Goodman Barrow’s eye’s widened.
Struggling to hang on, Azubah took one more step, and the branch arched in half, pointing down directly at the earth.
“Tis enchantment!” Barrow cried. “I never would have believed it if I had not seen it with my own eyes. It moves of its own will.”
“Aye, that it does,” Josiah said with a smile. “And it be always true.” He jammed his walking stick into the ground and declared, “Dig your well here.”
Goodman Barrow gaped at Azubah. “And you force the branch not?”
“No sir,” she replied. “The willow finds the water. I do not.”
“There be no trick in it?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you feel anything?”
She shook her head.
“But you are its agent.”
“Yes, sir. I know not why, but it uses me.”
Barrow reached out to the branch but then withdrew his hand quickly as if afraid to touch it.
“Observe Goodman,” Josiah said, grabbing the willow from Azubah. He held it over the same patch of earth, and the branch did not move. It hung limply in his fingers and did not tug. But the moment he returned it to Azubah, the branch arched to the ground. She kept her eyes down to conceal her delight at the phenomenon. It was exalting when the willow came to life in her hands.
When Josiah and Azubah returned home, Abigail was laying the board for supper. The twins were tied in their highchairs, the baby was asleep in the cradle and Daniel, the eleven-year-old, was washing his hands. He was just back from work at the mill. Holding plates, Abigail looked up when they walked in the cottage. Her face was pinched with anxiety. “It be done then?” she asked.
“Aye, and by weeks end we will have our bushel of fleece from Barrow,” Josiah grumbled as he sat down at the table.
When Azubah stepped over to the hearth, her mother whispered, “Did any folk see you?”
Josiah heard and turned abruptly in his seat. “I told you to let it be, wife!” he roared.
“I want no blush on our name,” she cried. “That is all.”
“You be late with that worry,” he snarled, looking at Azubah.
They ate their supper in silence, the only sound being from the twins as they chattered gibberish.
“Take supper up to your grandfather, Azubah,” her mother said. “He is working late and gather your clothes when you return. Your Aunt Faye is in need of you again.”
Azubah looked up with a smile. She loved visiting her aunt and uncle. “Oh, this gives me joy. I leave in the morning?”
Her mother frowned. “You take delight in their misfortune?”
Azubah dropped her eyes. “No, I do not.”
As Azubah made up a basket to take to the mill, she tried to picture her mother as a girl with rosy cheeks and a gay demeanor. Had she ever been young and impulsive? She seldom saw her smile. Few people in Plum River or Ipswich ever smiled. Merriment was rare. Azubah believed they were ever mindful of the Lord, so of course, mirth would be irreverent.
Constantly smothering the urge to skip or sing, she wondered why the Creator despised such things. When the bright force of life would flow through her she would embrace the twins or kiss baby Grace. They had not yet lost their joy, and they returned her affection. It saddened her to see that Matthew, her brother, was losing his spontaneity. He would constantly tell Azubah to check her giddiness, and she feared he was growing as dour as the others.
“Grandfather?” Azubah called as she stepped into the mill with a basket on her arm. The wheel had stopped for the evening. The mill workers had gone home to their families and all was silent. Remembering his hearing difficulty, she called again, “Grandfather?”
“Here, firefly!” he replied.
Azubah walked past the great millstones resting one upon the other and past the wooden gears, winding her way around sacks of corn and barrels. She found him making repairs to one of the chutes and he straightened up stiffly. Enoch Craft was a tall, sinewy man with a face as wrinkled as a prune. His blue eyes that were as brilliant as a man of twenty. He was bald and had a closely cropped beard. “Ah, you have victuals,” he roared. “I am famished. Come.”
They traversed several flights of stairs to the top of the mill, the living quarters for Enoch and Prudence Craft. Prudence had died from the flux shortly after arriving in the New World, but Enoch continued to live upstairs. The large room seemed empty now but it was his choice. He refused to live with any of his adult children. This was his home. With barrels and tools scattered everywhere, it looked more like a warehouse than a home. One thing was different, though; up here there were windows. The view of the river and countryside was breathtaking.
“I have venison stew with a bit of bannock,” Azubah said, laying the board in front of the hearth. She poured beer into a tankard as her grandfather sat down.
“What manner of business did Goodman Barrow have with your father today?” he asked.
“He wanted dowsing,” she replied.
Enoch nodded and took a spoonful of stew. “And did you find water?”
Azubah grinned, showing her dimples and white teeth. “I did, Grandfather. You should have seen it! It arched down to the ground like the fairies were tugging on it!”
He laughed. “That be why they call it a divining stick. But hush, firefly. This talk is inflammatory.”
“I said nothing to them of this nature.”
“Good, now let’s speak of other things.”
Azubah leaned forward. “Tomorrow I go to help Aunt Faye.”
Enoch wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “And you do not like going there,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.
“Grandfather!” she laughed, knowing he was teasing.
But then he grew serious. “Your uncle still cannot wake?”
Azubah looked down and shook her head. “There is now talk that he is bewitched.”
Enoch shook his head. “Idle prattle. He has had an attack of apoplexy or brain fever, nothing more. But I fear he will not recover. It has been too long. He is too young, too young,” he grumbled.
They shared family news until he finished his stew. He stood up, returning the empty bowl to the basket. “Tell your mother I am grateful,” he said. “Now, off with you. I have work to do.”
* * *
The next morning, Matthew took Azubah to the Mayweather homestead. It was over an hour’s walk on an old Indian trail requiring travel through the Great Marsh, Azubah’s favorite place. It was one of the few dry paths through the great expanse. Clearly excited, she chattered as Matthew walked by her side, matchlock musket in hand. Both of them carried baskets strapped to their backs full of goods for the Mayweathers.
Azubah skipped, sang, and gushed over the birds and flowers, much to Matthew’s aggravation. To the Puritans, the Great Marsh was vast and full of threats and enchantments. It was not to be trusted.
“Mind yourself, Azubah. You must help me watch for trouble.”
“I fancy one could wander forever here and never return,” Azubah exclaimed, running her eyes over the flat lowland covered with reeds, cordgrass and dotted with tiny islands. “That is the only trouble I see.”
Azubah walked backward staring at Matthew with a grin on her face, trying to be annoying. He ignored her, his eyes scanning the marsh constantly. She thought he resembled Josiah more every day with his light hair and long face. He even dressed in his old clothes. The threadbare linen shirt, doublet, and britches were far too large for an eleven-year-old lad, but he didn’t care; he wanted to look like his father.
Looking over his shoulder, Azubah pretended to see something and gasped.
Matthew whirled around and raised his gun, startled. Instantly, he swung back to her and roared, “God’s bones, Azubah!”
“Blasphemy!” she shouted and ran ahead. But he did not chase her. In the old days, before Matthew became so serious, he would have chased her laughing. Now he had fallen into the humorless trap of the others believing
in a wrathful God and that laughter was folly.
Gradually, they settled back to walking side by side. A crane lifted off in front of them, its wide, white wings slowly pumping the air.
“Remember last summer when we dug clams?” Azubah asked.
“I do,” Matthew responded, lifting his arm to wipe his damp forehead.
“Let’s do it again and bring some to Aunt Faye,” she suggested. “It will be amusing.”
“No, I have work to do at the mill and must return home after delivering you.”
“Just for a short time,” she coaxed.
She saw a gleam in his eye, but he checked himself. “Do not try to entice me from my duty, Azubah. You are far too consumed with frivolities. Father is right to chide you.”
She frowned and remained quiet the rest of the walk, giving up on him. When the Mayweather homestead came into view, he stopped and slipped the basket off his shoulders and handed it to her.
Azubah looked at him with surprise. “You will not greet Aunt and Uncle?”
“No, I must return.”
“They will be hurt, Matthew,” she argued. “You must be hungry. At least, come up and eat something.”
He shook his head.
“Oh, do come if only for a moment.”
“No!” he barked, throwing the basket to the ground.
Her jaw dropped. “You believe the talk!” she cried. “You think Uncle Gideon is bewitched, and you are afraid you will catch it. Oh, for shame, Matthew.”
His nostril’s flared, but he did not deny what Azubah said. Raising his chin, he stated, “I will be back in two weeks.”
Azubah frowned as she watched him disappear into the marsh. She started up to the house and stopped. Should she or shouldn’t she? The day was young. The sun was out, and Aunt Faye had no idea what time to expect her.
Smiling, Azubah kicked off her shoes and stockings. She hid them in the bushes along with the shoulder baskets. She pulled off her white coif and shook her wavy, red locks. The air felt cool on her scalp as she let her hair tumble around her shoulders. She ran down the path going deeper into the marsh, her bare feet hitting the soft earth. This is why she loved coming to the Great Marsh. It was freedom and solitude. She could listen, touch, smell, and see all the wonders of the world without being watched and upbraided. She felt the same joy when she was spinning or weaving, but at those times she was at home, and eyes were upon her. Ecstasy should be in the Lord, they would say, not in the natural world.
As she ran, a baby bunny darted out ahead of her. Azubah laughed at his plump little body and tiny white tail as he sprinted ahead of her then dodged into the brush. A chickadee swooped at her, scolding and a mallard paddled off, startled by her motion.
She slowed to a walk, winded at last. Her exhilaration calmed into contentment. Putting her hands on her hips, she watched the blackbirds flying from cattail to cattail, calling.
Now that she was still, she realized she was hungry and chided herself for not bringing some cornbread. She turned away from the marsh and followed a familiar path uphill into a wooded area. She started to look for berries when suddenly she heard a roar and someone jumped into her path.
Startled, Azubah screamed. Short and squat with huge bulbous eyes and wild hair, a boy growled and lunged at her. His clothes were rags, and he was barefoot.
“Bullfrog!” she exclaimed. “How I’ve missed you!”
Chapter 3
“How are things in the Great Marsh?” Azubah asked.
“All is well,” Bullfrog replied.
He smiled at her affectionately. Barrel-chested with a powerful upper body and skinny legs, Bullfrog had a unique appearance. Although his build was unusual, it was his face that was arresting. He had a large head, bulbous eyes, and a wide mouth that seemed to run from ear to ear. Paired with thin lips, he bore a startling resemblance to a frog which accounted for his nickname. It had started so many years ago; he could no longer remember his true name. To Azubah, he had always been Bullfrog; and to her, nothing was startling about his appearance.
“Sut wyt ti, fy ffrind?” he asked, with a grin. “Ydch chi’n ymweld a ch modryb?”
Azubah stared at him. “I’ve forgotten my Welsh,” she said, laughing.
“Are you visiting your aunt?” he asked again in Welsh, but this time more slowly.
“Yes, yes, I am!” she replied.
They had had no language in common when the two met years ago, but Azubah eagerly learned Welsh. It is Bullfrog’s native tongue. Now, it was the only language they spoke.
He grinned at her, his teeth crooked and small. Although he was dressed in rags, Bullfrog was not dirty. His curly, brown hair was wild and disheveled, but it was washed, and his hands were clean.
Birds starting landing on him as Azubah spoke with him. Finches perched on his shoulders; a sparrow rested on his head and warblers fluttered around him. Neither one of them noticed. They were as much a part of Bullfrog’s body as his limbs. He had been living with the creatures for so long that they were used to him. They perched on him as if he was a moving tree. Azubah knew they were also drawn to him because of his tender nature.
“Do you have to go right back?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No, my aunt will not look for me until sundown.”
“Good news! I have so much to show you.”
Azubah’s heart leaped. How she loved being with her best friend, but she needed food before they did anything. “Can we eat first?”
“Come along,” he replied, taking her hand.
Balancing on a fallen tree, they crossed a bog and started for his home. They walked inland away from the marsh and up a rise to a cluster of trees. Although most of the area was open lowland, Bullfrog had managed to find higher, wooded ground to avoid the ebb and flow of the tide and the occasional flood. He also wanted to be hidden. He did not trust humans.
Birds fluttered around him as they walked, and occasionally, Azubah would shoo them away as if they were gnats. She stopped momentarily to gaze through the trees at the burned-out remains of the hamlet where Bullfrog was born. It always chilled her to see it. Even though nature was reclaiming the site, the charred timbers were still visible as well as blackened chimneys.
Ten families, mostly from Cornwall and Wales, had settled the shores of the marsh shortly before Bullfrog was born. Considered an unsuitable family member because of his distorted appearance, he had been banished to the barn. It was where he worked, took his meals and slept.
The villagers were never on good terms with the Indians and one night there was a raid. The Indians found Bullfrog while searching the barn for livestock. Instead of killing him, they set him free and burned the village to the ground. Terrified, he watched the blaze from afar. He was the only one to survive.
“Quit dallying,” he called to Azubah. She ran after him into a dense thicket of trees where a huge tree was laying on the ground. Years earlier, it had been struck by lightning and crashed upon a hill. It had never completely broken free from its base. As a result, there was a large hollow between the trunk and the earth. It was here that Bullfrog had made his home. With the trunk giving him shelter, he dug into the hill, packed the walls with mud and rocks, and moved inside the chamber.
Three geese charged Azubah as she approached the dwelling, all flapping their wings and honking. Bullfrog bent down and swept them aside. “Sorry,” he said. “They keep thieving animals away from the house and even the occasional bear.”
“I believe it,” she said, glaring at them.
Azubah ducked into his dwelling. Although it was tiny, Bullfrog used every bit of space efficiently. All of his belongings were homemade. His furniture was constructed of timber lashed with rope. He had a short-legged chair, a small table, and a pallet covered with a tattered quilt. This was the quilt which he had wrapped himself in before fleeing the settlement. There was a ragged braided rug on the floor and a candle on the table.
“Look at my new hearth, a new flue and all,”
Bullfrog said, proudly.
It was a small fireplace, made from stones, just big enough to heat the cottage. All of his cooking occurred outside on the open fire.
“Where did you get the materials to build it?” Azubah asked.
“‘The Hooded Ones. They said fumes could have killed me the way I had it. It is much safer now.”
The Hooded Ones were Bullfrog’s imaginary friends, and he had spoken of them for as long as Azubah could remember. She guessed that, in reality, he took the flue and the hearthstones from the remains of the burned-out village.
“Do The Hooded Ones still bring you food and ask you to live with them?”
“They still bring food, but they don’t invite me to live with them anymore. They know I’m happiest here or up in the trees.”
Azubah nodded. She knew Bullfrog preferred his solitude. He did not trust human beings and spent most of his time alone with the birds, observing everything from a safe distance.
Sitting down at the table, she watched him cut a hearty chunk of bread for her. She looked around the cottage. There was a set of antlers hanging on the wall as well as a bow with a quiver of arrows. But Bullfrog also had flowers and herbs hanging from the ceiling, and some decorative feathers in a pewter mug on the table. It was very tidy and cozy.
He dished up some muskrat soup for her, poured some small beer and sat down while she ate. When she finished, he gave her a bug repellant consisting of rosemary and lavender oil to rub on her skin. Then, they were ready to go. The first thing they did was check Bullfrog’s fish traps. Azubah tucked her skirts up and waded into the brackish water behind him to gather the catch.
Azubah gazed up at the long wispy clouds overhead thinking they resembled combed wool. When the sun became too hot, they moved offshore into the woods bordering the marsh to search for berries stopping. At last, they were able to rest under a willow.
Bullfrog stretched out on the ground with a sigh. Instantly one of the birds landed on his head while another nestled in his tangled brown curls. His hair was short and uneven, obviously sheared off with a hunting knife.
The Firefly Witch (Bold Women of the 17th Century Series, Book 1) Page 2
