Dido shook her turbaned head and muttered an incantation.
Abigail opened her bloodshot eyes and looked up. She was completely covered with pus-filled sores. They were on her arms, legs, torso and face, even in her nose and mouth. They were clustered so closely together that no smooth skin was visible. She looked more reptilian than human. “Get back, Azubah,” she mumbled.
“No, Mother. I’m here. I will take care of you.”
“Where is everyone?” she asked Dido.
“Gone to Ipswich,” the slave replied. “Only the sick and dying remain.” Her head was trembling as well as her hands, but it was not from agitation. The old woman was plagued by tremors.
“My brothers and sisters - are they well?”
“Aye,” the slave replied. “Their father took them away.”
“How long has my mother been sick?”
“More than four days.”
A shadow darkened the door and they looked up. It was Josiah. He stood on the threshold, not stepping inside the house. The sunlight was bright behind him, putting his face into shadow. “So you’re back,” he said to Azubah.
“Yes, Father. Matthew did not come, and I began to worry.”
Looking at Dido, he jerked his head and said, “The girl is here now. Be useful elsewhere.”
“It be God’s will and yours, Master Craft,” she murmured, picking up her sewing and leaving.
“Josiah?” Abigail mumbled. “Are you there?”
He did not answer.
“Josiah?”
He did not come into the room.
“Mother calls for you,” Azubah said. But he was gone when she looked.
* * *
Azubah did not leave her mother’s side the rest of the day. She bathed her brow with cool washcloths and gave her broth. Abigail was weak and often insensible. One moment she was crying out in pain and the next coughing and gasping. She fell into a swoon by evening.
Helpless to do anything but pray, Azubah stepped outside for some fresh air. The autumn wind felt good on her skin. She looked through the window at her spinning wheel and loom. How long had it been since she had used them? It felt like years. Everything was changing so quickly; she was scared. She was a carefree girl only yesterday, teasing Matthew and stealing away with Bullfrog. Now a dark shadow had fallen.
She looked up the hill at the mill. All was quiet, and she wondered if Grandfather had left with the others. She decided to search for him. She looked up at the familiar stone building as she crossed the bridge over the falls. At least that remained the same, solid and dependable. She stopped and looked down at the river tumbling over the edge to the rocks below. That had not changed either. And it would remain the same for a thousand years.
She stepped off the bridge and started toward the service door, glancing at a bench under an old willow tree. Grandmother Craft was buried there. Many evenings before sunset, Azubah would sit in that spot with her grandfather.
Something caught her eye and her stomach twisted. It was a freshly dug mound of earth. She rushed over and dropped to her knees. The headstone read Enoch Craft.
“No, it cannot be!” she cried. “No, no, no! You cannot be gone!”
Azubah had seen this headstone in the past. Her grandfather had commissioned it years ago. It was engraved with a winged skull, his name, birth date and now the date of his death. Since the Puritans did not believe in consecrated ground, they allowed the Crafts to be buried by the mill.
“I knew it!” Azubah exclaimed in a voice thick with tears. “You said farewell to me through Aunt Faye. I knew it was you, but I didn’t want to believe it.”
She sat crossed-legged by his grave, sobbing, her mind flooding with questions. What had happened? Was it the pox? What would she do without him? He was the only one in the family that understood her; he was the only one who wanted her company.
She sat back on her heels and looked around, wiping her tears. Grandfather had always loved this spot. He said it was the perfect place to be buried. Now he rested here at last.
* * *
Azubah sat by his grave with her knees drawn up until well after dark. When she realized the time, she jumped up and ran back to the house. She lit a lamp with shaky hands and checked on her mother. Abigail’s left eye was covered with sores, but she looked at Azubah with her right eye.
“Would you like some water, Mother?”
She did not answer.
When she put water to her lips, it ran down her mother’s face and onto her neck. She tried again but to no avail. At last, Azubah brought bedding down from the loft to make up a pallet on the floor. Sleep would not come, though, and she was up all night either tending to her mother or pacing. Would her mother live? And what would she do without Grandfather? Finally, she slept until Josiah burst into the room at dawn.
“How is she?”
Azubah sat up, rubbing her eyes. “She speaks little and takes no water.”
He grunted and picked up a chair, walking out of the house with it. When he returned, he took a chest. Azubah followed him out the door. Josiah was filling a huge wagon with household goods.
“Where are you going, Father?”
“Ipswich.”
“Are we leaving Plum River?”
“Yes, tis God’s will that your mother will not be on this earth much longer.”
“But she still lives!”
Stunned, she followed him out to the wagon, watching him arrange the furniture. “Please, we must not give up.”
He did not answer, returning to the house for the kitchen table. Piece by piece he emptied the dwelling. When he picked up the spinning wheel, Azubah cried, “Please, do not take that. I will find a way to bring it when I come.”
He stared at her as if she was daft. “You’re not coming.”
“What?” she murmured.
“You are not my daughter.”
“Father--”
“Do not!” he barked, putting his hand up. “Do not address me thus. I am not your father.”
He climbed onto the wagon, snapped the reins and rode away. She stared at the wagon.
“Azubah!” Abigail called.
When she ran back inside, her mother asked, “Where is my husband going?”
“To Ipswich.”
“Why does he not stay?”
“He must return to the children, Mother.”
Abigail was restless after that. Her breathing was labored, and the blisters started breaking all over her body, pus running.
Early that evening Abigail called for her. She leaned close to her mother’s lips.
“Go,” Abigail mumbled.
Azubah replied, “Go? Go where, Mother?”
Abigail repeated it, but her words were garbled as if she had rocks in her mouth.
“Prithee; say it again, Mother.”
Abigail raised herself up, took a breath and said, “Be gone from me. To look upon your face reminds me that I shall burn in hell.”
Azubah’s jaw dropped. “What did you say, Mother?”
No answer.
It was suddenly hard to breathe, and Azubah stumbled to the door for air. So now in her final moments, her mother had spoken the truth. All of these years she had endured her only as a form of penance.
Can it be true? Should she leave? Her mother wanted her gone, but who would comfort her in her final agony? It wounded Azubah deeply.
But a truly good person would stay in spite of the cruel words.
She looked at her mother, thought a moment, and then walked out the door. Azubah never looked back.
Chapter 6
Azubah did not remember walking to the Mayweather homestead. She walked for an hour, dazed and unaware of her surroundings. When at last, she started up the path to the cottage, she stopped abruptly. Terror swept over her. Should she even tend Aunt Faye and Uncle Gideon? She could bring the pox here. There had been a mass exodus from Plum River to avoid the contagion. Should she even go near the two of them? They were already so fra
il.
Azubah stood on the path, wringing her hands. But if she did not help Aunt Faye and Uncle Gideon, they would surely die. At last, she decided to take the chance and walked up to the cottage. Saying a prayer she opened the door, and Aunt Faye looked up. She was sewing in front of the hearth.
“My little niece!” she exclaimed. “Good morrow to you!”
“Aunt Faye, you fare well?”
“My affliction is much improved,” she said with a smile.
Azubah burst into tears and ran to her, putting her head in her lap. “Thanks be to God!”
“The Hooded Ones left an elixir for me.”
Drying her eyes, Azubah looked up. “You saw them?”
“I remember little, but one of them came and helped me drink a concoction.” She laughed. “A foul tasting brew. But by evening I began to feel stronger. I am to drink a spoonful every morning. Tis there on the shelf.”
Azubah stood up and took down the small jug, uncorking it. It had the scent of lavender with a hint of hawthorn. “What manner of person was this Hooded One?”
“It was like a dream, but I do recall she was a woman, short in stature with a gentle demeanor.”
“She has not returned?”
“No.”
Azubah looked at Uncle Gideon. “And how is my uncle?”
“There is no change.”
Azubah swallowed hard, buried her fists in her apron and sat down. “Aunt Faye, I have news. When I returned to Plum River everyone had,” and she hesitated. “My mother--” and she looked at her aunt. Her eyes were bright for the first time in weeks and she was smiling. Azubah took a breath and said, “Mother said I am to live here from this day forward to help you tend to Uncle Gideon.”
Faye clapped her hands together. “Oh, this news is most welcome! I thought for a moment something was amiss.”
Azubah dropped her eyes. “No, nothing is amiss.”
* * *
Winter came early to the colony that year. Snow covered the path to Plum River, but it did not matter to Azubah. The blanket of white was a comfort. It created a barrier between her and the painful memories of the past.
She refused to let it poison her soul, even though the bitterness ran deep. Everyone she needed now was near her: Aunt Faye, Uncle Gideon and Bullfrog. She thought of the joy her Grandfather had given her throughout her childhood, the hours of companionship and his wealth of affection. She never knew what brought his life to an end, but it mattered little. Their time together had been extraordinary. His death left an emptiness in her though she could never fill. Many nights she lie awake wondering how life would have been if he had survived. She could have lived happily with him at the mill without her parents, but it was not to be.
Recollections of her mother were not as sweet. The rancor of her deathbed words had snapped something deep inside Azubah; it changed her forever. She turned away from all memories of her, never looking back.
Being near Aunt Faye and Bullfrog was the balm she needed. They gave her love and acceptance, and at last, she was spinning and weaving again. That in itself was spiritually nourishing.
“Even without a wheel or loom, you produce beautiful material,” Faye exclaimed one afternoon in December as she held up a sample of linsey-woolsey.
“I was uncertain about the quality using our primitive tools,” Azubah replied, proudly running her hand along the fabric.
“If those tools suited those of times long ago, they suit us.”
The spinning wheel that Azubah had used in Plum River was gone with Josiah and the loom too. But Aunt Faye had knowledge of the old ways, so together they constructed simple tools for making fabric.
First, they crafted a drop spindle. It was a maple stick with a carved whirl and a hook. Azubah would spin by hand with this tool. Next, they devised a simple warp-weighted loom for weaving. It was a large timber frame that leaned against the wall, simple but effective. Obtaining flax and wool could have been a problem in the winter, but Faye had collected a great deal of fiber over the years and stored bundles in the loft.
The tools were slow, but in several weeks, Azubah was turning out exquisite fabric once more. Faye spun flax harvested from the marsh and was making delicate lace.
“I’m ready to start the blanket for Bullfrog. Do you fancy the color of the yarn?” Azubah asked while holding up the red wool.
“Tis fine indeed. We had sufficient cranberries?”
“Yes, we did.”
Faye went back to feeding Uncle Gideon his broth. “Prithee, speak with Bullfrog again when you deliver the blanket. Urge him to stay with us during the coldest weeks of winter if only to sleep.”
“Aunt Faye, I know he will not accept. He will not even show himself to you.”
“Yet I worry.”
“Indeed his little dwelling stays quite warm. The Hooded Ones have seen to that.”
Faye sighed. “Very well.”
Even though the snow was deep and the air frigid, every few days Azubah would wrap herself in a cloak and venture deep into the marsh to see Bullfrog. It was always a day of adventure, and at last, she was starting to feel happy again.
If weather permitted, then they would strap on wide woven “Indian shoes,” take the bow and arrows and hunt. Or they would venture out on the marsh, chip through the ice and fish. If the air was too cold, they would stay by the fire. Then, Azubah would read to Bullfrog.
“Do you still have dreams?” he asked one afternoon as he whittled arrows by the fire.
Azubah nodded. “I had a new one last night. I was sitting at my wheel spinning, but I was in the middle of a forest surrounded by tall oak trees.”
Bullfrog frowned and went back to whittling. “Were you afraid?”
“No, I was quite content.”
When he looked up again, Azubah was tracing an invisible design on her skirt with her finger.
“Azubah?” he said.
She jumped. “Yes?”
“You’re acting strangely again like that day we went to see the village.”
“Oh,” she replied, only vaguely aware of what he meant.
Winter was long and brutal, but at last, the spring thaw came, and sap began to run in the trees. Bullfrog and Azubah carved spiles and drove them into the maples to collect the thin liquid in buckets. On a sunny day the steady drip, drip could be heard from the trees surrounding Bullfrog’s home. They spent hours at the open fire, boiling the sap down into rich syrup for Johnny cakes and applesauce.
One afternoon when Azubah returned home from sugaring off, she opened the door to find the Mayweather cottage filled with smoke. Supper was burning on the hearth. Quickly she pulled the Dutch oven from the fire and looked around the room. Aunt Faye was in bed, curled up beside Uncle Gideon with her arms around him.
All winter long Aunt Faye had been engaged in life, up during the day and sleeping only at night. This seemed unusual. But when she walked over to the bed, she saw what had happened. Uncle Gideon had given up the struggle. He was dead.
* * *
Bullfrog helped Azubah dig a grave outside the cottage where they lied Uncle Gideon to rest. Aunt Faye refused to get out of bed, so Azubah read out loud from Scripture while Bullfrog filled the grave.
Even the mysterious elixir from the Hooded Ones could not revive Faye from her torpor this time. Her reason for living was gone. She slid back to her old ways again with restless nights and sleep-filled days. Azubah did everything: cooking, tending the garden, feeding the goats and chickens as well as all the housework. Her aunt slept during the day and wandered at night, forcing Azubah to stay awake.
Weeks passed and Azubah grew weary. She had lost so much sleep that she was starting to feel sick. One night, when she was feeling particularly ill, she decided to retire early. Wearily she dropped her gown to the floor and crawled onto a pallet by Aunt Faye’s bed.
“Gideon?” Faye called.
“He is not here, Aunt,” Azubah mumbled.
“Gideon, is that you?”
/> Azubah tried to reply but started coughing. She coughed so hard that she thought she would retch. Exhausted, she rolled over and went to sleep.
When she awoke, hours later, she sat up with a start. Sun was streaming through the window and birds were singing. Frantically, she looked around the room. It was empty, and the cottage door was open.
Jumping up, Azubah ran out calling, “Aunt Faye!”
Wild with fear, she ran to the back of the cottage, past the goat pens, and out to the fallow fields. “Aunt Faye?”
She turned and bolted for the marsh. She found her on the shoreline, floating face down in the cordgrass. She was dressed in her shift with her long hair floating around her head. Aunt Faye had drowned.
* * *
Azubah buried her in a garment she crafted, and with the help of Bullfrog, lied her to rest next to Uncle Gideon.
She keenly felt the loss. They had been kindred spirits. She blamed herself for her aunt’s death, citing that she had not watched her closely enough.
She punished herself so severely that Bullfrog finally spoke with her. “Your aunt would have died either way, Azubah. The moment your uncle left this earth she chose to join him; there was no way you could have stopped her.”
“I should have tied the door shut.”
A sarcastic smile spread across his wide face. “Or tied her to a chair?”
Azubah sighed and looked away. Bullfrog didn’t understand.
He held up his hand and a bird landed on his forearm. “If I hold this sparrow’s feet, he will struggle until he dies.” Gently he tossed his arm, and the bird flew. “It was the same with your aunt.”
Slowly his words took hold, and Azubah began to move on but she found she had a new obstacle to face. She was living alone for the first time in her life. It was odd rising in the morning with no one to greet and nobody with whom to talk to during the day. She went to see Bullfrog as often as she could, but he was often gone from his dugout. He was working on a new dwelling that was high in a tree. She had been there once to help pull timbers up, but it was so well camouflaged that she could never hope to find it again.
To keep from thinking about her loneliness, she kept busy weeding the garden, tending the livestock and occasionally weaving. But why bother? To what end? Merely to survive? True, she had the company of the earth with its wealth of life but she needed the companionship of human beings and a future. Where should she go? What path should she take?
The Firefly Witch (Bold Women of the 17th Century Series, Book 1) Page 5
