The Firefly Witch (Bold Women of the 17th Century Series, Book 1)(10)

“Truly Mother, something is wrong,” she said at breakfast. “Aunt Faye has changed. She’s not sleeping well; her talk makes no sense.”

“This is foolishness, Azubah. Faye has always been queer, and now that she has no one with whom to speak, she has taken to conversing with herself. That is all.”

“But, Mother--”

“Enough!” Abigail barked, picking up the baby. “You exaggerate, and I will not have you setting me to worry! Now go. You have work to do.”

Azubah sat down at the loom and looked around the room. As much as she loved making cloth, the amount of work that had accumulated was staggering. And tomorrow was the Sabbath. She would be at service all day and unable to work; so, she had to hurry. Yet, she felt better once she was back into the rhythm of weaving. It was familiar and calming, a feeling akin to the serenity she felt in her dream about The Hooded Ones.

How curious it was, and it was the first of its kind. Most of her dreams were repeated over and over, but this one was new and the first involving The Hooded Ones. Who were these phantoms? And how odd that they were wearing garments she had woven and embroidered. Why? Was it merely a memory of her embroidery on Aunt Faye’s cloak?

She remembered the stitching on their robes. How she loved that pattern. Ever since she was a child, she had sewn that same knotted design again and again. It had haunted her as long as she could remember, lingering in her mind like a dim memory. In her spare time, she would sew endless variations of the same theme, over and over on scraps of cloth. But she had to hide her work. Her mother called it pagan. When she couldn’t embroider the pattern, she would draw it in the dirt or run her finger over the mouser’s fur, tracing it again and again.

Azubah stopped treadling and stared. Who were these Hooded Ones? Surely they did not exist. But then what would explain their manifestation to both Bullfrog and Aunt Faye? And those bags hanging in the trees; they were not products of her fancy.

Azubah knew the Great Marsh was filled with enchantments, but she had always believed they were supernatural delights, rather than malevolent forces. Were these apparitions possibly manifestations of the Devil?

Azubah tucked her hair back into her coif and started weaving again. The Hooded Ones brought food and comfort to those who were in need. How could that be wicked? Tonight she would speak with Grandfather. She would see if he had ever heard of The Hooded Ones.

“You have been in the sun, my little granddaughter,” Enoch exclaimed when Azubah set his supper before him at the mill. “You have even more fern-tickles.”

Azubah put her hands on her cheeks. “Oh, no!”

“Be proud of them. Tis where the sun has kissed you.”

Azubah sat down with a frown. She didn’t like her freckles or her crimson hair. They were an embarrassment to her parents and almost as shameful as wearing a red letter.

“Likely you will lose your sun spots as you mature,” he said, holding his arm out. “But they will reappear in old age.”

Azubah looked down at the dark spots on her grandfather’s hand. “I hope so.”

She watched while he ate his supper, but Azubah fiddled and fidgeted so much. He asked finally, “What plagues you, firefly?”

She swallowed hard. “Grandfather, have you ever heard of The Hooded Ones?”

“Who?”

“Aunt Faye has been speaking of them; The Hooded Ones.”

“No, I know nothing of them but your Aunt Faye is an odd sort. Pay it no mind, firefly.”

He cut a piece of bread. Azubah watched his little, pointed beard bounce up and down as he chewed. She continued, “Have you ever seen anyone dress in long robes and wear hoods?”

“No, not here but back in Lowestoft. Papist leaders donned robes with hoods. We left England to get away from their kind.”

Azubah had heard of these Papists and knew they were bad. They stood for everything her faith opposed.

“So there are people that dress in this manner?”

“Aye, they call themselves monks.”

Her grandfather took a sip of mead, wiped his lips with his sleeve and continued, “I have heard stories of them residing in the North Country with the French, here in the New World but they are not down here. Why? Have you seen one of these horned devils?”

“No!”

“Well, I certainly hope your Aunt has not either.”

“Perhaps it is just fancy,” Azubah added quickly.

He put his dish in her basket, sighed and stretched. “I pray it be so. Prithee give your mother my thanks for the repast.”

“I will, Grandfather. Sleep well,” she said and left.

*

Less than two weeks passed, and Azubah’s mother said it was time to return to Aunt Faye. It was then she knew her words had worked. Ordinarily, she would go monthly, but now her mother asked her to return within a fortnight.

Matthew escorted her, and as usual, he did not stay. When he started for home, she considered finding Bullfrog; but instead, she turned up the lane to the Mayweather cottage.

It was another warm summer day and perspiration ran down Azubah’s neck. Her hair soaked under her coif. She stopped outside the cottage and looked at the trees where the bags had been hanging. She wondered if The Hooded Ones were watching her. Were they indeed monks and horned like the devil?

An odd feeling crept up her spine, and so she rushed inside the cottage. Aunt Faye was curled up on the bed sleeping next to Uncle Gideon. She was fully dressed, but her clothes were filthy. The house smelled like excrement. Mice scattered in every direction when Azubah walked to the table. Dirty dishes were everywhere, caked chowder was in a pot and the ashes were cold in the hearth.