6.20 The Witchling Shama
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Penn. “We need those new clothes right now. Okay if I leave now so I can pick up some things for the boys?” She was talking to me, so I nodded. I could already see, as I stared in at the bathroom, that there were towels and an almost new bar of soap on the rim of the tub. Someone had even placed shampoo in a caddy in the corner. “Wait here, boys,” I said. Then, I headed back to the bigger of the three rooms and searched through the drawers. Mrs. Smith had an entire drawer full of nightgowns. If I could talk the boys into wearing one after their shower, that would provide them with something to sleep in. Carrying two of them, I returned to the boys who were standing in the exact same spot, still gawking at the bathtub. “Officer Krugle, do you think you could help the boys with their baths?” I asked, since he was standing there in a daze and not doing anything. I could see he wanted to dodge that bullet, and Frances was shouting out that he was too big to need someone to bathe him, but I figured it would be easier on the boy’s pride if a man assisted this operation than a woman. Apparently, the officer came to the same conclusion. He took the nightgowns from me with a raised eyebrow, recognizing that they were for a woman and not two little boys, but then he nodded, which I guess was a sign of approval.
6.19 The Witchling Shama
We walked in through the varnished wood front door, then stopped. I think my mouth dropped open, and the boys were stunned into silence. “Is this a real house?” Marco asked. “Of course, it is,” Frances said, but then he looked up at me. “It is, isn’t it? Are we going to live here? Can we touch the furniture and sit on it?” Mrs. Penn was smiling broadly. She squatted down to look both boys in the eyes. “This is going to be your house — at least, for a while,” she said, glancing up at the officer. “You can touch the furnishings, but always with clean hands. And if your clothes are clean, you can sit on the chairs and couch. But no rough housing. Okay?” “Okay,” Frances said, “but what is rough housing?” “No kicking, screaming, wrestling or ball games inside,” I told them. “That’s what Mom always says,” Frances told us, then remembering that she wouldn’t be saying that anymore. His lower lip began to tremble, and his eyes filled with tears that he quickly wiped away. “I wonder if there are bedrooms for you boys,” I said, hurriedly, hoping to give Frances a moment to recuperate. The boys sprinted ahead, running up the stairs so they could be the first to peer behind each closed door of upstairs. “There’s a bed in this one,” Carlo said. Frances was already opening a second door. He let us know that it, too, had a bed. A third room held another. The boys started hopping up and down in their excitement. “Do we get to sleep in a real bed?” Frances asked. “Not until you’ve had a bath,” I told them, sternly. “Let’s check out the bathroom.” Their eyes got big. “You mean there’s a bathtub inside?” Frances said, his voice sounding hoarse from the surprise of it.
6.18 The Witchling Shama
Without any further discussions with Officer Krugle about propositions, the four of us headed in the direction of Mrs. Smith’s house. The moment we stepped outside the Police Station, Frey gave us his full attention. He bugled at the sight of me and let out a couple of gravelly low-pitched neighs, letting me know that he hadn’t liked it when I’d stayed away so long. Then he rolled his head about as he did when he was demonstrating his prowess, did a quick mini rear which he repeated several times for full effect while continuing to vocalize his stallion challenges, pawed at the ground rather like a raging bull, then followed after us meekly. The officer started frowning again. “He’s too much horse for a young girl like you,” which made me glare at the man for insulting my ability to deal with the stallion. I mean, honestly, I’d raised Frey since he was a baby. Of course, I could handle him. “He’s really pretty,” Carlo said, sighing, I think because he was hoping for another ride. “Can you call a boy horse pretty?” Frances wanted to know. I smiled down at them and nodded. “He liked it when you call him pretty. He’s vain.” Frances halted and stared up at me. “What does that mean?” he asked. Mrs. Penn had gone up ahead. The woman was a speedy walker when she wanted to be. She bustled down the walkway and was already twisting the key in the door’s lock. She glanced back as if entreating us to hurry up, although she said nothing. “Well, it usually means someone likes to look in the mirror a lot, but horses don’t do that. Frey just knows he looks good when he’s showing off. He’s pretending to be wild to make you think he’s a super horse.” Frances nodded but stopped again. This time he was staring at the house. The cottage sat on a side street, not far from the police station. It was painted in a pale bluish gray. The white window frames made it look charming. Pink roses lined the walkway up to the front porch, with a healthy lawn on each side. On the side of the porch sat a small table with three chairs and to its left, a hanging swing for sitting. Carlo skipped ahead and then stood staring at the swing. Can I sit on it?” he wanted to know. “Later,” Mrs. Penn told him, as she opened the door and held it for us. I guess she didn’t see the look on Carlo’s face. It was like someone had just taken his ice cream cone away. “Wait here, Frey,” I ordered my horse. He dropped his head instantly to nibble at the short grass of the lawn. Thank goodness he was easy to please. I patted Carlo and whispered in his ear. “We’ll be back in a moment to sit on the swing. OK?”
6.17 The Witchling Shama
“For a few days?” I asked, considering it. I didn’t want to stick around here with a rather inquisitive policeman trying to unravel my secrets, but the boys . . . I looked down at the two wild-haired, smudgy faced boys staring up at me with hopeful eyes. With a sinking feeling deep in my soul that hit me right smack in the belly, I knew I couldn’t turn away from the needs of these two little boys. A true witch, a white witch, was driven to give aid wherever it was asked. For a moment I recalled my journey: the freedom of drifting from place to place without obligations or duties, of sleeping under the stars and enjoying the solitude of nature — that was hard to cast off, but I really had no choice. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll stay with Carlo and Frances for a while.” Frances hugged me tighter and said, “Thank you.” Little Carlo sighed contentedly, or with as much contentment as he could seize in the current situation. Then he whispered, “I’m glad you’re our mommy now.” That was not good. I started to correct him, but Mrs. Penn was saying something to me. I paused to listen. “Mrs. Smith passed on a week or so ago. Her house stands empty with no heirs to take it over. It should do nicely for you three. And I will make sure that food is delivered, and we’ll provide clothes for the boys and anything else needed.” I swallowed hard and drew in a great, big breath. “That sounds really nice — about the house and everything, but I have a horse to tend. He and I always . . .” Mrs. Penn interrupted, as she seemed prone to do, her prominent beak of a nose seemingly posed to peck away all obstacles in her path. “Mrs. Smith’s house has a big yard. That should suffice. I’ll order some hay for the horse.”
6.16 The Witchling Shama
I didn’t want to ask, afraid that might deflate the boys even further. Did they understand that their father had caused their mother’s death, or were they still in shock, not really taking in the whole picture? I wasn’t positive they understood that they wouldn’t be going back to their home. Sure, their shack of an abode was run down and piled with disarray, but home is home, especially to two boys who’d known no other. I shifted Carlo, and he turned to face me, his head sinking into my neck as if I were the pillow for his bed, if he’d had one. He wasn’t crying, but he felt limp, too overcome by emotion to even protest the series of devastations that had entered his life. I used one hand to massage his back. “You were so brave to ride Frey,” I said. “He’s really tall, isn’t he?” Both boys perked up at that. “Can we ride him again sometime?” Frances asked. Officer Krugle’s attention repositioned itself, so that I was his main focus again. “What if we had a proposition for you, Shama?” the man asked. A proposition was a bad thing. It meant that a man wanted you to move in with him without marriage. Surely the officer wouldn’t suggest such a thing in front of the boys and Mrs. Penn. I guess I’d let out a gasp, because Mrs. Penn took note and rushed in to smooth it out. “Officer Krugle doesn’t mean that kind of proposition, Shama. He is asking if you’d be willing to take care of the boys for a few days. “Not for a few . . .” the officer interrupted. “For a few days, just until things get settled,” Mrs. Penn corrected him.
6.15 The Witchling Shama
The officer’s eyes scanned me once more, as if each piece of information he pried out of me added to his picture of who I was. Truthfully, I guess it did, but I was determined not to give him the last item, about my being a witch. Most towns didn’t like those with had even a tiny bit of power. Such females were deemed difficult, unruly, and sometimes, evil. The inside of the policeman’s station was stark. It needed green plants and fresh flowers. Even a picture on the wall would soften the atmosphere, but I sat down in the simple wooden chair where he’d directed me and said nothing. The boys were being extremely quiet, as well. Their eyes were huge circles of fear. I lifted Carlo up and set him down in my lap. Frances crawled up on his own, sliding onto the side of my chair as if he’d been invited. I hugged them both. I didn’t bother telling them that everything would be okay. It wouldn’t be. Their mother was dead. Their father was in prison. Their life would go on in some fashion, but in a far different manner than they were accustomed to. False platitudes should not be used to cheer them up. The officer eyed me again, his glance taking in the position of the boys. Mrs. Penn noticed, too, and said, “See. It’s just what I told you, Frank. We can’t separate them. The widow Smith’s house would do nicely. There’s really no room in the facility.” Since I had no idea what they were talking about, I tuned out and instead continued my surveillance of the police station. Where was the holding pen with the bad guys who were behind bars? Was the door on the back wall, the entryway to the cells? Was the boys’ father inside there right now? Should the boys be invited to see him? Would they want to?
6.14 The Witchling Shama
As Officer Krugle drove us into the town, I began to wonder exactly where he’d take us. I didn’t have long to guess. We stopped right in front of a sign that said, Tingle Town Police Station. I waited for Mrs. Penn to make her move, and apparently she was delaying her departure for Officer Krugle. Only after the buggy shifted as his weight left the box seat, and then the buggy door opened, did Mrs. Penn get up. Then she acted like a lady, taking his hand as if she couldn’t dismount on her own. I came next, since I was the sandwich filling between two little boys, neither of whom were willing to leave the buggy until I did. I dismounted gracefully, but Frey almost knocked me over in his excitement because I was finally getting out of the buggy. If I’d had a clean shirt on, the grass green slime of his friendly snort would have smeared it, but as it was, you could hardly tell it had dirtied me any. His nickers were a flooding of relief, telling me he’d been worried about me. Maybe in his mind, being in a buggy was the equivalent of being kept in a jail cell. “Let’s go into the office. Will your horse wait for you without a halter? There’s no pasture anywhere around here,” the officer said, like I couldn’t see that with my own eyes. I nodded. “He’s used to standing around while I clean houses or weed gardens.” Immediately, I wished I hadn’t volunteered that information. What was with my overly eager flapping mouth?
6.13 The Witchling Shama
As the buggy sped along, I sneaked peeks at Mrs. Penn. She didn’t seem to be much of a talker, but I could tell that she was observing me. At one point, she said, “You can’t be much older than twenty-five.” I was so incensed that she thought I was that old that without pausing to think about it, I blurted out that I was only twenty. She smiled with such canniness that I realized I might have misjudged her. There was something in the look in her eyes at that point that made me think she was much wiser than I’d thought. She was a bit like Mr. Peters who had tested minute portions of herbs and chemicals to see what combinations reacted in a way that might be useful. One of my house mothers, Grandma Stevens, had said that Mr. Peters would one day blow himself up doing that, but he never did. I think he was careful in what he was doing. He never explained the purpose of his experiments, but eventually, he became so learned that everyone in the village began to visit him for help with medical problems and miscellaneous questions like how to get rid of house mice. Mrs. Penn didn’t have any chemicals or herbs with her, so I don’t know why I was comparing her to Mr. Peters. My mind just works strangely sometimes. But maybe it was because when everyone thought Mr. Peters was absolutely nuts, he was really smarter than they were. I was thinking that maybe that was true of Mrs. Penn. The town was not far away, maybe a couple of miles, and the horse pulling our buggy clip-clopped along at a steady trot, while Frey, just as I’d said he would, although he was loose, remained right beside us. At times, he even stuck his nose through the window to see what I was up to. That made me nervous. It would be horrid if Frey got his head stuck while we were moving forward. Each time he checked inside, I shooed him off, but he only nicker/whinnied as he pulled in his head, a sound I’d never heard another horse make, but which sounded exactly like a good-hearted chuckle.
6.12 The Witchling Shama
I watched as the man placed my saddle and bridle onto the seat beside him. Then, reassured that my tack would be safe, I turned to Frey and began explaining what was going to happen. Not that Frey needed such details, but he nuzzled me happily and waited to see what I would do next. Perhaps he was curious about the fact that his saddle had been placed on the buggy instead of on his back, but horses never complain about such oddities. Officer Krugle, shaking his head, probably over the silliness of my having a conversation with a horse, escorted the three of us to the buggy’s door and handed us in. Mrs. Penn was already comfortably situated. I chose the seat opposite of hers, and the boys sat down on each side of me, holding onto my arms, and wiggling their bodies as close to me as they could get. Once more I felt like I had twin burrs digging into my pseudo doggy fur. As the buggy moved forward, I wondered if I’d made a horribly bad decision. What if Officer Krugle threw me into jail for entering the boys’ house, abducting them, or something equally vile? Maybe he suspected me of having stolen my horse. It must be obvious to a trained officer that I had little money. Plus, I was an unknown. I had personal experience with towns and villages being unwelcome to strangers. As I sat on the seat quietly, ruing my choice and worrying about the outcome, the boys remained clingy but silent. Neither was sobbing anymore. What were they thinking about? Where they just in shock? What could I do to soothe their fears? (Was that like a person who’d never been on a horse, attempting to teach others how to ride?)
6.11 The Witchling Shama
The idea of being someone’s mommy horrified me. I shook my head emphatically, then looked down at Carlo’s tear-streaked face. Carlo had wheat-colored hair that frankly needed a good washing, a chubby little face that was streaked with several layers of dirt, and the most adorable deep brown eyes that were pleading earnestly with me. He was frankly as cute as a baby bunny. “Please,” seconded his older brother, who was pretty much a mirror copy, except he had eyes that held more desperation than pleading. He was hopeful, but doubtful. I could read from his eyes that he’d lost faith in miracles long ago. More than anything the heartbreak of that premature experience of disillusionment knocked me right in the stomach. Before I knew what I was doing, I agreed to ride into town with them. (No mommy stuff, though, but I decided to save a lecture about that for later.) “I won’t leave my stuff here. I’ll need my saddle, bridle, and, of course, my horse,” I told Officer Krugle. He nodded. “I’ll get the tack if you get your horse.” A head nod later, I whistled for Frey. He came at a gallop that sent the boys to their feet. They had some confidence now in Frey, but it takes a lot of fortitude to remain seated on the ground when a stallion comes charging at you. Carlo and Frances were still clinging to me, only in stand-up mode. Neither backed any further away from Frey’s approach, but thankfully, Frey was always cautious not to do any high step prancing near people. He was good about recognizing the danger of his hooves. He’d stepped on me once, and I’d reacted with a lot of screaming. Since then, he made sure not to trample people. I gave my horse another handful of berries and told him what a good boy he was. “No halter?” the officer said. I shrugged then shook my head. “Frey doesn’t need one. He follows me wherever I go. Once the boys and I get into the vehicle, he’ll practically glue himself to the buggy’s box window.”