9.6 Witchly Trials and Complications
I wished that Martha had not decided on this adoption thing. I was too old, for one thing. And for another, I never wanted to cause a rift in her family or to give anyone pain. How had I gotten myself stuck in this situation? I’d gone my whole life without having a last name. Surely being given one now wouldn’t be worth this family strife. I was also worried about the arguments and other outcomes of bickering families. I couldn’t bear to expose the boys to a screaming tornado/hurricane banshee/potential witch. Perhaps, I should just take the boys out into the woods for a few weeks? We could call it a camping trip. Unfortunately, when I suggested that to them, the boys began to cry, probably because they could feel the tension in the air and feared it would be the end of good food, toys, books, and being with people who loved them. Their wails brought Martha into the living room. Hearing my scheme to avoid all the drama, Martha put her foot down, saying that she wouldn’t hear of her daughter driving anyone from our house. It was at that moment that Frank came running into the house, perhaps, expecting some kind of emergency had occurred. I didn’t want to tell him my plans, but Martha spilled out the whole staying in the woods on a camping trip idea. “In the woods by yourself?” Frank roared. “Over my dead body.” The sheriff of Tinkle Town was not a person who yelled. He was calm, even in the midst of turmoil like when he had to handle drunks, juvenile delinquents, and liars like the two who’d come from my old town and accused me of stealing my beautiful grey stallion, Frey. Frank was, in fact, normally, a feet on the ground, mild-mannered and even-tempered investigator who dug deep for all the facts before making any kind of judgement. And besides, the sheriff really had no right to tell me I couldn’t depart for the safety of the woods, but when he added that the boys wouldn’t be allowed to leave Tinkle Town because their father was still in jail, making them wards of the court, then I had no choice but to give in. I’d already promised Carlo and Francis that I wouldn’t leave them. There was nothing that I could do then to avoid what was coming. The boys had calmed down after Frank told them there’d be no camping trip until he could come along, and then he added that I’d need to marry him before we could do that. “We want her to marry you,” Francis said. “Yeah, you’d be our daddy then,” Carlo added. Feeling pressured, nervous, and frankly scared by such statements, I fled to the kitchen and started dinner, leaving Martha and Frank to talk about, I presume, the upcoming visit.
9.5 Witchly Trials and Complications
On the next day, while I was trying not to ponder Sheila’s upcoming visit, Dr Stevens dropped by (probably to check if there was any more cake and ice cream, which he didn’t get.) However, he said he’d suddenly remembered that he hadn’t told Martha that her grandchildren wouldn’t be coming to Tinkle Town. They’d be staying in Tamehold with their father. I wished my eyes hadn’t focused on Martha’s reaction when she heard the news. She slid down to a chair, limp with disappointment. Her carriage reminded me of the rubber ball out back that Frey held in his teeth while he tossed it up and down. The ball had once been full of air and rosy red, but was now worn down, flattened, and faded. That was poor Martha. Years without seeing her grandchildren, and then to hear that her daughter had decided not to bring them . . . It meant that Sheila planned to arrive in town with the full force of a hurricane, or was it a tornado? Whichever one she chose to become, I was pretty sure that she planned some loud noises to accompany her upset. Maybe there’d be thunder and lightning. Why did I believe that? What other reason would Sheila have to leave the children behind? Martha’s daughter wanted to freely express her outrage. That was obvious to me, and I’m sure Martha must have realized it, too. I wondered if Martha recognized, also, that her daughter might be a closeted witch? Would Sheila know her heritage; could she already be a practitioner? Old Mother had told me that some witches were dark with evil. They focused their powers on black magic, the kind that produced damage — either to people or to their possessions. Old Mother and I were green witches, seeking only to help people. I would never be a match for someone warped by blackness. And even if Sheila didn’t practice such, not knowing what you were capable of doing when angry, that held its own dangers. When a dark witch was cornered by something she considered bad, even if she had no idea of her potential darkness, watch out! But I couldn’t say those things to Martha. She was in mourning for the loss of her dream in seeing her grandchildren. I didn’t know why she never traveled to Tamehold or the reason why the mother and daughter seemed split up by something that had happened long ago. That wasn’t my business. All I could do was give Martha a glass of cold water, take her hand, and tell her how sorry I was. Meanwhile, noticing how upset Martha had become, Dr. Stevens backed away and saw himself out.
9.4 Witchly Trials and Complications
The spat between Martha and Dr. Stevens, who’d never suggested that I call him by his first name, ended abruptly. I sat down, and we all finished our meal. Then I served a spice apple cake with some vanilla ice cream that the boys and Frank had churned together. Everyone enjoyed that part of dinner. It was too bad our sit down together had been so sour at the beginning. After Frank and I cleaned up the kitchen, the boys and I went outside in the backyard to spend time with Frey, my best friend, the horse I’d raised from a foal. The moment we stepped out into the yard, Frey nickered, dropped the flattened ball he’d been playing with, and trotted over to me. Willow, the little gray kitten, had been sitting on the wiggly picnic table watching Frey do his thing with the red flappy ball. The two of them often spent time together in the evening (and at night, I think.) They were good friends. Sometimes, in fact, when I came out to clean Frey’s stall, I found Willow sitting on the stallion’s back as comfy as if that was her favorite spot. The boys called the kitten over, then took turns having Willow chase a string. Although the cat was my familiar, she’d adopted the whole family — well, except for Dr. Stevens, if he was part of the family. Willow would have nothing to do with him. Martha came outside to join us. She very gingerly sat down on the picnic table’s bench. I wished she wouldn’t. The whole thing was too wobbly to be safe. Frank had promised to do some carpentry work on it to stabilize it, but he’d been busy and hadn’t yet gotten around to it. I remembered how I’d restored the lean-to back in my old town. Perhaps, if I could locate a merchant that sold lumber, I could figure out how to do the repairs myself. “It’s a lovely night, isn’t it?” Martha said, watching the boys and the small kitten. She was still rather afraid of my stallion, so when he went nosing over her way, sticking his head into her carefully coifed white hair, I called him back to me, but Martha, obviously feeling super brave, smiled at me and pulled out a carrot from the pocket of her dress. Although Martha had once fed Frey, that was only to ease the worries of the boys. This was different. She’d come prepared and eager to befriend him. Frey was always a gentleman, when he wasn’t lipping at someone’s hair. He took the carrot with great care, although, of course, he slobbered all over Martha’s dress. Strangely enough, she just laughed as the carrot drippings and saliva dribbled down from his mouth. “My daughter’s coming here is not going to change anything, Shama,” Martha said, flattening her hand so that Frey could take the last bite of carrot. “I love you and the boys, and I aim to give you a last name and then make us a real family with or without Frank’s help.”
9.3 Witchly Trials & Complications
My carrot and black bean salad had suddenly lost all its flavor. I placed my fork beside my plate and stared at the wall across from me. “Sheila is actually leaving her precious Tamehold to come see me? Will wonders never cease? Is she bringing the children? Dafny should be eleven this year, and David just turned nine,” Martha said musingly. Dr Stevens kept on shoveling in the food he’d piled on his plate, but he looked over at Martha, swallowed, and said, “Now, sweetheart . . .” At that, Martha put her fork down, then gave him a glare that could have melted granite. “I warned you not to start that, Ben. It’s bad enough that Frank keeps issuing love handles, but he has good reason. But not you, you old coot. And why did my daughter write to you instead of me? Can you answer that, please?” “Probably because I was the one who wrote her about your intentions. She needed to know how you’ve decided to adopt Shama and these two boys,” he said, glancing over at the boys. “It’s none of her business. And it’s not any of yours what I do.” I stood up, bound for the kitchen. I’d already heard this argument, and I didn’t want to be part of it. I would have been gone if I weren’t hesitating, wondering if I should grab up the boys and take them outside to see Frey. The stallion would welcome a visit. But Carlo and Francis were still eating their dinner, in slow motion unfortunately, because their ears had grown attentive and their eyes were round saucers of amazement as their heads flipped back and forth between the two elderly adults. Martha looked up and saw me. “Sit down, Shama. This conversation is stopping right now, isn’t it, Dr. Stevens,” she said, letting everyone know how angry she was at him because when she wasn’t calling him something demeaning like Old Coot, she addressed him as Ben. He’d finally realized that everyone was staring at him: the little boys with open mouth consternation, Frank with a proper poker face, although he, too, had stopped eating and immediately dropped his eyes to contemplate the empty fork twisting about in his hand . . . And then there was me, fidgeting uncertainly, probably looking like a scared rabbit about to flee from the dining room so I could hide in the kitchen where at least there was no one about to erupt into battle. The doctor’s eyes, finished scanned those faces, finally returned to Martha’s. Even if the man were a dull wit about people’s feelings, he could surely see her turned down mouth, her stiffened body posture, and her narrowed, glowering eyes.
9.2 Trials and Complications: Shama book 2
Chapter One: I’d vowed to myself that I’d keep Frank in hesitant mode for a while, because you see, as Old Mother used to tell me: Stability isn’t achieved by someone just telling you the quicksand is solid enough to walk on. Yet, as the days passed by and each of them saw Frank’s handsome face digging into the meatloaf or roast, the green beans or turnip greens, the mashed potatoes or sweet yams, and gravy or whatever else was on the menu for the evening, it was hard to resist his shy, yet steady smile. Sometimes, Frank even helped out in the meal preparation. Mrs. Penn, who insisted that I call her Martha, often sat in a chair watching and advising me on my cooking, something I was always grateful for because she was a proficient cook. But sometimes, especially when Frank came in and asked what he could do to help, Martha hobbled out of the room and made her way into the living room where two little boys would be playing on the carpet, usually assembling towered castles. Willow, the small gray kitten with a couple of white patches, who happened to be my familiar, would always curl up in Martha’s lap, purring steadily as the two of them watched the boys’ make believe. That evening Martha’s admirer, Doctor Stevens, who she called Ben, was joining us for the meal. He was getting to be a regular, too. He was a kindly older gentleman with a bad reputation for flirtation, or so I’d been told, but anyone with eyes in their head could see that he was in love with Martha. I think he had been all his life, despite the fact that she’d married someone else. Martha was a widow, so it was fine that Doctor Stevens was courting her, even if Martha held her nose in the air and acted like she had no interest in him. I peeked in at the cornbread and pulled it out of the oven. As usual, Frank was in the way, but at least he was alert enough to dodge away from the hand holding the hot loaf pan. “You could have warned me, darling,” Frank said. I had long ago ceased asking him to stop giving me such love tags. He ignored my demand most of the time, only pausing if criticized to say, “Did I say that? Whoops.” The cornbread permeated the air satisfactorily enough for two little boys to come running into the dining room. “I bet dinner’s ready,” Francis said. “I can smell the cornbread.” “Yeah, and the butter. I like honey butter on my cornbread,” the younger boy said. That had been Frank’s chore, the blending together of the fresh flower honey with the softened butter we got straight from our dairy delivery. Frank had to make sure that no dead bees had been left inside the honey before he blended it. That had happened before. I heard someone knocking at the door, and Frank started to go answer it, but Martha called out, “Come in, you old buzzard.” Wasn’t love sweet? I chuckled as I carried things to the table and asked the boys if their hands were clean. Before either of them could respond, Martha called out. “I inspected them, Shama. Don’t be worrying about that.” In a minute, we were all sitting at the table, napkins posed in our laps, eager to dig in. But before we’d even filled our plates, Dr. Stevens opened his mouth and said, “I got a letter from your daughter today, Martha. She says that she’s arriving this Wednesday.
9.1 Trials and Tribulations:Book 2 Shama
The following new novel begins Book 2 of the Shama Series. Please first read: The Witchling Shama before starting this novel. (The Witchling Shama is also found on this website or can be purchased on Amazon.com) Prelude: The man wanted to marry me. What a strange thought. Me, the outcaste, the girl-woman with no name, the one at the bottom of the dregs of society. Less admired than the town drunk.(Plus my former town had never tried to stone the town drunk. But me, I now lived under a death sentence, I think.) The person who asked me to marry him, Frank, was a respectable man, a sheriff. The town of Tinkle Town loved him. What did he see in me? How could he even suggest marrying me because then everyone would find out my deep, dark secret. In fact, it was inevitable. That secret would come out in the court trial, and then . . . Okay, step back and start at the beginning. That’s what Old Mother would have said. She’d also been a witch, but everyone had adored her. They’d come to her for herbs for their aches and pains and sometimes just for advice. Old Mother had almost adopted me. She would have given me a name if she could have afforded to do so. I’d lived with her for years until she died. Then I had nothing and no one, well, except my horse, Frey. Mine was not a pretty history, but I’d escaped the meanness, the miserliness and the revenge of the town and arrived in Tinker Town. Here I’d found love in the heart of two almost orphan boys. Almost because their father had killed their mother and remained in jail for the upcoming trial, but I was told the outcome of that was pretty certain. Murder, like being a witch in some towns, almost always carried a death sentence. Mrs. Penn had found me a place to live while I took care of the two boys. The house even had a place for my beloved stallion, Frey, and things had been going well until my old life resurrected all the ugliness. So what was the problem? Multiple problems, actually. Frank wanted to marry me. Mrs. Penn wanted to adopt me even though she already had a grown daughter who lived in a nearby town. The drunkard and his traveling preacher had revealed my secrets and would probably not be content to be quiet about them. Frank wanted to marry me. Oh, I already said that, but it needs repeating because that was the cause of most of my tension headaches, the kind that not even lavender and lemon balm couldn’t remedy. And as if all those were not enough to send me nightmares, I worried about what Mrs. Penn’s daughter would say about her mother wanting to adopt me? Would Sheila rage with jealousy and bitterness, storming into Tinker Town like a spinning tornado, eager to chase me away? Would her heart be stone, even when she saw the sweetness of the two little boys who called me Mother? And, I must not forget that since Mrs. Penn had witch heritage, Sheila might also have that potential. Nothing was as dangerous as an untrained witch or one who did’t know what she was. There were so many questions I had about the future, but I couldn’t read tea leaves or routinely dream prophesies of what the Fates would bring. Like all the rest of us, I could 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 couldn’t keep running. She’d said I must learn to take the good with the bad. With her eyes crinkled into lines that spoke of love, she’d 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: these are the building blocks of your happiness, Shama, if only you will choose to accept what the Fates have brought you.” She could be right, so I decided not to run away no matter what the Fates brought, mostly because I gave a promise to the little boys, Carlo and Francis, but also because I have given 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.