The Firefly Witch (Bold Women of the 17th Century Series, Book 1)
Amanda Hughes
Acknowledgements
My thanks go to Missie and Kevin Pearce for being my eyes and ears on the Great Marsh of Massachusetts; Professor Noreen Drummond for her expertise on the Druids and the ancient Celts; and, a special thanks to Madeline Hughes for her invaluable contributions to my storyline.
“Puritanism: The haunting fear that someone, somewhere, may be happy.”
--H.L Mencken
Chapter 1
Circe watched the light hover over the Great Marsh. Its flame was beautiful and mesmerizing, sometimes a rich gold, sometimes a cool blue but always moving and flickering. Surely no one was out there holding a lantern. The flame was too brilliant and suspended too high above the reeds and grasses. Her heart jumped. It had to be fire from the fairies.
Circe headed closer, tucking the bundle of fabric she was carrying under her arm. Except for the sound of crickets, the marsh was quiet. It was a clear night, lit by a full moon giving the Great Marsh an ethereal luminescence. But this did not surprise her. It was always bewitching here with upland island willows swaying in the breeze and silver-tipped cordgrass feathering the shore.
She walked onward as if in a trance. Something lifted her when she stepped forward to slog through the mud and grass, and she soared into the air, light as a feather. Circe gasped with astonishment as she floated toward the apparition.
As she drew closer, she realized that the light was actually the dazzling image of a woman. She was a breathtaking creature with long, flowing blonde hair and a golden helmet on her head. Her aura was brilliant, and like the flames surrounding her, her image flickered and flared. Dressed in a long, white robe and a glistening girdle; her eyes were fixed on Circe. They were a fiery red. The heat was so intense that Circe had to turn away.
“Show it to me,” the woman demanded in a deep voice.
Circe squinted, trying to look at her. “Show you, milady?”
“I command you! Present it to me,” the apparition ordered.
Circe knew what she wanted. She opened her bundle and held up the robe with trembling hands,. It was a garment of the finest linen, exquisitely woven and dyed the color of the sun. Embroidered with intricate Celtic designs, the color was rich and luminous and the texture sublime. The quality was so exceptional that it seemed otherworldly, challenging even the flawless workmanship of the gods.
The deity’s eyes widened and burned hot. She looked from the robe to Circe and back again. “You did this?” she demanded in her low, rumbling voice.
Circe nodded.
The specter’s nostrils flared, and her chest heaved. The earth began to shake, and the waters began to roll. Suddenly, the woman transformed into an old hag took a breath and roared so loudly, that Circe’s hair blew back. The reeds and grasses arched in the sudden tempest, and leaves were stripped from the trees. Circe flew through the air and hit the trunk of an oak tree with such force that she was knocked senseless.
All was quiet when she opened her eyes. The moon was shining over the Great Marsh, the fierce wind had stopped, and the vision had disappeared.
She looked around dazed and confused. She was perched on a tree branch, and when she moved, she realized that was tangled in something sticky. There were long white strings all around her. When she reached to free herself, her eyes widened, and she gasped. Her arm was no longer human. It was long, black and covered with fur. Protruding from her round black torso were seven other furry limbs.
The malicious deity had turned her into a spider! Screaming with horror, Circe fell out of the tree and tumbled down into a dark chasm whirling around and around.
Suddenly she was awake again and standing on the edge of Plum River. Her home was behind her in the distance. She looked at her arms. They were the arms of a girl once more, and it was her own smooth flesh when she touched her face. She breathed a sigh of relief. She was no longer the black, hideous spider.
Feeling nauseous and weak, Circe looked up at the web in the tree, its threads shone in the moonlight. This was not the first time she had experienced this nightmare. It haunted her continually. It was one of the many dreams that plagued Circe and forced her to walk in her sleep. Her mother said it was the vestige of an evil myth created long ago by pagans, and that she must never repeat it to anyone, or they would accuse her of sorcery.
Squaring her shoulders, and taking a deep breath, she started toward home, reminding herself that she was no longer the girl named Circe. She was Azubah Craft, daughter of Josiah and Abigail Craft, Puritan millers of Ipswich.
Chapter 2
Plum River, Massachusetts Bay Colony
1662
Everybody said the name Azubah did not suit the twelve-year-old girl. The spritely redhead with the freckled face and quick smile did not match her mighty predecessor from the Old Testament.
“Azubah was a pious, God-fearing woman. This girl is far too merry and free of cares,” Goodie Bolton remarked one day as Azubah was carding wool and humming. “Be still, child,” she scolded. “Or, at least, recite your prayers.”
“Aye, tis a cumbersome name for such a blithe spirit,” Enoch Craft replied looking at his granddaughter.
Azubah smiled at him. She knew that name did not suit her. A girl named Azubah should be dutiful and somber, steadfast and virtuous. She should attend to her chores and her prayers, while never slipping away for walks in the woods. She should gather herbs and berries for healing and never pick flowers for her hair. Her eyes should never twinkle with mirth when the mouser jumped at her yarn or tumbled in the floor rushes. And above all, a girl bearing the name of Azubah should never wander from her bed at night, dreaming pagan dreams.