The Firefly Witch (Bold Women of the 17th Century Series, Book 1)(16)

“Even without a wheel or loom, you produce beautiful material,” Faye exclaimed one afternoon in December as she held up a sample of linsey-woolsey.

“I was uncertain about the quality using our primitive tools,” Azubah replied, proudly running her hand along the fabric.

“If those tools suited those of times long ago, they suit us.”

The spinning wheel that Azubah had used in Plum River was gone with Josiah and the loom too. But Aunt Faye had knowledge of the old ways, so together they constructed simple tools for making fabric.

First, they crafted a drop spindle. It was a maple stick with a carved whirl and a hook. Azubah would spin by hand with this tool. Next, they devised a simple warp-weighted loom for weaving. It was a large timber frame that leaned against the wall, simple but effective. Obtaining flax and wool could have been a problem in the winter, but Faye had collected a great deal of fiber over the years and stored bundles in the loft.

The tools were slow, but in several weeks, Azubah was turning out exquisite fabric once more. Faye spun flax harvested from the marsh and was making delicate lace.

“I’m ready to start the blanket for Bullfrog. Do you fancy the color of the yarn?” Azubah asked while holding up the red wool.

“Tis fine indeed. We had sufficient cranberries?”

“Yes, we did.”

Faye went back to feeding Uncle Gideon his broth. “Prithee, speak with Bullfrog again when you deliver the blanket. Urge him to stay with us during the coldest weeks of winter if only to sleep.”

“Aunt Faye, I know he will not accept. He will not even show himself to you.”

“Yet I worry.”

“Indeed his little dwelling stays quite warm. The Hooded Ones have seen to that.”

Faye sighed. “Very well.”

Even though the snow was deep and the air frigid, every few days Azubah would wrap herself in a cloak and venture deep into the marsh to see Bullfrog. It was always a day of adventure, and at last, she was starting to feel happy again.

If weather permitted, then they would strap on wide woven “Indian shoes,” take the bow and arrows and hunt. Or they would venture out on the marsh, chip through the ice and fish. If the air was too cold, they would stay by the fire. Then, Azubah would read to Bullfrog.

“Do you still have dreams?” he asked one afternoon as he whittled arrows by the fire.

Azubah nodded. “I had a new one last night. I was sitting at my wheel spinning, but I was in the middle of a forest surrounded by tall oak trees.”

Bullfrog frowned and went back to whittling. “Were you afraid?”

“No, I was quite content.”

When he looked up again, Azubah was tracing an invisible design on her skirt with her finger.

“Azubah?” he said.

She jumped. “Yes?”

“You’re acting strangely again like that day we went to see the village.”

“Oh,” she replied, only vaguely aware of what he meant.

Winter was long and brutal, but at last, the spring thaw came, and sap began to run in the trees. Bullfrog and Azubah carved spiles and drove them into the maples to collect the thin liquid in buckets. On a sunny day the steady drip, drip could be heard from the trees surrounding Bullfrog’s home. They spent hours at the open fire, boiling the sap down into rich syrup for Johnny cakes and applesauce.

One afternoon when Azubah returned home from sugaring off, she opened the door to find the Mayweather cottage filled with smoke. Supper was burning on the hearth. Quickly she pulled the Dutch oven from the fire and looked around the room. Aunt Faye was in bed, curled up beside Uncle Gideon with her arms around him.

All winter long Aunt Faye had been engaged in life, up during the day and sleeping only at night. This seemed unusual. But when she walked over to the bed, she saw what had happened. Uncle Gideon had given up the struggle. He was dead.

*

Bullfrog helped Azubah dig a grave outside the cottage where they lied Uncle Gideon to rest. Aunt Faye refused to get out of bed, so Azubah read out loud from Scripture while Bullfrog filled the grave.

Even the mysterious elixir from the Hooded Ones could not revive Faye from her torpor this time. Her reason for living was gone. She slid back to her old ways again with restless nights and sleep-filled days. Azubah did everything: cooking, tending the garden, feeding the goats and chickens as well as all the housework. Her aunt slept during the day and wandered at night, forcing Azubah to stay awake.

Weeks passed and Azubah grew weary. She had lost so much sleep that she was starting to feel sick. One night, when she was feeling particularly ill, she decided to retire early. Wearily she dropped her gown to the floor and crawled onto a pallet by Aunt Faye’s bed.

“Gideon?” Faye called.

“He is not here, Aunt,” Azubah mumbled.

“Gideon, is that you?”

Azubah tried to reply but started coughing. She coughed so hard that she thought she would retch. Exhausted, she rolled over and went to sleep.

When she awoke, hours later, she sat up with a start. Sun was streaming through the window and birds were singing. Frantically, she looked around the room. It was empty, and the cottage door was open.

Jumping up, Azubah ran out calling, “Aunt Faye!”

Wild with fear, she ran to the back of the cottage, past the goat pens, and out to the fallow fields. “Aunt Faye?”