his face registered one part disgust that I’d said it so blatantly, one part chagrin that he hadn’t, and something else, which I couldn’t quite latch onto. The man was a mystery. I wondered what his wife was like.
6.22 The Witchling Shama
After it was clean, I placed the basin on a flat surface and used a hose to fill it. Frey, watching me intently, as always, slurped up the water right off, not even waiting for me to finish my task. He pretty much emptied the water out, so I let the basin fill up again. When Frey began playing in it, splashing the water all about with his muzzle, I shooed him away, but that warned me that this tiny basin wouldn’t work as a watering trough, not for my mischievous one. The backyard held a small shed. I walked over to inspect it. The tiny structure, about the same size as the lean-to that I’d restored and lived in, was both immaculate and almost empty. I assumed the deceased woman had used it as a tool shed. Perhaps she’d once kept a garden in her yard and grown vegetables or flowers, although I’d seen no sign of that — no enclosed plot of wood or brick, as those I’d tended in the village. But since the whole yard was currently overgrown by weeds, it was hard to tell. If I were staying long, I’d harness the boys to start some peas, beans, and carrots. “Growing things was a good way to heal from inner wounds,” Old Mother used to tell me. Presently, the inside of the shed displayed only a few tools, each neatly hung on a nail on the left wall. I was pleased to see a shovel, which I could use to clean up after Frey, but a wheelbarrow was lacking. Where could I cart Frey’s manure to anyway? I guessed that a garbage bin would have to do since there was really no room to start a compost heap, and the neighbors would understandably complain if my horse’s manure drew flies to the area. However, the small shed would do fine to keep my tack safe from the elements. I could store hay and grain in the shed, too. If I had any chance to earn money, I’d could add a couple more nails to the wall and hang the curry comb and horse brush I needed to buy. I’d left his old ones behind in my rush to get away. Poor Frey hadn’t had a proper grooming since I’d been stoned out of the village. Meanwhile, I checked Frey’s hooves, making use of the hoof pick that I’d always kept in my pocket. Frey thankfully liked anything I did to him, lapping up the attention like a dog. Unfortunately, his only bad habit was leaning on me. With only three legs, I could see how he might feel a bit unbalanced, but he slept on three, so there was no excuse for me to become his leaning post. I ranted at him for a moment about that, and he twitched his tail, managing to knock me in the forehead while I was working on his back hoof. But that was probably due to a fly attacking him rather than sassing me for my lecture. I wondered if, when I got paid for that mythical job I was imagining, I should splurge on some fly spray.
6.21 The Witchling Shama
I closed the door and took a moment to think. First, I needed to look at the backyard to see if Mrs. Penn was right about it being suitable for a horse. I hunted for the door to the back, then walked outside to check the yard. Sure enough, although the area wasn’t laid out for a horse, it looked like the backyard would work temporarily. The grounds were full of tall weeds and an overgrown lawn that Frey would quickly restore to the right length. I found the gate out to the front and whistled. Frey came running, slipping right through the opening, not fazed by the way he was trotting into an enclosed area. Once Frey was inside, I secured the gate, checking that the latch was adequate. Frey nickered and nuzzled me for a moment, but then he looked around and seemed to like what he saw. For Frey, anywhere there was ample grazing was okay with him. He nosed about for a moment, then returned for a pat. “It’s okay, boy,” I told him. “We’re going to stay here a bit.” Frey was loose and saddleless, so there was nothing I needed to do, except find a bucket for water. The fact that Frey didn’t have his saddle on reminded me that I needed to get my tack back from the buggy seat. I’d ask the officer about that after his stint at bathing the boys was finished. I found a flat porcelain bowl that looked like it had once been used for face washing or shaving. It would serve my purpose after a good cleaning. I set to work right off, “It only takes soap, hand grease, and good intent,” Mrs. Stevens used to direct me when I was cleaning her floors. Luckily this bowl was a lot smaller than Mrs. Steven’s floors.