Circe put her head in her hands while trying to make sense of it. She must speak with her father. He would know what had happened.
Chapter 9
“I don’t like it,” Rhun said the next day as he walked along the river with Saffir. “She is my only child. I don’t want her harmed.”
He had hidden his agitation when Circe told him about her vision, but a dark cloud of despair swept over him.
Saffir, too, was disturbed. “How do you know it was your great-grandmother visiting her?” she asked.
“She described the missing finger on her left hand. There is no way she could have known that.”
“Do you believe that she has the Swinburne gift?”
“She said she is a fair hand at weaving, but I am not certain. Her eyes lit up with joy when I told her about the mythical abilities of her ancestors.”
Saffir looked at the river, deep in thought. “You would apprentice her to Tanwen Rhys?”
“Who else? She is the only master weaver in Glendower. But we all know she is a jealous woman.”
“Maybe she will surprise you and foster Circe.”
Rhun chuckled. “Oh Saffir, you are too kind. Tanwen Rhys has a vile nature. She is only tolerated because she is the Arch Derwydd’s wife. I believe she conjures dark spirits.”
“If there be truth in that, then we will keep Circe safe,” Saffir said, linking arms with him. “Tanwen is a powerful woman, but we are more powerful in quiet, peaceful ways.”
He nodded and sighed. “But the ancestors are asking more of her than merely spinning and weaving.”
Saffir’s eyebrows shot up. “Of what do you speak?”
“I cannot be certain, but they have been trying to tell me something ever since Circe joined us. But I refused to listen.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to know,” he replied.
“Oh, Rhun,” she said, taking his arm. “You cannot interfere with her destiny.”
“But I can!” he barked, yanking away. “I just found her. I don’t want to lose her again.”
Saffir did not argue. An outburst from Rhun was rare, and she did not want to press him. She watched him pace until, at last, she said gently, “Someday she will make her own way in the world, and she will have to follow her destiny. We will carry on in spite of it.”
He did not reply.
Saffir took his hand and placed it on her belly. “Here is another reason for us to carry on.”
* * *
The next morning Rhun instructed Circe to walk in the woods and consult with the spirits about her future. She had no objections. She had been doing it her entire life, feeling the pulse of the trees and the warm comfort of the earth below her feet. If she closed her eyes, she could feel the birds carrying her on her their backs or the river sweeping her away. Today, though, Circe turned inward. She needed to listen for guidance.
“Be mindful of the boundaries,” her father said. “Do not lose yourself and wander outside our ring of protection. Relations are strained now with the Puritan settlements and the Narragansett Indians.”
“Yes, Father.”
It was a gray day. A cold mist was falling, but it did not dampen Circe’s spirits. She was elated. She knew what she wanted. At last, she could return to spinning and weaving. She looked up at the sky, the rain falling gently on her face. Perhaps now she could realize her full potential. Perhaps now she could weave fabric of a color and quality so fine that even she would be dazzled.
She raised her hands in the air to give thanks. Life was so much better here. Here she was allowed to be happy and make her own way. But hush, listen. What do the spirits say? She stood motionless waiting for words, but all she heard was the sound of rain hitting the leaves.
Circe tried again. Her father did not ask her to abandon her Christian beliefs, but he did encourage her to pray and find comfort in something beyond the mundane. He said if she wanted to commune with one all-powerful being then that was her choice. So what does God say? Still, she heard nothing.
Circe walked along a wetland, lush with cattails and blackbirds. It reminded her of the Great Marsh. It had been her home. Her father understood that sort of bond with a place. There had been a spot along the coast of Anglesey where he was raised that spoke to him in the same way.
Circe listened to the wind blowing through in the trees, hoping it might carry words to her. She was just too excited to listen. She wanted to be a weaver, but she must not make a rush to judgment. Should she become a Derwydd? That path was all-consuming, and she had no passion for it. Marriage was another choice to consider, but that sounded predictable and boring. Over and over she returned to the excitement of becoming a master weaver. It was what she loved.
On her way home, she walked past the site of the abandoned cottage where she had experienced the vision, but it had vanished. Dropping her hood, she looked around the clearing. This was most certainly the spot, but it was nothing more than an open area on the stream with tall dry grass. And then, as if carried on the wind, the words of the little girl in the vision echoed in her ears. “Follow your heart, Circe,” she said.
* * *
On her first day as an apprentice weaver, Circe was awake before the sun, filled with anticipation. Although she wasn’t hungry, Saffir insisted she eat a hearty breakfast. She was out the door after gobbling it down.
One of the largest dwellings in the village, the Rhys home, was in the center of the village. It was a square, clapboard structure with an attached weaving room. Standing outside the door were three children, crimping and brushing flax. After greeting them, Circe stepped into the weaving room. Two young people looked up at her. There was a boy was at the loom and a girl spinning. They were both were Circe’s age.
“You’re Ruith’s sister,” the boy said. He was chubby, had russet-colored hair and round cheeks. “I met you on Calan Gaeaf. I’m Wren.”
“I remember,” Circe replied with a smile.
“And I’m Mercy,” the girl said. She was tiny and pale with light hair that resembled straw, sticking out in every direction. Circe thought she resembled a miniature scarecrow.
“This is our third year as apprentices,” Wren announced proudly. “We have three wheels here and two looms.”
Circe looked around the room. It was a square structure with a fireplace on one wall and a door to the Rhys’ residence. The room was flooded with light from several large windows. Circe knew this was to help the weavers see properly during the fine work of sewing and the setting the looms.
Yarn of every color hung in skeins from the rafters. Hampers filled with rollags of fleece and baskets of bark were along the walls. Large crocks sat on shelves filled with herbs, flowers, and seeds for creating dye. What dominated the room, though, were two full size looms which were unheard of in the Massachusetts Bay Colony.
“I bid you welcome, Circe Swinburne,” someone said, behind her. “I am Mistress Rhys.”
When Circe turned around, she was stunned. A tall, elderly woman stood before her dressed in an azure gown belted at the waist. Her white hair was in a thick braid draped over her chest, while her eyes were as blue as her garment. But what startled her was that she looked like a living skeleton. Tanwen Rhys was beyond emaciated. Her pale skin was stretched tightly over her frame, defining every bone in her body. Her fingers were long and sharp; her forehead high from a receding hairline. When her lips drew back, they revealed huge gums and big, white teeth.
“We have not yet met,” she said in a deep voice.
Circe mumbled, “Good day, Mistress.”
“Since you have already met the other apprentices, take a seat at the spinning wheel and let us begin.”
Swallowing hard, Circe walked over and sat down. She couldn’t believe she had not seen this woman before in the village. She would have remembered.
All morning long, Mistress Rhys observed her spinning and weaving while Wren and Mercy dyed cloth. In the afternoon, she watched her do hand sewing and asked
her for embroidery samples.
“Your work is satisfactory, Circe Swinburne,” Tanwen said at the end of the day. “Although your skills are far beyond the others, your work is slovenly and lacks discipline. Nevertheless,” she said with a sigh. “Tell your father that I accept you as an apprentice.”
“I thank you, Mistress Rhys,” she replied with a slight curtsy.
Tanwen turned away.
The apprentices started for home after straightening up the weaving room.
“So, how was your first day?” Wren asked Circe.
“It went well,” she said, reluctant to say anymore.
“Mistress Rhys is filled with joy, is she not?” Mercy said with a giggle. “Wren is afraid of her.”
“I am afraid of her,” Wren admitted, puffing as he waddled alongside them. “Who isn’t? But her skills are unsurpassed and to learn from her will make us the best weavers in the New World.”
“I want to know everything,” Circe said.
“She is a hard taskmaster but a patient teacher,” Mercy added, turning down a path toward home. “Until tomorrow!”
“Until then!” they called back to her.
For weeks, Mistress Rhys worked with Circe, helping her improve her technique while teaching her to become a more efficient spinner and weaver. In the weeks that followed, she explained dyes, mordants and the various qualities of fleece, flax and even silk. Although, the worm was not yet in the English Colonies. While she was stern, Mistress Rhys was thorough, and Circe absorbed everything like a sponge. She didn’t care if the mistress was cold; she would do anything to improve.
Months passed and winter came to Glendower. Circe was content, even though the snow was deep and the winds sharp. It meant hours and hours inside the weaving room perfecting her craft. Tanwen extended their hours since it was winter; and, by February the three were greatly improved.
Each one of the apprentices excelled in a different area. Wren was an accomplished spinner, making yarn of remarkable quality. Mercy’s knowledge of plants and dyes was exceptional, and Circe’s weaving unparalleled. And as Mercy said, Mistress Rhys was indeed a patient teacher. Circe marveled at her vast knowledge and skills. Day by day, under her tutelage, she improved steadily.
Yet, she was confused. It seemed unremarkable when she saw the cloth Mistress Rhys wove. She told herself that since the fabric was for everyday garments, it was no true test of the Mistress’s skill, but a part of her that began to grow uneasy.
“You all need to improve your skills in mordants,” Mistress Rhys stated late one snowy afternoon in March. “You all must understand and create your own dyes. We have no dye makers or fullers in our settlements. We will work on it next week. But for now, I have something to tell you.” Turning to Wren, she said, “Put another log on the fire. It is cold in here.”
When he was done, Tanwen called them to the hearth. The apprentices exchanged nervous looks and sat down.
“Perhaps you have heard,” Tanwen began. “The high priestess, her three priests and scores of followers will be here from New Quay for the Calan Mai festivities. We are hosting it this year for all of the New World settlements. It is a great honor.”
The three apprentices smiled and nodded.
Tanwen continued. “I will be making garments for Lady Enid, the high priestess, and I am charging you with weaving the sacred robes and cloaks for each of the three priests. This will be Glendower’s gift.”
Their eyes grew large.
“I believe you are ready for the task.”
“Thank you, Mistress,” they each murmured.
“Now, go home, my apprentices. We are done for the day but retire early. We start when the sun rises tomorrow and work late every night until Calan Mai.”
* * *
It took weeks of preparation before the apprentices could even think about weaving. The creation of linen yarn was an involved and complicated process. Rinsing, scouring, and beetling were only a few of the steps. It demanded not only a great deal of time but skill. The robes had to be bleached white and then colored. Creating the perfect dye was imperative. The apprentices were not to share responsibilities. They were to create the garments from beginning to end by themselves under the watchful eye of Mistress Rhys.
Circe worked day and night. She barely noticed the snow melting and the ground becoming muddy.
“It’s an odd feeling,” she told Ruith one night as they undressed for bed. “I feel my ancestors guiding my hands.”
“They probably are.”
Rhun and Saffir, who were downstairs by the fire, heard Circe’s words. They exchanged looks but said nothing. They had been following her apprenticeship closely all winter long without Circe’s knowledge, invoking the strength of the Goddess to protect her.
* * *
Calan Mai was only a few weeks away. The deadline was fast approaching for the apprentices to give their garments to the Derwydd counsel. Circe was the last one to finish weaving her linen. Wren and Mercy were already sewing their garments.
Mercy was dumbfounded when she saw Circe’s fabric on the loom. “It is—oh, Circe−surely you were apprenticed to someone before coming here.”
“No, my mother instructed me when I was young but much of it I learned myself.”
Wren came up beside her and gaped. “Your work surpasses that of the mistress.”
Circe laughed. “Nonsense, mine is greatly inferior.”
“I didn’t think you would ever make the deadline,” he said. “You were so slow and fussy about everything,”
“Yes, but she made up for it at the loom,” Mercy replied. “Did you see her hands fly? I was certain it would be full of mistakes.”
“But it is perfect,” Wren said. “Be careful, Circe.”
Her eyebrows shot up and she laughed. “Of what do you speak?”
He did not answer.
The next morning, Circe was ready to present her cloth for inspection. “Mistress Rhys, may I have your final approval before I finish the linen off?” she asked.
Tanwen was teaching one of the children to grind walnuts with a mortar and pestle for dye. She walked stiffly over to the loom. “The final stages of your work show haste.”
Circe blinked. “If you please, Mistress, show me−”
“Finish it off,” she interrupted. “There is no time. It will have to do.”
“Yes, Mistress,” Circe murmured. “Thank you, Mistress,” she replied as her eyes filled with tears.
Wren and Mercy exchanged looks and went back to their sewing. They tried to talk with Circe on the way home, but she refused to speak of it. Instead, she talked about the festivities, trying to cover her mortification.
She spent a restless night, trying to think what imperfections Mistress Rhys was seeing in the linen, but she was at a loss. The next morning, Circe inspected it again. Still, she still saw nothing. Nevertheless, she was ashamed of her work and embarrassed.
Time was of the essence. She completed her white robe and it was time to dye her cloak. Long before she started, she had decided it was going to be a traditional Lincoln green. Carefully she mixed her ingredients, reviewed her mordant and went home. She began her dyeing the next morning.
“Why are you dyeing your cloth after weaving it?” one of the little girls asked as she helped Circe stoke the fire under the crucible.
“It’s called cross-dyeing, little one,” Circe explained. “I have woven different fibers into the cloth and they each take on a different shade of the same color. It has a very pleasing effect. It gives depth to the cloth and makes it look rich.”
Circe put the linen into the solution and watched it closely, stirring the bath and keeping the fire hot. At last, it was time to remove the material. She was stunned when she lifted it. The dye had not taken to the cloth properly. The color was uneven and blotchy. Some parts had not absorbed the dye at all.
“Oh, no!” she cried. “Oh, no!”
One of the children ran to tell Mistress Rhys.
&
nbsp; “I don’t know what happened!” Circe exclaimed. “I mixed everything perfectly. Over and over I reviewed the ingredients, the mordant, the leaves--”
Mistress Rhys shook her head. “Probably a mistake with the mordant,” she stated unemotionally.
“Can it be bleached?”
“No, Apprentice Swinburne. The green is too dark and there is no time. What have you learned from this?”
Circe knew what the Mistress wanted to hear. She hung her head and murmured, “To not make haste.”
“Just be grateful that it can be salvaged. We can dye it black and use it as a Calan Gaeaf robe.”
“But there will be no sacred cloak for one of the priests,” Circe said.
“In anticipation of problems such as this,” Tanwen Rhys said with a sigh. “I have woven an extra robe. Now prepare a new bath of black and recolor it.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
* * *
Several days later, Circe climbed down from her bedroom with a bundle under her arm. She had been sewing the black cloak all night.
“Did you finish?” Rhun asked, sitting up in bed, running his hands through his hair.
She nodded.
“You were up late,” Saffir said, pushing herself up on one elbow. “Have some tea and a bun before you go. You need sustenance.”
Circe shook her head. “There is no time. The priests and priestess could be stepping on shore right now. I’ll eat after I deliver the garments.”
Glendower was quiet. Only a few people were out milking cows in the gray light of dawn. Circe slogged through the muddy streets feeling downhearted. How could she have been so foolish? The townspeople of Plum River would say that hers was the sin of pride and haste, and that she deserved this chastisement.
“Circe,” someone hissed.
She searched the trees.
“Here!”
The Firefly Witch (Bold Women of the 17th Century Series, Book 1) Page 9
