The Firefly Witch (Bold Women of the 17th Century Series, Book 1)(2)
Azubah knew that when the villagers attacked her name they were, in truth, assassinating her character.
“She is far too frivolous,” Goodwife Adams complained.
“She has the look of a pixie with that dimpled smile,” Goodman Winslow warned. “Nothing good will come of it. Mark my words.”
But the most serious charge came from Reverend Samuels. “Azubah only pays lip service to her prayers. Tis obvious. The child is in dire need of correction.”
Someone had been correcting Azubah her entire life. The daughter of Puritans in the Massachusetts Bay Colony, she had been a pariah from the moment she was born. Azubah had been doomed from the start; she had been the product of a liaison between her mother and a passenger onboard the ship crossing over from England.
Azubah’s mother, Abigail, engaged in many clandestine activities during the voyage to the New World when her chaperone became ill. Then, she was left unsupervised. She plunged into a liaison without thought and became intimate with another passenger quickly, a handsome young man with red hair. He, being honorable, offered to marry her, but she refused. He was not of their faith, and Abigail was intended for another.
When she arrived in the New World, the girl forgot about the affair and married Josiah Craft; the miller’s son in Plum River, Massachusetts. Her husband would never know. He was smitten with her and believed her loyal and virtuous. Even the wedding night had gone well. In his drunkenness and rush to take Abigail, young Craft had not noticed she had already been compromised.
But Josiah Craft raged months later when a redheaded baby was born. Abigail confessed, and for the rest of her life, little Azubah paid the price. The child with the fiery red hair was a constant reminder to Craft that he was a cuckold. He would never forgive the child or the mother.
Only Grandfather Craft saw worth in the little girl. “You are very dear to me, my little firefly,” he would always say.
“Why do you call me firefly, Grandfather?” Azubah asked one day. “Is it my hair?”
“Aye, and because you are as elusive and bewildering as a firefly.”
Azubah drew her eyebrows together as she tucked her hair up into her coif. Her parents did not like seeing it.
Grandfather continued. “Do you understand how a firefly brings light into the darkness?”
“No.”
“Nor do I. You are like that firefly,” he explained, patting her cheek. “A beautiful mystery.”
Azubah was indeed a mystery to all the God-fearing Puritans of Plum River, a small village outside Ipswich. The oldest of five children, Azubah earned money for the family spinning and weaving. Looms were rare in the New World and demand was high. She worked from dawn until dusk, but for her it was not an arduous task. She found delight in every one of her creations. Like the girl of her dreams, Azubah created fabrics and garments of breathtaking quality. Cloth woven by her was perfect and her talent was extraordinary when she was allowed to embroider. Although it took many spinners in town to keep Azubah busy at the loom, when she did spin, her yarn was unsurpassed as well. It was spun consistently every time, while her plying was unparalleled.
People traveled great distances to purchase her work; they were never disappointed. Most fabric had to be imported from England, a slow and expensive proposition. But Azubah’s mother was given a loom as part of her dowry, so they were able to turn weaving into a profitable business.
There were whispers that Azubah’s talents rivaled any London weaver, but the family always tried to subdue the rumors. They did not want to be accused of pride, or even worse, sorcery.
Women observed and tried to emulate Azubah’s spinning, but their results paled in comparison. More than anyone, Azubah was mystified that they could not duplicate her work; she could not see that she had a gift.
Yet, she longed for variety as much as she loved her fabrics. Tired of the white, black and dull brown of common Puritan attire, Azubah longed to create fabrics of brilliant colors and to stitch beautiful designs. But these were reserved for the rich; there were few of that status in the colony.
When she walked in the meadows and woods searching for berries and plants for dyes, she lingered over the scarlet beebalm, the buttercup, the thimbleberry, and bluebells. She marveled at the red of the cardinal and the yellow of the finches. She longed to put those very hues into linen and wool, but it was not permitted. The community believed color and decoration were frivolous and not for ordinary folk.
Azubah did not question this view. Puritan life was all she had ever known, yet she yearned for something more - even if she was unsure what it was. She felt as if she led two lives: one as the hard-working Puritan, Azubah, firmly planted in the tasks of daily life; and another as Circe, the dream girl of the forest and marsh, intertwined with the seasons and the stars. When the confusion and turmoil became unbearable, she lost herself in the rhythm of the treadle, the feel of the yarn in her fingers, and the movement of the shuttle.
She also found comfort in the roar of Plum River Falls just outside their cottage and the view of the gristmill where her stepfather and grandfather toiled. A large fieldstone building with an imposing waterwheel, Plum River Mill was the first commercial building in the village. Built by Enoch Craft, Azubah’s grandfather, it was a symbol of progress and security in the New World. It freed the colonists from the laborious task of hand grinding their corn so they could turn their attention to their crops, livestock, and above all, their prayers. The mill was a huge success and a busy place. From sunrise to sunset, Azubah could hear the rumble of wagons on the road outside her window as farmers brought their corn to be ground.