The Firefly Witch (Bold Women of the 17th Century Series, Book 1)(5)

“Grandfather!” she laughed, knowing he was teasing.

But then he grew serious. “Your uncle still cannot wake?”

Azubah looked down and shook her head. “There is now talk that he is bewitched.”

Enoch shook his head. “Idle prattle. He has had an attack of apoplexy or brain fever, nothing more. But I fear he will not recover. It has been too long. He is too young, too young,” he grumbled.

They shared family news until he finished his stew. He stood up, returning the empty bowl to the basket. “Tell your mother I am grateful,” he said. “Now, off with you. I have work to do.”

*

The next morning, Matthew took Azubah to the Mayweather homestead. It was over an hour’s walk on an old Indian trail requiring travel through the Great Marsh, Azubah’s favorite place. It was one of the few dry paths through the great expanse. Clearly excited, she chattered as Matthew walked by her side, matchlock musket in hand. Both of them carried baskets strapped to their backs full of goods for the Mayweathers.

Azubah skipped, sang, and gushed over the birds and flowers, much to Matthew’s aggravation. To the Puritans, the Great Marsh was vast and full of threats and enchantments. It was not to be trusted.

“Mind yourself, Azubah. You must help me watch for trouble.”

“I fancy one could wander forever here and never return,” Azubah exclaimed, running her eyes over the flat lowland covered with reeds, cordgrass and dotted with tiny islands. “That is the only trouble I see.”

Azubah walked backward staring at Matthew with a grin on her face, trying to be annoying. He ignored her, his eyes scanning the marsh constantly. She thought he resembled Josiah more every day with his light hair and long face. He even dressed in his old clothes. The threadbare linen shirt, doublet, and britches were far too large for an eleven-year-old lad, but he didn’t care; he wanted to look like his father.

Looking over his shoulder, Azubah pretended to see something and gasped.

Matthew whirled around and raised his gun, startled. Instantly, he swung back to her and roared, “God’s bones, Azubah!”

“Blasphemy!” she shouted and ran ahead. But he did not chase her. In the old days, before Matthew became so serious, he would have chased her laughing. Now he had fallen into the humorless trap of the others believing in a wrathful God and that laughter was folly.

Gradually, they settled back to walking side by side. A crane lifted off in front of them, its wide, white wings slowly pumping the air.

“Remember last summer when we dug clams?” Azubah asked.

“I do,” Matthew responded, lifting his arm to wipe his damp forehead.

“Let’s do it again and bring some to Aunt Faye,” she suggested. “It will be amusing.”

“No, I have work to do at the mill and must return home after delivering you.”

“Just for a short time,” she coaxed.

She saw a gleam in his eye, but he checked himself. “Do not try to entice me from my duty, Azubah. You are far too consumed with frivolities. Father is right to chide you.”

She frowned and remained quiet the rest of the walk, giving up on him. When the Mayweather homestead came into view, he stopped and slipped the basket off his shoulders and handed it to her.

Azubah looked at him with surprise. “You will not greet Aunt and Uncle?”

“No, I must return.”

“They will be hurt, Matthew,” she argued. “You must be hungry. At least, come up and eat something.”

He shook his head.

“Oh, do come if only for a moment.”

“No!” he barked, throwing the basket to the ground.

Her jaw dropped. “You believe the talk!” she cried. “You think Uncle Gideon is bewitched, and you are afraid you will catch it. Oh, for shame, Matthew.”

His nostril’s flared, but he did not deny what Azubah said. Raising his chin, he stated, “I will be back in two weeks.”

Azubah frowned as she watched him disappear into the marsh. She started up to the house and stopped. Should she or shouldn’t she? The day was young. The sun was out, and Aunt Faye had no idea what time to expect her.

Smiling, Azubah kicked off her shoes and stockings. She hid them in the bushes along with the shoulder baskets. She pulled off her white coif and shook her wavy, red locks. The air felt cool on her scalp as she let her hair tumble around her shoulders. She ran down the path going deeper into the marsh, her bare feet hitting the soft earth. This is why she loved coming to the Great Marsh. It was freedom and solitude. She could listen, touch, smell, and see all the wonders of the world without being watched and upbraided. She felt the same joy when she was spinning or weaving, but at those times she was at home, and eyes were upon her. Ecstasy should be in the Lord, they would say, not in the natural world.

As she ran, a baby bunny darted out ahead of her. Azubah laughed at his plump little body and tiny white tail as he sprinted ahead of her then dodged into the brush. A chickadee swooped at her, scolding and a mallard paddled off, startled by her motion.

She slowed to a walk, winded at last. Her exhilaration calmed into contentment. Putting her hands on her hips, she watched the blackbirds flying from cattail to cattail, calling.

Now that she was still, she realized she was hungry and chided herself for not bringing some cornbread. She turned away from the marsh and followed a familiar path uphill into a wooded area. She started to look for berries when suddenly she heard a roar and someone jumped into her path.