8.12 The Witchling Shama
In between splashings I encouraged Frey to drink, which was also something necessary for his over- heated body. I limited the quantity, of course, but that wasn’t difficult since all I had to do was splash him, and he was back in the game of turning me into an old mattress, completely saturated in water. I’d just stopped his play and ordered him to take another drink when I heard the sound of a horse trotting up. The moment I heard the approaching rider, it hit me that I’d trespassed on someone’s property and would probably be lectured if not jailed for the liberties I’d taken with the owner’s corral and water trough. I looked down at the mess that Frey and I’d made. The once dry dirt inside the area had been turned into a muddy pigpen, and most of the trough water had been emptied out. Boy, was I in trouble! When I looked up to see how angry the owner was, it was with some relief, however undeserved as that might be, that it was not some angry bull of a man, but Officer Krugel. “Hi,” I said, suddenly feeling that a furious owner might actually have been a better person to apologize to. But misfortune comes and must be suitably dealt with, as Old Mother used to say. Misfortune with a big exclamation point. The officer’s face reflected little anger, though. He seemed merely perplexed by my appearance and by the fact that I was standing in someone else’s empty corral. “What in Melsville are you doing?” he asked, his lips curving in amusement. I know I should have answered right away, but it just blurted out of me, as things were inclined to do. “Who is Melsville?” Officer Krugel shook his head and actually completed the smile. “It’s just an expression we use. When Melsville was alive, he liked to clown around. He died a couple of years ago from old age, but still whenever something silly occurs, we use that phrase. Seeing you wetter than a flea dipped puppy, it seemed most appropriate here.” “Oh,” I said, too embarrassed to deal with such insults.
8.11 The Witchling Shama
I never knew how much Frey understood of human speech, but he’d decided that he didn’t like these two and wanted to get as far away as possible. Horses are not predators. They usually don’t attack if given the chance to flee. That is exactly what Frey did. He reared up, which sent the two ruffians backwards, one of them actually falling onto his rump. Then Frey took off like someone had shot pellets at him. (I later found out that at least one of the boys had thrown rocks at my horse. It is possible that one of them hit Frey in the buttocks, which is the correct label for a horse’s rear end.) I would never have wanted to gallop my horse down the main street of town, fearing that might scare or endanger someone, but Frey at no bit in his mouth, and he suddenly realized that. The hackamore, especially nicely wrapped by cloth so it wouldn’t hurt him, apparently issued little pressure on his muzzle to make him heed my urgings to slow down. I’m not sure a desert jackrabbit went as fast as our dust-heaving all out run. We’d gone at least a mile before I was able to regain control of Frey. He was breathing rapidly and sweating profusely down his shoulders. I felt bad for him and instinctively wanted to get him to some water and let him rest, but, of course, anyone who knows about horses are firmly aware that a sweating horse should not just stand in the shade to cool off. But, water was a necessity. I had no idea where I’d find any, but I kept walking Frey, until his breathing slowed. Gaia must have been looking down at me, offering her blessings, because we’d only walked about ten minutes when we came to a deserted house that still held a full water trough in its corral. I wished for a big, fat sponge, but since I didn’t have one, I just splashed Frey as best I could. I think by the time we’d arrived at the empty house, Frey was back to normal, but he liked the splashing and wanted to participate in the fun. We both ended up soaked, but I knew that his coat would dry a lot faster than I would. I probably looked like an old mattress tossed in a creek, while Frey’s coat turned shiny. He was always a handsome guy, but water cleaned, he was magnificent. I told him so, and for a moment he tossed his head and acted like a rooster showing off for its hens.
8.10 The Witchling Shama
Walking Frey forward, as we passed through the small path from the backyard to head out to the town proper, I realized that the elevation of the front porch was perfect for me to get up on Frey. Eager to get started, Frey was intelligent enough to know that he needed to stand still for me to get up onto his back. Sometimes it really paid to have a clever horse. Once I was in place, the prancing resumed, as did the ground pawing and his nickered entreaties to gallop. I hoped Frey wouldn’t give me a hard time, adding a few bucks and rears to his routine. He wouldn’t throw me off. My seat was firm, but it wouldn’t do my hands any favors if I had to argue with a horse determined to let out a bit of his wildness. I simmered him down with words and soft tones. He was listening. His ears were doing their flick flack of attention: forward as he took note of his surroundings and back towards me, as he attended to my words and, hopefully, the point I was trying to make. The day was beautiful, not too hot or cold. I was wearing only a tee shirt, and it felt just right. My long pants were thick enough for good protection from the chaffing I would get if I’d worn short pants (or a dress.) I wished for a hat, but I hadn’t grabbed my riding hat when I’d escaped from the village and rushed to gather essentials at my hut. The sun on my face would burn my tender skin if I stayed exposed too long, but, Beggars can’t be selective, as Old Mother used to say. Since neither of us were beggars, I’m not sure why she harped on that. I guessed that reduced circumstances had kind of been the equivalent of beggars in her eyes. Frey and I had hit mid-town and were walking along the street through the main section when a couple of boys dashed out, almost in front of us. “Where’d you get that horse?” they jeered at me. I was quite familiar with the sometime burgeoning antagonism of preteens. These two seemed well on their way to full bully status. “He belongs to me,” I said, hoping that would suffice to make them back away, but, even though Frey, feeling the maliciousness of the two, was doing his fancy dance of I want to get away from these people, the boys continued to push their nasty act. “Yeah? Prove it,” the smaller of the two boys said. “Get out of the way. I don’t want my horse to run you down,” I said. “You threatening us, little girl?” the bigger one sneered.
8.9 The Witchling Shama
“I have good news for you, buddy. We’re leaving the yard and going for a ride. That should make you super happy, right?” I doubt that Frey, my dappled-grey stallion, understood what I was saying, but he was delighted I was standing in the yard with him. As I did some major grooming, he practically purred, making a low rumble deep in his chest. For some horses, I think that was the first stage of a warning, but it was Frey’s way of telling me he was ecstatic over the attention. I checked his hooves for rocks and scolded him when he sagged against me. Perhaps that was his idea of cuddling, but twelve hundred pounds of a leaning hug is not appreciated. I had explained that to him before, but he sometimes forgot. There were no rocks or problems with his hoofs. Frey was an easy keeper in that respect. I don’t remember him ever picking up a single pebble, at least, not one that needed to be pried out. I still didn’t have my saddle back from the officer’s possession of it. In fact, I didn’t even have my bridle, which seemed a necessary component for guiding a horse, but I’d had to use a simply made hackamore before I’d saved up enough money to buy my leather bridle. The rope hanging in the shed was perfect for hackamore making, although a bit rough for Frey’s nose. I’d need to wrap the band with a rag I’d brought from the basement. I measured out the rope and found it to be long enough, about twelve feet, which was perfect, actually. I folded it in half, made a knot, then slipped that over Frey’s muzzle, then hooked another piece over his poll, and knotted that. The result provided me with reins. Next, I added some protection for the roughness of the rope on Frey’s muzzle, wrapping the fabric of the rag securely so it wouldn’t flap up and startle him. That done, we were ready to go for our ride. I wished I could use a rag for my hands, since the coarseness of the rope was scratchy and unpleasant to the feel, but I needed to have a feel for him and a rag would interfere with that, and it might even make me lose my grip on the rope reins. I’d probably have chaff marks if I used the hackamore too long, but I didn’t yet own any gloves, and it was urgent that we both get some release from our confinement. I led Frey to the gate. He was prancing, excited that we were going out for a ride. The only problem left was my lack of a mounting block. At my hut back in the village, when I’d wanted to ride Frey without a saddle, I’d used a boulder that had already been in place for such a need. Here, I hadn’t seen anything conveniently located. I closed the gate behind us, attempting to calm my restless stallion. He was behaving rather well for not being ridden in several days, but he was still a handful, especially when the lead rope was already burning my hand from restraining him.
8.8 The Witchling Shama
When the meal was over, I tried as I always did to help Mrs. Penn with the clean-up, but she shook her head. “Hush, child. I’ll do it. I bet that horse of yours would like a nice bit of exercise. Leave the boys to me, and you take a break and enjoy yourself. We’ll be fine. I’ll find an activity for them.” “But, it’s my responsibility. I can’t . . .” “Yes, you can. Go on now. As young as you are, you deserve some fun. You go get some sunshine and freedom. I don’t want to see you back here for a couple of hours, you hear me?” I’d actually been worrying about Frey. Stallions need to stretch their legs. They can’t be cooped up in a small backyard without getting themselves into mischief. They’re just not made that way, Gaia knows. So, although I had serious reservations about deserving the break that Mrs. Penn had just given me, I ran upstairs, changed my clothes, and dashed back down. I didn’t have to explain anything to the boys. Mrs. Penn was already asking them if they’d help her bake cookies. Their enthusiasm was loud enough to be heard out in the street. I ran by, kissed each little fellow, and said, “I’ll be back in a little bit. You be good, ok?” “We’re making cookies,” Carlo said, and Frances, although he didn’t add anything to his brother’s statement, was beaming just as widely. I’m not sure either of them registered that I was heading for the back door. They were already learning how to measure flour. Frey, as I’d feared, had accepted the tediousness of his small quarters as an excuse for mischief. He was busy working on the gate’s latch. I don’t think he’d head off on his own even if he got the gate open, but a challenge is always fun if you’re a bored stallion. When he heard me come out of the house, he wheeled about and came at me like a toboggan going downhill. “Whoa,” I said, trying to force his brakes into action. Of course, I wasn’t really worried. Frey could turn instantly. In fact, that was his favorite sport back in the village. He’d chase his ball all about, pivoting and spinning about like a piece of driftwood in river rapids. Sure enough, he slammed on the brakes and gently dropped his head on my chest, ready for a pleasant moment of petting.
8.7 The Witchling Shama
I blinked back a tear from what I’d witnessed that day, how they’d cursed and spit at me. I was the one who’d weeded their gardens, cleaned their houses, and taken care of their children. I’d organized games of sports for their kids. I’d not only lived in their houses at various times, but had continually visited, helping their kids with reading or math, doing odd jobs, baking cookies for the family. They knew me. And yet, with a word from the mayor, they’d forgotten all that. It had apparently slipped their minds that I’d never said an unkind word no matter how anyone treated me. They’d forgotten how I’d cooked those Sunday dinners they’d raved over and all the times I’d taken care of the sick: emptying bedpans, cleaning up vomit, bathing the dying or dead. And then, even after I restored that old shack and no longer lived with them, I’d kept working for them, doing the chores they hated, tending to their kids. I’d worked so hard for what I owned, but when I chanted myself free from the peril of their sudden hatred of me and returned to my shack, I’d feared to take the time to pack well. My money pot. I should have grabbed that, at least, but I’d been in such a panic, fearing that my witchcraft couldn’t hold the villagers for long, knowing that I had given proof to exactly what the mayor had said. My body had ached from the stones that had hit me, and I’d honestly been terrified, my hands shaking, my breathing erratic and shallow. Would they really have killed me? Would the hate I saw in their eyes drive them that far if they caught me? As I galloped away, I regretted most that I’d left Frey’s grooming tools behind. I should have grabbed his brush and currycomb, some oats and apples. My bed had a brand-new comforter. My clothes — I wished that I’d taken a moment to grab some of them. The garments were all second hand, of course, but I’d earned every shirt, pant and coat by my own wages. Yet, feeling sorry for how I’d been treated by the village would never achieve anything. Look where I’d found myself — inside this heart of goodness named Mrs. Penn. And the boys loved me. Me! It was almost like I’d discovered a real family, people who saw me as a person, not just as someone to slave for them. I wiped a tear and brought myself back to the present and to the fact that Mrs. Penn was eyeing me with sympathy. Had she been watching me this whole time as my brain backtracked over the past? Could she read into my heart and see my utter desolation of a life charred by one moment of uncontrolled mob rage? I took a sip of water and tried to push away the horror of those memories. That part of my life was over. I didn’t need to go back there. It could only haunt me if I let it, or so I told myself. But whether that was true or not, I didn’t need to worry about it now.
8.6 The Witchling Shama
But gossip didn’t need facts to inspire it, I’d long ago witnessed. Gossip was scandalous fiction spun for the sole purpose of catching the fascination of others who would gather around the speaker to listen to anything, even the preposterous like broom flying women. That was why the mayor’s accusations about me being a witch caught fire and spread so eagerly. It was sensationalism in its finest, namely that a person not well-liked and the village burden would, of course, be guilty of secret dealings with wickedness. Old Mother had told me that throughout history witches were often the scapegoats of natural events. When floods arrived, the old widow who lived in the town’s shabbiest cottage, was the one to be blamed. When a dreaded disease swept through a town, the crooked-backed hag who lived in the run down shack down the road was obviously its cause. Misfortune was always soothed by finger pointing. Yet, in my village that day, there had been no calamity, no disease running amok, no strange infestation of rats, raccoons or rattlesnakes — only the excitement of naming me guilty of everything that had ever befallen them. In such a manner, all of their past hurts were avenged by the simple act of picking up a stone and preparing to throw it. I’d known the village hatred of me was a bonfire ready to combust, especially after the traveling judge attempted to blame them for their treatment of me. Frey was a big part of their restless anger and jealousy. No one else owned such a beautiful horse, the stallion of everyone’s desire, and I’d refused to part with him. So although the village knew the mayor was a lecher who preyed on the innocent maidens of the village, the words he’d uttered were all it took. Witch, he’d named me. Evil doer. That instantly explained my wondrous stallion, the hut I’d hammered and formed into a dwelling, and the way I’d gone from household servant to independent woman. Witch, the ultimate sin of a female. No one had bothered to learn that a Green Witch’s essence was Goodness. We would no sooner desire to hurt someone than to burn down a forest or bring injury to one of Gaia’s creatures, (which, of course, included people.) But the villagers had not been dealing with logic at that point. They’d sought atonement against life’s pains and anguish, their bitterness over what my industry had brought me, and the guilt the judge had made them feel.
8.5 The Witchling Shama
I suppose we witches got a pardon for eating plants because they were actually a form of life. But we had to eat something, and their life energy aided us in a special way. In exchange we honored them and never recklessly misused them. (That was one of my internal conflicts. How could pulling weeds be considered following our belief system? Wasn’t it being judgmental, declaring a preference in plants? Did the fact that weeds served no purpose (to us) and were often ugly — did that mean that their life force should be doomed? When I asked about that, Old Mother, who’d taught me many of the traditions of my sect, had ordered me to stop overthinking. But how could one stop pondering such discrepancies?) My thoughts were running away with me again. I wasn’t about to reveal my views on religion and/or witchcraft with Mrs. Penn, so why was I musing over them at this moment? I knew better than to discuss these things with Mrs. Penn. Most folks were not only appalled, but scared by the idea of magical beings. In the minds of the village, witches consorted with the devil, which couldn’t be further from the truth. (They had never known that Old Mother had been a full witch. They just thought she’d been a kindly old woman who knew more herbal recipes than the apothecarist.) I think the village mind believed that witches spent their nights in the sky, darting about on broomsticks and cackling over the malicious deeds they planned to hurl out on those they disliked. I’d heard gossip from one of the village ladies that they had observed witches meeting in secret midnight circles, dancing nude in the night’s moonlight, and casting spells while sacrificing rabbits or other timid woodland animals. To my knowledge that had never happened, at least, not in our village, and Old Mother had told me once that she and I were the only witches in the village. (I certainly could not imagine Old Mother taking off her clothes to participate in such a witchy ceremony. Her raggedy dark gowns of stiff broadcloth, had been part of her, melded to her wrinkles and her thin, brittle bones. And to think she could ever balance on a broomstick was absurd. She’d needed a cane just to hobble about the cobblestones in front of the general store.
8.4 The Witchling Shama
I put down the bread, folded my hands, and waited for Mrs. Penn to probe my personal convictions about being a vegetarian, but she didn’t. She just said, “First, we’ll need to find out what the boys like, then how to best cook those choices. Variety is good, and so we should rotate their dinners. Don’t you agree? “You don’t mind my stepping in for a while, do you?” she added. “I love to cook, and doing so for just myself is absolutely no fun at all. Cooking for someone who appreciates good food like these boys do — and that man of yours,” she said with a wink and a big smile, “why that’s the spice of life.” I ignored her comment about the officer. I think Mrs. Penn was a complete romantic. I supposed since she was widowed and no longer had that kind of expectation for herself, she gained joy by trying to matchmake for others. I’d seen that in the village where some of the elderly women enjoyed trying to push young couples together, as if teens couldn’t figure out such heart and roses stuff on their own. But as to the other — I’d never known anyone quite like Mrs. Penn. She was goodness incarnate. She wanted to help me out with the cooking? That was great news. I’d felt like I was drowning in all that needed to be done. Thinking about it, I got choked up trying to respond to her kindness. Tears threatened and my throat closed off from the emotion of it. I guess I had that tendency whenever someone treated me kindly — formerly a situation so rare that I’d had no problem with watery eyes back in the village where I grew up, but since I’d arrived in Tinkle Town, I’d succumbed to tears far too often. “I don’t eat meat,” I blurted out suddenly worried that she’d hold that against me. “You’re aware of that, right?” Mrs. Penn nodded and continued to smile at me, like I was one of her favorite people. “But the boys will be getting meat,” she said. “They need it for healthy growing.” I had no idea if such a thing was true, but I wasn’t one to make choices for other people. Let the boys eat dead animals as long as they wanted, but I wasn’t about to. White witches lost their power taking the lives of animals, unless it was in self-defense, and even then, there were procedures that we must do to compensate for such a loss. I hadn’t known that essential fact until I’d moved in with Old Mother. She taught me the ways of witches, recognizing that essence in me when I hadn’t even recognized the truth of my heritage. In fact, I’d at first resisted her designation. Only when I found that she was right, that I could control certain things like fire, water, and plant growth, had I finally accepted that I was indeed a witch. But that hadn’t changed my eating habits. When I was young, I’d discovered that my attempts to swallow meat had made me ill. I’d grown up with a preference for cheese, eggs, and plant products, abstaining from what the families usually ate. At least as long as I could remember. And, of course, none of the families had cared what I ate. I doubt they’d even noticed.
8.3 The Witchling Shama
After our emotional moment, I wiped away the boys’ tears with the sleeve of my dress, then told them to go back to their seats so we could all eat something. I guess their trauma departed with the idea of getting food in their bellies. They both scrambled off my lap and practically ran to their chairs. While the boys were chewing on their roast beef sandwiches, and Mrs. Penn and I were enjoying our tomato, cottage cheese, and lettuce salads, Mrs. Penn explained that she was not interested in taking my job away from me and, in fact, was quite pleased with how I was interacting with and taking care of the boys. She’d already said that before, but it was reassuring to hear again. I mentioned that I felt guilty that I hadn’t been doing my share of labor around the house. “I’m going to work with the boys on academics after we finish our meal,” I told her. “And I guess it’s time to do some laundry.” “You’re doing fine. No one expects you to jump right in and do everything at once. An acclimation period is needed for every new job,” she assured me. I nibbled on a piece of bread. It was really tasty since it was the whole wheat kind with lovely seed kernels and nuts. Mrs. Penn was watching me. I hadn’t made a sound of enjoyment, but I guess she could tell from my face that I was savoring the bread. “The bakery down the street is going to deliver a loaf of that bread daily,” Mrs. Penn told me “And the local market will be dropping off a box with fresh milk, cheese and produce every other day. It may be that we’ll be able to get the butcher’s shop to deliver some meat for the children. I wanted to talk with you about that first.”