“Come live with me, Bullfrog,” she said one day.
He laughed. “Not I! I like being alone.” He looked at the birds around his head and laughed. “If you can call this being alone.”
“But you like spending time with me, do you not?” she argued.
“Yes, but not every day.”
“Very well,” she said with a sigh.
It was midsummer and at last, Azubah had her thirteenth birthday. She planned the whole day. She would do the wash, make a carrot pudding, go to Bullfrog’s house to share it, and ask him to take her for a ride in the boat. It was a beautiful day and she was beyond excited.
Balancing a wicker basket of laundry on her head, she walked to a freshwater pond deep in the woods. Most water in the area was brackish. This pond, fed by a fresh water stream, was perfect for laundry. After scrubbing and beating several aprons and shifts, she sat back on her heels and looked around at the landscape. It was a beautiful spot, quiet and secluded with crystal clear water.
Remembering that today she turned thirteen, she leaned over and looked at her reflection. Had she changed? Her hair was still wavy and the color of the poppies. She was still covered in freckles, but she had lost some of the baby fat on her face. Her cheekbones seemed higher, and her lips appeared fuller. It wasn’t as bad as she thought.
Something caught her eye as Azubah stood up; her heart jumped. A man was standing across the pond. He was tall and one of the Hooded Ones. He was staring at her.
Azubah wanted to bolt but her feet felt rooted to the ground. What was he doing? Should she ask him what he wanted? She tried to speak but could not find her voice. She watched him, panting with fear.
Slowly he reached up and lowered his hood.
Azubah gasped. His hair was long, falling down around his shoulders. It was bright red. He wore one small braid next to his face. His skin was covered with freckles just like hers. She couldn’t believe her eyes. She seemed to be looking at herself.
The man put his hood up again, stepped back and was gone.
Azubah was shaken. She scanned the woods all the way back to the cottage but saw no one else. She had not sensed any threat from the man, so why was she so upset?
Once at home, she moved mechanically around the kitchen making the carrot pudding, but when it was finished, she didn’t want to go see Bullfrog. A ride in the boat no longer sounded amusing. She had changed her mind and would rather stay home. Instead, she busied herself with chores, trying to forget about the man at the pond.
* * *
Azubah bolted upright in bed. She heard something downstairs. She was not alone. Barely breathing, she listened. There it was again, a whimper. She stood up and the loft floor creaked. Terrified, she did not move. Who was it? Would they try to harm her? Moments seemed like hours. She might have heard the door and prevented the intrusion if only she had slept downstairs. But she just couldn’t bring herself to take the bed in which Uncle Gideon had sickened and died.
She waited for what seemed like an eternity. At last, in her shift and bare feet, Azubah descended the ladder. She thought she would swoon if anyone grabbed her legs.
The moon was full, and it flooded the main floor with light. She ran her eyes over the room and stopped at the hearth. A woman was sitting with her back to Azubah. The moonlight illuminated her light, wispy hair.
Azubah’s heart lurched. It looked like—no, it couldn’t be—was it Aunt Faye?
“Aunt?” she asked, her voice shaking.
There was no reply. The woman did not move. She continued to stare straight ahead.
What manner of magic was this? Could it be witchcraft or was this merely a woman in need of shelter?
“Prithee madam, who are you?”
Slowly she turned and looked at Azubah. It was Aunt Faye. Her hair was wet and plastered to her pale face. Her shift was soaked and clinging to her skin; weeds were tangled in her hair. A foul smell emanated from her. “Gideon?” she murmured.
Azubah backed away, too horrified to speak.
The specter looked past her and repeated, “Gideon?”
Whirling around, Azubah looked at the bed. It was not Uncle Gideon. It was her mother. She lies in the moonlight staring at the ceiling, sick and peppered with smallpox sores. She rolled her head to the side, looked at Azubah and mumbled, “I burn in hell because of you.”
Azubah stumbled back, running into a chair. The specter of Aunt Faye grabbed her shift, asking again, “Gideon?”
Azubah screamed. Pulling the fabric from her grasp, she ran from the house. She ran toward the marsh, sobbing and looking over her shoulder to see if the phantoms followed. They had not.
She ran as fast as she could. She had to get away.
At last, she stopped while gasping for air. Tiny white lights were everywhere. It was the fireflies again. She knew they were there to bring her comfort.
They clustered together and flew down the path. “Wait for me!”
She started to chase them, but they flew too quickly.
“Circe,” she heard a voice say in Welsh. “Circe, it’s time.”
She stopped and looked around, panting. ”Who is there?”
“It is time,” the voice repeated. “Try.”
“What? Try what?” she asked.
“Leap forward now or they will be gone.”
The light from the fireflies was growing dim. Frantic to catch them, she stepped forward and jumped. Instantly some unearthly force swept her up in the air. She hovered for a moment and dropped back down.
She tried again, wide-eyed and breathless. This time she leapt with outstretched arms. Like magic, Circe flew up in the air, coasting a short distance and dropping back to the ground.
“Again,” the voice urged.
Circe soared up above the treetops by the fourth try. A breeze lifted her, and, with outstretched arms, she careened like a bird. She was flying! What freedom! What exhilaration!
She ran her eyes over the Great Marsh below her with a wildly beating heart. The full moon overhead flooded everything with a sparkling light. Crystalline ribbons of water wound around tiny islands clustered with trees. And there was the thatched roof of the Mayweather cottage and the dark path to Plum River. In the distance, Circe could see the constellation of fireflies. With lightning speed, she propelled herself forward, joining them in their luminous flight.
She was ecstatic. The fairy-like creatures gathered around her, blinking and sailing through the night sky. But the happiness was not to last. When the fireflies turned to follow the big river inland, her joy turned to trepidation. Circe knew they were traveling to the village of The Hooded Ones. She looked back at the path to Plum River.
With a jolt, Azubah Craft was back to earth again, standing in the doorway of the Mayweather cottage. Dazed and confused, she searched for the fireflies. Where had they gone? How did she get back here so quickly?
And then she remembered the specters. Whirling around, she looked inside the cottage. Aunt Faye was no longer in the chair and her mother was not in the bed.
Azubah knew then she had been dreaming.
* * *
She had the same dream every night for a week. Every time she would wake up standing on the threshold of the cottage.
When she saw Bullfrog, she didn’t tell him. It was far too disturbing to relive, if only through words. She said nothing about seeing the man with red hair in the woods either.
During the day, Azubah was able to keep her mind off everything, but she grew anxious at night when she lied down to sleep. The summer heat was intense; the moisture in the air made it hard to breathe.
One particularly sultry night, Azubah awakened drenched in perspiration. Rising, she stepped out the door. The air felt cool and she pulled the damp shift from her skin while fanning herself. Sitting on the step, she noticed that the crickets and toads seemed louder than usual. She ran her fingers through her hair and sighed.
Something caught her eye in the north. A blaze of yellow light was fl
ickering above the trees. She jumped to her feet. Something was on fire in Plum River. She ran down to the path to get a better look. It had to be more than one structure; it looked like the whole village. The flames reached high into the night sky and there were gunshots. What was happening? A group of shadowy figures loomed up out of the darkness running toward her. They came so quickly that they almost knocked her off her feet.
“Dear Lord!” a woman cried. “We thought you were a savage.” She was holding a baby and next to her was a boy Azubah’s age. Azubah recognized the family from Plum River.
“Run, girl!” the father said. “The Narragansett’s are burning the settlements and killing everyone!” He had a child on his back and was holding a musket. They bolted away as Azubah stared at them, stunned.
Should she run back to the house and dress? No time. She must warn Bullfrog.
Terrified, she scanned the woods and started running to his dwelling. The gunshots were getting closer. Azubah veered off the path and dashed up a hill. She could see the family on the path below her.
Suddenly there was whoop, and the woman screamed. An Indian had thrown the man to the ground and was repeatedly driving a club into his skull. Another warrior took a spear and knocked the boy senseless. The woman frantically tried crawling up the embankment, still holding her baby. Another Indian took her by the hair and yanked her backward, looping a noose around her neck.
Azubah watched in horror from behind a tree, not moving. She would be next if they saw her. After jerking the boy to his feet, they lashed his hands and disappeared into the woods along with the woman and her child.
Azubah stared down at the remains of the man. There was just enough light to see that his face was mangled and his scalp gone. Her knees buckled, and she dropped to the ground. Grabbing a tree, she pulled herself up and stumbled to Bullfrog’s dugout.
The door was ajar when she arrived. She looked around and ducked inside the dwelling. The house had been ransacked. His furniture was broken. His bow and arrows were gone; his pallet was slashed as well as bundles of grain.
“Oh, dear God!” she exclaimed. Had they taken Bullfrog prisoner too? Or had they killed him? “Please let him be safe.”
She couldn’t stay here. The Indians may return. She thought of the little skiff moored at the marsh. She could hide on an island until the attack had passed.
Azubah rushed to shore. The skiff was still hidden in the brush, and with a wildly beating heart, she pushed it out onto the water. But just as she climbed into the boat, a blast of pain shot through her leg. She looked down at her thigh. She had been hit with an arrow, and there was the whir of another arrow as it sailed past her head.
Frantically, she grabbed the oars and propelled herself out on to the marsh. She didn’t know how many Indians were on shore, but she knew that she must flee. She rowed as fast as she could deeper and deeper into the marsh, losing herself in the maze of islands and the tangle of waterways. She drove the oars deeply into the water until she could row no more.
Thoroughly spent and panting, she scanned the cattails, trees, and islands. She was alone. She looked at her thigh as she put the oats aside. Even in the darkness, she could see the dark stain of blood on her shift. She touched the arrow. The pain was excruciating. Even if she could remove it, she would only open the wound more; so, she sat back gritting her teeth trying to decide what to do.
Feeling light-headed, she put her head between her knees. She felt so tired, so very tired and needed to rest - perhaps if she slid down inside the boat and slept.
Azubah heard chanting the moment she closed her eyes. It grew louder and more insistent. At last, she straightened up, covered her ears and screamed, “Enough!”
That outburst had been a dangerous mistake. Quickly she started rowing again. But this time something was guiding her. Something was telling her which was to go.
She continued to row, even though she was growing weaker and weaker. The voices told her to turn onto the big river. She turned up the black expanse without hesitation just as a breeze cooled her brow. She pushed on until the current became too much; her head began to spin.
Just as she was about to swoon, someone appeared on shore holding a lantern.
* * *
When Azubah opened her eyes, she was in a soft bed and it was daytime. Sun was streaming in through an open window. She smelled lemongrass and mint. She raised her head to look around, and someone in chair stirred beside her. Her eyes widened when he leaned over her. It was the man with the red hair.
“Welcome home, Circe,” he said.
Chapter 7
The girl named Azubah was from another lifetime, Circe thought as she floated on the pond while staring up at the clouds. It had only be three months since Plum River had been attacked, but she felt as if it been years. She kicked her feet gently, paddling through the water. Gone was the daughter of the Puritan miller, Josiah Craft and his wife, Abigail. Born anew was Circe Swinburne, daughter of Rhun and Saffir Swinburne, Derwydds of Glendower Village.
She had been stunned when the man with the long, red hair had told her that he was her father. But she should not have been surprised since she looked just like him. Several days after coming to Glendower, when he had gained her trust, Rhun Swinburne explained to Circe about meeting her mother on the voyage from England. Six months later, when he saw her in Ipswich, she was teaming with child. Abigail refused to speak with him or even acknowledge him, so respecting her wishes, he watched from a distance as his daughter grew into a fine, young woman. Never knowing her name, he called her Circe - the beautiful enchantress of Greek mythology. He had imparted that name to her in her dreams, by some power that Circe did not understand.
“We called you The Hooded Ones,” Circe told him.
He chuckled and said in Welsh, “We are not always in robes as you can see.”
She looked at his tunic and trousers.
“They are not practical for daily life, but we certainly wear them for worship.”
“You are not Calvinists?” she asked, scanning the mantel for a Bible.
“No, we are not Christians. We are Derwydds of the Celtic people. We live like the ancient ones of Wales and worship the God and Goddess. We fled The British Isles for the same reason the Puritan sect left, to avoid persecution. We seek freedom here in the New World like everyone else.”
“But you live in secret.”
He nodded. “Indeed, we must. We have for centuries. I fear we may never be able to live openly anywhere. This is why we live such a great distance from the Puritan settlements and are hidden. But the New World is vast. There is room for us here.”
The fact that they were not Puritans, distressed Circe at first. She had been warned of pagan demons for her entire life. Even Papists, fallen away Christians, were considered dangerous. So these odd people who worshipped a goddess must be wicked indeed.
Circe continued to swim around the pond, watching the white clouds sail overhead. But they weren’t wicked, and she discovered that fact quickly. They were kind and generous and welcomed her with open arms. Just like her, these people could feel the pulse of the earth and sense the spirit within all living things. They didn’t frown on laughter and happiness; and although they worked hard, they found joy in partnering with the earth. They did not struggle against it or consider the vast interior an abomination like the Puritans.
Circe reached down and touched the scar on her thigh. The Derwydds could work wonders with medicine too. They had healed her wound with poultices and nursed her through a dangerous fever in no time. In less than two weeks, she gained back her strength and was up helping with tasks around the cottage. The dwelling in which she stayed was square with a thatched roof. Many of the structures in the village were round with fire pits in the center of the room.
Eventually, she moved out into the community to work while meeting the other residents of Glendower. She saw them stealing looks at her, but they did not flood her with questions. Instead, they allowed her
to adjust gradually, working side by side with them as they baked, collected eggs, and weeded their expansive gardens.
Circe stood up and walked to shore for the crock of soft soap. Scooping some into her hand, she lathered her hair. The custom in Glendower was to bathe every few days and, at first, she resisted. She had been taught that frequent bathing was unhealthy, opening up the pores to disease but the villagers here believed the opposite. They believed that filth harbored disease.
Eventually, she complied, but she still wore her shift when she went to the pond to wash. It seemed indecent to swim naked, even if she was alone. Scrubbing was difficult in her clothes, but she was not ready to shed all of her Puritan inhibitions.
“You are becoming a young woman now,” her father’s wife said one morning as she combed Circe’s hair with scented oils. “I will teach you how to make yourself attractive. Here in our village, you may wear your beautiful hair down around your shoulders if you choose. You do not have to cover it.”
Circe idolized Saffir. She was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. She was breathtaking with chestnut-colored hair that fell in long spirals around her face, bright green eyes and ivory skin. Her nature was equally spellbinding. She was soft spoken and pensive yet, without warning, she might find the humor in something and laugh.
Saffir held a position of high status in the community. She was a bard, one who is a poet and lore-keeper. Although she could read and write, most of her work was oral literature. Saffir was also responsible for protecting the lore of the Ancient Order of the Oak, another name for the Derwydds. She was committing to memory their history all the way back to ancient times.
Circe learned there was only a handful of Derwydds in Glendower. Derwydds were the community leaders and administrators and her father were among them. His role was of that of priest and astrologer.
The Firefly Witch (Bold Women of the 17th Century Series, Book 1) Page 6
