The Firefly Witch (Bold Women of the 17th Century Series, Book 1)(14)

“No, Mother. I’m here. I will take care of you.”

“Where is everyone?” she asked Dido.

“Gone to Ipswich,” the slave replied. “Only the sick and dying remain.” Her head was trembling as well as her hands, but it was not from agitation. The old woman was plagued by tremors.

“My brothers and sisters - are they well?”

“Aye,” the slave replied. “Their father took them away.”

“How long has my mother been sick?”

“More than four days.”

A shadow darkened the door and they looked up. It was Josiah. He stood on the threshold, not stepping inside the house. The sunlight was bright behind him, putting his face into shadow. “So you’re back,” he said to Azubah.

“Yes, Father. Matthew did not come, and I began to worry.”

Looking at Dido, he jerked his head and said, “The girl is here now. Be useful elsewhere.”

“It be God’s will and yours, Master Craft,” she murmured, picking up her sewing and leaving.

“Josiah?” Abigail mumbled. “Are you there?”

He did not answer.

“Josiah?”

He did not come into the room.

“Mother calls for you,” Azubah said. But he was gone when she looked.

*

Azubah did not leave her mother’s side the rest of the day. She bathed her brow with cool washcloths and gave her broth. Abigail was weak and often insensible. One moment she was crying out in pain and the next coughing and gasping. She fell into a swoon by evening.

Helpless to do anything but pray, Azubah stepped outside for some fresh air. The autumn wind felt good on her skin. She looked through the window at her spinning wheel and loom. How long had it been since she had used them? It felt like years. Everything was changing so quickly; she was scared. She was a carefree girl only yesterday, teasing Matthew and stealing away with Bullfrog. Now a dark shadow had fallen.

She looked up the hill at the mill. All was quiet, and she wondered if Grandfather had left with the others. She decided to search for him. She looked up at the familiar stone building as she crossed the bridge over the falls. At least that remained the same, solid and dependable. She stopped and looked down at the river tumbling over the edge to the rocks below. That had not changed either. And it would remain the same for a thousand years.

She stepped off the bridge and started toward the service door, glancing at a bench under an old willow tree. Grandmother Craft was buried there. Many evenings before sunset, Azubah would sit in that spot with her grandfather.

Something caught her eye and her stomach twisted. It was a freshly dug mound of earth. She rushed over and dropped to her knees. The headstone read Enoch Craft.

“No, it cannot be!” she cried. “No, no, no! You cannot be gone!”

Azubah had seen this headstone in the past. Her grandfather had commissioned it years ago. It was engraved with a winged skull, his name, birth date and now the date of his death. Since the Puritans did not believe in consecrated ground, they allowed the Crafts to be buried by the mill.

“I knew it!” Azubah exclaimed in a voice thick with tears. “You said farewell to me through Aunt Faye. I knew it was you, but I didn’t want to believe it.”

She sat crossed-legged by his grave, sobbing, her mind flooding with questions. What had happened? Was it the pox? What would she do without him? He was the only one in the family that understood her; he was the only one who wanted her company.

She sat back on her heels and looked around, wiping her tears. Grandfather had always loved this spot. He said it was the perfect place to be buried. Now he rested here at last.



*

Azubah sat by his grave with her knees drawn up until well after dark. When she realized the time, she jumped up and ran back to the house. She lit a lamp with shaky hands and checked on her mother. Abigail’s left eye was covered with sores, but she looked at Azubah with her right eye.

“Would you like some water, Mother?”

She did not answer.

When she put water to her lips, it ran down her mother’s face and onto her neck. She tried again but to no avail. At last, Azubah brought bedding down from the loft to make up a pallet on the floor. Sleep would not come, though, and she was up all night either tending to her mother or pacing. Would her mother live? And what would she do without Grandfather? Finally, she slept until Josiah burst into the room at dawn.

“How is she?”

Azubah sat up, rubbing her eyes. “She speaks little and takes no water.”

He grunted and picked up a chair, walking out of the house with it. When he returned, he took a chest. Azubah followed him out the door. Josiah was filling a huge wagon with household goods.

“Where are you going, Father?”

“Ipswich.”

“Are we leaving Plum River?”

“Yes, tis God’s will that your mother will not be on this earth much longer.”

“But she still lives!”

Stunned, she followed him out to the wagon, watching him arrange the furniture. “Please, we must not give up.”

He did not answer, returning to the house for the kitchen table. Piece by piece he emptied the dwelling. When he picked up the spinning wheel, Azubah cried, “Please, do not take that. I will find a way to bring it when I come.”