Azubah did not remember walking to the Mayweather homestead. She walked for an hour, dazed and unaware of her surroundings. When at last, she started up the path to the cottage, she stopped abruptly. Terror swept over her. Should she even tend Aunt Faye and Uncle Gideon? She could bring the pox here. There had been a mass exodus from Plum River to avoid the contagion. Should she even go near the two of them? They were already so frail.

Azubah stood on the path, wringing her hands. But if she did not help Aunt Faye and Uncle Gideon, they would surely die. At last, she decided to take the chance and walked up to the cottage. Saying a prayer she opened the door, and Aunt Faye looked up. She was sewing in front of the hearth.

“My little niece!” she exclaimed. “Good morrow to you!”

“Aunt Faye, you fare well?”

“My affliction is much improved,” she said with a smile.

Azubah burst into tears and ran to her, putting her head in her lap. “Thanks be to God!”

“The Hooded Ones left an elixir for me.”

Drying her eyes, Azubah looked up. “You saw them?”

“I remember little, but one of them came and helped me drink a concoction.” She laughed. “A foul tasting brew. But by evening I began to feel stronger. I am to drink a spoonful every morning. Tis there on the shelf.”

Azubah stood up and took down the small jug, uncorking it. It had the scent of lavender with a hint of hawthorn. “What manner of person was this Hooded One?”

“It was like a dream, but I do recall she was a woman, short in stature with a gentle demeanor.”

“She has not returned?”

“No.”

Azubah looked at Uncle Gideon. “And how is my uncle?”

“There is no change.”

Azubah swallowed hard, buried her fists in her apron and sat down. “Aunt Faye, I have news. When I returned to Plum River everyone had,” and she hesitated. “My mother--” and she looked at her aunt. Her eyes were bright for the first time in weeks and she was smiling. Azubah took a breath and said, “Mother said I am to live here from this day forward to help you tend to Uncle Gideon.”

Faye clapped her hands together. “Oh, this news is most welcome! I thought for a moment something was amiss.”

Azubah dropped her eyes. “No, nothing is amiss.”

*                   *                       *

Winter came early to the colony that year. Snow covered the path to Plum River, but it did not matter to Azubah. The blanket of white was a comfort. It created a barrier between her and the painful memories of the past.

She refused to let it poison her soul, even though the bitterness ran deep. Everyone she needed now was near her: Aunt Faye, Uncle Gideon and Bullfrog. She thought of the joy her Grandfather had given her throughout her childhood, the hours of companionship and his wealth of affection. She never knew what brought his life to an end, but it mattered little. Their time together had been extraordinary. His death left an emptiness in her though she could never fill. Many nights she lie awake wondering how life would have been if he had survived. She could have lived happily with him at the mill without her parents, but it was not to be.

Recollections of her mother were not as sweet. The rancor of her deathbed words had snapped something deep inside Azubah; it changed her forever. She turned away from all memories of her, never looking back.

Being near Aunt Faye and Bullfrog was the balm she needed. They gave her love and acceptance, and at last, she was spinning and weaving again. That in itself was spiritually nourishing.

“Even without a wheel or loom, you produce beautiful material,” Faye exclaimed one afternoon in December as she held up a sample of linsey-woolsey.

“I was uncertain about the quality using our primitive tools,” Azubah replied, proudly running her hand along the fabric.

“If those tools suited those of times long ago, they suit us.”

The spinning wheel that Azubah had used in Plum River was gone with Josiah and the loom too. But Aunt Faye had knowledge of the old ways, so together they constructed simple tools for making fabric.

First, they crafted a drop spindle. It was a maple stick with a carved whirl and a hook. Azubah would spin by hand with this tool. Next, they devised a simple warp-weighted loom for weaving. It was a large timber frame that leaned against the wall, simple but effective. Obtaining flax and wool could have been a problem in the winter, but Faye had collected a great deal of fiber over the years and stored bundles in the loft.

The tools were slow, but in several weeks, Azubah was turning out exquisite fabric once more. Faye spun flax harvested from the marsh and was making delicate lace.

“I’m ready to start the blanket for Bullfrog. Do you fancy the color of the yarn?” Azubah asked while holding up the red wool.

“Tis fine indeed. We had sufficient cranberries?”

“Yes, we did.”

Faye went back to feeding Uncle Gideon his broth. “Prithee, speak with Bullfrog again when you deliver the blanket. Urge him to stay with us during the coldest weeks of winter if only to sleep.”

“Aunt Faye, I know he will not accept. He will not even show himself to you.”

“Yet I worry.”

“Indeed his little dwelling stays quite warm. The Hooded Ones have seen to that.”

Faye sighed. “Very well.”

Even though the snow was deep and the air frigid, every few days Azubah would wrap herself in a cloak and venture deep into the marsh to see Bullfrog. It was always a day of adventure, and at last, she was starting to feel happy again.

If weather permitted, then they would strap on wide woven “Indian shoes,” take the bow and arrows and hunt. Or they would venture out on the marsh, chip through the ice and fish. If the air was too cold, they would stay by the fire. Then, Azubah would read to Bullfrog.

“Do you still have dreams?” he asked one afternoon as he whittled arrows by the fire.

Azubah nodded. “I had a new one last night. I was sitting at my wheel spinning, but I was in the middle of a forest surrounded by tall oak trees.”

Bullfrog frowned and went back to whittling. “Were you afraid?”

“No, I was quite content.”

When he looked up again, Azubah was tracing an invisible design on her skirt with her finger.

“Azubah?” he said.

She jumped. “Yes?”

“You’re acting strangely again like that day we went to see the village.”

“Oh,” she replied, only vaguely aware of what he meant.

Winter was long and brutal, but at last, the spring thaw came, and sap began to run in the trees. Bullfrog and Azubah carved spiles and drove them into the maples to collect the thin liquid in buckets. On a sunny day the steady drip, drip could be heard from the trees surrounding Bullfrog’s home. They spent hours at the open fire, boiling the sap down into rich syrup for Johnny cakes and applesauce.

One afternoon when Azubah returned home from sugaring off, she opened the door to find the Mayweather cottage filled with smoke. Supper was burning on the hearth. Quickly she pulled the Dutch oven from the fire and looked around the room. Aunt Faye was in bed, curled up beside Uncle Gideon with her arms around him.

All winter long Aunt Faye had been engaged in life, up during the day and sleeping only at night. This seemed unusual. But when she walked over to the bed, she saw what had happened. Uncle Gideon had given up the struggle. He was dead.

*               *                *

Bullfrog helped Azubah dig a grave outside the cottage where they lied Uncle Gideon to rest. Aunt Faye refused to get out of bed, so Azubah read out loud from Scripture while Bullfrog filled the grave.

Even the mysterious elixir from the Hooded Ones could not revive Faye from her torpor this time. Her reason for living was gone. She slid back to her old ways again with restless nights and sleep-filled days. Azubah did everything: cooking, tending the garden, feeding the goats and chickens as well as all the housework. Her aunt slept during the day and wandered at night, forcing Azubah to stay awake.

Weeks passed and Azubah grew weary. She had lost so much sleep that she was starting to feel sick. One night, when she was feeling particularly ill, she decided to retire early. Wearily she dropped her gown to the floor and crawled onto a pallet by Aunt Faye’s bed.

“Gideon?” Faye called.

“He is not here, Aunt,” Azubah mumbled.

“Gideon, is that you?”

Azubah tried to reply but started coughing. She coughed so hard that she thought she would retch. Exhausted, she rolled over and went to sleep.

When she awoke, hours later, she sat up with a start. Sun was streaming through the window and birds were singing. Frantically, she looked around the room. It was empty, and the cottage door was open.

Jumping up, Azubah ran out calling, “Aunt Faye!”

Wild with fear, she ran to the back of the cottage, past the goat pens, and out to the fallow fields. “Aunt Faye?”

She turned and bolted for the marsh. She found her on the shoreline, floating face down in the cordgrass. She was dressed in her shift with her long hair floating around her head. Aunt Faye had drowned.

*                 *                   *

Azubah buried her in a garment she crafted, and with the help of Bullfrog, lied her to rest next to Uncle Gideon.

She keenly felt the loss. They had been kindred spirits. She blamed herself for her aunt’s death, citing that she had not watched her closely enough.

She punished herself so severely that Bullfrog finally spoke with her. “Your aunt would have died either way, Azubah. The moment your uncle left this earth she chose to join him; there was no way you could have stopped her.”

“I should have tied the door shut.”

A sarcastic smile spread across his wide face. “Or tied her to a chair?”

Azubah sighed and looked away. Bullfrog didn’t understand.

He held up his hand and a bird landed on his forearm. “If I hold this sparrow’s feet, he will struggle until he dies.” Gently he tossed his arm, and the bird flew. “It was the same with your aunt.”

Slowly his words took hold, and Azubah began to move on but she found she had a new obstacle to face. She was living alone for the first time in her life. It was odd rising in the morning with no one to greet and nobody with whom to talk to during the day. She went to see Bullfrog as often as she could, but he was often gone from his dugout. He was working on a new dwelling that was high in a tree. She had been there once to help pull timbers up, but it was so well camouflaged that she could never hope to find it again.

To keep from thinking about her loneliness, she kept busy weeding the garden, tending the livestock and occasionally weaving. But why bother? To what end? Merely to survive? True, she had the company of the earth with its wealth of life but she needed the companionship of human beings and a future. Where should she go? What path should she take?

“Come live with me, Bullfrog,” she said one day.

He laughed. “Not I! I like being alone.” He looked at the birds around his head and laughed. “If you can call this being alone.”

“But you like spending time with me, do you not?” she argued.

“Yes, but not every day.”

“Very well,” she said with a sigh.

It was midsummer and at last, Azubah had her thirteenth birthday. She planned the whole day. She would do the wash, make a carrot pudding, go to Bullfrog’s house to share it, and ask him to take her for a ride in the boat. It was a beautiful day and she was beyond excited.

Balancing a wicker basket of laundry on her head, she walked to a freshwater pond deep in the woods. Most water in the area was brackish. This pond, fed by a fresh water stream, was perfect for laundry. After scrubbing and beating several aprons and shifts, she sat back on her heels and looked around at the landscape. It was a beautiful spot, quiet and secluded with crystal clear water.

Remembering that today she turned thirteen, she leaned over and looked at her reflection. Had she changed? Her hair was still wavy and the color of the poppies. She was still covered in freckles, but she had lost some of the baby fat on her face. Her cheekbones seemed higher, and her lips appeared fuller. It wasn’t as bad as she thought.

Something caught her eye as Azubah stood up; her heart jumped. A man was standing across the pond. He was tall and one of the Hooded Ones. He was staring at her.

Azubah wanted to bolt but her feet felt rooted to the ground. What was he doing? Should she ask him what he wanted? She tried to speak but could not find her voice. She watched him, panting with fear.

Slowly he reached up and lowered his hood.

Azubah gasped. His hair was long, falling down around his shoulders. It was bright red. He wore one small braid next to his face. His skin was covered with freckles just like hers. She couldn’t believe her eyes. She seemed to be looking at herself.

The man put his hood up again, stepped back and was gone.

Azubah was shaken. She scanned the woods all the way back to the cottage but saw no one else. She had not sensed any threat from the man, so why was she so upset?

Once at home, she moved mechanically around the kitchen making the carrot pudding, but when it was finished, she didn’t want to go see Bullfrog. A ride in the boat no longer sounded amusing. She had changed her mind and would rather stay home. Instead, she busied herself with chores, trying to forget about the man at the pond.

*                 *                  *

Azubah bolted upright in bed. She heard something downstairs. She was not alone. Barely breathing, she listened. There it was again, a whimper. She stood up and the loft floor creaked. Terrified, she did not move. Who was it? Would they try to harm her? Moments seemed like hours. She might have heard the door and prevented the intrusion if only she had slept downstairs. But she just couldn’t bring herself to take the bed in which Uncle Gideon had sickened and died.

She waited for what seemed like an eternity. At last, in her shift and bare feet, Azubah descended the ladder. She thought she would swoon if anyone grabbed her legs.

The moon was full, and it flooded the main floor with light. She ran her eyes over the room and stopped at the hearth. A woman was sitting with her back to Azubah. The moonlight illuminated her light, wispy hair.

Azubah’s heart lurched. It looked like—no, it couldn’t be—was it Aunt Faye?

“Aunt?” she asked, her voice shaking.

There was no reply. The woman did not move. She continued to stare straight ahead.

What manner of magic was this? Could it be witchcraft or was this merely a woman in need of shelter?

“Prithee madam, who are you?”

Slowly she turned and looked at Azubah. It was Aunt Faye. Her hair was wet and plastered to her pale face. Her shift was soaked and clinging to her skin; weeds were tangled in her hair. A foul smell emanated from her. “Gideon?” she murmured.

Azubah backed away, too horrified to speak. 

The specter looked past her and repeated, “Gideon?”

Whirling around, Azubah looked at the bed. It was not Uncle Gideon. It was her mother. She lies in the moonlight staring at the ceiling, sick and peppered with smallpox sores. She rolled her head to the side, looked at Azubah and mumbled, “I burn in hell because of you.”

Azubah stumbled back, running into a chair. The specter of Aunt Faye grabbed her shift, asking again, “Gideon?”

Azubah screamed. Pulling the fabric from her grasp, she ran from the house. She ran toward the marsh, sobbing and looking over her shoulder to see if the phantoms followed. They had not.

She ran as fast as she could. She had to get away.

At last, she stopped while gasping for air. Tiny white lights were everywhere. It was the fireflies again. She knew they were there to bring her comfort.

They clustered together and flew down the path. “Wait for me!”

She started to chase them, but they flew too quickly.

“Circe,” she heard a voice say in Welsh. “Circe, it’s time.”

She stopped and looked around, panting. ”Who is there?”

“It is time,” the voice repeated. “Try.”

“What? Try what?” she asked.

“Leap forward now or they will be gone.”

The light from the fireflies was growing dim. Frantic to catch them, she stepped forward and jumped. Instantly some unearthly force swept her up in the air. She hovered for a moment and dropped back down.

She tried again, wide-eyed and breathless. This time she leapt with outstretched arms. Like magic, Circe flew up in the air, coasting a short distance and dropping back to the ground.

“Again,” the voice urged.

Circe soared up above the treetops by the fourth try. A breeze lifted her, and, with outstretched arms, she careened like a bird. She was flying! What freedom! What exhilaration!

She ran her eyes over the Great Marsh below her with a wildly beating heart. The full moon overhead flooded everything with a sparkling light. Crystalline ribbons of water wound around tiny islands clustered with trees. And there was the thatched roof of the Mayweather cottage and the dark path to Plum River. In the distance, Circe could see the constellation of fireflies. With lightning speed, she propelled herself forward, joining them in their luminous flight.

She was ecstatic. The fairy-like creatures gathered around her, blinking and sailing through the night sky. But the happiness was not to last. When the fireflies turned to follow the big river inland, her joy turned to trepidation. Circe knew they were traveling to the village of The Hooded Ones. She looked back at the path to Plum River.

With a jolt, Azubah Craft was back to earth again, standing in the doorway of the Mayweather cottage. Dazed and confused, she searched for the fireflies. Where had they gone? How did she get back here so quickly?

And then she remembered the specters. Whirling around, she looked inside the cottage. Aunt Faye was no longer in the chair and her mother was not in the bed.

Azubah knew then she had been dreaming.

*                  *                      *

She had the same dream every night for a week. Every time she would wake up standing on the threshold of the cottage.

When she saw Bullfrog, she didn’t tell him. It was far too disturbing to relive, if only through words. She said nothing about seeing the man with red hair in the woods either.

During the day, Azubah was able to keep her mind off everything, but she grew anxious at night when she lied down to sleep. The summer heat was intense; the moisture in the air made it hard to breathe.

One particularly sultry night, Azubah awakened drenched in perspiration. Rising, she stepped out the door. The air felt cool and she pulled the damp shift from her skin while fanning herself. Sitting on the step, she noticed that the crickets and toads seemed louder than usual. She ran her fingers through her hair and sighed.

Something caught her eye in the north. A blaze of yellow light was flickering above the trees. She jumped to her feet. Something was on fire in Plum River. She ran down to the path to get a better look. It had to be more than one structure; it looked like the whole village. The flames reached high into the night sky and there were gunshots. What was happening? A group of shadowy figures loomed up out of the darkness running toward her. They came so quickly that they almost knocked her off her feet.

“Dear Lord!” a woman cried. “We thought you were a savage.” She was holding a baby and next to her was a boy Azubah’s age. Azubah recognized the family from Plum River.

“Run, girl!” the father said. “The Narragansett’s are burning the settlements and killing everyone!” He had a child on his back and was holding a musket. They bolted away as Azubah stared at them, stunned.

Should she run back to the house and dress? No time. She must warn Bullfrog.

Terrified, she scanned the woods and started running to his dwelling. The gunshots were getting closer. Azubah veered off the path and dashed up a hill. She could see the family on the path below her.

Suddenly there was whoop, and the woman screamed. An Indian had thrown the man to the ground and was repeatedly driving a club into his skull. Another warrior took a spear and knocked the boy senseless. The woman frantically tried crawling up the embankment, still holding her baby. Another Indian took her by the hair and yanked her backward, looping a noose around her neck.

Azubah watched in horror from behind a tree, not moving. She would be next if they saw her. After jerking the boy to his feet, they lashed his hands and disappeared into the woods along with the woman and her child.

Azubah stared down at the remains of the man. There was just enough light to see that his face was mangled and his scalp gone. Her knees buckled, and she dropped to the ground. Grabbing a tree, she pulled herself up and stumbled to Bullfrog’s dugout.

The door was ajar when she arrived. She looked around and ducked inside the dwelling. The house had been ransacked. His furniture was broken. His bow and arrows were gone; his pallet was slashed as well as bundles of grain.

“Oh, dear God!” she exclaimed. Had they taken Bullfrog prisoner too? Or had they killed him? “Please let him be safe.”

  She couldn’t stay here. The Indians may return. She thought of the little skiff moored at the marsh. She could hide on an island until the attack had passed.

Azubah rushed to shore. The skiff was still hidden in the brush, and with a wildly beating heart, she pushed it out onto the water. But just as she climbed into the boat, a blast of pain shot through her leg. She looked down at her thigh. She had been hit with an arrow, and there was the whir of another arrow as it sailed past her head.

Frantically, she grabbed the oars and propelled herself out on to the marsh. She didn’t know how many Indians were on shore, but she knew that she must flee. She rowed as fast as she could deeper and deeper into the marsh, losing herself in the maze of islands and the tangle of waterways. She drove the oars deeply into the water until she could row no more.

Thoroughly spent and panting, she scanned the cattails, trees, and islands. She was alone. She looked at her thigh as she put the oats aside. Even in the darkness, she could see the dark stain of blood on her shift. She touched the arrow. The pain was excruciating. Even if she could remove it, she would only open the wound more; so, she sat back gritting her teeth trying to decide what to do.

Feeling light-headed, she put her head between her knees. She felt so tired, so very tired and needed to rest - perhaps if she slid down inside the boat and slept.

Azubah heard chanting the moment she closed her eyes. It grew louder and more insistent. At last, she straightened up, covered her ears and screamed, “Enough!”

That outburst had been a dangerous mistake. Quickly she started rowing again. But this time something was guiding her. Something was telling her which was to go.

She continued to row, even though she was growing weaker and weaker. The voices told her to turn onto the big river. She turned up the black expanse without hesitation just as a breeze cooled her brow. She pushed on until the current became too much; her head began to spin.

Just as she was about to swoon, someone appeared on shore holding a lantern.

*                  *                   *

When Azubah opened her eyes, she was in a soft bed and it was daytime. Sun was streaming in through an open window. She smelled lemongrass and mint. She raised her head to look around, and someone in chair stirred beside her. Her eyes widened when he leaned over her. It was the man with the red hair.

“Welcome home, Circe,” he said.