7.21 The Witchling Shama
“Right after breakfast, we’re going clothes shopping,” Mrs. Penn said. “I’m sorry, Shama, but you’ll have to wear those old boots of yours. You can’t walk into stores without any shoes on.” I was eating my pancakes with a fork, as was proper, but I wished I could take each pancake and roll it up. Since I never used butter or syrup, pancakes just tasted better like that. But I knew that in towns there was a certain decorum. I cut another piece of the cake and inserted it into my mouth. Then, I nodded to Mrs. Penn that I understood and would wear the boots. I praised both the pancakes and the coffee. Then the boys and Officer Krugle did as well. “What about your family?” I asked, realizing that I’d never once asked about her children or a husband. “Don’t you need to fix breakfast for them?” “My husband passed on a good five years ago. We had a flu epidemic that took out quite a few of the people in town. I only raised one daughter. Sheila lives in Tamehold, which is a small town about five miles away. She visits with her two children now and then. So if you’re feeling guilty about my spending time with you, don’t. I usually occupy my days at the orphanage or socialize with the other old biddies like myself.” “What’s a biddy?” Carlo asked before I had the chance to assure Mrs. Penn that she wasn’t old. I knew that a biddy was a hen, but some people used it as a derogatory word for a silly old woman. I wasn’t about to define the word for the boys. I handed it over to the officer. He was finished with his breakfast. Let him rush to the rescue. He gave me another of his famous foul looks, sipped the last dregs of his coffee, then started telling the boys it was a word that meant someone’s aunt. I raised my eyebrows at that, but I said nothing. I’d finished my pancakes and coffee, so I collected the plates and placed them in the sink. Mrs. Penn had already filled it with soapy water, so I rolled up my sleeves and started to wash up. “Just leave those to me, Shama. If you need to wipe off your boots now would be a good time. When the boys finish their milk and brush their teeth, we can all leave. I bought new teeth cleaners for all three of you,” she said, giving the boys a stern look that made them both pick up their glasses and empty them.
7.20 The Witchling Shama
Leaving Frey, happily munching on what looked like very good hay, full of grain and green goodness, and a basin newly filled with water, I headed back inside. The boys had gotten up and were already sitting at the table eating mounds of pancakes. Had I been gone that long? Whoops. Soon, I’d be fixing their breakfasts. I’d have to get up earlier so I could deal with Frey’s needs before theirs. Mrs. Penn handed me a plate of the cakes. Yummy. I sat down to eat, unfortunately right next to the officer, who was just finishing his batch. “You smell like horse,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t go for a ride,” I apologized. The boys stopped cramming in their forkfuls of pancakes to give me a cheerful smile. “We don’t mind,” Frances said. “Yeah, horse smells good,” Carlo added. “We’ll have to get you some special riding clothes,” Mrs. Penn said. “I tossed your old ones. They were completely worn out.” The news that my clothes were gone panicked me. I had no money. I’d been in such a hurry to get away, I stupidly hadn’t even taken the time to dig up my jar with the coins I’d managed to save. What would I do without my old clothes? How could I get a job with nothing but what I was wearing, which now, apparently, smelled of horse? I nodded. What could I say? I’d planned to wash them today, but now . . . I’d be in debt more to whatever funds this was all coming from. I hated the feel of that. It was just like back in the village where I’d been saddled with debts that could never be completely paid off. How much did a person owe for being housed and fed for six months in twenty different houses? But at least that debt was ended with their rock throwing episode. If they’d managed to kill me, I wouldn’t have been able to work, so I figured I now owed them nothing. That seemed more than logical. Besides, that’s what the judge had said. He’d told me not to work for them anymore, or at least, not to work for them for free. Wasn’t it strange how everything good seemed to carry thorns?
7.19 The Witchling Shama
Mrs. Penn said she understood, that I’d just been awakened from a night with little sleep due to the boys. She was right about that, but still, I certainly had no reason to take it out on the woman who’d been so kind to me. And I told her that, too. Then I begged their pardon and fled out the back, eager to see how Frey had weathered the night alone. My stallion came running the moment I reached the door. Then when I opened it, he practically ran me over in his eagerness to greet me. My pampered pet was beside himself, and even though he was being careful around me, for the first time, I was really, really insecure about being barefoot near him since his rears and hoof ground-stabbings were so prominent. “Calm down, Big Guy,” I warned him. “You want me to turn around and go back inside? I don’t have my boots on, Frey. It would hurt even worse if you stepped on me right now.” His ears did their flipflop, and, except for his frantic nickerings, begging for reassurance, he subsided somewhat. I encircled his neck with my arms and gave him a big hug and a kiss right on his muzzle. He loved that. Together we walked to the shed. I unbolted the door and reached in for a flake of hay, only I found that I had to untwine it. Frey didn’t want to wait. He nuzzled my back and tried to push his way inside, eager for companionship, as much as for food. “Stop that, Frey. Give me a moment here.” It wasn’t easy dealing with a horse that could topple me over with a hard push, but I managed to break a single flake free, then I exited, refastened the door, and tossed the hay over on a grassy spot, slightly away from me. Frey froze. His head swung towards the hay, then back at me again. Then again more head swings. He pawed the ground. “Go ahead and eat it,” I said, which left him free to move away from me. He still remained uneasy, tearing a bite from the flake, then returning to my side with a worried nicker. I reassured him each time with a pat and a slight push away. He gave a snort, then, trotted back to the hay, where he diligently dug in. I chuckled, but I still had water to refill before I could go inside to get my mug of coffee!
7.18 The Witchling Shama
I apparently fell asleep in the chair, because when I opened my eyes, it was to see both the officer and Mrs. Penn at the open door, peering in. “The boys couldn’t sleep?” Mrs. Penn whispered. I shook my head, stood up, folded the blanket I’d used to cover me, and placed it back on the chair. I tiptoed over to the door where the two had been standing and slipped past them as they stepped away. Both of them were smiling at me, despite the fact that I must look a sight, my hair in a mess, my feet bare, and my robe in disarray. I hoped my face didn’t show the crinkles caused by impressions from the chair or sleep residue in the cracks of my eyes. I touched my mouth to check for slobber residue, but at least found that absent. Neither said anything about my falling asleep in Carlo’s room, and their faces didn’t reflect disapproval of my present slovenliness. I took one more look at the boys, both still in a sound sleep, their bodies wrapped around each other with the bed bears firmly clutched between them. Then I closed the door quietly. When I turned around, I saw that Officer Krugel’s face once more displayed its usual distrust. Perhaps he thought I’d crept into Carlo’s room for some dubious reason — like stealing the child’s teddy bear? But what would he imagine I’d get out of sleeping in a chair instead of my comfortable bed — other than a crook in my neck and a stiff body? I gave the man a look that was far from friendly and marched back to my room. “I’m going to take a quick bath and get dressed,” I said, practically slamming my bedroom door in their faces. I’d apologize later, I said to myself, ashamed at my behavior, but it was Officer Krugle who had set me off again. He had no right to glare at me like I was an evil witch. Whoops, I was a witch — except a good one. White magic only. I’d never used anything but herbs and other natural ingredients. Besides, he didn’t know that about me. I’d kept that tiny detail a secret. I bathed as quickly as when I’d slipped into frigid creek water the day before, pulled on my new dress, and descended the stairs. My first order of business was to give a formal apology to Mrs. Penn. Then I needed to refill Frey’s water and give him some hay. Only after that could I sip the coffee I smelled brewing. Oh, luscious brew! My mouth watered for the bitter perfection of a steaming mugful.
7.17 The Witchling Shama
Carlo’s eyes were closed, his breathing soft and steady. “Can I sleep in here with my brother tonight?” Frances asked, his eyes partially closed as well, half asleep as he spoke. I nodded, which I doubt he saw and tucked both boys in. ”Sure. I think that’s a good idea. He needs his brother here with him.” I started to stand up, to make my way back to my own room, but Frances was still awake. I could see that he was still fighting being dragged down into sleep. Maybe he was as scared as Carlo. “Please, can you stay with us a while?” Frances asked. I smiled and nodded again. “Do you want me to sing you a song? I know one that one of my house mothers used to sing to her children.” When Frances murmured a yes and sighed sleepily. I drew in a breath and began to recall the words to the lullaby I’d heard so long ago. It took me back to the moment when I’d realized that I wasn’t one of the children, not one who mattered. I was alone in my room next door to theirs, and the mother was in her children’s room, singing to them. I could hear the song. She couldn’t prevent that, but I got no tuck in, no sweet kiss, and carried the bitter knowledge that the song was not being sung for me. I’d often slept with tears coating my lashes, wishing I had a mother who’d come in and sing for me, but at least I had that song. Carlo’s room had the same easy chair as mine did. There was also a fuzzy, warm plaid blanket across its top. I wrapped the blanket around me and began the lullaby. As I did, I thought about how these two sweet boys no longer had a mother who could come into their room and sing to them, but they had me. I would tuck them in, kiss them, and sing to them every night . . . at least until I was sent on my way.
7.16 The Witchling Shama
“Is the bear a boy or a girl?” I asked him. “A boy ‘cause my bear sleeps with me.” “Okay. Then what’s your favorite boy’s name?” At that moment, the door opened and another face popped through the opening. “How come you’re in here with Carlo?” Frances wanted to know. “We’re naming the bear,” Carlo explained. I noticed that Frances had his bear in hand. “Come on, crawl into bed with your brother so you don’t get cold.” “As if he’d been waiting for permission, Frances took a running leap, threw back the covers, and crawled into his brother’s bed. A quick hug passed between the two of them, then Frances stared up at me. “He was crying, wasn’t he?” I nodded, then brought up the challenge again. “What did you name your bear?” I asked. Frances hugged his brother again, then, as if pondering whether he should tell me, he said. “You told me to name him, so I called him Pink Nose.” Carlo started to giggle. “Pink Nose,” he said. “Why did you name him that? Oh,” he said, noticing that Frances’ bear had a pink button for a nose. The button on his bear was white. “Okay, but I’m not calling my bear White Nose. I think I’ll call him Squeezy because he’s nice to squeeze.” “Good name,” I said before Frances could jeer, if he intended to, although Frances seemed very attuned to his little brother’s feelings. Maybe he wouldn’t have. “Do you know why everyone loves their bed bear?” I asked. Both boys shook their head, although Carlo was already sliding further down into his bed and at the same time, producing great big yawns. Frances puffed up the pillow on his side of the bed and wiggled into what for him seemed to be a sleep-ready position. “A bed bear listens to everything you want to tell him, and he never laughs at you or tells anyone what you said. He always keeps all your secrets. And, as Carlo said, he’s super squeezable.”
7.15 The Witchling Shama
It was not a sweet slumber kind of night. As tired as I was, I still couldn’t sleep. I pulled on a robe and went downstairs for a book from the bookshelf in the living room. The book I chose was a mystery about a missing cat, which reminded me of the strange dream I’d had back at the creek, about a gray cat named Willow who’d said he or she was my familiar. My bed was cold, so I left my robe on, but, even so, the sheets felt stiff, and no matter how I wiggled, even with a book in hand, I couldn’t get comfortable. Finally, I got up, tightened my robe, and moved to the easy chair in the room’s corner. There was a light beside it and a warm, fuzzy throw blanket. I managed to read a few pages of the book before thoughts about Willow disrupted me. I wondered if it was possible to have a cat in the house the boys and I were staying in. Would Mrs. Penn reject the idea of cat hair on the couch? I was possibly in a kind of twilight sleep, the state where a person gets when they’re thinking about something and start to nod off, when I heard Carlo crying. Of course, I couldn’t ignore that. I tiptoed into the hall, then knocked softly at his door. I don’t think he heard me. His sobs were escalating. “Can’t sleep, Sweetie?” I asked him. “I miss my mommy,” he wailed even louder. I sat down on the bed. “I know,” I said, as gently as I could. “What did you name your teddy?” I asked, pointing to the bear snuggled in his arms. Carlo tears stopped a moment as he thought about that. “Doesn’t he already have a name?” I shook my head, while smoothing down the blankets around his small body. “No, the person who loves him and shares secrets with him gets to name his teddy. Is that you?” Carlo stared at me a moment. “I don’t know what to name him. I never had a bear before.” “What’s your favorite name?” “Shama,” he said, giving me a quivery smile.
7.14 The Witchling Shama
It was going to be our first night in the house. I wondered what would happen next. Surely Mrs. Penn and the officer wouldn’t stay much later. It wasn’t dark yet, but it would be soon. We’d only been inside for a few minutes, the boys speedily returning to their wheeled toys, when Mrs. Penn brought up that exact subject. “Shama, are you going to be okay here all alone?” she asked, her face wrinkled in worry. “I’ve been alone . . .” I started to say, most of my life, but I didn’t want to leak any more of my sad history. “I’ve been alone a lot,” I ended up saying. “Frey and I were camping out in the woods by ourselves. Of course, he won’t be sleeping beside me, which will be weird.” That thought must have made me pale because Officer Krugle stepped in. “I’ll stay with her,” he said. Both Mrs. Penn and I gasped. “You certainly will not,” she said. “Don’t you realize how that would seem?” “I’m a policeman,” the officer said, as if that alone covered all morality issues. He shrugged and shook his head as if we were the ones who were responsible for such silliness. “I’ll be fine,” I told them, although I was feeling even more uncertain because I’d inadvertently landed myself in an unfamiliar house, amid a town full of strangers who might possibly be better rock throwers than the villagers. “I don’t get scared easily, and the boys are here,” I said as much to reassure myself as Mrs. Penn and the officer. “And Frey is just outside. He’d bugle if something was amiss.” Mrs. Penn’s face was still stormy as she glared at the man who’d basically intruded all day. (Well, except for when we went down into what could have been a spooky basement and especially, when we journeyed up into the attic that might have been roach and rat invested. It was nice to have been accompanied by someone when I confronted the dark unknown.) “All right, then, Shama. Boys, it’s time for bed. You two behave yourself for Shama. I’ll see you all at breakfast, okay?” Mrs. Penn said, turning back to me again as if asking if that was okay. I nodded, although it didn’t seem like Mrs. Penn needed permission. Yet, it was nice to think that she’d be returning. For some reason, I found her company companionable. Mrs. Penn took the officer’s arm and led him to the front door. “Sweet dreams, Shama,” she said, then marched Officer Krugle out the door as if she thought he might suddenly back away and demand that he should stay.
7.13 The Witchling Shama
The boys were back to chasing each other. They called it tag, but it looked like they were just having fun running about the yard. They were obviously feeling energetic after having a nap and good food in their bellies. Frey was watching them. I could tell that he wanted to play with them, but I had my hand on his mane, demanding that he stay beside me. Frey loved to play chase with me, but I was a lot bigger than Carlo and Frances. If he were to run after them, it might frighten them. Frey had absolutely no idea how big he was, and although he was agile, he couldn’t help weighing an enormous amount. One tumble with him and the boys would be pancakes or get an accident kick in the head. “Sorry, Frey. They’re just too small to play with you.” His ears did a flip flop as if listening, but his eyes stayed fastened on the activities of the boys. He pawed his hoof once in protest, but I sent a resounding, “No.” The officer frowned. “What’s wrong with the horse now?” “His name is Frey, and there’s nothing wrong with him.” I lowered my head and calmed myself down. The man hadn’t meant to insult Frey. He was just not a horse person. I sighed, then relented and explained. “Frey doesn’t understand that he’s a fully grown stallion. He thinks he’s still a colt and he wants to play with the boys. Seeing them running around having fun makes him want to join in, but he can’t. They’re just too little to play chase with him.” “Are you telling me that your horse chases you sometimes just for fun?” Mrs. Penn asked, fanning her face. “If that horse started running after me, I’d be jumping up on a table or something. He’s a big guy!” She’d glanced over at the picnic table next to the house. It looked a little rickety. I wasn’t sure it would hold her weight, but I just smiled. “The moment you stopped running, so would Frey. It’s not like he’d be trying to catch you. He just likes the fun of it.” I think a mosquito made a dive at the man’s face. He slapped at it, then said, “It’s time to go inside before the bugs eat us up.” Nobody else was getting attacked, but I shrugged, hugged Frey good night, and gathered the boys.
7.12 The Witchling Shama
“Then the boys will have something easier to feed Frey when they want to, and the grain will make Frey’s coat shiny again. The brush and curry comb will help with that, too. I had such things at my shack where I lived, but I had to leave in a big rush. I forgot to grab them. Since then I’ve been using leaves, but Frey likes to roll, which really pushes the dirt and mud down deep. With the proper tools, you’ll see how beautiful he truly is.” I realized suddenly that I was being overly loquacious, although both Mrs. Penn and the officer were watching and listening intently. What was so interesting in what I’d said? Surely, they knew about horse grooming. Did they wonder if I’d been careless or selfish for not packing the things Frey needed? It wasn’t like me to talk about myself, and I never babbled. I was normally tighter of lip than Mr. Cutworthy, who was a confirmed hermit, only entered the village for an occasional food item. It was said that he didn’t even speak when he came into the general store, only grunted and pointed. Not that I was a grunter. I answered questions in as succinct a manner as I could. I’d learned long ago that people wanted to talk at me and not listen to anything I had to say. And why would I be worthy of voicing my opinion anyway? I was basically uneducated, although Old Mother used to say that I seemed smarter than the average villager and claimed that I was skillfully articulate. In fact, she once warned me that I should hide being too erudite, a word I had to look up on my daily library visit. But how could the brain, as it skimmed through appropriate words to use in the context of a sentence, discard a word just because others might resent its scholastic nature? I wondered endlessly about such things, always questioning my nature and the world around me. Old Mother said that such reflections would truthfully benefit everyone. But she also advised me to keep such thoughts to myself. Perhaps I had erred here, although I didn’t think I’d used any of the bookish vocabulary Old Mother had always counseled me to avoid. The cart/wagon was pulling out of the yard. I watched as the man stopped, then closed the gate. I left Frey to go check that the gate’s lever mechanism had been properly fastened. It wasn’t that Frey would run away, but he might get into mischief. He had no hesitations about eating people’s front yard flowers or nosing at their windows to see what they were doing inside. And if there was a goat around, he’d chase it. He’d never forgiven the one that had chewed on his tail.