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.