The Firefly Witch (Bold Women of the 17th Century Series, Book 1)(4)

“Aye, that it does,” Josiah said with a smile. “And it be always true.” He jammed his walking stick into the ground and declared, “Dig your well here.”

Goodman Barrow gaped at Azubah. “And you force the branch not?”

“No sir,” she replied. “The willow finds the water. I do not.”

“There be no trick in it?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you feel anything?”

She shook her head.

“But you are its agent.”

“Yes, sir. I know not why, but it uses me.”

Barrow reached out to the branch but then withdrew his hand quickly as if afraid to touch it.

“Observe Goodman,” Josiah said, grabbing the willow from Azubah. He held it over the same patch of earth, and the branch did not move. It hung limply in his fingers and did not tug. But the moment he returned it to Azubah, the branch arched to the ground. She kept her eyes down to conceal her delight at the phenomenon. It was exalting when the willow came to life in her hands.

When Josiah and Azubah returned home, Abigail was laying the board for supper. The twins were tied in their highchairs, the baby was asleep in the cradle and Daniel, the eleven-year-old, was washing his hands. He was just back from work at the mill. Holding plates, Abigail looked up when they walked in the cottage. Her face was pinched with anxiety. “It be done then?” she asked.

“Aye, and by weeks end we will have our bushel of fleece from Barrow,” Josiah grumbled as he sat down at the table.

When Azubah stepped over to the hearth, her mother whispered, “Did any folk see you?”

Josiah heard and turned abruptly in his seat. “I told you to let it be, wife!” he roared.

“I want no blush on our name,” she cried. “That is all.”

“You be late with that worry,” he snarled, looking at Azubah.

They ate their supper in silence, the only sound being from the twins as they chattered gibberish.

“Take supper up to your grandfather, Azubah,” her mother said. “He is working late and gather your clothes when you return. Your Aunt Faye is in need of you again.”

Azubah looked up with a smile. She loved visiting her aunt and uncle. “Oh, this gives me joy. I leave in the morning?”

Her mother frowned. “You take delight in their misfortune?”

Azubah dropped her eyes. “No, I do not.”

As Azubah made up a basket to take to the mill, she tried to picture her mother as a girl with rosy cheeks and a gay demeanor. Had she ever been young and impulsive? She seldom saw her smile. Few people in Plum River or Ipswich ever smiled. Merriment was rare. Azubah believed they were ever mindful of the Lord, so of course, mirth would be irreverent.

Constantly smothering the urge to skip or sing, she wondered why the Creator despised such things. When the bright force of life would flow through her she would embrace the twins or kiss baby Grace. They had not yet lost their joy, and they returned her affection. It saddened her to see that Matthew, her brother, was losing his spontaneity. He would constantly tell Azubah to check her giddiness, and she feared he was growing as dour as the others.

“Grandfather?” Azubah called as she stepped into the mill with a basket on her arm. The wheel had stopped for the evening. The mill workers had gone home to their families and all was silent. Remembering his hearing difficulty, she called again, “Grandfather?”

“Here, firefly!” he replied.

Azubah walked past the great millstones resting one upon the other and past the wooden gears, winding her way around sacks of corn and barrels. She found him making repairs to one of the chutes and he straightened up stiffly. Enoch Craft was a tall, sinewy man with a face as wrinkled as a prune. His blue eyes that were as brilliant as a man of twenty. He was bald and had a closely cropped beard. “Ah, you have victuals,” he roared. “I am famished. Come.”

They traversed several flights of stairs to the top of the mill, the living quarters for Enoch and Prudence Craft. Prudence had died from the flux shortly after arriving in the New World, but Enoch continued to live upstairs. The large room seemed empty now but it was his choice. He refused to live with any of his adult children. This was his home. With barrels and tools scattered everywhere, it looked more like a warehouse than a home. One thing was different, though; up here there were windows. The view of the river and countryside was breathtaking.

“I have venison stew with a bit of bannock,” Azubah said, laying the board in front of the hearth. She poured beer into a tankard as her grandfather sat down.

“What manner of business did Goodman Barrow have with your father today?” he asked.

“He wanted dowsing,” she replied.

Enoch nodded and took a spoonful of stew. “And did you find water?”

Azubah grinned, showing her dimples and white teeth. “I did, Grandfather. You should have seen it! It arched down to the ground like the fairies were tugging on it!”

He laughed. “That be why they call it a divining stick. But hush, firefly. This talk is inflammatory.”

“I said nothing to them of this nature.”

“Good, now let’s speak of other things.”

Azubah leaned forward. “Tomorrow I go to help Aunt Faye.”

Enoch wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “And you do not like going there,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.