10.21 The Witchling Shama: The Conclusion – Copy
I suppose you want to know if I gathered the shreds of hope about me enough to trust in Frank. Would we marry? Would the town overlook my witchy side? There was also the question of the outcome for the men who falsified my past. Would the town’s judgement board cast them out or jail them? Would those two liars and do-no-goods retreat or be taken away from my presence — or would they keep returning to plague me for evermore? Some of you will ask what is to happen between the doctor and Mrs. Penn? Will romance flow into both their hearts in equal measure? Will Mrs. Penn’s abilities in witchcraft strengthen with Willow’s presence and mine? I have heard that such can happen. Would the good doctor marry a witch? How will Frances like school next month, and will he adjust to being among children of his own age? Will the students mock him for being the son of a murderer? That opens up another question: what will happen to the boys’ father? The sentencing is yet to come. Will a legal case like that rip away the healing scars and cast the boys back into the gloominess they’d dwelt in such a short time before? As if that were not enough to send me nightmares, I worry about what Mrs. Penn’s daughter will say about the dear lady wanting to adopt me? Will her daughter rage with jealousy and bitterness, storming into Tinker Town like a spinning tornado, eager to chase me away? Will her heart be stone, even when she sees the sweetness of the boys? And, I must not forget that since Mrs. Penn has witch heritage, her daughter may also have that potential. Will an angry, untrained witch be just one more threat that forces me to jump on Frey and gallop out of town? If all those problems would suddenly disappear, then I’d ask Mother Earth if she’d help Willow and me to find the rare relationship of a fully grown witch and her familiar. Will I one day be able to communicate with Willow as Mrs. Penn already can? If that should come to pass, then would my magic bloom inside me and allow me to brew tonics and potions like Old Mother could? There are so many questions I have about the future, but since I cannot read tea leaves or routinely dream prophesies of what the Fates are bringing. Like all the rest of us, I can only cross my thumbs and murmur the old children’s saying: Wishing and washing, cat in the tree Tell of the fortune that belongs to me May it be good. May it bring smiles Else I shall run for miles and miles. Except Mrs. Penn told me sternly that I can’t keep running. She said I must learn to take the good with the bad. With her eyes crinkled into lines that spoke of love, she held my hand and whispered, “A woman who wants to give you a name and to form us into a family, a man who wants to marry you and will cherish you as you deserve, children who already adore you and call you their mother, your good buddy, Frey, and this precious little kitty, Willow. Those are the building blocks of your happiness, Shama, if only you will make it so.” I think she was right. That’s why I didn’t run away. I gave my trust to Tinker Town. Maybe as Mrs. Penn said, happiness is worth a little pain. And besides, there’s Frank, who despite his occasional disbelief, sometimes kisses me, smiles into my eyes with love, encourages me, and now speaks of our future. And if I’m truthful in my heart, although I quiver in fear, a kernel of hope is growing. The potential of what Mrs. Penn saw for me, for all of us, is a carrot too wondrous to ignore. I will let you know how my story continues, whether Tinker Town can give me a home and a place to grow the roots that were ripped away so cruelly. But that tale is no more than a promise, and I will continue it in: A Witchling in Tinker Town Book 2 in the Shama Series
6.10 The Witchling Shama
Only the man didn’t say what I’d assumed he would, because Mrs. Penn interrupted him. “Officer, I need to get back. I have matters to take care of. Can we all get into the buggy and head out?” I don’t think Mrs. Penn expected any argument over that, because she turned and made her way back to the conveyance, and then without any assistance, climbed up. Had she forgotten about the two little boys, or was Officer Krugle supposed to manhandle them into the vehicle? “Have you ever gotten to ride in a buggy?” I asked the boys. I was chiefly talking to Frances, since Carlo, although his sobs had settled down, was still in no condition to respond. “No, ma’am,” Frances said. “We’ve never had a chance to do that.” “Well, here’s your opportunity. It will be fun.” Geez, I couldn’t believe I was spouting such nonsense. Fun? Should a person talk about having fun only minutes after hearing how the lives of these boys had suddenly crashed? I was stripped down to wordlessness then, trying to think of something else to say when Frances said, “Please, will you go with us? Please?” “I think that’s a good idea, Shama. It would make things easier on the boys,” Officer Krugle said. I glanced up at him, surprised that he wanted me to go into town with them. “I thought you’d tell me to leave. I’m a stranger, and I don’t even know these boys. I only met them today.” “But you bonded with them.” He rubbed his cheek, like his freshly shaved chin might need a razor again. Apparently, it passed his touch inspection because he dropped his hand and curled his fingers into the belt loops on each side of his pants. “You said you were an orphan, Shama. You, of all people, should understand how these boys need you right now. You’re their only stability.” Needles and pins. I don’t know why I hadn’t expected this. Why had I thought that the clinginess of the boys would instantly change into a burst of enthusiasm when I’d suggested going for a buggy ride? And now, getting guilt trips from a policeman? Wouldn’t the boys be just fine without me? I wasn’t their family. I didn’t have any connection with them. Not really. Once more, I attempted to untangle the fingers so tightly pressing down on my skin that I would probably have bruises. Emotional manipulation by handsome officers of the law should have no effect on me. I wasn’t a fool. I closed my eyes and sought for a way to get out of the obligation he was trying to foist on me. Carlo lifted his head and stared up at me. “We don’t have a mommy anymore. Will you be our new mommy. Please?”
5.22 The Witchling Shama
I was lucky to be slightly dark of skin. My eyes were green and my hair a dark, brownish red, so I had few problem with sunburns, but I was always cautious. When I thought I’d dried off enough from my icy water bath, I moved under a tall tree and let its shade filter the sun’s harshness. I think Frey was also taking a nap. It was hard to tell since he often slept standing up, his eyes at half-mast, as if partly awake so that if a cougar or wolf approached, he’d be ready to gallop off. At the moment, he was resting his right fore leg, barely touching the ground with the front of his hoof. As I eyed his position, Frey shifted so that the left fore leg got a moment of rest. He flinched suddenly, apparently becoming aware that I was watching him. Frey’s eyes opened fully, and he nickered softly, turning his head slightly to glance at me. He removed the lock position that takes over the body of a sleep-standing horse and firmly planted all four feet. Then he took a step toward me and nuzzled me because I was still lying there on the ground. Perhaps that was a summons to get up and get back on the road. I yawned, stretched, stood, then stretched some more. Although the grass was soft, the ground underneath it wasn’t. My body felt stiff. I did a couple of simple exercises and heard my back crack back into position. What an ugly sound. Was I getting old?
5.21 The Witchling Shama
We passed a turtle lying in the sun, and, later, several small frogs croaked as we passed by. Both creatures fled from our presence, plopping back into the water as if we were predators come to eat them. Later as we rode on, we saw a beautiful red fox. It had a snow-white breast, perky ears, a black button nose, and an amazingly gorgeous tail. I yearned to reach out and touch the fox. I wondered if people ever kept such animals as pets. This one was wild, of course, and didn’t stick around to discuss the question with me. When we stopped for lunch and a siesta, I removed Frey’s tack. He quickly let me know that he was ready for another roll in the grass. His circles and the way his legs looked like he was about to collapse were sure signs of his intent. I suppose such maneuvers were the result of my failure to relieve his itchiness since I had no curry comb. I’d also heard that dust kept animals free from fly bites. I hoped so, at least that would provide a good reason for his dirt collection. But already he felt like sandpaper when I petted him. I ate my fill of watercress and miner’s lettuce and then sat down to gnaw at my cattail shoots. Once again, after I’d bathed in the stream, being careful not to get close and personal with any snakes, I sat in the sun to dry off and grew sleepy.