The girl named Azubah was from another lifetime, Circe thought as she floated on the pond while staring up at the clouds. It had only be three months since Plum River had been attacked, but she felt as if it been years. She kicked her feet gently, paddling through the water. Gone was the daughter of the Puritan miller, Josiah Craft and his wife, Abigail. Born anew was Circe Swinburne, daughter of Rhun and Saffir Swinburne, Derwydds of Glendower Village.

She had been stunned when the man with the long, red hair had told her that he was her father. But she should not have been surprised since she looked just like him. Several days after coming to Glendower, when he had gained her trust, Rhun Swinburne explained to Circe about meeting her mother on the voyage from England. Six months later, when he saw her in Ipswich, she was teaming with child. Abigail refused to speak with him or even acknowledge him, so respecting her wishes, he watched from a distance as his daughter grew into a fine, young woman. Never knowing her name, he called her Circe - the beautiful enchantress of Greek mythology. He had imparted that name to her in her dreams, by some power that Circe did not understand.

“We called you The Hooded Ones,” Circe told him.

He chuckled and said in Welsh, “We are not always in robes as you can see.”

She looked at his tunic and trousers.

“They are not practical for daily life, but we certainly wear them for worship.”

“You are not Calvinists?” she asked, scanning the mantel for a Bible.

“No, we are not Christians. We are Derwydds of the Celtic people. We live like the ancient ones of Wales and worship the God and Goddess. We fled The British Isles for the same reason the Puritan sect left, to avoid persecution. We seek freedom here in the New World like everyone else.”

“But you live in secret.”

He nodded. “Indeed, we must. We have for centuries. I fear we may never be able to live openly anywhere. This is why we live such a great distance from the Puritan settlements and are hidden. But the New World is vast. There is room for us here.”

The fact that they were not Puritans, distressed Circe at first. She had been warned of pagan demons for her entire life. Even Papists, fallen away Christians, were considered dangerous. So these odd people who worshipped a goddess must be wicked indeed.

Circe continued to swim around the pond, watching the white clouds sail overhead. But they weren’t wicked, and she discovered that fact quickly. They were kind and generous and welcomed her with open arms. Just like her, these people could feel the pulse of the earth and sense the spirit within all living things. They didn’t frown on laughter and happiness; and although they worked hard, they found joy in partnering with the earth. They did not struggle against it or consider the vast interior an abomination like the Puritans.

Circe reached down and touched the scar on her thigh. The Derwydds could work wonders with medicine too. They had healed her wound with poultices and nursed her through a dangerous fever in no time. In less than two weeks, she gained back her strength and was up helping with tasks around the cottage. The dwelling in which she stayed was square with a thatched roof. Many of the structures in the village were round with fire pits in the center of the room.

Eventually, she moved out into the community to work while meeting the other residents of Glendower. She saw them stealing looks at her, but they did not flood her with questions. Instead, they allowed her to adjust gradually, working side by side with them as they baked, collected eggs, and weeded their expansive gardens.

Circe stood up and walked to shore for the crock of soft soap. Scooping some into her hand, she lathered her hair. The custom in Glendower was to bathe every few days and, at first, she resisted. She had been taught that frequent bathing was unhealthy, opening up the pores to disease but the villagers here believed the opposite. They believed that filth harbored disease.

Eventually, she complied, but she still wore her shift when she went to the pond to wash. It seemed indecent to swim naked, even if she was alone. Scrubbing was difficult in her clothes, but she was not ready to shed all of her Puritan inhibitions.

“You are becoming a young woman now,” her father’s wife said one morning as she combed Circe’s hair with scented oils. “I will teach you how to make yourself attractive. Here in our village, you may wear your beautiful hair down around your shoulders if you choose. You do not have to cover it.”

Circe idolized Saffir. She was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. She was breathtaking with chestnut-colored hair that fell in long spirals around her face, bright green eyes and ivory skin. Her nature was equally spellbinding. She was soft spoken and pensive yet, without warning, she might find the humor in something and laugh.

Saffir held a position of high status in the community. She was a bard, one who is a poet and lore-keeper. Although she could read and write, most of her work was oral literature. Saffir was also responsible for protecting the lore of the Ancient Order of the Oak, another name for the Derwydds. She was committing to memory their history all the way back to ancient times.

Circe learned there was only a handful of Derwydds in Glendower. Derwydds were the community leaders and administrators and her father were among them. His role was of that of priest and astrologer.

“I lead worship here, Circe. I also receive guidance from the trees and the stars,” he explained. It was the first day she was able to walk outside the cottage and they walked along the creek. “Yet we do not seek to duplicate every tradition of the Ancient Ones. Some of the old ways must be discarded in favor of more compassionate rituals. There is no question that we still must live in the modern world.”

“But we never saw any of you in Plum River or Ipswich,” she said.

“On the contrary. We were there. We often leave our communities to mix and trade with others, but we wear contemporary clothing and speak English to them, not Welsh. Some of our people even live in large towns among the Christians. But they must blend seamlessly and always worship in secret. It is dangerous for us.”

Circe thought of the impulses she had to suppress when she lived among her former family, her connection to the earth, her love of animals, her dreams, and even her laughter. She was so much like them. It explained many things, yet it opened up new questions as well. She had never known anyone in this unusual community. How was it possible that she was moved by the same instincts? Were they influencing through her dreams, or was there some remnant of the past echoing deep inside her? 

They walked along the big river which her father called the Ipswich. Then, they stopped in a grove of oaks.

An odd feeling swept over her when they arrived. Seeing her confused expression, Rhun commented, “You have seen this place before. Have you not?”

“Yes, how did you know? The night of the attack, I saw people holding hands and chanting. They made a circle around me.”

He nodded. “They were here protecting you and guiding you.”

“How--” and she hesitated. “How can this be?”

“You will understand in time.”

“You were not among them?”

“No, I was away searching for you. I went first to the home of your aunt and then to the dugout of your friend, Bullfrog.”

Circe’s eyes widened. “Do you know what happened to Bullfrog?”

“He fares well and is finishing his dwelling in the trees.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “I am so grateful.”

“He has been informed that you are here among us. We will send word when you are well enough to see him.” He took her hand and said, “If you choose to return to your former world, you may do so at any time. I want you to know this.”

Circe felt like a little girl who had been lost and found again. She shook her head. “No, I feel as if I belong here. May I stay, Father?” It was the first time she had called him father.

“You may stay forever.”

*                  *               *

Tantamount to Circe’s new experiences was finding Ruith. She was Saffir’s daughter and the same age as Circe. They shared a room together in the loft of the Swinburne cottage. The two became friends quickly.  Circe was surprised when she realized Ruith was blind. She navigated so easily around the cottage, never bumping into furniture or tripping into the fire. Although she had not inherited her mother’s physical beauty, she was as sweet and kind as Saffir. She was a short, squarely built girl with curly brown hair, a sharp nose and eyes set closely together. But her most arresting characteristic was a burn crossing her face. It was purple and jagged, resembling a bolt of lightning. It was indeed lightning that had caused the disfigurement.

“I don’t remember anything about it,” she told Circe. “I was only a baby when it happened. My father was holding me and the lightning traveled through us both. He was killed, and I was blinded.”

“Is it hard doing things when you cannot see?”

Ruith shrugged. “I’ve never known anything else.”

Circe marveled at the ease with which Ruith accomplished tasks and walked around the village. She seemed to have a sixth sense about obstacles and maneuver around them effortlessly. “I’ve memorized a lot,” she told Circe. “I also know when someone is nearby as well. I feel their warmth and know their scent.”

The only time she needed help was when they explored the woods together. She would hold Circe’s arm and allow her to take the lead. But Ruith was every bit as adventurous as Bullfrog. The girls fished and swam together, climbed trees and foraged for herbs. They even took a boat out one day.

Although there was a great deal of work to be done around the village, Rhun and Saffir encouraged the girls to explore the woods whenever possible. They believed it not only educated them but enhanced their powers of intuition and divination.

“I am so glad you came to us,” Ruith said one sunny afternoon. She sat on the grass weaving a wreath of flowers as Circe picked blossoms for her. “There were no other girls here my age. Most of them were either on the brink of marriage or still children. Before you came, all I did was work with the Derwydds improving my skills as a seer.”

“What’s a seer?” Circe asked.

“Someone who foretells the future. I sometimes can see things in the present moment too but are far away. The Derwydds believe the lightning gave me this ability, so they named me Mug Ruith. He was a blind Derwydd in Ireland who had special powers.”

“Do you see things in your mind?”

“In a manner of speaking. But it doesn’t always come easily. Sometimes I have to drink a tea of wormwood or juniper to help.”

Circe stopped picking flowers and sat down in front of her. “I sometimes have dreams too, but they are fanciful. I’m flying or walking on top of the marsh. Are yours like that?”

“No, they are very real. Like the night of the Narragansett raid. I saw everything happening in Plum River. It was terrifying.”

“So that’s how you knew of the attack?”

“Yes, and shortly after that the Derwydds gathered to invoke the strength of the Goddess to protect you.”

“Did the vision scare you?’

“It was terrifying. If the events are dramatic enough, then they come upon me abruptly. I don’t need any tea at those times.”

“It sounds frightening.”

“It is a curse, Circe. But don’t tell the Derwydds I said that. They venerate it and would think me ungrateful.” Ruith sighed and lowered her head. “I just want to be like other girls.”

Circe knew of Ruith’s of work with the Derwydds. It was all-consuming and sometimes she was up all night engaged in soothsaying.

Suddenly, Circe sat up straight. “Have you seen me in your dreams?”

“I have,” she said with a grin. “That is the best part of being a seer. I have my eyes back again. Your hair is the color of the cranberry. You have tiny sunspots on your skin and you smile all the time.”

“God’s bones!” she exclaimed. But then Circe narrowed her eyes. “Now tell me something that you cannot have known from hearsay.”

Ruith thought for a moment and snapped her fingers. “The night of the attack, I saw you asleep in a skiff in the middle of the marsh. You awoke suddenly and cried out, “Enough!”

Circe’s jaw dropped. Ruith was right.

*                   *                    *

“I have arranged for you to meet with your friend, Bullfrog today,” Rhun announced one morning at breakfast.

Circe’s stomach jumped. “Oh, thank you! Thank you!”

Rhun stood up from the table and took a broadcloth jacket from a peg on the wall. Circe noticed it resembled the clothing of the men of Plum River.

“We travel to the marsh today and then to Ipswich,” he said. “Our hay is ready for the market. You may ride with us to Bullfrog’s dugout and spend the day with him there.”

Circe laughed and clapped her hands.

“We will fetch you upon our return.”

“Tie your hair up and wear your cap,” Saffir said. “You may see Christians.”

“May Ruith join me?” Circe asked, looking at her step-sister.

Saffir nodded.

The girls scrambled up to the loft to find their caps.

They rode downriver in a wide barge called a gundalow. Several men pushed the craft with poles through the shallows until they found the straddles where the saltwater marsh hay was drying. Circe had forgotten how far upriver Glendower was from the marsh. She wondered how she ever rowed this far by herself the night of the attack.

“Meet us here at sunset,” Rhun instructed as the girls stepped off the boat. “This causeway will take you to shore and to your friend’s new home in the trees. When you reach a cluster of willows, start looking up. It is well camouflaged but you will see his dwelling in a white oak.”

Ruith took Circe’s arm and the girls rushed down the path. It was a cool, fall day; the sky was overcast. The leaves were dropping from the trees, drifting down lazily. Just after the cluster of willows, Circe looked up. It was difficult to see past the colorful leaves of the maple and poplar; they were woven so closely together.

“I don’t see anything,” Circe said.

Ruith closed her eyes and tilted her head back. “Maybe--” and she hesitated, raising her face to the sky. “Maybe this way.”

They pushed through a line of scarlet sumac and Ruith stopped. “Here.”

Circe looked up and there, cradled in the arms of a massive, white oak, was Bullfrog’s dwelling.

She was delighted. “There it is, Ruith!” she cried. “You found it.”

It encircled the trunk of the tree, had a low hanging roof of marsh thatch and one oiled paper window. The cottage was a bit crooked but appeared sturdy with a small railed walkway bordering it.

“What does it look like?”

“Like the dwelling of a wise old owl.”

Circe looked around the base of the tree. There was no way to climb up. “Bullfrog?” she called. “Bullfrog!”

There was no response.

“I can feel a presence,” Ruith said.

When Circe saw birds perched on the roof, she announced, “Well, he must be there. His birds are waiting for him.”

“He has pet birds?”

“Sort of.”

Circe picked up a rock and threw it at the cottage. The birds jumped and fluttered, then settled back down. “Bullfrog!”

There was no response. Again, she threw a rock; this time, hitting the door with a bang.

Just as she was about to throw another, the door opened and Bullfrog emerged, scratching his head. “Azubah?” he said thickly.

“Were you sleeping?”

“Yes,” he replied, rubbing his eyes.

“This is my friend, Ruith. We want to come up.”

Nodding, he tossed a rope ladder down to them.

Circe placed Ruith’s hand on the rope, showing her where to step. Ruith nodded, tucked her skirt into her belt and began to climb. The ladder was flimsy but the trunk of the tree gave it stability. Circe followed behind her.

The dwelling was small like the dugout; it consisted of one chair and a bed. An old barrel held a melted candle in a wooden bowl, and on a shelf were crocks and plates. Clothing was hanging on pegs; corn and herbs were hanging from the ceiling. The cottage was tidy, although the bedding was rumpled.

“It doesn’t even seem real up here in the trees, Bullfrog,” Circe exclaimed. “But winter is coming. How will you stay warm?”

“I cannot dwell here in the winter. A fire is not possible. Even my cooking has to be done on the ground.”

He watched Ruith as she ran her hands gently over the furnishings.

“This is how she looks around,” Circe explained.

“Are you one of the Hooded Ones?” he asked.

Ruith nodded. “Circe’s father is married to my mother.”

Bullfrog looked at Circe. “Wasn’t that the name in your dreams?”

“Yes. It is the name I use now.”

“It suits you.”

“I am so grateful you’re alive,” Circe said. “I went to the dugout the night of the attack.  The Narragansett had just been there and smashed everything. Where were you?”

“I was here. I had no idea what had happened until The Hooded Ones told me.”

“Have you heard if anyone survived in Plum River?”

“I don’t know. Ipswich was attacked too. But your brothers and sisters are well,” Bullfrog added quickly. “I saw them on the road shortly after the raid. They were in a cart with your stepfather. There was a woman riding with them too.”

“Already he has replaced my mother,” she said, shaking her head. “How is the view from here?”

“Come, I’ll show you.”

Circe gasped when they stepped out onto the walkway. For the first time in her life, she could see across the marsh out to the ocean.

“Ruith, I can see the sea from here!”

“I can feel it,” Ruith added excitedly. She cocked her head to the side. “And I hear the flutter of wings around you, Bullfrog.”

“Yes, I feed the birds and they land on me.”

“And now he lives in the trees, just like them!” Circe added.

”Let’s go down and dig some clams,” Bullfrog suggested, grabbing a bucket.

“Yes, where is there a pot?” Circe asked.

“On the shelf inside.”

The three happily dug clams following the tide until late morning. Circe felt carefree again for the first time in a long time.

After lashing together a tripod, they built a fire and steamed the shellfish. Sitting in the sand and wrenching open a clam, Bullfrog said to Ruith, “I’ve never met a Hooded One my age. Why aren’t you dressed like them?”

“We don’t want to stand out when we leave our village,” she said, taking a clam from the pot with a wooden spoon.

“But they wore robes when they came to see me.”

“I am guessing for some reason they wanted you to know they were not Puritans.”

Circe thought about when they had come to see Aunt Faye. The Derwydds dressed in robes then too. But in town, they dressed like the others. She wondered how many times Glendower villagers were in Ipswich or Plum River dressed like everyone else and no one knew. Suddenly, she asked, “Can we take the skiff to Plum River after we eat?”

“Why?” Bullfrog asked.

“I’m curious to see what happened after the raid.”

He shrugged and pitched a clamshell into the water. “Very well, let’s stop at the dugout on the way. I need to check on the goats. Say, Azub−I mean, Circe, I have a dog now!”

“You do?”

“She helps the geese stand guard when I am away. The Hooded Ones brought her to me. She’s old but protective.”

They stood up and brushed themselves off. Circe took the corner of her apron, picked up the hot pot and said, “You don’t have to call us the Hooded Ones, Bullfrog. It doesn’t sound right anymore.”

“What shall I call you?”

“How about the Glendower villagers?” Ruith suggested, kicking sand over the fire.

“All right.”

When they arrived at the dugout, a large dog with dingy yellow fur, loped up to Bullfrog.

“I know this dog,” Ruith exclaimed. “She belonged to an old woman who recently crossed to the otherworld. She is a good girl.”

“That she is,” Bullfrog agreed, scratching the dog’s head.

After feeding the stock, they climbed into the skiff and rowed to Plum River. They could smell the charred remains of the village long before they arrived. Circe moaned when they pulled up to the mill landing. All that remained were the fieldstone walls and foundation. The roof and flooring were gone, as well as all the internal walls. Even the waterwheel had burned.

Lifting her skirts, Circe stepped out of the skiff. Ruith and Bullfrog followed her up the hill. The town was deserted and a funereal pall hung over everything.

Circe looked across the river at her former home. Just the charred chimney remained. The fields were burned, and the grass was blackened all the way to the shoreline.

Saying nothing, Circe walked to the willow where her grandparents were buried. She was relieved to see the headstones were still intact and that the tree was still standing. “All their hard work is gone,” she murmured. “The mill and their home are in ruins.”

They stood in silence watching the water tumble over the falls, listening to the roar.

“Let’s go,” Bullfrog added, taking Circe’s arm.

She looked back one last time on the life of Azubah Craft and then, without regrets, followed her friends down the hill.