The path was dappled with morning sun and Circe was glad to be alive. To her, this time of day was always filled with promise and buzzing with energy. The birds were chattering, and the trees were a hundred different shades of green.

She walked down the path, searching for plants and flowers to color her cloth. Her pursuit took her to a small, freshwater slough. Brushing the hair from her eyes, she smiled. As usual, blackbirds were flying from cattail to cattail while calling to one another. She marveled at how well they balanced themselves on the spongy brown tops of the plants.

With her skirts tied up, she wound her way through the weeds and grasses cutting herbs and flowers and placing them in a wicker basket. When she looked up, something caught her eye across the swamp. There were seven people standing in a row wearing long, white hooded robes. Her heart jumped. They were facing her, standing erect with their arms at their sides. They did not move. “The Hooded Ones!” she gasped.

Narrowing her eyes, she tried to see their faces, but they were shadowed by the cowls they wore. Yet, she could feel them staring at her. She was close enough to see that each robe was fastened with a golden brooch and embroidered with an intricate design. Instantly, she recognized the pattern of interwoven knots sewn onto the garments. It was her workmanship. She would know it anywhere. They were all wearing robes that she had crafted.

She stared across the pond at them mesmerized, but this was not the sinister enchantment of the will-o’-the-wisp. She could feel their warmth. It was benevolent and kind.

A feeling of supreme peace washed over Circe. In her mind, she could hear these strangers chanting and feel them calling to her; but she could not answer. One of them held a hand out to her, but she could not move. Oh, how she wanted to wade across the slough to these quiet souls.

Then, the vision began to undulate like ripples in water. The Hooded Ones faded and disappeared. Circe scanned the woods. Had they stepped back into the trees? She ran to look, but they were nowhere to be found. All that remained were seven oak trees standing in a row.

Tears rolled down her cheeks. She felt supremely lonely, but when she looked down. The humble little knife she had been using to gather plants had been replaced with a tiny golden sickle. It was delicate and beautiful, ornamented with her design of woven knots. When Circe picked it up, it caught the rays of the sun with a brilliance that blinded her.

Suddenly, she was back in her own bed in Plum River and she was Azubah Craft once more. Rubbing her eyes, she sat up. The comforting dream faded as she dressed, replaced with worry.

“Truly Mother, something is wrong,” she said at breakfast. “Aunt Faye has changed. She’s not sleeping well; her talk makes no sense.”

“This is foolishness, Azubah. Faye has always been queer, and now that she has no one with whom to speak, she has taken to conversing with herself. That is all.”

“But, Mother--”

“Enough!” Abigail barked, picking up the baby. “You exaggerate, and I will not have you setting me to worry! Now go. You have work to do.”

Azubah sat down at the loom and looked around the room. As much as she loved making cloth, the amount of work that had accumulated was staggering. And tomorrow was the Sabbath. She would be at service all day and unable to work; so, she had to hurry. Yet, she felt better once she was back into the rhythm of weaving. It was familiar and calming, a feeling akin to the serenity she felt in her dream about The Hooded Ones.

How curious it was, and it was the first of its kind. Most of her dreams were repeated over and over, but this one was new and the first involving The Hooded Ones. Who were these phantoms? And how odd that they were wearing garments she had woven and embroidered. Why? Was it merely a memory of her embroidery on Aunt Faye’s cloak?

She remembered the stitching on their robes. How she loved that pattern. Ever since she was a child, she had sewn that same knotted design again and again. It had haunted her as long as she could remember, lingering in her mind like a dim memory. In her spare time, she would sew endless variations of the same theme, over and over on scraps of cloth. But she had to hide her work. Her mother called it pagan. When she couldn’t embroider the pattern, she would draw it in the dirt or run her finger over the mouser’s fur, tracing it again and again.

Azubah stopped treadling and stared. Who were these Hooded Ones? Surely they did not exist. But then what would explain their manifestation to both Bullfrog and Aunt Faye? And those bags hanging in the trees; they were not products of her fancy.

Azubah knew the Great Marsh was filled with enchantments, but she had always believed they were supernatural delights, rather than malevolent forces. Were these apparitions possibly manifestations of the Devil?

Azubah tucked her hair back into her coif and started weaving again. The Hooded Ones brought food and comfort to those who were in need. How could that be wicked? Tonight she would speak with Grandfather. She would see if he had ever heard of The Hooded Ones.

“You have been in the sun, my little granddaughter,” Enoch exclaimed when Azubah set his supper before him at the mill. “You have even more fern-tickles.”

Azubah put her hands on her cheeks. “Oh, no!”

“Be proud of them. Tis where the sun has kissed you.”

Azubah sat down with a frown. She didn’t like her freckles or her crimson hair. They were an embarrassment to her parents and almost as shameful as wearing a red letter.

“Likely you will lose your sun spots as you mature,” he said, holding his arm out. “But they will reappear in old age.”

Azubah looked down at the dark spots on her grandfather’s hand. “I hope so.”

She watched while he ate his supper, but Azubah fiddled and fidgeted so much. He asked finally, “What plagues you, firefly?”

She swallowed hard. “Grandfather, have you ever heard of The Hooded Ones?”

“Who?”

“Aunt Faye has been speaking of them; The Hooded Ones.”

“No, I know nothing of them but your Aunt Faye is an odd sort. Pay it no mind, firefly.”

He cut a piece of bread. Azubah watched his little, pointed beard bounce up and down as he chewed. She continued, “Have you ever seen anyone dress in long robes and wear hoods?”

“No, not here but back in Lowestoft. Papist leaders donned robes with hoods. We left England to get away from their kind.”

Azubah had heard of these Papists and knew they were bad. They stood for everything her faith opposed.

“So there are people that dress in this manner?”

“Aye, they call themselves monks.”

Her grandfather took a sip of mead, wiped his lips with his sleeve and continued, “I have heard stories of them residing in the North Country with the French, here in the New World but they are not down here. Why? Have you seen one of these horned devils?”

“No!”

“Well, I certainly hope your Aunt has not either.”

“Perhaps it is just fancy,” Azubah added quickly.

He put his dish in her basket, sighed and stretched. “I pray it be so. Prithee give your mother my thanks for the repast.”

“I will, Grandfather. Sleep well,” she said and left.

*                *                 *

Less than two weeks passed, and Azubah’s mother said it was time to return to Aunt Faye. It was then she knew her words had worked. Ordinarily, she would go monthly, but now her mother asked her to return within a fortnight.

Matthew escorted her, and as usual, he did not stay. When he started for home, she considered finding Bullfrog; but instead, she turned up the lane to the Mayweather cottage.

It was another warm summer day and perspiration ran down Azubah’s neck. Her hair soaked under her coif. She stopped outside the cottage and looked at the trees where the bags had been hanging. She wondered if The Hooded Ones were watching her. Were they indeed monks and horned like the devil?

An odd feeling crept up her spine, and so she rushed inside the cottage. Aunt Faye was curled up on the bed sleeping next to Uncle Gideon. She was fully dressed, but her clothes were filthy. The house smelled like excrement. Mice scattered in every direction when Azubah walked to the table. Dirty dishes were everywhere, caked chowder was in a pot and the ashes were cold in the hearth.

She tried to wake her aunt, but she would not stir; so, she rolled up her sleeves, pinned on her apron and emptied the chamber pots. After washing dishes and setting water to boil outside, she grew concerned and walked to the bed again. Her aunt was breathing. All curled up next to Uncle Gideon, she had a peaceful look on her face with her hands under her head. Poor Aunt Faye seems to have one foot in Heaven already.

Uncle Gideon’s health was deteriorating too. His cheeks were even more sunken, and his skin looked like parchment. Aunt Faye could not care for him properly anymore.

She gathered the dirty linen, took it outside and stuffed it into the crucible.

“Azubah!” someone hissed.

She whirled around and looked. It was Bullfrog and he was squatting on a branch. She ran over and he jumped down, birds fluttering around him. “Can you talk?”

“Yes.”

“Can you go exploring?”

Azubah shook her head. “My aunt is not well.”

“It is the fever?”

“No, I think it’s her mind.” She took his wrist and asked, “She has spoken of The Hooded Ones.”

Bullfrog’s eyes widened. “They visit her too?”

“They left food, just over there--”

“Hanging from the trees?”

“Is that how they bring it you?”

“They did at first. Now they show themselves.”

Azubah almost blurted, “So they indeed exist?” but she caught herself. She did not want Bullfrog to know she had doubted him. “Where do they live?”

“Up the big river. Over an hour by boat.”

Azubah’s jaw dropped. “You have seen their settlement?”

He nodded. “Do not be fearful. They are good people and are the only ones I trust. They are just different. You were never afraid of me and I’m different.”

“Well, you’re not a Papist.”

Bullfrog’s eyebrows shot up. “I’ve not heard that word since I was a child. I don’t think they’re Papists.”

“Do they have horns?”

He started to laugh. “Not the ones I’ve seen. They are not evil, Azubah. One of them is teaching me to read.”

“I don’t want to talk with them. Can we just look at them from the trees?”

He nodded. “When?”

“Soon,” Azubah said.

*                    *                     *

It took several days, but she was able to get away at last. The linens were washed and folded, the goats and chickens fed, food was in the pot, and the house was clean. Aunt Faye was seldom awake anymore and she was in a dreamlike stupor, even when she was up. Azubah helped her bathe, gave her fresh clothing and ushered her back to bed. She told her that she had an errand to run but would return early evening. Aunt Faye nodded and crawled into bed.

Azubah tied a small loaf of bread and dried venison into a cloth and walked down to the marsh. Bullfrog was waiting in a small skiff he had salvaged from the demolished hamlet.

“We have to row across the marsh and up the river,” he said, as she climbed into the boat.

“I have food and drink for us,” she replied, stepping in after him. She kicked off her shoes and removed her coif, running her fingers through her curls.

Bullfrog pushed off, starting to row.

Azubah usually took joy watching the fish darting through the sea lavender and the marsh birds floating in the grasses, but today she was anxious.

Thick, charcoal colored clouds gathered, and it started to pour. Azubah looked at Bullfrog. His dark hair was plastered to his face; his clothing was soaked. He didn’t care. He was lost in the rhythm of his rowing.

They journeyed across the marsh and up the big river. Azubah had never been so far from home. Until now her world had consisted of Plum River, an occasional trip to Ipswich and regular visits to the Mayweather homestead; but, this was different. The big river snaked through the interior taking them deep into the wilds. It was quiet back here and sounds were muffled. Circe took a deep breath. The air smelled different too. It was fresh and salty in the marsh, but along this river it was still and thick, filled with the scent of pine. Although you could hear birds chattering, they were hidden in the trees along the banks, not soaring overhead. The Great Marsh was a wide, open expanse with the vast sky all around. Here it was close, and the vegetation was heavy. The shoreline was dry rather than wet; it was bordered by evergreens, ash and oak, not bulrush and cordgrass.

“My turn to row,” Azubah said and they changed places.

When Bullfrog lounged back, chewing on some dried meat, Azubah realized there were no birds around him. “Bullfrog! Where are your birds?”

He looked around and laughed. “I thought something felt queer. We must be too far from home for them.”

“It looks strange to see you without a flutter of wings all around you.”

“It feels odd. I miss them.”

“I am certain you do.”

At last, the sun returned, drying their hair and clothing. Bullfrog tore off a chunk of bread and asked, “Did your aunt make this?”

“No, Aunt Faye does little but sleep now.”

“Your aunt was one of the few people who talked to me when I was a boy,” he said with a half-smile.

Azubah’s eyebrows shot up. “Why not let her know you are still alive?”

He shrugged. “She may believe the story.”

“What story?”

“The villagers said that the marsh cast a spell on me when I was born. They said I was one-part human while one part creature.”

Azubah’s jaw dropped. “You never told me that.”

“Sometimes I think they’re right.”

Azubah gaped at him. Bullfrog did not seem unhappy with the idea. She looked at the bulky arms, thin legs, bulging eyes, and his wide thin-lipped mouth. He had always been just Bullfrog in her eyes; he was her friend, but for the first time, she saw what other people saw. “Would it be a terrible thing if you were a child of the marsh?” she asked.

“I would rather it be so. The marsh is far more kind to me.” Bullfrog looked over his shoulder. “We’re here,” he announced.

They steered to shore, tied the skiff and started up a path which followed a stream. The water sounded cool and fresh splashing over the rocks, and a green canopy of trees shaded them. “How do you know where to find these people?” Azubah said.

“Keep your voice down,” he stated, putting his finger to his lips. “I followed them back one time after they brought me food, but they caught me.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing,” he chuckled. “They invited me into the settlement.”

“Did you go?”

“No, now no more talk, Azubah. Their ears are as keen as the savages.”

She nodded and continued to follow him. At last, Bullfrog climbed a tree. He reached down and brought Azubah up beside him. She was stunned. An entire village was tucked back in the woods, so secluded that no one would ever see it. Twenty roundhouses were clustered together and instead of being in straight rows like her village, they were grouped in a circle. The roofs were thatch, but there were no chimneys or even holes. Smoke escaped through the thatch instead. In the back of the houses were pens for pigs. Goats and chickens wandered around the hamlet clucking and pecking. Hides were drying on frames and several crucibles were bubbling.

A woman dressed in a long loose-fitting gown belted at the waist was the first villager Azubah saw. She was carrying a baby on her hip, and she spoke with a man who looked as if he was returning from the fields. He carried a hoe on his shoulder and was dressed in a tunic and trousers. His hair was long and loose. He had a closely cropped beard. If these are the Hooded Ones, then where are their hoods?

Another woman crossed into the hamlet carrying water, and she too was dressed in a long coarsely woven gown with a blue and green tartan scarf draped over one shoulder. Her hair was gray, and she wore a leather band around her head. As she approached, an elderly man stepped out of one of the houses to greet her. He had on a hooded robe, but was not wearing the cowl. His face was brown and wrinkled; his wild gray hair was cut short. Suddenly he straightened up as if on alert. Closing his eyes, he tilted his head back. Azubah watched him closely. Was he praying or listening for something? The woman watched him with concern, and when he opened his eyes again, he said something. She scanned the trees. Azubah pulled back, wondering if they had sensed her presence.

Suddenly two dogs loped into the hamlet, followed by children. Bullfrog frowned. He did not want the canines catching their scent. He signaled to Azubah that it was time to go, but she did not move or respond. He tugged on her sleeve, but still, she did not move.

“Azubah,” he hissed.

No response.

Alarmed, Bullfrog gave her a push. She jumped as if waking from a dream. He helped her to the ground, and he looked closely at her when she landed. She appeared dazed and he frowned. Taking her hand, he led her back to the skiff.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked, once they were out on the river.

She was still glassy-eyed.

“Were you scared?”

She blinked and murmured, “No. In fact, for the first time in my life, I felt very much at peace.”

*                *                    *

It was twilight when they returned. Azubah thanked Bullfrog and walked up to the house. When she stepped inside, seeing Aunt Faye and Uncle Gideon lying on the bed snapped her back to reality. The supper pot was empty, so it appeared as if they had eaten.

Azubah slumped down onto a chair and thought about what she had happened. Instead of being afraid of The Hooded Ones, she was drawn to them. Everything about the village seemed familiar and was comforting. It seemed like a dream, and she wondered if perhaps she had visited them in her sleep. But she stopped. Could this be the devil bewitching me? She could not think about it now. It was dark and all sorts of things seemed ominous at night. She needed to rest and allow herself to consider things in the light of day.

Azubah noticed she had left the cottage door open. After closing it and blowing out the candle she saw a dot of light floating into the room, and then another and another. She gasped. A multitude of fireflies had drifted inside the house.

Stunned, she watched them sail through the air, blinking. It was magical. One rested on Uncle Gideon’s arm, another drifted up to her face and then sailed off toward the window. She watched the fairy-like creatures glide around the room until, at last, she realized she must set them free. She opened the door until they all drifted out of the cottage. When she shut it again, she leaned against it, pondering what had happened. They had visited her for a reason. She could feel it. They wanted to reassure that the wonders of the marsh were not the workings of the devil.