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

by Amanda Hughes

It was Bullfrog sitting in an elm just behind one of the roundhouses. He grabbed a branch and swung down to the ground, birds fluttering around him. Circe ran over and hugged him.

  “Bullfrog!” she exclaimed. “I haven’t seen you in months!”

  “When the Hooded Ones came to check on me, I thought you would come too.”

  “I wanted to but…”

  “I know, you are an apprentice now.”

  “Father must have told you.”

  “He did. Will you be able to get away this summer?”

  Circe nodded. “Now that the rivers are open, Ruith and I can take a skiff down to see you.”

  “Good. Come to the tree house. What’s that?” he asked looking at the bundle under her arm.

  Just as she was about to reply, Circe saw Bullfrog staring at something over her shoulder. It was Mistress Rhys, standing rigidly with her hands tucked into her long, bell sleeves. Two students were with her, carrying baskets.

  “Good day, young man,” she said, running her eyes over Bullfrog. Her lips were blue with cold and her eyes hard.

  Bullfrog mumbled, “Good day,” and dropped his eyes to the ground.

  “Are you the boy that lives in the trees?”

  “I am. I have a dwelling in an oak not far from here.”

  “I see,” she replied, flatly.

  Turning to Circe, she said, “Bring your cloak to the weaving room. Our guests have arrived.”

  When she left, Bullfrog whispered, “Is she living or dead?”

  Circe smiled weakly and said, “I must go. I’ll tell you more when I see you. Please come to Calan Mai.”

  He made a face. “You know how I feel.”

  “At least think about it,” she called back to him.

  Someone started ringing the Glendower bell. She knew it announced the arrival of the guests. Circe caught one of the young apprentices outside the weaving room. He was about to leave with the gift garments.

  “Here are the last two,” she said breathlessly.

  He put the bundle on the cart and pushed off.

  Circe sighed. She would move on and do better next time.

  As she turned toward home strangers were walking up from the landing. They were dressed like the people of Ipswich, in britches, jackets, and boots. At the head of the group was the biggest woman she had ever seen. She was wearing a white coif and a homespun gown. She realized these were the guests from New Quay. Circe looked at the tall woman again. She towered over the others resembling a male more than a female. Suddenly she reached up and removed her coif. The woman was completely bald. Circe blinked in amazement. She guessed this was the high priestess, Lady Enid.

  Everyone was gone when she returned home. She knew they had left to make preparations for the festival.

  For the first time, in a long time, Circe felt hungry. She ate a big meal and climbed the ladder up to bed. She thought about the black cloak as she dropped onto her pallet. Rather than give up, she had followed through and completed the garment. For that she was proud.

  Circe dropped off to sleep with a sigh of relief. Calan Mai was tomorrow; a new start for all.

  Chapter 10

  The fires were lit for Calan Mai late the next afternoon. It was a perfect night for the celebration, balmy and clear. At sunset, Circe and Ruith walked to the village green where everyone was gathering for the opening ceremony. Glendower was bursting at the seams. Villagers had traveled from three settlements for the two-day festival. Tents were set up everywhere to house the revelers. Merchants had booths and spread out blankets on the ground to sell candles, herbs, dried flowers, sweets, and potions. There were stands selling mead, ale, and rhubarb wine, making the atmosphere merry.

  “Can you see if we stand here?” Ruith asked.

  “Yes, if no one stands in front of us,” Circe replied, stumbling forward as the crowd jostled her.

  “Here, put this on. I made it for you today,” Ruith said, handing Circe a wreath of wildflowers for her head. “Have you noticed? Some of the men are wearing antlers. Everything is about fertility today.”

  “Oh, the wreath is beautiful!” Circe exclaimed. “Put yours on too,” she told Ruith.

  Circe helped her arrange it, so the ribbons flowed down her back. “There, you look pretty.”

  “Is Bullfrog going to be here?”

  “He said no. We’ll take the skiff down to see him in a few days. So what happens tonight?”

  “First, a performance. Winter and Summer will have a mock duel,” Ruith said. “And then the Derwydd’s open the festival. After that, there will be music and dancing all the way through tomorrow.”

  A roar went up from the crowd as a large man with a full beard stepped onto the green with his hands in the air. Dressed in black, he raised his shield and a blackthorn branch. He strutted arrogantly as the crowd cheered.

  Circe described him to Ruith.

  “That’s Winter,” she replied.

  Next, a young man, smaller in stature, with a fresh face and blond hair stepped into the arena. He wore an elaborate green headdress, and his clothing was covered with colorful ribbons. He was wielding a birch branch. The spectators cheered even louder.

  “And that would be Summer,” Ruith explained.

  The crowd hushed as the performers began circling each other. Summer thrust his branch at Winter and the battle began. Back and forth the two dueled. The audience shouted and jeered.

  In the end, Summer was victorious; the crowd carried him from the green on their shoulders. Winter pretended to lay dead on the ground. Taking pity on him, a buxom woman leaned over and poured mead into his mouth. He opened one eye, took a peek down her bodice and sat up. Everyone laughed and cheered.

  Now it was time for the formal opening by the Derwydds. The crowd grew silent.

  “I have to stand with Mistress Rhys and the apprentices for this,” Circe said. “I’ll see you when the dancing begins.”

  She joined Mistress Rhys, Wren and Mercy near the altar where the high priestess would speak.

  “I am so excited,” Mercy said, squeezing Circe’s hand.

  “I am too,” Wren added. “I hope the priest likes my cloak.”

  “Quiet,” Mistress Rhys hissed. She was wearing a blue cloak, the color of the commoner. Her spindly hands were folded in front of her.

  The crowd waited in silence until, at last, chanting was heard from the woods. It was an eerie sound, raising goosebumps on Circe’s arms. A procession of Derwydds filed out from the trees holding torches led by Cedric Rhys. Two by two, the Derwydds from Glendower walked behind him, including Saffir and her father. Dressed in white robes, they were wearing hooded cloaks of every color imaginable, symbolizing the flowers of springtime. All of the hoods were up, hiding their faces. They gathered around the altar which was covered with greens and flowers. Derwydds from the three New World settlements followed. Last in line were the assistants to the high priestess.

  Wren murmured excitedly, “Here they come.”

  One was wearing Wren’s cloak of gold and another was in Mercy’s scarlet mantle.

  “Your garments are beautiful,” Circe said.

  Shame flooded her when she saw the last Derwydd draped in the light green cloak created by Mistress Rhys. She swallowed hard, trying to push back tears and stole a look at the mistress. She was holding her head high with the hint of a smile on her lips.

  Suddenly the crowd murmured. Circe turned, looked and was stunned. Lady Enid was coming and wearing the black cloak Circe had woven.

  “It’s your cloak!” Mercy cried.

  “When did you find time for that embroidery?” Wren asked.

  “I--I” Circe stuttered. “I have been doing it my entire life.”

  For months, she had been embroidering lengths of ribbon for her own amusement; so, in a last-ditch effort to make the cloak interesting, she had attached rows of ribbon embroidered with her favorite knotted design. She sewed them onto the borders of the garment, onto the hood, the hem and down the front.
The white embroidery stood out in stark contrast to the black linen.

  The high priestess climbed the steps of the altar followed by one of the priests. She raised her hands and announced, “Good people of the New World settlements, followers of the Goddess. Today we gather to celebrate our deliverance from darkness into light!”

  Lady Enid dropped her black cloak into the hands of the priest and stepped forward in the white robe Circe had made. When a floral wreath was placed on her head, she cried, “Let us rejoice!” and everyone cheered.

  Circe thought she was going to faint; she was so happy. Wren and Mercy hugged her and when she turned to look for Mistress Rhys, she was gone.

  * * *

  “How did you ever think to add that ribbon?” Ruith asked the next day.

  “I am not certain,” Circe said, putting a spoonful of soup into her mouth. “I didn’t think it would help, but something nagged me to do so.”

  Saffir looked up from her meal. “Do you suppose it was the ancestors urging you on, Circe?”

  She shrugged.

  “Either way, your father and I are very proud of you. You continued on in spite of the setbacks. Now, girls, make haste or you’ll miss the Maypole dance.”

  “Is that where Father is?”

  “Perhaps. He was up before sunrise today. He didn’t say where he was going.”

  Rhun returned when the girls left and Saffir began to clear dishes; he was frowning. “I’ve been down to the coast.”

  She stopped and put the dishes down on the table. “Why would you journey there in the middle of the night?”

  “I had to see the sunrise and check the flight of the birds. I had trouble sleeping last night. The spirits were very unsettled, so I stepped outside to get some air. The moon had a ring around it.”

  Saffir’s jaw dropped. “A storm.”

  He nodded. “Of a certainty. I took one of the skiffs down to the coast to watch the birds. They were indeed flying low.”

  “And the winds?”

  “Out of the northeast.”

  “How much time?”

  He rubbed his head. “I believe by late afternoon. It is going to be rough.”

  Saffir bit her lip and nodded.

  “I am going to speak with Cedric Rhys,” Rhun said.

  * * *

  When Circe saw the Maypole, she was surprised. It was a living tree. A tall oak, decorated with garlands of green and flowers. Long multicolored ribbons hung from it, blowing in the breeze.

  “It’s beautiful,” she exclaimed.

  “Girls and boys of marriageable age do the first dance,” Ruith said.

  “So that’s us?”

  “Yes.”

  All ages were gathering to watch. The drinking and merriment had continued through the night and had started again around midday. The vendors were out as well as the musicians.

  “Small children will dance after us and then couples hoping for children. Everyone’s included.”

  The music started, and Ruith pushed Circe forward. “Take a ribbon. Girls skip around the pole in one direction, boys in the other. It weaves a beautiful braid around the tree.”

  “Come with me, Ruith.”

  “You know I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can. I’ll hold your hand.”

  Circe pulled her over and gave her a ribbon. The fiddler started and they began to skip around the tree. When they passed under the boy’s ribbons, they would deliberately try to entangle the girls. When the ribbons encircled the tree, the song ended and the next group stepped forward.

  Circe and Ruith enjoyed several more dances and then started for the booth that had berry tarts.

  As they walked, Ruith asked suddenly, “What sort of beau do you dream about, Circe?”

  She straightened up with surprise and giggled. “You must promise not share it with anyone.”

  “I won’t.”

  Circe looked one way and the other and lowered her voice. “I have dreamed of him my whole life, ever since I first came here and read Father’s book of Norse gods. He will look like Baldr, strong and comely with long hair the color of wheat and eyes as blue as the cornflower.”

  Ruith laughed. “I know the god of which you speak. He is most beautiful. Will your beau have a halo of light around him too?”

  “Yes, and he will be clever as a Derwydd.”

  “Is he a Derwydd?”

  Circe frowned. “No, I think not. And what of your beau, Ruith? What is he like?”

  “I am not the kind of girl that boys find attractive. Marriage is not in my future,” she replied.

  “That’s not--” Circe broke off suddenly and took Ruith’s elbow. “There’s Mistress Rhys. Keep walking.”

  But it was too late.

  “Apprentice Swinburne,” Tanwen called.

  Circe turned around feigning surprise. “Good morrow to you, Mistress Rhys.”

  “A moment, please.”

  “I’ll find you later,” she said to Ruith.

  Ruith took her walking stick from her shoulder and said, “I’ll be over by the games. Good luck.”

  The mistress wore a pinched look. Her eyes were an icy blue and bloodshot. “I imagine you feel vindicated,” she said as Circe walked up.

  “Of what do you speak, Mistress?”

  “Lady Enid chose your cloak. I must congratulate you. You were very creative slipping it past me. You forget that you are my apprentice. That embroidery needed my final approval.”

  “I apologize, Mistress Rhys. I sewed it on at the last minute. There was no time to take it to you.”

  “And whose fault is that?” she replied, pursing her lips. “More mistakes made in haste.”

  Circe dropped her eyes.

  “Now go,” Tanwen said. “We will speak more of it when work resumes in a few days. Go join your friends before Calan Mai is over. They are ending it early because of the storm.”

  “A storm?”

  “Yes. Your father was just speaking with us. They are closing the fair early to be safe, although the storm is not due to arrive until late this evening.” As Tanwen turned to leave, she hesitated and said, “Apprentice Swinburne?”

  “Yes, Mistress?”

  “Doesn’t your unusual friend—the one I just met—does he not dwell in a tree?”

  “Yes, he does.”

  “Can he read the earth and stars like your father?”

  “I—I don’t think so.”

  “Then he may believe this is an ordinary storm. It could be dangerous for him, especially if you live in a tree.”

  Circe’s jawed dropped. “Oh! I would never have thought of that. I need to tell him at once.”

  “Yes, but you should leave now.”

  “Is there time before the storm arrives?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you,” Circe exclaimed and rushed away.

  Mistress Rhys watched her leave, a smile flickering on her lips.

  Circe’s heart was pounding. If she left now, she could be back before anyone missed her. She needed food if she was going to be rowing for hours, so she dashed to the cottage, wrapped up some bread and cheese and filled a deerskin flask with cider. Tucking her skirts into her belt, Circe ran toward the river. She tried to see the sky, but the foliage was too dense. Flies were biting her ankles, though, so rain was imminent.

  Circe stopped where the stream met the river and ran her eyes over the multitude of skiffs and canoes lining the shore. They belonged to guests visiting for the celebration. Camouflaged with branches and brush, they could not be seen from the waterway. She found her father’s craft, pulled it into the water and climbed into the boat.

  Circe looked up. This time she could see the sky; it was clear and blue. She breathed a sigh of relief. Rowing frantically, she turned out onto the Ipswich River. It took well over an hour, but at last, she entered the Great Marsh. She looked up again, stopping to wet her dry lips. A tall thundercloud was building in the northeast. It looked like a black castle with lightning flash
ing around it. She told herself that the storm could still be miles away, but a dark suspicion was building in the pit of her stomach.

  Stuffing some cheese in her mouth, she started rowing again through the grasses and around the islands. It grew dark and the wind started to gust, whipping the hair around her face. There was a rumble of thunder. She had to get to Bullfrog and fast.

  The wind grew fierce, making it impossible to row. Circe knew that had to go on foot. Guiding the boat to shore, Circe jumped out and started to run through the brush. There was another crack of thunder just as she started up the path to Bullfrog’s house; it started to pour. The rain, combined with the wind, was blinding and Circe’s wet skirts tangled around her legs. Trees were flailing overhead, and a large branch cracked and crashed to the ground at her feet. She jumped back, terrified. Pushing the soaked hair from her face, she climbed over the limb and continued walking.

  She was relieved when she arrived at Bullfrog’s house and the ladder was down. Circe grabbed it and started to climb. Several times she almost lost her grip, but she crawled to the top and stumbled in the door. The tree house was empty. There were rumpled blankets on the bed and a half-eaten meal on the table. Bullfrog was gone, and he had left in a hurry. He must have seen the danger and fled. But it was too late for her. The storm was in full force. Surely the aged oak would hold firm and she collapsed down onto his chair. What would her father do when he realized that she was gone? She knew he would be angry with her for taking such a chance.

  There was a blinding flash and a crack of thunder that shook the dwelling. Tears welled up in her eyes. She was scared. The roar of rain drumming on the roof was deafening. She could feel the tree start to sway. Trembling, she took the blanket from Bullfrog’s bed, wrapped herself in it, and huddled into a corner.

  She sat for what seemed like an eternity listening to the wind roll. Circe remembered her dream about the angry deity who roared with jealousy and rage creating a tempest.

  There was another crack of thunder and the wind began to intensify. Suddenly she felt dizzy. Was she sick or was the tree moving? She heard a splintering sound and the dwelling broke into pieces, falling to the ground.

  When Circe opened her eyes, everything was blurry, and she was shaking. The torrent hammered her body and the wind raged. She was so cold. Pushing herself up, she flooded with nausea. There was an excruciating pain in her hip, and she retched. Debris from Bullfrog’s house was everywhere. Chunks of wood, fragments of his bed, the railing from the walkway and household goods were scattered everywhere.