The Witch of Frog Town

A bitter wind swept across the salt marsh, carrying the acrid stench of smoldering pine and distant fires. General Sherman’s troops had marched into Savannah the morning before, and mercifully, the relentless thrum of the Union field drums had finally gone silent. The city was under full occupation. Those who had dared resist were silenced long before the first blue coats crossed the city lines.

On the muddy outskirts, far beyond the elegant brick squares of Savannah proper, a small crowd gathered at the edge of the swamp. Their eyes strained toward the city line, weighing a future that felt as bleak as the December sky. These were the ghosts of Frog Town—a fragile community of destitute white laborers, Irish immigrants, and black freemen who lived side-by-side in the lowlands. They were men who broke their backs at the riverfront docks for a few pennies a day, alongside the old, the ailing, and widows who relied on neighbors who had nothing left to give.

They huddled close around a fire built on a patch of scorched earth where countless fires had burned before. From this bluff, they could look down on the grand city—a place that had never given a single thought to the squalor of Frog Town.

As anxious murmurs rippled through the crowd, no one noticed the two figures approaching from the dark tree line. A white woman, her frame bent and worn thin by the road, leaned heavily on the arm of a tall black man. He walked with steady, quiet deliberate steps, bearing a heavy canvas pack on his back that likely held every earthly possession they owned.

The travelers moved past the gathered crowd like spirits, looking neither left nor right. A heavy silence fell over the fire as the townspeople took notice of them. Whispers broke out in their wake—anxious, sharp questions hissed under the breath.

No one recognized the gaunt white woman or the silent black man at her side. Without asking for permission or welcome, the pair steered straight toward an old, abandoned cabin sitting on the marsh edge. Its timbers were rotted grey by the swamp damp, and the roof sagged low under the weight of dead Spanish moss.

With a firm shove, the man forced the swollen wooden door open. The rusted hinges let out a sharp screech that echoed across the water. They stepped inside, and the door clicked shut behind them.

Around the fire, the murmurs turned into a frantic hum. “Another one to compete with,” one of the Irish muttered. “Likely be lookin’ for some easy pickin’s,” a man next to him agreed.

“You mus’ be talkin’ ‘bout that Shanty Irish woman,” a man from a separate group commented.

“That roof won’t hold the winter rain,” an old docker muttered, shaking his head. “The floorboards are half-rotted through.”

But it wasn’t the ruin of the shack that gripped them; it was the danger the strangers brought to their doorstep. With Union patrols scouring the city lines, new faces meant competition and trouble.

“They’re on the run,” a woman whispered, pulling her thin shawl tighter. “Mark my words. Deserters, or worse. They’re hiding from the blue coats.” “Look at them,” another intervened, nodding toward the dark window of the shack. “She’s a lady of means, or used to be. The Yankees likely seized her plantation for the war effort. She’s probably hiding out here because she refused to sign the Union oath or give up her property.”

They stared at the silent cabin, the smoke from their own fire drifting past its dark, blank windows, wondering what kind of trouble had just taken root in Frog Town.

Inside the gloom of the shack, Kiah gently guided the woman toward a lone, straight-backed wooden chair. Before letting her sit, he gripped the frame, testing its weight against the rotted floorboards to ensure it would hold her. Only when she was safely seated did he slide the heavy canvas straps from his shoulders. The pack hit the floor with a dull thud, and Kiah stood tall, rolling his shoulders to stretch muscles knotted from miles of walking.

“We will need a fire, Kiah,” she said, her voice remarkably calm against the cold damp of the room.

He didn’t speak. He simply gave a sharp, reassuring nod and slipped back out into the freezing air.

As his tall frame crossed the threshold, the low hum of voices around the communal fire died instantly. The inhabitants of Frog Town froze, their eyes tracking his every move. Kiah ignored the stares, walking with a quiet, deliberate purpose. Near the edge of the crowd, a young boy gripped his father’s patched trousers and ducked behind his leg, peering out with wide, fearful eyes at the towering stranger.

Kiah walked past them toward the ruins of a collapsed shanty nearby. Squatting among the debris, he selected splintered pieces of broken pine boards. He measured them by sight, choosing lengths that would fit the cabin’s tiny hearth without needing an axe.

When he had gathered an armload, he stood and turned back toward the waiting woman. The crowd watched him pass a second time, their lips moving in silent, anxious murmurs, but not a single soul dared step forward to question him.

Inside the cabin, Kiah knelt before the small hearth. He cleared away a nest of old leaves, laid down a bed of dry moss, and struck a flint. A spark caught, blooming into a fragile orange glow. He carefully fed the flame with the slivers of broken pine, his large hands moving with a gentle rhythm until the wood crackled to life.

Shadows began to dance across the peeling wallpaper and exposed slats. The meager heat slowly began to push back the damp, heavy chill of the marsh. The woman leaned her head back against the chair, her eyes reflecting the growing firelight as she finally allowed herself to rest.

Outside, the fragile peace at the communal fire shattered.

“I don’t like it,” a man named Silas snapped, his voice carrying over the wind. He was a burly dockworker, his face hardened by years of brutal labor. “We’ve got enough mouths to feed and enough trouble with the blue coats marching through the streets. We don’t need two more mouths, especially strangers who roll in here acting like they own the place.”

“Leave it be, Silas,” an older man warned, holding out his hands to the embers. “You don’t know who they are. For all we know, they’re spies for the Union army sent to watch the docks. Pulling a stunt like that could get us all lined up against a wall.”

“Spies? In Frog Town? That’s ridiculous,” Silas scoffed, spitting into the dirt. “Look at her—she’s half-dead, and he’s just a runaway. I’m going over there, kicking that rotted door off its hinges, and throwing them back into the swamp where they belong.”

Silas turned, his heavy boots crunching loudly on the frozen mud as he marched toward the cabin. The eyes of the encampment watched and waited.

He didn’t even make it halfway.

Before his hand could reach out, the cabin door swung open with an eerie, sudden smoothness. Kiah stepped out into the cold twilight. He didn’t yell. He didn’t raise his fists. He simply stood on the threshold, towering over the path, his chest rising and falling as he glared hard at Silas. His eyes were cold, steady, and entirely devoid of fear.

Silas froze mid-stride. The bravado drained from his face as he looked up at the massive frame of the stranger. For a long, agonizing second, the only sound was the whistling of the wind through the marsh grass. Without uttering a single word, Silas took a slow step backward, turned on his heel, and retreated to the safety of the crowd.

Kiah watched him go, a silent sentinel in the doorway, before stepping back inside and pulling the door shut.

Inside, Kiah slammed the heavy wooden door shut, the latch clicking sharply into place. His jaw was set tight, a vein pulsing at his temple, and his chest heaved with a quiet, dangerous fury. He didn’t speak—he didn’t have to—but the anger rolled off him in waves as he stared blankly at the floorboards.

The woman watched him from her straight-backed chair, her face softened by the warm glow of the hearth.

“Pay no attention to them, Kiah,” she said, her voice a calm, soothing balm in the cramped room. He looked up, his shoulders dropping just a fraction. “They are frightened. They have lived through siege and starvation, and now the blue coats rule their city. They need us more than we need them. They just don’t know it yet. They will see it soon.”

She turned her eyes to the small fire, watching a pine ember pop and crackle. “This place is where we must be at this time. The threads have pulled us here for a reason.”

Reassured by her words, Kiah swallowed his anger and nodded. Together, they set about making the ruined shack habitable. The woman wiped down the grease-grimed mantle and cleared away decades of dust, while Kiah used his bare hands and the butt of a heavy branch to hammer loose nails back into the walls, securing the rattling window frames against the bitter December wind. When the worst of the draft was blocked, they shared a meager meal from their canvas pack—dry hardtack and a few strips of salted meat, warmed over the coals.

Outside, the eyes of Frog Town never left the shack.

Throughout the short, freezing afternoon, the townspeople watched from a distance as Kiah emerged again and again. He worked without a moment’s rest, dragging heavier logs from the tree line and piling them high against the cabin wall. They watched him climb onto the low roof, using flat pieces of river stone and thick mud to patch the worst of the holes.

Silas stayed near the communal fire, muttering low curses, but no one else dared to speak loud enough for the wind to carry. They just watched the stranger sweat in the freezing cold, wondering what kind of root these newcomers were planting in their forgotten corner of the world.

Night fell hard over the marsh, bringing a damp, freezing blackness that swallowed the lowlands. Inside the cabin, the only light came from the steady orange pulse of Kiah’s fire.

A sudden, hesitant knock rattled the door.

Kiah was on his feet instantly, his massive frame shielding his companion as he pulled the heavy door open. Standing in the darkness was the father of a little boy who they had seen in the crowd earlier. He had hidden behind his father’s pants legs, peering out in curiosity as they arrived. A thick wool cap was pulled low over his ears, and his knuckles were red from the cold. In one hand, he balanced a sloshing wooden bucket of clear well water; in the other, a small loaf of dense, freshly baked soda bread wrapped in a clean rag.

“Evenin’ to ye,” the man said, his deep Irish brogue thick and heavy in the night air. He looked past Kiah’s shoulder, his eyes soft but cautious. “I saw ye had no well bucket, and… well, Frog Town might be a poor place, but we’re not savages. My daughter baked this mornin’. Thought ye might have use for it.”

From her straight-backed chair, the woman smiled, the firelight catching the sharp, intelligent lines of her face. “Thank you. That is a kindness we did not expect. I am Allexis.”

Rory nodded respectfully, “Rory Sullivan, ma’am.” He then turned his gaze back to the giant blocking the doorway. Shifting the bread to his left hand and extended his right, offering a firm, calloused palm. “Rory Sullivan, sir.”

Kiah stared at the outstretched hand for a long beat, his expression unreadable, before giving a single, solemn nod of acknowledgment. He did not take the hand.

“His name is Kiah,” Allexis said gently, stepping in to break the silence. “And he does not speak.”

Rory lowered his hand, though there was no malice in his face—only the understanding of a man who knew the world broke people in different ways. He set the water bucket inside the threshold and handed the warm bread to Kiah.

“Aye, well, Kiah is it? You’ve a strong back on ye, friend,” Rory said, rubbing his hands together against the chill. He lingered for a moment, his brow furrowing with genuine concern. “Listen, I ought to give ye a fair warnin’. There’s a foul winter sickness creeping through the shanties here. The Flux runs deep ‘ere. It’s taken two of the elders already, and…” His voice cracked slightly, his brogue dipping lower. “My own darlin’ wife, Anne, is down with it now. Burning up with the fever. Just keep your distance from the center huts if ye can help it.”

Allexis’s eyes narrowed slightly, not with fear, but with a sharp, sudden focus. She looked at Kiah and gave a subtle nod.

Without a word, Kiah turned and retrieved a weathered canvas satchel from the corner. He brought it to Allexis, holding it open as she reached inside. Her slender fingers searched the dark interior before pulling out a small, neatly folded packet of parchment paper.

“There is a powder inside this paper, Rory,” Allexis said, holding it out to him. Her voice carried a strange, commanding weight that made the small cabin feel suddenly still. “Mix it into a cup of warm tea for your wife. Ensure she drinks every drop.”

Rory hesitated, looking from the strange little paper packet up to Allexis’s calm, steady eyes. In these times, a stranger offering a mystery powder was something to be feared. But desperation is a heavy burden, and he thought of Anne shivering under their thin blankets. He slowly reached out and took the packet, sliding it deep into his coat pocket.

“Thank ye, ma’am,” Rory murmured, stepping back into the dark. “Goodnight to ye both.”

Kiah closed the door and slid the wooden bolt into place, restoring the quiet safety of the cabin.

Allexis sat back in her chair, watching the firelight dance across the rotted ceiling slats. She looked up at Kiah, a faint, knowing smile touching her lips, and gave a slow nod of her head.

“It begins,” she whispered.