The Uprising (Moonlight Wolves Book 3)

by Jasmine B. Waters

  Henrik laughed again. “‘Tis not evil to be a witch,” he said. “Think, child. Haven’t you ever had experiences unlike any other? Visions? Dreams?”

  Ligeia remembered the visions from years ago – the bucket filled with blood, the group of chanting men and women. She shivered.

  “Dreams,” she said. “Mere dreams meant to tempt me away from the Lord.”

  Henrik shook his head. “Visions,” he said. “Meant to alert you of your own power.”

  Ligeia’s mouth grew dry. “Earlier, at the market…” She trailed off. “After you took my money, I realized I still had not purchased fish. I knew I could not possibly return to the Whittier home without it. They would punish me, and I would not be able to escape.”

  “And you stole the fish, did you not?”

  Ligeia nodded. Oddly, she felt more shame over the petty theft than over the murder of Thomas Whittier.

  “Yes,” she said. “But the fishmonger…no one seemed to notice me. I just took it and walked away.”

  “Your powers,” Henrik said. “You did that yourself.”

  “No!” Ligeia cried. “I couldn’t have!”

  “You did,” Henrik said seriously. “You are quite strong, child. And if you agree to come with me, you will find out just how strong for yourself.”

  “I don’t believe in magic,” Ligeia said uncertainly. “It isn’t godly!”

  Henrik laughed. “There are many great things in life,” he said. “Many of them are wonderful, and a great many of them are ungodly.”

  Ligeia trembled in fear, but she didn’t run. She couldn’t help it. She was intrigued by Henrik and the stories he managed to weave with just words.

  “I come from Sweden,” Henrik said. “From a powerful family, with ancient Viking ties.”

  “Is…is your whole family witches?” Ligeia trembled. Something about the idea seemed awful to her.

  Henrik looked grave. “No,” he said shortly. “My parents were killed at Mora years ago. They were not witches. They were merely suspected,” he said slowly. “‘Twas then that I fled Sweden for the New World, hoping to find a place of tolerance.”

  The idea of tolerating witchcraft was so absurd that Ligeia laughed.

  “Watch, child,” Henrik said. He waved his hand through the air. “Close your eyes and listen to your senses. Listen to what they tell you!”

  Ligeia obediently closed her eyes. A warm gust of air blew over her body, and she gasped. She saw herself and Henrik standing together, hand in hand, over a stone ground etched with odd markings. They were wearing white robes and wearing stern but peaceful looks. Men and women danced around them, dressed all in black. The chant was haunting and strange, but somehow familiar.

  Ligeia gasped when she recognized the sounds. It was the same sounds of the Latin chanting she’d heard years ago as a girl when she was still in Ipswich.

  Ligeia opened her eyes. Henrik was giving her a kindly – if faintly sardonic – smile.

  “Do you believe me now, child? Will you join me and embrace freedom?”

  “Aye,” Ligeia whispered. “I will.”

  Chapter Six

  My life changed as drastically as day to night when I accepted Henrik’s offer. We disguised ourselves with magic – like Uther Pendragon, Henrik told me – and made our way out of the colony and to the north, where the land was rocky and mountainous and full of lush, verdant woods.

  I thought I had known the idea of paradise. I thought paradise was a world after the earthly world, where the godly and the blessed sang and worshipped the Lord, day in and day out. There was no time, there was no age, and there were no earthly bonds like husband or mother. Men and women were but brothers and sisters, and they were happy, chaste, and protected from all evil.

  After a month with Henrik, I learned that was no paradise at all. Paradise was freedom. Living in a small, wooden shack in the woods, eating whenever one wanted. Running and exercising and practicing natural healing and magic. Henrik taught me more than I’d learned in my fourteen years on earth. He said I had a natural aptitude for healing and that I must embrace all of my natural aptitudes.

  In time, others joined us as well. The first two members of our coven were young girls that Henrik had found in villages, both with similar predicaments to mine. When they first came to us, their eyes were wide with fear, and they could barely speak without trembling. It was hard for me to believe that I’d once been the same – as skittish as a young fawn, and almost mute with shyness.

  In my new life, I found a way to embrace myself that I’d never found before. I slept comfortably at night, knowing that I was living a life of freedom, without pain, and without cruelty.

  And as for Master Thomas Whittier?

  I rarely thought of him and the way he’d looked lying on the floor, dead.

  ---

  Twenty miles west of Exeter, New Hampshire – 1692

  “Ligeia! Mistress Ligeia!”

  Ligeia turned in her chair and watched as a young woman ran into the room. She was clad in robes dyed dark blue with berries, and her pale hands were shaking.

  “What is it?” Ligeia set her quill pen down on the crudely hewn wooden desk, glancing over her letter. “What is troubling you, child?”

  “Master Henrik,” the girl said. “He wishes to speak with you!”

  “Tell him I’m working,” Ligeia said. She sighed.

  The young woman frowned. “He’s angry, Mistress,” she said softly. “He demanded I bring you.”

  “Aye,” Ligeia said sarcastically. She stood up, brushing her hands off on her robes. Like the young woman’s, they were dyed a deep blue, but the linen was of a fine weave, and the robes suited her petite, slender frame. At three and twenty years old, Ligeia was of a similar stature as she had been years ago. But there was a wisdom in her blue eyes that hadn’t been there before, and she projected peace and calm wherever she went.

  Henrik was waiting outside, scowling. He, too, was unchanged – his face only slightly more lined, his white hair a shade longer than it had been before.

  “Yes? I was working on something, you know. I’ll need one of the younger women to gather inventory,” Ligeia said. “I need to ensure we have enough medicine for winter.”

  “You’ve been going into the village again!” Henrik thundered. “I know it, Ligeia!”

  “Aye,” Ligeia said. “I won’t lie to you, Henrik.” She shook her head sadly. “Henrik, those people…they have no idea of true medicine! They’re as likely to kill one another as they are to help.”

  “Aye,” Henrik agreed. “But that is their business, is it not, Ligeia? These same people would have us burned if they knew our true identity! It is not up to you to save the very people who would condemn us!”

  Ligeia sighed. Ever since she’d found a talent for medicine, she’d often dressed as a member of the godly and gone into a village, particularly when a woman was giving birth and in need of a midwife. She felt proud at the lives she’d saved, almost as if she’d atoned for the murder she’d committed years ago.

  “Do not cross me, Ligeia,” Henrik said. “You threaten our existence!”

  “That is not my intent,” Ligeia said calmly. “You told me years ago that I have a natural aptitude for healing and I must pursue it!”

  “Yes, to heal those who would only wish you well,” Henrik snapped. “Ligeia, I forbid your involvement in the village affairs!” He lowered his voice. “All it takes is one mistake – one death – and you’ll be chased and likely killed!”

  “But I haven’t made a mistake!” Ligeia persisted. “I have done everything well. Not a single person I have treated has died!”

  Henrik sighed. “Do what thou wilt,” he said bitterly. “But know that you act against me, and without my support.”

  “Aye,” Ligeia said stiffly. She turned on her heel and stalked back inside the cabin, continuing her lists of all the supplies they would need for the long winter ahead.

  The rest of the day passed qu
ietly. Ligeia supped with Henrik and the other witches of the coven, but her mind remained firmly on the people of the village of Exeter. Just last week, she’d been in town to deliver a woman suffering with a breeched babe. The babe and the woman had both lived, but they had been very weak. Ligeia had it in mind to return and offer some poppy for pain. From previous experience, she knew that the woman must still be suffering.

  At nightfall, Ligeia shed her loose, comfortable robes and pulled on two petticoats, followed by an apron and a white cap atop her dark head. She took a few envelopes of the bitter-yet-effective powdered poppy in her leather purse and a flask of water, and then slipped out and began the long walk through the woods.

  The town of Exeter reminded Ligeia of Ipswich, her childhood home. Every time she went to visit, she was flooded with nostalgia. She often thought of her parents. Were William and Constance still alive, or had they perished? And what of her brothers and sisters?

  Ligeia spent only a few minutes in the home of the woman who had just delivered. The mother and babe were both doing better than expected, and Ligeia felt relieved. Somehow, after her conversation with Henrik, she had a nagging feeling that her arrival in the village would have yielded a horrifying discovery.

  Just as she was leaving, she heard the patter of childish footsteps behind her.

  “Miss, oh, miss! Prithee, stop!”

  Ligeia turned on the muddy street to see a young girl chasing after her.

  “Yes, child?”

  “You must come,” the girl begged. Her cheeks were stained with tears. “It’s my mother. She’s given birth!”

  “Child, if she’s already birthed, she will likely live,” Ligeia said. She felt weariness down to her bones. It was a feeling she was no longer used to experiencing, and more than anything else, she wished she were at home, in bed.

  The child shook her head. Her blue eyes were wide with fear, and her dark hair was wild and uncombed about her shoulders.

  “It is not like the other times, miss,” the child said. She sniffled. “I am worried! My mother is an older woman. This is the eighth child.”

  Ligeia frowned. “Child, what is your name?”

  The child trembled with fear. “Prudence,” she said softly. “Prudence Arrowsmith.”

  Ligeia felt faint. ‘Oh, Mother!’ She thought in desperation. ‘Prithee, do not die!’

  “I’ll come with you,” Ligeia said quickly. “But we must hurry.”

  Prudence turned and darted down a dark alley. Ligeia followed, her feet barely making a sound as they landed. Prudence led the way into a small, stone cottage that was filled with smoke from the fire blazing in the hearth.

  Ligeia could hardly believe her eyes. Her younger brothers had grown into young men, and they were sitting in front of the hearth, talking quietly. She didn’t see her younger sisters, Abigail and Drusilla, and wondered what had happened. Had they been married off?

  “Here,” Prudence said. She took Ligeia into a small chamber. An elderly Constance reclined on a straw mattress. Her eyes were closed, and Ligeia panicked when she realized that her mother wasn’t breathing. It took every ounce of will not to throw herself into her mother’s arms and sob for forgiveness, but Ligeia knew she couldn’t disclose her true identity…at least, not yet.

  Ligeia stepped close to the mattress and knelt by her mother’s side. When she took Constance’s hand in her own, she realized that Constance was already dead.

  “She has passed,” Ligeia said softly. Sorrow and regret filled her, and tears came to her eyes.

  “No!” Prudence threw herself on the bed and wailed, sobbing loudly. Ligeia pulled her younger sister into an embrace, and they rocked together. As Prudence sobbed, Ligeia closed her eyes and thought of her mother. All of the times Constance had gently chided her came rushing back tenfold, and Ligeia felt as though she could weep until her eyes were as dry as sand.

  “I am sorry,” Ligeia said softly. “I arrived too late.”

  The straw mattress under Constance’s body was soaked with blood. Ligeia pulled a sheet over her mother’s waist to hide the worst of the stains, then charged Prudence with bringing a bucket of water and some rags. For a time, the two sisters cleaned together in silence.

  “There is nothing more I can do,” Ligeia said softly. “You must arrange for a funeral and a burial. Is your father at home?”

  Prudence whimpered. “My father is dead,” she said softly. “He was sick for a long time, but I did not think he would die.”

  The news hit Ligeia like a fist to her gut. She sniffled and dipped her head, hoping that Prudence wouldn’t see her cry. Straightening, she made sure to compose her face. ‘Oh, magic,’ she thought. ‘Serve me well. Allow me to remain calm. Allow me to summon strength from the depths of my will and guide this young child.’

  “Where are your elder siblings?”

  Prudence sniffled. “Abigail and Drusilla are wedded,” she said. “Abigail lives in Salem, and Drusilla is in Ipswich. John and Thomas are at home. Thomas can never leave. He is too soft.”

  Ligeia stared. Her lips went white. Abigail had been in Salem, perhaps even during the same time as her! Oh, my sister, she thought desperately. I hope you are happier than I would have been!

  “Who is the elder of the village?” Ligeia asked. “You must call upon him and make the arrangements for your mother.” It pained her to hide the truth from her younger sister, but Ligeia knew that Prudence should not be trusted with such sensitive information.

  Prudence sniffled. “Elder Thorn,” she said. “Do you not know him? Do you not reside in the village?”

  Ligeia thought of lying for a second. Instead, she shook her head. “No,” she said softly. “I do not dwell within Exeter. I hail from Ipswich, then from Salem. Now...well, child, I do not live nearby.”

  Prudence stared for a moment. She was almost a perfect twin of her elder sister, and it was unnerving for Ligeia to look upon her. Ligeia was still in shock. She could not believe that she had finally failed to save a life…and the life that had been lost was one of the dearest possible.

  “My family moved from Ipswich years ago,” Prudence said softly. “My eldest sister was promised in marriage to a young man from Salem.”

  Ligeia’s heart began to pound. ‘Surely, she cannot know ‘tis me,’ she thought quickly. ‘Surely, she has never been told the whole truth!’

  “And what happened, pray tell?” Ligeia asked softly. “Where is your eldest sister now?”

  Prudence gave her a sad smile. “‘Tis but a mystery,” she said. “But she is likely dead. She ran away from the home in Salem after murdering her betrothed.” Prudence sighed. “It tore my family apart,” she whispered. “My mother and father could never forgive each other – or themselves – for allowing their daughter to commit the vilest of evil acts.”

  Ligeia stiffened. “Mayhap your sister acted out of self-interest,” she said softly.

  Prudence’s blue eyes were turbulent with anger. “No,” she said sharply. “My parents spoke of Ligeia as a headstrong, ungodly child – a child who paid no heed to their word, a child who was bound for a life of misery and noncompliance with the Lord.”

  Pain shot through Ligeia’s heart and she forced herself to look sympathetic. It was more difficult than usual to control her emotions. Suddenly, she resented herself for disobeying Henrik. She felt selfish, willful, and guilty for tearing her family apart. ‘If only I had obeyed Father and Mother,’ Ligeia thought sadly. ‘None of this would have happened.’

  The thought that she would have been miserable as the wife of Thomas Whittier did not cross Ligeia’s mind. She was wracked with guilt, and she felt as though she’d never recover.

  “My eldest sister ruined my family,” Prudence spat. “She was a child of the devil. Mother and Father always said she couldn’t have come from God.”

  A lump formed in Ligeia’s throat, and she stood up. “Child, may I be of further assistance?”

  “No,” Prudence said. Hatred shone i
n her blue eyes. “You cannot.”

  Chapter Seven

  I went crawling back to the coven last night, feeling worse than I’d ever felt in my life. Prudence’s words haunted me. I couldn’t believe that such a young girl was already so fervent about religion. Somehow, that made me feel worse. What was wrong with me, that I’d never accepted the scripture as truth? What had happened to me to keep me unafraid of sin?

  Why was I so selfish?

  Henrik and the others seemed to sense a change, but no one spoke to me about it, not even Henrik himself. I ceased my visits to Exeter as well as all the surrounding New England villages. I threw myself into a work as a mistress of the coven and a healer, counseling everyone who sought my assistance. But I no longer disguised myself as a godly woman. I no longer wore dresses and petticoats, only robes – both plain, and ceremonial.

  At Samhain, three new witches joined our Coven. Henrik and I planned an elaborate ritual, followed by a feast. We slaughtered deer, bear, and moose to keep for winter. Henrik often compared our coven to the coven of Avalon back in Arthurian times. But I never felt prosperous or happy again. Prudence’s words stayed in my head, and even though I knew I could never return to a normal, godly life, I felt as though staying with the coven was doing a disservice to both myself and the other practitioners of witchcraft.

  ---

  Twenty miles west of Exeter, New Hampshire – 1693

  At four and twenty years old, Ligeia was no longer a young woman. She often spent solitary days alone, away from Henrik and the other witches as she studied plants, herbs, and the craft of healing.

  A year had passed since Constance’s death. Ligeia had tried to give herself time to mourn – time to mourn Constance, William, and the life that she’d never had. At first, she’d thought that with enough time, she would overcome all of her sadness and trials. But the guilt plagued Ligeia, and eventually, she ceased speaking except for the occasional affirmation or argument.

  Henrik was bothered by the changes in his companion. Despite his aloof behavior, Ligeia knew he cared for the coven more than anything else in the world. One day, he came to Ligeia’s small hut and knocked on the door.