The Firefly Witch (Bold Women of the 17th Century Series, Book 1)

by Amanda Hughes

  The Firefly Witch

  Amanda Hughes

  Copyright © 2018 Amanda Hughes

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-1987462623

  ISBN-13: 1987462629

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  The Firefly Witch

  Amanda Hughes

  “Puritanism: The haunting fear that someone, somewhere, may be happy.”

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  About the Author and Excerpt from Beyond the Cliffs of Kerry (Book One of Bold Women of the 18th Century Series)

  Beyond the Cliffs of Kerry

  Chapter 1

  Acknowledgements

  My thanks go to Missie and Kevin Pearce for being my eyes and ears on the Great Marsh of Massachusetts; Professor Noreen Drummond for her expertise on the Druids and the ancient Celts; and, a special thanks to Madeline Hughes for her invaluable contributions to my storyline.

  “Puritanism: The haunting fear that someone, somewhere, may be happy.”

  --H.L Mencken

  Chapter 1

  Circe watched the light hover over the Great Marsh. Its flame was beautiful and mesmerizing, sometimes a rich gold, sometimes a cool blue but always moving and flickering. Surely no one was out there holding a lantern. The flame was too brilliant and suspended too high above the reeds and grasses. Her heart jumped. It had to be fire from the fairies.

  Circe headed closer, tucking the bundle of fabric she was carrying under her arm. Except for the sound of crickets, the marsh was quiet. It was a clear night, lit by a full moon giving the Great Marsh an ethereal luminescence. But this did not surprise her. It was always bewitching here with upland island willows swaying in the breeze and silver-tipped cordgrass feathering the shore.

  She walked onward as if in a trance. Something lifted her when she stepped forward to slog through the mud and grass, and she soared into the air, light as a feather. Circe gasped with astonishment as she floated toward the apparition.

  As she drew closer, she realized that the light was actually the dazzling image of a woman. She was a breathtaking creature with long, flowing blonde hair and a golden helmet on her head. Her aura was brilliant, and like the flames surrounding her, her image flickered and flared. Dressed in a long, white robe and a glistening girdle; her eyes were fixed on Circe. They were a fiery red. The heat was so intense that Circe had to turn away.

  “Show it to me,” the woman demanded in a deep voice.

  Circe squinted, trying to look at her. “Show you, milady?”

  “I command you! Present it to me,” the apparition ordered.

  Circe knew what she wanted. She opened her bundle and held up the robe with trembling hands,. It was a garment of the finest linen, exquisitely woven and dyed the color of the sun. Embroidered with intricate Celtic designs, the color was rich and luminous and the texture sublime. The quality was so exceptional that it seemed otherworldly, challenging even the flawless workmanship of the gods.

  The deity’s eyes widened and burned hot. She looked from the robe to Circe and back again. “You did this?” she demanded in her low, rumbling voice.

  Circe nodded.

  The specter’s nostrils flared, and her chest heaved. The earth began to shake, and the waters began to roll. Suddenly, the woman transformed into an old hag took a breath and roared so loudly, that Circe’s hair blew back. The reeds and grasses arched in the sudden tempest, and leaves were stripped from the trees. Circe flew through the air and hit the trunk of an oak tree with such force that she was knocked senseless.

  All was quiet when she opened her eyes. The moon was shining over the Great Marsh, the fierce wind had stopped, and the vision had disappeared.

  She looked around dazed and confused. She was perched on a tree branch, and when she moved, she realized that was tangled in something sticky. There were long white strings all around her. When she reached to free herself, her eyes widened, and she gasped. Her arm was no longer human. It was long, black and covered with fur. Protruding from her round black torso were seven other furry limbs.

  The malicious deity had turned her into a spider! Screaming with horror, Circe fell out of the tree and tumbled down into a dark chasm whirling around and around.

  Suddenly she was awake again and standing on the edge of Plum River. Her home was behind her in the distance. She looked at her arms. They were the arms of a girl once more, and it was her own smooth flesh when she touched her face. She breathed a sigh of relief. She was no longer the black, hideous spider.

  Feeling nauseous and weak, Circe looked up at the web in the tree, its threads shone in the moonlight. This was not the first time she had experienced this nightmare. It haunted her continually. It was one of the many dreams that plagued Circe and forced her to walk in her sleep. Her mother said it was the vestige of an evil myth created long ago by pagans, and that she must never repeat it to anyone, or they would accuse her of sorcery.

  Squaring her shoulders, and taking a deep breath, she started toward home, reminding herself that she was no longer the girl named Circe. She was Azubah Craft, daughter of Josiah and Abigail Craft, Puritan millers of Ipswich.

  Chapter 2

  Plum River, Massachusetts Bay Colony

  1662

  Everybody said the name Azubah did not suit the twelve-year-old girl. The spritely redhead with the freckled face and quick smile did not match her mighty predecessor from the Old Testament.

  “Azubah was a pious, God-fearing woman. This girl is far too merry and free of cares,” Goodie Bolton remarked one day as Azubah was carding wool and humming. “Be still, child,” she scolded. “Or, at least, recite your prayers.”

  “Aye, tis a cumbersome name for such a blithe spirit,” Enoch Craft replied looking at his granddaughter.

  Azubah smiled at him. She knew that name did not suit her. A girl named Azubah should be dutiful and somber, steadfast and virtuous. She should attend to her chores and her prayers, while never slipping away for walks in the woods. She should gather herbs and berries for healing and never pick flowers for her hair. Her eyes should never twinkle with mirth when the mouser jumped at her yarn or tumbled in the floor rushes. And above all, a girl bearing the name of Azubah should never wander from her bed at night, dreaming pagan dreams.

  Azubah knew that when the villagers attacked her name they were, in truth, assassinating her character.

  “She is far too frivolous,” Goodwife Adams complained.

  “She has the look of a pixie with that dimpled smile,” Goodman Winslow warned. “Nothing good will come of it. Mark my words.”

  But the most serious charge came from Reverend Samuels. “Azubah only pays lip service to her prayers. Tis obvious. The child is in dire need of correction.”

  Someone had been correcting Azubah her entire life. The daughter of Puritans in the Massachusetts Bay Colony, she had been a pariah from the moment she was born. Azubah had been doomed from the start; she had been the product of a liaison between her mother and a passenger onboard th
e ship crossing over from England.

  Azubah’s mother, Abigail, engaged in many clandestine activities during the voyage to the New World when her chaperone became ill. Then, she was left unsupervised. She plunged into a liaison without thought and became intimate with another passenger quickly, a handsome young man with red hair. He, being honorable, offered to marry her, but she refused. He was not of their faith, and Abigail was intended for another.

  When she arrived in the New World, the girl forgot about the affair and married Josiah Craft; the miller’s son in Plum River, Massachusetts. Her husband would never know. He was smitten with her and believed her loyal and virtuous. Even the wedding night had gone well. In his drunkenness and rush to take Abigail, young Craft had not noticed she had already been compromised.

  But Josiah Craft raged months later when a red-headed baby was born. Abigail confessed, and for the rest of her life, little Azubah paid the price. The child with the fiery red hair was a constant reminder to Craft that he was a cuckold. He would never forgive the child or the mother.

  Only Grandfather Craft saw worth in the little girl. “You are very dear to me, my little firefly,” he would always say.

  “Why do you call me firefly, Grandfather?” Azubah asked one day. “Is it my hair?”

  “Aye, and because you are as elusive and bewildering as a firefly.”

  Azubah drew her eyebrows together as she tucked her hair up into her coif. Her parents did not like seeing it.

  Grandfather continued. “Do you understand how a firefly brings light into the darkness?”

  “No.”

  “Nor do I. You are like that firefly,” he explained, patting her cheek. “A beautiful mystery.”

  Azubah was indeed a mystery to all the God-fearing Puritans of Plum River, a small village outside Ipswich. The oldest of five children, Azubah earned money for the family spinning and weaving. Looms were rare in the New World and demand was high. She worked from dawn until dusk, but for her it was not an arduous task. She found delight in every one of her creations. Like the girl of her dreams, Azubah created fabrics and garments of breathtaking quality. Cloth woven by her was perfect and her talent was extraordinary when she was allowed to embroider. Although it took many spinners in town to keep Azubah busy at the loom, when she did spin, her yarn was unsurpassed as well. It was spun consistently every time, while her plying was unparalleled.

  People traveled great distances to purchase her work; they were never disappointed. Most fabric had to be imported from England, a slow and expensive proposition. But Azubah’s mother was given a loom as part of her dowry, so they were able to turn weaving into a profitable business.

  There were whispers that Azubah’s talents rivaled any London weaver, but the family always tried to subdue the rumors. They did not want to be accused of pride, or even worse, sorcery.

  Women observed and tried to emulate Azubah’s spinning, but their results paled in comparison. More than anyone, Azubah was mystified that they could not duplicate her work; she could not see that she had a gift.

  Yet, she longed for variety as much as she loved her fabrics. Tired of the white, black and dull brown of common Puritan attire, Azubah longed to create fabrics of brilliant colors and to stitch beautiful designs. But these were reserved for the rich; there were few of that status in the colony.

  When she walked in the meadows and woods searching for berries and plants for dyes, she lingered over the scarlet beebalm, the buttercup, the thimbleberry, and bluebells. She marveled at the red of the cardinal and the yellow of the finches. She longed to put those very hues into linen and wool, but it was not permitted. The community believed color and decoration were frivolous and not for ordinary folk.

  Azubah did not question this view. Puritan life was all she had ever known, yet she yearned for something more - even if she was unsure what it was. She felt as if she led two lives: one as the hard-working Puritan, Azubah, firmly planted in the tasks of daily life; and another as Circe, the dream girl of the forest and marsh, intertwined with the seasons and the stars. When the confusion and turmoil became unbearable, she lost herself in the rhythm of the treadle, the feel of the yarn in her fingers, and the movement of the shuttle.

  She also found comfort in the roar of Plum River Falls just outside their cottage and the view of the gristmill where her stepfather and grandfather toiled. A large fieldstone building with an imposing waterwheel, Plum River Mill was the first commercial building in the village. Built by Enoch Craft, Azubah’s grandfather, it was a symbol of progress and security in the New World. It freed the colonists from the laborious task of hand grinding their corn so they could turn their attention to their crops, livestock, and above all, their prayers. The mill was a huge success and a busy place. From sunrise to sunset, Azubah could hear the rumble of wagons on the road outside her window as farmers brought their corn to be ground.

  Each morning, Azubah rose to the sound of the wheel turning. She went to sleep each night listening to the waterfall. The constant roar was thunderous, but she didn’t notice. To her, it was the sound of home. Grandfather Craft was oblivious to it as well and partially deaf as a result. For this reason, he always spoke with a commanding voice.

  Azubah was captivated by the multicolored stones of the mill from the time she was a small girl. Each was shaped differently, but it was the river that truly charmed her. When she found time to sneak away, she would hide under a tree and watch the water, white with foam, rush and tumble down the rock face and she listened. All things of the earth called to her. She could feel life emanating from them. The ground vibrated beneath her feet, and she could feel a force pulsating within as she placed her hand on trees.

  All this she kept to herself, knowing it was blasphemous and profane. Her Puritan countrymen saw the natural world as an abomination. The vast interior a threat teemed with savages and unspeakable dangers. But Azubah believed differently.

  One afternoon when she was lost in thought, sitting at the spinning wheel, a man leaned in the window, startling her. He removed his floppy hat, his thin gray hair hanging in wisps about his face and asked, “If you please, young miss, is Goodman Craft in?”

  Azubah stopped treadling and said, “Good day, Goodman Barrow. You seek the elder?”

  “The younger.”

  “He is at the mill, sir.”

  “Nay, he was not there.”

  Perplexed, she put her yarn aside and crossed to the door. The Craft cottage was one of the bigger homes in Plum River. It was equipped with low, timbered ceilings, a thatched roof and a large hearth for cooking. It had wood rather than earthen floors which was a luxury in the community.

  Azubah had been so engrossed in her work. She had not noticed her mother left the house with the children. She stepped outside and saw them in the field. Her mother was standing with her stepfather near the stalks of Indian corn holding the baby on her hip. A few strands of brown hair had escaped her cap and she was talking rapidly. Josiah was looking down at her, scowling. He was a large man with light hair and a low forehead and imperceptible eyebrows.

  “He is there,” Azubah said to Goodman Barrow.

  “My thanks,” he replied.

  They were all back at the door of the house moments later. Josiah leaned in and called to Azubah. “There is something I require of you.”

  When she stepped outside, she saw that he was holding a y-shaped branch in his hand.

  She knew what he wanted instantly.

  “Please, my husband,” Abigail said.

  “Be still,” he hissed.

  “Come now,” and Josiah gestured to Azubah.

  She stepped outside, and they climbed onto an ox cart. The two men sat in front and Azubah was in the rear with her legs dangling.

  With a sigh, Abigail gathered the children and went into the house.

  It was a midsummer morning and already the sun was warming the earth. The cart bounced and bumped along the path staying in the cool shade of the trees following the river. The
y passed through the village, a cluster of clapboard dwellings, storehouses and a meetinghouse. The men were out in the fields. The women and children were tending the gardens and preparing the midday meal. Occasionally one of them would look up and wave.

  They continued to follow the river, passing hayfields and farms. Azubah raised her face to the sun feeling its warmth upon her cheeks and catching the heady scent of the grasses bordering the path. She spied a hare sitting upon its hind legs, staring at her. She smiled. Lately, whenever she saw a rabbit or hare, she thought of her stepfather. With his large front teeth, lack of eyebrows and white, wispy hair, she found the resemblance uncanny. She rebuked herself for being disrespectful.

  At last, they turned into Goodman Barrow’s homestead. An elderly woman with rounded shoulders and a shriveled face waved to them as they circled around to the back of the house. It was Goodwife Barrow.

  “I pray this works,” Goodman Barrow said. “The river is just too far for us now that we grow old.”

  “Shall we start here?” Josiah asked, stepping down from the cart. “Tis not far from the house or the garden.”

  “Aye, it a good spot.”

  “Azubah?” Josiah said. “Come.”

  She slid off the cart, and he handed her the willow branch. Goodman Barrow eyed her suspiciously as she took one end in each hand, and pointed the base of the branch straight ahead.

  Swallowing hard, Azubah started to walk. The men followed behind her as she moved around the clearing. She stopped after making several rotations.

  “Nothing?” Josiah asked.

  Azubah shook her head.

  “Then, if you must, go to the woods,” he instructed.

  Trudging through the brush, her skirts snagging on weeds. Azubah wandered through the thicket. She wound around oaks and elms, stepping over logs and debris when, suddenly, the branch she was holding tipped downward. She gripped it tightly and slowed her pace. The protruding end of the willow arched to the ground more rigidly with each continuous step.