Ligeia shrieked with fright as Thomas pulled the cloth away from her bare body. She wriggled and squirmed, trying to fend off his advances as he kept her firmly in place. His breath reeked of onions and ale, and Ligeia shuddered each time Thomas tried pressing his damp mouth to hers.
“Stop!” Ligeia shrieked. “Thomas, stop it!” She yanked her arm free and cracked him over the head. The blow seemed to fall at just the right place, and for a moment, Thomas was too stunned to move. Ligeia grabbed his arm and pulled him off of her body, throwing him to the side and scrambling to her feet. Her heart thudded, and she glanced wildly around the room, looking for anything to use as a weapon.
Spotting the iron poker leaning against the hearth, Ligeia darted toward it. She grabbed it and swung it through the air, enjoying the feel of the iron gripped tightly in her sweaty hands.
“Oh, no,” Thomas said blearily. He got to his feet and reached for Ligeia, missing her and swearing under his breath. “You little wench, you can’t get away from me!” His menacing smile returned as he advanced on the girl, stumbling across the room.
“Stay away!” Ligeia shrieked. She swung the poker through the air, narrowly grazing the side of Thomas’ head. He cried out in pain, and she swung it again, bringing it down with a satisfying thwack!
Thomas crumpled to the floor.
“Thomas?” Ligeia stepped closer. Her heart skipped a beat, and a cold sweat broke out over her limbs. “Thomas?”
Thomas didn’t reply. His eyes were half-open, his lips parted. Spit bubbled at his mouth, and Ligeia gasped when she saw a dark pool of blood spreading from Thomas’ head over the wooden floorboards.
‘I’ve killed him,’ Ligeia realized. She was still gripping the poker in her hands, and without thinking about what to do next, she ran down the stairs and out of the Whittier home.
The sky was an inky, starless black as the clouds raced back and forth over the moon, providing minimal light for Ligeia’s escape. She ran as fast as she could, still gripping the fire poker in both of her small hands.
The town of Salem looked haunting and dangerous at night. Ligeia held her breath as she ran through the dark town, keeping to the quieter streets and alleys whenever she could.
Twice, Ligeia thought she heard footsteps from behind her. She quickened her pace, slipping and sliding in the mud and nearly falling more than once. She kept a firm hold of the fire poker the whole time, refusing to let go of the weapon that had likely saved her life.
Thoughts of Thomas lying dead on the floor filled Ligeia’s head as she ran and ran. Despite the fact that she’d committed one of the worst sins of all – taking another human life – she felt only relief…and a burning sense of shame that came from the relief itself.
Entering the woods felt like entering a different world. Ligeia gripped the poker and darted through the trees, crying out whenever a branch or twig snapped beneath her feet. After only a few moments, she saw an unearthly white glow fading through the trees.
“Henrik!” Ligeia yelled. “Henrik! ‘Tis I, Ligeia!”
Henrik appeared as if conjured from the darkness. His pale skin and white hair practically glowed in the forest light, and Ligeia gasped.
Henrik looked at the iron poker in Ligeia’s hands and chuckled.
“Have you come to kill me?”
Ligeia shook her head quickly, dropping the poker into the twigs below. Henrik tutted.
“You shan’t do that, child, if I have any clue as to what you used it for,” Henrik said.
Ligeia blushed. She grabbed the poker and held it behind her back.
“So, you’ve killed a man,” Henrik stated. “How does it feel?” His calm voice infuriated Ligeia.
“Are you teasing me?” Ligeia asked sharply. “Have you come to punish me, to bring me back to Salem in chains?”
Henrik threw his head back and laughed. “No, child,” he said. “Hush. No more of that talk!”
Tears filled Ligeia’s, eyes and she crumpled to the ground. Forgetting about the poker, she wrapped her skinny arms around her legs.
“The Whittier family will have me thrown in jail and hanged or burned,” she sniffled. “I killed their son!”
“Hush, child,” Henrik said. “There is no time for tears. You know that.” He reached down and gently but firmly pulled Ligeia upright to a standing position. “You are free,” he said. “And no harm shall come to you.”
Ligeia sniffled again. The guilt was still there, but it was starting to fade. She wondered if Henrik was using his spell craft again; she almost hoped that he was because it was quite ungodly to feel relief after committing such a heinous crime.
“You’re a witch,” Ligeia said softly.
Henrik shook his head. “A warlock,” he said.
Ligeia was full of strange feelings and conflict. She knew she should run from Henrik. He was evil, and not a godly man. But he had saved her. He seemed to have some kind of affinity for her – an affinity she could not understand, considering how infrequently they had actually exchanged words.
“Why are you helping me?”
Henrik laughed. “Because you are in need of help,” he said. “A blind man could see that.” He paused and looked at Ligeia until the hair on the back of her neck stood up. “And because you are a witch,” he said softly. “I have known since the first time I saw you.”
Ligeia shook her head. “No, that cannot be true! I cannot be evil!”
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 quietly. 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 dart
ed 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?”
Touch of Fire (Into the Darkness Book 1) Page 17
