The Firefly Witch (Bold Women of the 17th Century Series, Book 1)(8)

The Mayweather home was like every other Puritan structure in the area, a simple clapboard dwelling with a roof of thatch gathered from the marsh. The only thing unusual about it was its location; it was far from the other settlements. Originally part of the hamlet where Bullfrog was born, Gideon and Faye Mayweather started a hay farm outside of the hamlet. Everyone warned them that the site left them vulnerable to attack, but they didn’t listen. In the end, it was what saved them. The Indians set the hamlet on fire and did not bother to burn the outlying farmstead.

Gideon and Faye were grateful they had been spared, but tragedy found them another way. Late one afternoon, Faye became worried when Gideon did not return from the fields. Running through the hay, she found him on the ground, mute and helpless. His heart was still beating strongly, but his eyes were staring vacantly. Terrified, Faye fetched Josiah and Abigail but there was nothing to be done. They could only help her bring him into the house where he lay for the next year, motionless and insensible while staring at the ceiling. No one knew what manner of illness had struck him, but Faye remained hopeful of a recovery, tending him night and day. She fed him pottage and liquids keeping him alive, but he was nothing more than a living skeleton.

It began to pour as Azubah approached the house; the chickens pecking in the yard scattered. The rain ran down into her eyes and drenched her clothes. The laundry was getting soaked. She dashed over, yanking it from the line into her arms, piece by piece.

When she burst into the house, she found Aunt Faye sitting by the bed reading out loud to Uncle Gideon. Azubah’s sudden entrance did not startle her aunt. Instead, she looked up slowly and said in her childlike voice, “Why, it’s my little niece.”

“Aunt Faye, did you not hear the rain?” Azubah exclaimed as she stood dripping on the rug.

“No.”

“Your wash is soaked.”

She shrugged. “It matters not. It will dry. Reading to Gideon is more important.”

Azubah sighed. Of course, Aunt Faye would feel that way.

The Mayweather house was a humble dwelling with one large room. There were heavy smoke-stained rafters, a hearth, table and chairs, a few cooking utensils and a bedstead. A loft upstairs held food stores, as well as corn cobs, cheeses and herbs which hung from the ceiling to dry. Ordinarily, this is where the offspring would sleep, but Gideon and Faye were childless.

Kissing her aunt on the cheek, Azubah asked, “How do you fare?”

“We are well. It fills us with joy to see you again.”

Although she was approaching middle age, Faye Mayweather still looked like a young girl. Small and slight, with light, wispy hair, translucent skin, and pale blue eyes, Azubah thought she looked more like a fairy than a flesh and blood woman. Soft-spoken and kind, she was given to daydreaming; the complete opposite of Azubah’s humorless mother.

Many thought she was daft, but in reality, she was highly intelligent. Often neglecting her household duties, she would read, spend hours staring at the clouds, or just walking. But because she was a devout Christian and a student of the Bible, the community was never threatened by her. Unlike her dogmatic contemporaries, Faye Mayweather did not take every word of Scripture literally, but she never argued, so there were few disagreements. Even so, her views worried Gideon. This was one of the reasons he had decided to settle outside of the hamlet. It was to protect her from the intolerance that ran rampant in the towns.

“Good morrow, Uncle Gideon,” Azubah said, leaning over the bed. It was hard to recognize the man she had known all her life. Gone was her handsome, robust uncle in the prime of life. He was replaced by a shadow with sunken cheeks, protruding teeth and eyes that were vacant and cloudy.

“All his hair is gone now,” Aunt Faye said, stroking his hand.

Azubah nodded. “Aye, I wish it were not so.” She stepped over to the hearth to hang up the laundry.

Faye watched her affectionately. “How is my sister?”

“She is busy with the new baby. They are all very busy.”

“Surely you did not walk here alone.”

“No, Matthew brought me.”

“Why did he not come up to the house?”

Azubah hesitated. “He could not. He had work to do at the mill.”

Suddenly, Aunt Faye exclaimed, “Here let me help you with those clothes.”

Azubah breathed a sigh of relief, glad her aunt did not press her about Matthew’s abrupt return home.

There was a great deal of laundry, most of it consisting of small clothes to keep Uncle Gideon clean since he could not use the chamber pot.

“Shall I bring up the fire outside for more wash?” Azubah offered.

“Not yet, dearest,” Aunt Faye said. She sat down heavily and brushed a wisp of hair from her face. “Come visit with me first.”

Azubah took a chair and looked around the one-room dwelling. The hearth needed scouring. There were bugs on the floor, candle wax all over the table and mouse droppings on the food shelves. She wondered if the loft was even dirtier. That is where she would sleep. “Look what I brought,” she said, opening one of the baskets. “Here’s food from mother, soap, candles and some shirts for Uncle Gideon. Look what I made for you.” She held up a woolen cloak of dark blue. “Winter is coming. You’ll need this.”

“Oh, my!” she cried, putting her hands to her cheeks. “Tis most beautiful.” She gathered the cloak onto her lap and stroked the wool as if it were fur.