Every time Circe tried to move, an explosion of pain shot through her hip. She rolled over and gasped when she saw what had happened. A splinter of wood was protruding from the side of her hip. When she tried to pull it out, the pain was so severe that she thought she would swoon.
She collapsed back onto the wet earth, too exhausted to move. All she could do now is pray and wait until the storm ended. Hopefully, Bullfrog would find her.
* * *
Circe awoke to the sound of her father’s voice. “We must make a litter!” he called over the roar of the wind. “We don’t want that splinter to move.”
She opened her eyes, but the rain blurred her vision.
“We are taking you home, Circe,” he said as he covered her with his cloak.
They carried her on a litter of branches to shore and gently lowered her into a canoe. “I’m sorry, Father,” she mumbled.
“None of that now,” he replied, climbing into the boat.
She was warm and dry in a bed the next time she opened her eyes. A tiny woman with chestnut colored hair and brown eyes arranged her covers. It Mistress Charles, the ovate. “There has been no poisoning of the blood,” she said in her high voice. “You are healing nicely. Now rest.”
Circe slid back into a deep sleep.
The next day, she felt stronger and she was able to sit up by late morning. “Ruith, she’s awake,” Saffir exclaimed, pushing herself up from a chair. Her belly had grown large with child.
Ruith dashed over to her. “You scared us, Circe. How are you feeling?”
“Better.”
“Why ever did you leave during that storm?”
Circe licked her dry lips and whispered, “To warn Bullfrog.”
“But the tumult was almost upon us,” Saffir said.
“Mistress Rhys said it was safe.”
Ruith and Saffir exchanged looks.
“Your father would like to speak with you,” Saffir said.
Rhun walked in the cottage, sat down on the bed and took Circe’s hand. “Mistress Charles says you are doing well.”
“I’m just tired,” Circe replied. “I’m sorry, Father.”
“Indeed, you acted rashly, but you have been punished enough,” he said, running his hand along her cheek. “I just thank the Goddess for taking care of you. I need to tell you something about Mistress Rhys.”
“What?”
“During the storm, she presented an offering of thanks at the sacred grove.”
Circe blinked. “Why would she do that?”
Rhun took a deep breath and said, “We will never know for certain. Her charred remains were found near the sacrificial stone later that night. She had been struck by lightning.”
Chapter 11
Glendower 1673
Circe raised her arms in gratitude as she stood on the shore of the Ipswich River. Dressed in a belted gown and a hooded cloak of emerald green, she gazed at the sky thanking the God and Goddess for her home, her family, and her joy.
She was twenty-three years of age now, a young woman confident and poised. Her figure had soft, full curves. Her breasts and hips were round and firm; her legs were long. Dark lashes framed her green eyes, and around her neck she wore a bronze torque, an ornament her father had given her on her sixteenth birthday.
What had not changed about Circe was her hair. It was still long, full, and a brilliant red. And her face was still freckled. At last, she was proud of her coloring because it was the reflection of her father.
The years had passed quickly since she had come to Glendower, and she knew it was because she was content. She looked at the sparkling water and thought back to that night so long ago when she had arrived in the skiff, exhausted and terrified fleeing from not only the Indian raid but her former life as Azubah Craft. She had found everything she needed in Glendower: safety, a sense of belonging, and love.
When Circe returned to the village, two youngsters ran up to her. “Come, we have something to show you!” a boy said. “A raccoon with babies.” It was Circe’s brother, Ewan, born a week after the storm of Calan Mai, nine years ago. He was the picture of his mother with curly brown hair and fair skin.
A little girl grabbed Circe’s hand, “Come, sister,” she urged. It was freckle-faced Mari, born a year later. Tiny and sweet-tempered, her smooth hair was a pleasing mix of soft brown and deep red.
Circe bent down. “No, do not go near the raccoons. The mother may attack you. I have something to show you instead, but you must promise me first that you will not go back to see those babies.”
“We promise,” they said.
“Very well,” she said, plucking a wide blade of grass and placing it between her thumbs. “Listen to the horn,” and she blew onto the blade. It screeched loudly.
They laughed.
“Teach us!” Ewan pleaded.
“Later today. Now run along,” she said. “Your mother will have breakfast waiting.”
“Will you take us to the woods to search for pretty leaves?” Mari asked.
“Yes,” Circe replied. It was autumn and the trees, ordinarily a mass of green, were ablaze with red, orange, and yellow leaves.
Circe turned toward the Rhys cottage. After the death of his wife, Arch Derwydd Rhys had donated the weaving room to the people of Glendower. Far more magnanimous than his spouse, he encouraged Circe, Wren, and Mercy to continue their work. He never talked about Tanwen’s death or spoke of her intentions when she encouraged Circe to venture out into the storm, but his gift of the room appeared to be a gesture of reconciliation.
Circe never dreamed of the jealous goddess in the marsh again. She understood now it had been a premonition about Tanwen and the dangers of jealousy and hatred. Her innocence was gone, but true to her character, she retained her sanguine temperament.
At last, she was free to express herself. Circe realized her full potential as a weaver. When she turned seventeen, Lady Enid bestowed upon her the honor of making all the sacred garments for Derwydd rites and declared her master weaver for all the New World settlements.
Circe’s workmanship was so outstanding that many of her garments were shipped back to the British Isles and Europe for Derwydd rites held there. Word of her talent spread across two continents, and most agreed, her gifts were unsurpassed by anyone in living memory.
Wren and Mercy applauded Circe’s recognition. Busy raising families, they had other demands on their time and did not envy her talents. They remained an integral part of the operation though, assisting not only in cloth making but in the education of apprentices.
“Good morning, Apprentice Tereth,” Circe said when she walked into the weaving room.
The young man was grinding seeds at one of the tables; he looked up. “Good morning, Mistress Swinburne.”
“I thank you for starting the fire. Where are the other apprentices?” she asked, taking off her cloak and tying on an apron.
“In the woods gathering.”
She stepped over to the cupboard. “I do hope they find something that will improve our dyes.” Circe ran her eyes over the jars and crocks on the shelves which were filled with herbs, shells, seeds and dead insects. “I’m still not satisfied, even though I am free to use any color now.” she mumbled, putting her hands on her hips. “Let us try some of this,” she said, pulling down a jar of red-shelled beetles. “Perhaps this will serve us.”
The door opened and Ruith walked into the weaving room. She had changed little since the first day Circe had met her. She was still short and squarely built with wild, curly brown hair. Even though the scar across her face had not faded, Circe never noticed it. In fact, no one noticed it who knew Ruith. It was always overshadowed by her good-natured smile. “You must come with me today, Circe,” she said.
“Why?”
“Arch Derwydd Rhys and your father are taking me to Ipswich.”
“To find the person who has been calling to you?” Circe asked, going back to the jars in the cupboard.
“Yes, I thou
ght they were in one of our settlements. Now I am drawn to Ipswich.”
“Have they shown themselves yet?”
“No. I don’t even know if they are intentionally contacting me. Yet I feel a sense of urgency and must go today.”
“I wish I could accompany you, Ruith, but I’m--”
“Oh, please, Circe,” she said, taking her arm. “I’m so weary. I have been up all night trying to sharpen my vision and need your uplifting spirit beside me.”
Ruith did indeed look spent. There were dark rings under her eyes and her demeanor, usually so energetic, lacked luster. Circe changed her mind. “Of course, I’ll go,” she said, patting her hand. “Of course.”
“Oh thank you, sister!”
Turning to Tereth, Circe instructed, “Have everyone finish the spinning and then experiment with dyes this afternoon. I’ll be gone the rest of the day.”
“We must make haste,” Ruith said. “We still have to change our garments. Don’t forget to take off your torque!”
Dressed in the clothing of the Puritan, Arch Derwydd Rhys, Rhun, Ruith and Circe set off for Ipswich in a hay wagon. Circe had seen her father in this garb before, but she thought Cedric Rhys looked out-of-place in britches and a doublet. His tangled, gray hair was stuffed under a hat. She was used to seeing the thin, distinguished man in the robes of an Arch Derwydd.
Circe settled in, determined to enjoy the ride. The men sat in front while Circe and Ruith sat in the back, their legs dangling. Circe had been reluctant to leave, but as the cart bumped down the road, she realized it was good to get away. Ruith fell asleep and slept on Circe’s shoulder, not waking until they arrived in Ipswich.
The town was alive with activity. The villagers had gathered in the square and were chattering excitedly. Dressed in drab clothing, the men stood in groups smoking, gossiping and shaking their heads. The women talked amongst themselves, holding babies or baskets.
Circe clenched her jaw. She did not like returning to the Puritan communities, and now she could smell their unwashed bodies since she was bathing regularly.
They stopped in front of a large, wood-framed home. “We must speak with John Hammond,” Rhun announced and disappeared inside with Arch Derwydd Rhys.
Ruith rubbed her eyes and looked around at the throngs of people. “What’s happening?”
“I cannot say,” Circe replied with a shrug. “Whatever it is, the whole town has gathered for it.”
The men returned moments later. “John Hammond has given us an accounting of what occurs here,” Rhun said. “The authorities are about to try a woman. She is a midwife and a healer. She was formerly held in high regard, but a dispute over payment occurred and now claims of sorcery have been leveled against her.”
“Is she one of our people?” Circe murmured.
“She is not,” her father whispered. “In fact, she is a devout Puritan.”
Circe turned to Ruith. “Can she be the one calling to you?”
“I know not. I must move closer.”
“Then we move nearer,” Cedric said. His brown, leathery face had a pinched look.
The four pushed through the crowd stepping up just as a soldier was removing the midwife from the stocks. She was heavy set, in her middle years, and filthy. The townspeople had spattered her with mud and feces. Her greasy, graying hair hung over her weathered face.
A tall man with heavy pouches under his eyes stepped forward. He was in the black and white formal garments usually reserved for the Sabbath and holding a Bible. “Goodwife Clack,” he said with authority. “You stand accused of sorcery.”
“The minister,” Rhun whispered to Circe.
The midwife tried to straighten up but was too weak. Instead, she hung over the arm of the soldier.
“Is she the one?” Cedric murmured to Ruith.
“No.”
His eyebrows shot up.
The minister continued. “Widow Clack, you have repeatedly denied doing mischief in the name of the devil. I ask you one more time - are you guilty of witchcraft?”
The woman shook her head and a long string of drool rolled from her mouth.
“Very well. Let the sacred waters of baptism decide,” he declared.
A murmur passed through the crowd.
“I never trusted her,” a man behind Circe mumbled.
“The charm she gave me never worked,” his companion added. “I paid her three times what I should have. There be good cunning folk and there be bad. Let the waters decide.”
The crowd gathered on the landing as two men stripped the midwife of her garments. Everyone jostled closer to ogle her nakedness. She crossed her arms over herself in mortification.
The soldier tied a rope around her waist as the minister read a passage from the Bible. Turning to the crowd, the preacher said, “An instrument of the devil will always spurn the waters of baptism. If Widow Clack be innocent, she will sink. If Widow Clack be guilty, she will be rejected by the water and come to the surface.”
The crowd hushed.
He turned, nodded, and the soldier pushed the woman into the river. There was a splash and at once Widow Clack bobbed up, coughing and sputtering.
A roar went through the crowd and several women began to sob.
Rhun leaned over to Circe and whispered. “This unfortunate woman floats because of her bulk, nothing more.”
“The water of our baptism has spoken!” the minister shouted. “We will take her at once for sentencing.”
Circe was separated from her father as the crowd moved back to the square. She looked one way and the other, but he was nowhere to be found. Unconcerned, she turned toward the riverfront. She was happy to be away from the hypocrites and breathing fresh air again. Oh, the savageries that are done in the name of the Lord.
She wondered if the Crafts were here. The chance of seeing her stepfather again was repugnant to her, but she would like to see her siblings. So many years had passed, though, so she doubted if she would recognize any of them.
Since it was market day, farmers had gathered along the shore to barter goods. Circe walked past looking at the produce. Gourds, pumpkins, and squash were heaped on the ground. Red apples filled barrels, and there were baskets of cranberries everywhere. There was a great deal of fish, especially cod and flies swarmed the meat hanging in a butcher’s booth.
Circe noticed a group of men nailing together a small platform. They did not look like Ipswich residents. Their clothes were ragged. Their skin was weathered and many of them wore scarves or turbans on their heads. One of them was even wearing a gold earring in one ear, unheard of in the Puritan communities. Circe guessed they were seafaring men. Chained to a tree behind them were six black men and one woman. She realized they were about to start a slave auction and was surprised. Slaves were not uncommon in the Massachusetts Bay Colony, but the auctions were always held in Boston.
She slowed her pace. One slave leaning against a tree looked different from the others. He did not appear to be African. Although his hair was black, it was long and wavy. He had an olive complexion and he was severely emaciated like the others.
The man noticed her staring, narrowed his black eyes and growled at her.
Circe jumped.
“Part Moor, part Spaniard.” a squat sailor said, stepping up beside her. He smelled of sweat and rotting teeth. “He is passionate, no? You would like to have him as your own?” he asked suggestively.
Circe noticed the captive staring at something over her shoulder. She whirled around to look. He was staring at Ruith.
The sailor took a pull from a bottle and walked away.
“This place is vile,” Circe said. “We should go.”
But Ruith did not move.
“Ruith?” she said, tugging her arm. “What is it?”
She was spellbound.
Cedric and Rhun stepped up. “Is this the one?” Cedric asked.
She nodded.
“You are quite certain?”
Again, Ruith nodded.
“I’ll take them,” Cedric replied. “We will need Hammond’s revenue to obtain this man’s freedom.”
“Very well.”
Circe looked back at her father as they started up the hill. His demeanor was grim, and his lips were white. She knew he was upset; he was about to buy a human being.
An hour later, the slavers chained the Spaniard to the back of the hay wagon. Arch Derwydd Rhys would ride in back and Rhun would drive with Ruith and Circe up front.
“If he is one of us, then why chain him, father?” Circe asked.
“We must keep you safe. We know nothing about this man and he could be dangerous,” he replied, snapping the reins.
The Spaniard slept all the way to Glendower, and it was twilight by the time they rolled into the hamlet. The villagers stared at the filthy, emaciated man sprawled out on the bed of the wagon. When they started asking questions, he sat up and looked around with surprise. The men were in tunics and tartan garments. The women were in plaid arisaids with long plaited hair. “What is this place?” he asked in Welsh.
Cedric’s eyebrows shot up. “You speak our tongue?”
“Yes, my father was from Wales,” he said in a thick Spanish accent.
“What is your name, young man?”
“Dante.”
“And your family name?”
He opened his mouth and shut it again. “Just Dante.”
When they pulled up in front of the Rhys home, Cedric said, “Come here, please, Ruith.”
“This young woman is a seer,” Cedric said. “She was sent to find you. Why is that, Dante? What is your connection to us?”
Dante slumped back onto the bed of the wagon and mumbled, “De la Rosa.”
“I beg your pardon?” Cedric asked.
“My name is Dante De la Rosa.”
The Firefly Witch (Bold Women of the 17th Century Series, Book 1) Page 11
