The Firefly Witch (Bold Women of the 17th Century Series, Book 1)(6)

Startled, Azubah screamed. Short and squat with huge bulbous eyes and wild hair, a boy growled and lunged at her. His clothes were rags, and he was barefoot.

“Bullfrog!” she exclaimed. “How I’ve missed you!”





Chapter 3


“How are things in the Great Marsh?” Azubah asked.

“All is well,” Bullfrog replied.

He smiled at her affectionately. Barrel-chested with a powerful upper body and skinny legs, Bullfrog had a unique appearance. Although his build was unusual, it was his face that was arresting. He had a large head, bulbous eyes, and a wide mouth that seemed to run from ear to ear. Paired with thin lips, he bore a startling resemblance to a frog which accounted for his nickname. It had started so many years ago; he could no longer remember his true name. To Azubah, he had always been Bullfrog; and to her, nothing was startling about his appearance.

“Sut wyt ti, fy ffrind?” he asked, with a grin. “Ydch chi’n ymweld a ch modryb?”

Azubah stared at him. “I’ve forgotten my Welsh,” she said, laughing.

“Are you visiting your aunt?” he asked again in Welsh, but this time more slowly.

“Yes, yes, I am!” she replied.

They had had no language in common when the two met years ago, but Azubah eagerly learned Welsh. It is Bullfrog’s native tongue. Now, it was the only language they spoke.

He grinned at her, his teeth crooked and small. Although he was dressed in rags, Bullfrog was not dirty. His curly, brown hair was wild and disheveled, but it was washed, and his hands were clean.

Birds starting landing on him as Azubah spoke with him. Finches perched on his shoulders; a sparrow rested on his head and warblers fluttered around him. Neither one of them noticed. They were as much a part of Bullfrog’s body as his limbs. He had been living with the creatures for so long that they were used to him. They perched on him as if he was a moving tree. Azubah knew they were also drawn to him because of his tender nature.

“Do you have to go right back?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No, my aunt will not look for me until sundown.”

“Good news! I have so much to show you.”

Azubah’s heart leaped. How she loved being with her best friend, but she needed food before they did anything. “Can we eat first?”

“Come along,” he replied, taking her hand.

Balancing on a fallen tree, they crossed a bog and started for his home. They walked inland away from the marsh and up a rise to a cluster of trees. Although most of the area was open lowland, Bullfrog had managed to find higher, wooded ground to avoid the ebb and flow of the tide and the occasional flood. He also wanted to be hidden. He did not trust humans.

Birds fluttered around him as they walked, and occasionally, Azubah would shoo them away as if they were gnats. She stopped momentarily to gaze through the trees at the burned-out remains of the hamlet where Bullfrog was born. It always chilled her to see it. Even though nature was reclaiming the site, the charred timbers were still visible as well as blackened chimneys.

Ten families, mostly from Cornwall and Wales, had settled the shores of the marsh shortly before Bullfrog was born. Considered an unsuitable family member because of his distorted appearance, he had been banished to the barn. It was where he worked, took his meals and slept.

The villagers were never on good terms with the Indians and one night there was a raid. The Indians found Bullfrog while searching the barn for livestock. Instead of killing him, they set him free and burned the village to the ground. Terrified, he watched the blaze from afar. He was the only one to survive.

“Quit dallying,” he called to Azubah. She ran after him into a dense thicket of trees where a huge tree was laying on the ground. Years earlier, it had been struck by lightning and crashed upon a hill. It had never completely broken free from its base. As a result, there was a large hollow between the trunk and the earth. It was here that Bullfrog had made his home. With the trunk giving him shelter, he dug into the hill, packed the walls with mud and rocks, and moved inside the chamber.

Three geese charged Azubah as she approached the dwelling, all flapping their wings and honking. Bullfrog bent down and swept them aside. “Sorry,” he said. “They keep thieving animals away from the house and even the occasional bear.”

“I believe it,” she said, glaring at them.

Azubah ducked into his dwelling. Although it was tiny, Bullfrog used every bit of space efficiently. All of his belongings were homemade. His furniture was constructed of timber lashed with rope. He had a short-legged chair, a small table, and a pallet covered with a tattered quilt. This was the quilt which he had wrapped himself in before fleeing the settlement. There was a ragged braided rug on the floor and a candle on the table.

“Look at my new hearth, a new flue and all,” Bullfrog said, proudly.

It was a small fireplace, made from stones, just big enough to heat the cottage. All of his cooking occurred outside on the open fire.

“Where did you get the materials to build it?” Azubah asked.

“‘The Hooded Ones. They said fumes could have killed me the way I had it. It is much safer now.”

The Hooded Ones were Bullfrog’s imaginary friends, and he had spoken of them for as long as Azubah could remember. She guessed that, in reality, he took the flue and the hearthstones from the remains of the burned-out village.