The Firefly Witch (Bold Women of the 17th Century Series, Book 1)(13)

Chapter 5


Weeks passed quickly. Azubah was so busy tending to her aunt and uncle that she did not notice that Matthew was overdue.

“How many days have I been here, Aunt Faye?” she asked one day as she rolled Uncle Gideon to the side, changing the bed linen under him. “I do not suppose you’ve noticed.”

Faye did not reply. She sat in a chair staring straight ahead, waiting for Azubah to change the bedding so she could crawl right back into bed.

“I think Matthew is late fetching me,” Azubah continued, folding a quilt over Uncle Gideon.

When she finished, she looked at her aunt and sighed. Aunt Faye was fast becoming Uncle Gideon, mute and unresponsive. She was nothing more than a living, breathing skeleton. Her light hair, never full, had thinned; she had lost weight. Azubah thought now, more than ever, that she resembled a child. Sometimes she wondered if there was indeed a curse upon both of them. But then she would remind herself that it was only foolishness and superstition. Uncle Gideon had been struck senseless by an illness. Apoplexy, Grandfather Craft had called it. And Aunt Faye’s malady was a slow deterioration of the mind. She had given up on life.

“I am wondering if something is amiss at home,” Azubah said out loud. But she was talking to herself. Aunt Faye did not respond. She stood up like a sleepwalker, walked past her and crawled into bed.

Several more days passed and Azubah started to worry. “Aunt Faye,” she announced at breakfast. “I must return to Plum River today.”

Faye slowly looked up from her Bible and blinked. “You are leaving?”

“Yes, I am worried. I cannot imagine why Matthew is so tardy.” She unpinned her apron and folded it. “I have fed the stock, left enough prepared food for you and clean linen. I will be back as soon as I can.” She squatted down and took her aunt’s hand. “Do you remember a boy named Bullfrog? He lived in the settlement before it burned.”

Faye drew her eyebrows together, and after a moment, nodded. “Yes.”

“Well, he survived the attack and has been living alone here out in the woods all these years.”

Faye did not react.

“He is alive and well,” Circe said.

“Her wrath came upon them for their evil,” Faye said dreamily.

The words confused Circe and had an ominous sound to them. The hair raised on her arms. “What did you say, Aunt?”

There was no response.

“Anyway,” Circe continued. “I wanted to tell you that I became friends with Bullfrog many years ago.”

“You did?”

“I was afraid you would forbid me from seeing him, so I said nothing. He is a nice boy and will keep watch over you while I’m gone. He is reluctant to come inside the house, but if you truly need him, hang a handkerchief on the door.”

Aunt Faye nodded.

Azubah wanted to make sure she understood. “If you need him, what will you do?”

“Put a handkerchief on the door,” Faye said, mechanically.

“Good.”

Aunt Faye took her arm and pulled her back down when Azubah tried to rise to her feet. She touched her cheek and murmured, “God go with you, my little firefly.”

Why did Aunt Faye call her firefly? She couldn’t know Grandfather called her that name. Was she dreaming again or were there dark forces at work?

Azubah traveled as fast as her legs would carry her back to Plum River; she had to know what was happening. She was far too preoccupied to see that autumn had come to the Massachusetts Bay Colony. Ordinarily, she would have felt the changes in the earth. Its pulse slowed in readiness for the long rest; the sap in the trees grew silent, but today there were other concerns. She walked briskly, eyes straight ahead while murmuring prayers. She could not see the transformation all around her. Although the grasses of the marsh were an unremarkable brown, there were splashes of magenta everywhere. Spiky flowers fed on the brackish water and the leaves on the trees were ablaze with color. Some of the leaves had fallen on the path in front of her like a multicolored quilt of scarlet, yellow, and orange.

She stopped momentarily to untie the shoulders of her shift and slipped her sleeves off. The sun was hot, and worry was making her feverish.

As she turned up the road to return home, she listened for the mill. There was no water splashing from the wheel and no voices, but only wind in the trees. When she came around the bend, the wheel was indeed motionless. Ordinarily, at this time of day, wagons would be lined up. Horses would be drinking from the trough and farmers would be everywhere. Grandfather Craft’s millers would be weighing and bagging meal, but the mill was abandoned.

Azubah swallowed hard and ran to the cottage. Usually, there was activity in the garden or the fields, but there was no one. The family slave, Dido, looked up when she burst through the door. She was sitting and sewing near the bedstead in which Azubah’s mother lie. No one else was in the cottage.

Dido jumped up, arms outstretched. “Stay back, girl!”

“Why?”

“It be the smallpox.”

Azubah wailed, “Mother!” She rushed over to her.

Dido shook her turbaned head and muttered an incantation.

Abigail opened her bloodshot eyes and looked up. She was completely covered with pus-filled sores. They were on her arms, legs, torso and face, even in her nose and mouth. They were clustered so closely together that no smooth skin was visible. She looked more reptilian than human. “Get back, Azubah,” she mumbled.