9.11 Witchly Trials and Complications
I glanced again at Martha. Her face had turned stewed tomato red. I worried that she’d harm herself with her anger. “Dr. Stevens, any interesting cases today?” I asked, lifting a fork of green beans to my mouth. I didn’t look at Sheila. I’d have to work on Old Mother’s patience, but for now, perhaps, just letting her empty out her venom would work. At least I hoped so. “That’s why I love you,” Frank said, whispering in my ear so low that only the boys heard. Frank’s words made the boys giggle. They made my face heat so that I must match Martha’s tomatoey color. Meanwhile, Dr. Stevens had straightened up in his chair beside Sheila. He swallowed his bite of whatever he’d been chewing, probably the coleslaw since he liked it so much. He ground his throat with one of his preparatory voice clearings and said, “Old Henri is who I visited today., Shama. He’s a man in his eighties. His heart is robust, his constitution strong, and he keeps a smile on his face at all times. I reckon he’ll live to a hundred, which is what I told him. I check in on him once a month, just in case. He has no family, but his friends are numerous. He might be courting Donna Baste, who’s a spry seventy-five. The two like to play checkers in the evenings.” “Should you be talking about your patients so freely?” Sheila scolded with her lips pursed froglike. Dr. Stevens sighed loudly, broke off a piece of biscuit and shoved it into his mouth. “Sheila,” he said. “You’ve been gone a long time. Maybe it would be fitting if you reintroduced yourself with a little bit of honey and not so much vinegar.” Sheila shot up, ready to dart away, but then realized there was no place to go. She had no idea where things were in this house. It was new to her. She sat back down, and sputtered. After a moment she got her gumption back to stir the waters. “So, Sheriff. I hear you’ve got prisoners. Drunks, like usual?” she asked. The atmosphere of the room, already tense and ready to burst into another battle zone, suddenly plunged into glacial coldness. Everyone scurried to put something in their mouths, and no one said a word until . . . It was Francis who dared the silence. “Our daddy is in there. He murdered our mother. They might hang him.” I started to move over to soothe the child for the pain he must be feeling in saying such a thing, but Frank’s hand on my wrist stopped me. “A judge is coming, Francis,” Frank told him. “He’ll view the case and hear people’s statements. Do you know what statements are?” Francis twisted in his seat, staring down at his plate. “It means the judge is going to order my daddy dead, right?”
9.10 Witchly Trials and Complications
Okay, insulting my two little boys who were staring at her like they’d just been told that all the ice cream in the world had disappeared and they were never going to get to eat any ever again, that was infuriating. I couldn’t accept such behavior, even if the woman was Martha’s daughter. I started to give Sheila a stern talking to, but then I glanced at Martha. The elderly woman’s eyes were red and weepy, and she was examining her daughter as if Martha’s worst fears had come to pass and as if she’d been betrayed by her only child. I swallowed the bile inside me, gave the boys a gentle smile, gestured that they should eat up, then sighed softly. I took a sip of the ice water Frank had given me. Nothing beat a long gulp of water. It purified the soul. At least, that’s what Old Mother had once told me, which is what made me stop and remember other things about my time with her. Old Mother had sometimes encountered townsfolk with nasty tongues. Most of them she’d forgiven, explaining to me later that unhappy people were so full of anger it just naturally boiled over like a cauldron in the center of the flames. “Harsh words in reply won’t change a person like that, Shama,” Old Mother had said. “Unhappy people can’t even hear your words. A miserable person is sore inside, and their body is excreting puss like an ugly, festering wound. The only way to fix someone suffering like that is to figure out the cause of their pain and to help them.” I suppose I twitched or looked like I meant to argue, so Old Mother added: “Of course, if a person has too horrible a nature, you can just turn away, Shama. But then a part of their unhappiness might jump into your heart. It can be contagious, you know. “Besides, a green witch, like you and me, we have a need to balance the world. No, not balance. A green witch has a need to see that goodness wins.” I hadn’t wanted to listen to that. I’d argued that a person spewing resentment everywhere should be left to simmer in their own foul broth. But Old Mother never argued. Every disagreement, or what could have become a disagreement ended with: “Maybe so, Shama. But I’d rather sow seeds of delight than thorny discord.” Old Mother had been purer than sunshine, and not just because she raised me during my most troubled years. There’d once been a woman who came visiting Old Mother almost daily. Maggie Spender had leaked whole pots of dissatisfaction, complaining about everything. Old Mother patiently sat beside her as the woman whined and spat out her griefs. That went on for weeks, with Old Mother gently agreeing, consoling, and telling her that she heard. All that was accompanied by fresh brewed tea, frequent pats on the back, and hand touchings of reassurance. I used to sit in the other room because I couldn’t stand Maggie Spender’s constant woes, but Old Mother endured it with compassion. Eventually, the outpourings of woe slowed. One day, Maggie Spender said she’d heard a robin singing. Then she told Old Mother something nice about someone she’d formerly always complained about. By the end of the month, Maggie Spender stopped visiting so often, and then one day she brought Old Mother some cookies and said she’d be too busy to pop in anymore. “That is the real magic of witchcraft,” Old Mother told me not long after. “Herbal remedies and tisanes are often beneficial, but the best cure for what ails people is a willing and nonjudgmental ear.”
9.9 Witchly Trials and Complications
I scurried off to get dinner on the table. The cooking had actually been done earlier, but there were always last minute finishes before bringing it all to the table. Frank had followed me into the kitchen to help. He knew without being told to put ice in the glasses and pour the water. We were lucky to have a good ice chest. A big chunk of ice was delivered once a week, and Frank chipped it into readiness. That’s why we could make homemade ice cream for our Sunday treats. I put dressing on the green salad, using the recipe I always used that contained walnut oil, shredded pieces of orange, which we got from a neighbor’s greenhouse, a touch of sugar, and spices. Even the boys liked the dressing, although they weren’t fond of salad otherwise. I made gravy, pulled out the potato salad and slaw from the refrigerator and took the main course out of the oven, where it had been waiting, ready to be served. The biscuits were already on the table, swaddled in a cloth to keep them warm. With Frank’s help and a reassuring word of encouragement about getting through the evening, dinner was ready. I carried in the roast with vegetables. Frank had already brought in the three salads, as well as several other side dishes. Some women would say that Frank was a jewel. I sometimes thought so, too, but I still had my trust issues. He’d deserted me when I needed him most, lost faith in my integrity, and believed that I’d manipulated Martha. Something like that was hard to get over, especially in a man who’d asked me to be his wife. He had apologized, but our relationship still lived in Maybe Land. Everyone was sitting at the table. As the two of us settled into our places, Sheila looked over the spread and said, “Well, Shama, is it? It seems that you are quite capable of fulfilling a servile position. Of course, I haven’t sampled your cooking yet.” “Sheila,” Martha snapped at her. “What has gotten into you? You were never this rude before. I’ll have you know that Shama . . .” Dr. Stevens interrupted, trying to stop what was about to become a full out argument. “Everything looks absolutely delicious, Shama, as it always is when you and Martha cook. And you made my favorite, that cabbage salad. Did you make that for me?” I think I nodded. My face was burning, and I was only about one second from bursting up from the table to run to Frey for comfort. Black dress or not, it was obvious that Sheila was every bit a cruel, dark witch. Frank grabbed my hand and squeezed. “Wait ‘till you see what she baked for dessert, Ben. I plan to take seconds of everything, including Shama’s biscuits, but I intend on saving enough room for our upcoming treat.” “What is it?” Carlo wanted to know. “I bet it’s a cake or cookies. Maybe a pie?” Francis said, almost overturning his glass in his excitement. Thankfully, Martha saved the day, moving it away from his eagerly flapping hand. “These are the girls’ boys, you wrote me about? Doesn’t she teach them manners?” Sheila said, wrinkling her nose in a manner suited to someone eating an extremely sour pickle.
9.8 Witchly Trials and Complications
The three of them entered through the front door with the kind of silence that seemed ominous. No tornado, no hurricane, but the air felt murderous. I was sitting on the floor with the boys. They had stacked up their wooden blocks high enough that I knew at any moment, the crash was coming. I suggested building around the sides to create some stability, but Marco gave me his funny little smile, and said. “No, Mommy Shama. We want them to fall down. That’s the fun part.” Of course. How could I forget that from all my experiences with children back in the old town. Block crashing, domino falling, miniature balls ramming things over . . . Of course. Catastrophes were exciting at age four and six. What a pity that wasn’t the kind of thing I enjoyed. I sighed and watched the big tumble. The boys roared with laughter. Francis started tumbling about on the carpet, so, of course, Marco followed suit. Blocks were shoved right and left as the boys rolled about. “Exactly what I expected. Wild ruffians,” Miss Sheila said, speaking so sharply, all the air fled out of the room. My mouth shot open. I started to defend the boys, but Martha shook her head at me, then stood up to greet her daughter. The daughter, who looked to be in her early forties, was incredibly NOT wearing the black dress and witch’s hat that I’d pictured her in. Instead she was clothed in a pretty pastel, pink dress tied with a rose colored ribbon The woman’s hair was carefully coiffed in a stylish manner, not a stray hair anywhere, although she must have spent all day in a wagon in order to make her visit. “Clean up, boys,” I whispered to them, and startled by the woman’s nasty voice, frowning face, and general air of unhappiness, Francis sat up immediately and started returning the blocks to their wooden box. “Why is she so mean?” Carlo asked. “Sh,” I said, guiding him to help with the pick-up of his toys. Sheila at last sat down on the couch, looked about, then spoke just as sharply to her mother. “I see you haven’t changed. You’re still dragging in beggars and poking your fingers in other people’s business.” Before Martha could even dive into that, the woman demanded. “And who is this vagabond girl? Don’t tell me that she’s the one you want to . . .” Martha had had enough. Her face turned red, she straightened her posture into schoolmarm stiffness, and started to give her daughter a lecture, probably about good manners. Unfortunately Dr. Stevens cut her off. “Something smells delicious. Shall we move to the table and enjoy a good meal while everyone gets acquainted, or reacquainted, as the case may be?” he said.
9.7 Witchly Trials and Complications
Although the visit of Martha’s daughter was like a bad toothache, the worry always present, I went about my days, grooming Frey, fixing meals, working with Francis on his schooling, and improving the slow motor abilities of little Carlo. Meanwhile, the letters I’d vowed to myself to write to the few people who’d been kind to me in the old town from which I’d fled, I sent off, using the wages Martha had given me, which she said I’d earned. It was hard to have the kind of trust needed to send off such letters, and I was unsure what I expected. The blacksmith, couldn’t even read so how would he know what I’d said? I even wrote to Mrs. Henderson, who had often defended me to her husband, but I doubted that her husband would appreciate hearing from me. He was probably still angry that the judge had said he owed me for my labors. When I’d first starting speaking to Frank again, I suggested that we go pick up Old Bill so we’d have a garbage collector in Tinkle Town (and because Clarence and Old Bill needed a kinder place to live). But Frank said he didn’t want me going anywhere near my former village, not since he’d heard the story of how the town’s folk had thrown rocks at me. I still had hopes that I could persuade him that with him by my side, the villagers wouldn’t dare to be violent. It was even possible that the might welcome me back, except I didn’t really believe that. My legs shook just picturing entering that town again. Meanwhile, the boys’ father occupied one jail cell, and the preacher and the drunk were resting in the other. All of them awaited the judge’s arrival. I wondered if the three of them talked to each other. Would the boys’ presence be mentioned? Would their father care that his sons were now being properly cared for? All too quickly, it was the day of Sheila’s arrival. I fixed a pot roast with carrots, celery, and potatoes, baked a chocolate cake with dark chocolate frosting and decorated it with white piped icing, writing Welcome Sheila across the top. And, of course, there were side dishes, too. I’d made both potato salad and cabbage slaw, cooked up a batch of green beans, baked some biscuits, and prepared a nice green salad. Martha had told me that her daughter would love the dinner, but my trepidation was sending ants hopscotching inside my stomach, and when I was reading to Carlo, he told me I’d skipped a whole page in the book, and I’d never even noticed. I’d dressed myself in the blue frock with the yellow daisies, and I was wearing proper shoes. Martha had gotten dolled up, too. I’d brushed her hair until it was shining and styled it nicely. The boys had bathed and were handsomely clothed. We were ready, but it was still all needles and pins. Even Willow, my gray kitten, seemed grouchy with angst, not even participating in the follow the string game that Carlos attempted. And then came the knock on the door, Dr. Steven’s knock, but I knew SHE was with him. I stood up to answer the door, but Martha waved me back down. Frank will see them in. Let’s allow Ben and Frank to be our welcoming committee — which is how I knew that Martha was every bit as nervous as I was.
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.