Plum River, Massachusetts Bay Colony

1662

 

Everybody said the name Azubah did not suit the twelve-year-old girl. The spritely redhead with the freckled face and quick smile did not match her mighty predecessor from the Old Testament.

“Azubah was a pious, God-fearing woman. This girl is far too merry and free of cares,” Goodie Bolton remarked one day as Azubah was carding wool and humming. “Be still, child,” she scolded. “Or, at least, recite your prayers.”

“Aye, tis a cumbersome name for such a blithe spirit,” Enoch Craft replied looking at his granddaughter.

Azubah smiled at him. She knew that name did not suit her. A girl named Azubah should be dutiful and somber, steadfast and virtuous. She should attend to her chores and her prayers, while never slipping away for walks in the woods. She should gather herbs and berries for healing and never pick flowers for her hair. Her eyes should never twinkle with mirth when the mouser jumped at her yarn or tumbled in the floor rushes. And above all, a girl bearing the name of Azubah should never wander from her bed at night, dreaming pagan dreams.

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 red-headed 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.

Each morning, Azubah rose to the sound of the wheel turning. She went to sleep each night listening to the waterfall. The constant roar was thunderous, but she didn’t notice. To her, it was the sound of home. Grandfather Craft was oblivious to it as well and partially deaf as a result. For this reason, he always spoke with a commanding voice.

Azubah was captivated by the multicolored stones of the mill from the time she was a small girl. Each was shaped differently, but it was the river that truly charmed her. When she found time to sneak away, she would hide under a tree and watch the water, white with foam, rush and tumble down the rock face and she listened. All things of the earth called to her. She could feel life emanating from them. The ground vibrated beneath her feet, and she could feel a force pulsating within as she placed her hand on trees.

All this she kept to herself, knowing it was blasphemous and profane. Her Puritan countrymen saw the natural world as an abomination. The vast interior a threat teemed with savages and unspeakable dangers. But Azubah believed differently.

One afternoon when she was lost in thought, sitting at the spinning wheel, a man leaned in the window, startling her. He removed his floppy hat, his thin gray hair hanging in wisps about his face and asked, “If you please, young miss, is Goodman Craft in?”

Azubah stopped treadling and said, “Good day, Goodman Barrow. You seek the elder?”

“The younger.”

“He is at the mill, sir.”

“Nay, he was not there.”

Perplexed, she put her yarn aside and crossed to the door. The Craft cottage was one of the bigger homes in Plum River. It was equipped with low, timbered ceilings, a thatched roof and a large hearth for cooking. It had wood rather than earthen floors which was a luxury in the community.

Azubah had been so engrossed in her work. She had not noticed her mother left the house with the children. She stepped outside and saw them in the field. Her mother was standing with her stepfather near the stalks of Indian corn holding the baby on her hip. A few strands of brown hair had escaped her cap and she was talking rapidly. Josiah was looking down at her, scowling. He was a large man with light hair and a low forehead and imperceptible eyebrows.

“He is there,” Azubah said to Goodman Barrow.

“My thanks,” he replied.

They were all back at the door of the house moments later. Josiah leaned in and called to Azubah. “There is something I require of you.”

When she stepped outside, she saw that he was holding a y-shaped branch in his hand.

She knew what he wanted instantly.

“Please, my husband,” Abigail said.

“Be still,” he hissed.

“Come now,” and Josiah gestured to Azubah.

She stepped outside, and they climbed onto an ox cart. The two men sat in front and Azubah was in the rear with her legs dangling.

With a sigh, Abigail gathered the children and went into the house.

It was a midsummer morning and already the sun was warming the earth. The cart bounced and bumped along the path staying in the cool shade of the trees following the river. They passed through the village, a cluster of clapboard dwellings, storehouses and a meetinghouse. The men were out in the fields. The women and children were tending the gardens and preparing the midday meal. Occasionally one of them would look up and wave.

They continued to follow the river, passing hayfields and farms. Azubah raised her face to the sun feeling its warmth upon her cheeks and catching the heady scent of the grasses bordering the path. She spied a hare sitting upon its hind legs, staring at her. She smiled. Lately, whenever she saw a rabbit or hare, she thought of her stepfather. With his large front teeth, lack of eyebrows and white, wispy hair, she found the resemblance uncanny. She rebuked herself for being disrespectful.

At last, they turned into Goodman Barrow’s homestead. An elderly woman with rounded shoulders and a shriveled face waved to them as they circled around to the back of the house. It was Goodwife Barrow.

“I pray this works,” Goodman Barrow said. “The river is just too far for us now that we grow old.”

“Shall we start here?” Josiah asked, stepping down from the cart. “Tis not far from the house or the garden.”

“Aye, it a good spot.”

“Azubah?” Josiah said. “Come.”

She slid off the cart, and he handed her the willow branch. Goodman Barrow eyed her suspiciously as she took one end in each hand, and pointed the base of the branch straight ahead.

Swallowing hard, Azubah started to walk. The men followed behind her as she moved around the clearing. She stopped after making several rotations.

“Nothing?” Josiah asked.

Azubah shook her head.

“Then, if you must, go to the woods,” he instructed.

Trudging through the brush, her skirts snagging on weeds. Azubah wandered through the thicket. She wound around oaks and elms, stepping over logs and debris when, suddenly, the branch she was holding tipped downward. She gripped it tightly and slowed her pace. The protruding end of the willow arched to the ground more rigidly with each continuous step.

Goodman Barrow’s eye’s widened.

Struggling to hang on, Azubah took one more step, and the branch arched in half, pointing down directly at the earth.

“Tis enchantment!” Barrow cried. “I never would have believed it if I had not seen it with my own eyes. It moves of its own will.”

“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.

“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.

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!”