Dead Trees

by Brent Saltzman

  For a moment, he considered condemning the very God he worshipped for such a cruel act. But after taking a few deep breaths, he regained his composure, stood up, and left, walking the few blocks back to his church. In his office, his assistant, Daniel, was busy writing letters.

  “How did it go?” Daniel asked.

  Gaule plopped down at his desk on the other side of the small room. “She’s with God, now.”

  “Oh, I see. I am sorry.”

  Gaule nodded and rubbed his tired eyes.

  “A special letter.” Daniel walked over and dropped an envelope on Gaule’s desk. “Looks like it’s your friend.”

  Gaule noted the sarcasm in Daniel’s voice. He looked at the letter, bordered in black ink. “Matthew has always been one for theatrics. A lot of people might still be alive if he learned some humility.”

  “Speaking of humility.” Daniel sat down and kept his voice low. “They are talking, you know.”

  “Who’s ‘they,’ exactly? Anyone I care about?”

  Daniel shrugged. “Everyone, I guess.”

  “And what are they talking about? Anything I care about?”

  “They claim you are no longer a man of faith,” Daniel sighed. “That you no longer truly believe in the church.”

  “Um, I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “People are dangerous, Daniel. Stupid, even. Dangerous because they’re stupid,” Gaule scoffed. Lately, fellow clergymen had begun doubting Gaule’s commitment to God, and to religion in general. Gaule had been an outspoken opponent of the “witch hunting” movement that had spread across East Anglia, believing them to be a sham that spat in the face of the very God they claimed to defend. He and Matthew Hopkins, the self-appointed Witchfinder General, had already established a short but colorful history. In fact, after following Hopkins for several months two years ago, Gaule had written a pamphlet that he had paid to have distributed. The pamphlet openly mocked Matthew Hopkins and his brutally unfair practices.

  “I have not lost my faith, Daniel,” Gaule said. “But I am also not stupid enough to follow it through the darkness. There is no more dangerous combination than that of ego and ignorance. I’m afraid that too many in our church have downed that toxic cocktail, and I fear what it will make of our faith. Faith, Daniel, whether you believe it or not, should be used as an agent of good, not one of chaos, not one of evil.”

  “The child…”

  “Yes, exactly. The child. Whether I truly believe that there is a world beyond this one, one that’s full of puppies and flowers and sunshine and rainbows, isn’t relevant. But in that moment, in that tiny slice of time where that poor girl teetered on the edge of life, she needed to believe. That is what faith gives the world, Daniel. When you begin taking things too literally and too far, you end up with psychopaths like Hopkins and the blood of innocent people soaking our fields.”

  Gaule wiped his forehead. The summer heat had taken its toll on his aging body. “Unfortunately,” he continued, “people like Hopkins have weaponized our faith. Profiting off fears amidst this stupid war. Blood is being spilled over bells and incense. The world needs faith now more than ever. More importantly, it needs to believe in the good of faith.”

  The English Civil War that had been ravaging the country was sparked by King Charles’ marriage to a French Catholic woman. As a result, he was slowly invoking Catholic traditions in churches—like bells and incense. This pettiness is what the English were fighting over. Differences in how to worship the same God were what was tearing the country apart and instilling fear in the masses.

  “Sometimes, Daniel, the truth is not as important as what we need to believe. For the sake of our own comfort. But make no mistake when it comes to faith. If God meant for us to follow it blindly, he would not have given us eyes.”

  “I suppose,” Daniel sighed. “I just hope you’re not concerned with breaking from traditions, or what fellow clergymen think of you.”

  “Two things.” Gaule held up two fingers. “One, I don’t give a damn what fellow clergymen think of me. These are the same men who truly believe that drinking wine is literally the same thing as drinking the blood of Christ. Two…fuck tradition. Sometimes the past needs to die. Especially if it promotes ideas that are outright dangerous.”

  “Right.” Daniel nodded. “I hope one day I can share your perspective, Minister Gaule.”

  “I hope for the sake of your own sanity that you don’t have to go through what I went through to reach this perspective, Daniel.” Gaule sighed and ripped open the black-bordered envelope, reading the letter from Hopkins.

  The last words, on the bottom of the page, made his blood suddenly run cold.

  -3-

  Demonology

  JANUARY 1630

  S aint John’s Church in the village of Great Wenham was a charming little building featuring a single two-story tower. The brick from which it was constructed was beige, with a red roof, giving it the illusion that it may have been the child of Spanish architecture. At this time in 1630, the church’s vicar was a man by the name of James Hopkins. James was a father to six boys. And every evening, they’d gather around the fire and he’d read passages from the Bible to his sons in the hopes that they’d absorb the very messages that he’d spent his life preaching.

  James had begun to grow weary as his sons aged. They no longer paid much attention to his nightly sermons. They were more interested in whispering about girls or joining the military. Truly, the old ways were dying. James often found himself unfathomably saddened to know that his world, the Puritan world, was crumbling around him. The world he had grown up protecting was vanishing before his very eyes, with but a few noble souls left on Earth willing to defend it.

  Luckily, one of those souls was his fourth son, 11-year-old Matthew Hopkins. Or at least he would be in time.

  Matthew had been very different from his brothers. While James’s other sons rebelled, Matthew remained staunchly supportive of his father. He idolized the man and hung on to every word as if they were being spoken by God Himself.

  It was on this chilly night in January that James Hopkins had made a decision that, while seemingly trivial at the time, would go on to affect the course of history.

  After the sermon had ended, and after James had realized that all but one of his sons was actually paying attention, he called young Matthew Hopkins into his study. The boy was scared at first. James was a strict disciplinarian and a perfectionist…a combination that resulted in more than one painful smack across Matthew Hopkins’ face in his young life. Moral absolutism; that right and wrong existed in a state of black and white, was James Hopkins’ philosophy. And it was one he strongly guarded, at times excessively.

  James Hopkins closed the door to his study and ordered his son to sit down while he sifted through some books. Matthew did as he was told, looking nervously around the room, wondering what he did wrong. At that moment, every minor transgression he could think of raced through his mind; had he been a minute late to supper, had he not annunciated his prayers properly, had he not said grace to his father’s liking? The possibilities hung heavy in his head as his father fished out an old book with a weathered cover.

  James placed the book on his desk in front of his son. It was a heavy book that landed with a thud. It must have been of great importance.

  Matthew looked down at the cover. Embossed on the front was a symbol he’d never before seen. It looked similar to a cross, but was fatter and more ornate. He read the book’s title: Daemonologie, In Forme of a Dialogue.

  “I don’t understand,” Matthew said. The boy was as confused as he was nervous. “Father, have I done wrong?”

  “No.” James lit a tobacco pipe. “Quite the opposite, actually.” He sat down at his desk, right across from his young son, and let a long, billowing cloud of smoke out from between his lips. “Matthew,” he said, “I have six sons. And only one shows any interest in continuing my work.”

  “I have i
nterest!” the preteen Matthew Hopkins exclaimed. “I swear, father! I listen to everything!”

  “You were the son I was speaking of, Matthew,” his father assured him, accompanied by the throaty, amused chuckle of an Olympian god. “You must have more confidence in yourself, son. You have learned much, and, arguably, displayed the most. That is why I have brought you here tonight.”

  Matthew Hopkins slumped back into his chair. “Father, this book. I don’t understand.”

  “It is an important guide, Matthew.” James tapped the book’s worn leather surface. “Our world is being…invaded. And torn apart at her seams.”

  “By who?”

  “The Devil, of course.”

  Matthew Hopkins should have known. He shook his head. It was always the Devil. What did he have against Earth, anyway?

  “You see, the world is changing. For the worse. And I know why.” It is easy to look back and picture James Hopkins as but a senile old man, influenced by delusion. While a zealot, he was not a bad man. He was a man driven by his own convictions, his unbreakable belief in his faith. As well as a belief in a master plan, the wheels of which he was setting in motion.

  “Why?” young Matthew Hopkins asked.

  “The Devil has infiltrated our world. Let me tell you, Matthew, when I was your age, the world was a better place. The crops grew thick. Disease kept its distance. And the winter offered but a cool relief from the summer heat in lieu of the harsh blizzards it throws at us now. The world was different then. It was better.”

  “But…why?” Matthew Hopkins was genuinely curious. “Why did things change?”

  “The world changed,” James Hopkins said. “Harlotry has become the norm. Adultery is not uncommon. Sinning…it’s become not a thing spoken of in hush tones, but a thing on display all hours of the day. We have become numb to it, I’m afraid. The very things God forbids have become common practice. It is an insult to our Lord, Matthew.”

  Matthew nodded, understanding. “The abundance of sinning…it’s why the world has gotten more frightening? More dangerous?”

  “Precisely!” James Hopkins slapped his knee and took a puff of his pipe. “God is not happy, Matthew. We have allowed those of poor nature to overtake His domain. We cannot allow this any longer. And it starts here.” He opened the first page of the old book. “This is a guide to cleansing the world of these monsters, Matthew. These monsters…they act as agents of the Devil. And they sully our world. We cannot have that any longer. We must fight back. My son, you are the only one I have who I truly feel has the strength…no…the courage to do what must be done. I ask you, sincerely,” James Hopkins looked deep into the eyes of his young son. “Do you have that courage?”

  Matthew Hopkins, but a child, took a deep breath. He puffed out his chest. “Yes, I do, father. I have the courage. To do what must be done. To do what is right. I will not let the Devil win, father.”

  “No matter the cost?”

  “Yes.”

  James Hopkins leaned in. “Matthew, listen to me very carefully.”

  His son nodded.

  And listened.

  “It is easy to give your life to a cause,” James said. “But it is much more difficult to give…your soul. Do you understand?”

  Matthew Hopkins did not. But he nodded anyway. The young boy had one thing, and one thing only, in mind: pleasing his father. That was all that had ever mattered to the boy. And here he was, on the cusp of achieving the ultimate triumph over his five brothers.

  “There are times where the only way to truly eliminate evil,” James said, “is to do something that you may feel is evil in itself. It is an unfortunate burden laid upon us. History will not be kind to us. But this is a sacrifice we must accept.”

  “I understand, father.”

  “Good. Here.” James slid the book closer to his son, who picked it up and looked over the cover. “Read this. Study it. Treat it as…a bible.”

  And that he would. For, you see, Daemonologie was no average book. In fact, it was actually a guide for how to deal with a number of supernatural creatures. From ghosts, to werewolves, to vampires, to yes, even…witches. The book outlined the techniques one might find successful when fighting against such creatures. While that may sound akin to fantasy to you or I, one must make note that this book was literally a Bible to young Matthew Hopkins.

  The reason, of course, being that the guide on how to deal with paranormal creatures and the Bible were authored by the same person: King James.

  -4-

  Swinging Shadows

  MARCH 1645

  C olchester Castle was built in 1100 AD and stood about two stories high. Constructed of old stone, the castle was located a few miles outside the village and had begun to fall into a state of disrepair. The foundation was crumbling, having been built upon the vaults of an ancient Roman temple. Vines overtook the walls, crawling over the building like the tentacles of a sea monster. Inside, the roof leaked and bats made their homes in the rafters. On stormy nights, the sound of dripping rain pattering on the floor was deafening.

  The building’s keep was among the largest in the world, with floor space of over 17,000 square feet. Dotting the perimeter walls of the cavernous keep were small prison cells with portcullis gates. It was in one of these cells that the old woman, Elizabeth Clarke, lay in misery the evening of her arrest. John Stearne had escorted Elizabeth to her cell while Matthew Hopkins spoke to one of the magistrates. Here, she found a barred window and some straw on the stone floor.

  “We’ll be back to deal with you soon, witch,” John Stearne seethed, pulling a handle and letting the portcullis door fall shut with an ominous thud.

  “I’m not a witch!” Elizabeth Clarke’s voice was barely a whisper, having exhausted her screams on the ride over. “I’m not a witch…I’m not…I’m not…” She collapsed. She had already been tired before the evening’s ordeal began. Letting her body slump to the floor, she closed her eyes and was soon asleep.

  H umming. A tune, of some kind. That’s all Elizabeth Clarke could hear as she awoke, staring into the darkness, at a ceiling bathed in moonlight. Her back was cold. Her face was wet. She had no idea where she was.

  “Ah, I see you’ve decided to join us,” came a voice. It belonged to a young man sitting patiently in a wooden chair, watching over her. It belonged to Matthew Hopkins. “I thought it rude not to let you gather your strength.”

  “My strength?” Elizabeth sat up. She was in a prison cell. Wiping her eyes, she started to remember everything. Being shaved. Being poked and prodded. Being jailed.

  For being a witch.

  “Yes. You slept two hours. I would have given you another. Oh, well. I will accept it as your declaration of your eagerness to begin.” Hopkins stood up and continued humming sadistic tunes as he sifted through his bag.

  “Begin what?”

  “The extraction of a confession, my dear,” Hopkins explained cheerily. “You see, proof is no longer good enough in the eyes of most magistrates to convict one of witchcraft. A confession from the accused is more appropriate.”

  “You shall get no such thing!” Elizabeth Clarke spat. “You’re insane if you think I’m going to admit to such a ridiculous thing! You might as well not waste your time or mine!”

  “Why, Ms. Clarke, I am insulted.” Hopkins pulled a leather notebook from his bag. It was old and worn. The pages inside were yellowed and fraying at the edges. On the front, he had carved his initials into the leather. “As I told you before, I desire your innocence! I don’t want you to confess!” He smiled. A fake smile. A liar’s smile. “However, it is my duty to hold you to the highest standards and unfortunately that means subjecting you to the strictest forms of interrogation in order to ensure your innocence. I assure you, once we are satisfied and have proof of your innocence, I promise you will go free.”

  He showed her the cover of the leather notebook. His initials were carved in the front. “Do you see this? A long time ago, I was given a book about how to
weed out witchcraft. ‘Daemonologie,’ it was called. Wonderful piece of literature.” Hopkins smiled, remembering his many nights by the fire reading that book. “But, it has become somewhat obsolete. Out of date. So, I started my own book.” He patted the journal. “With techniques on hunting witches and extracting confessions passed down for generations. This is my new Bible, Ms. Clarke. And I intend to follow it to the letter.”

  “What are you going to do?” Elizabeth Clarke asked. “Are you going to torture me?”

  “Heavens, no! Torture is illegal.” Matthew Hopkins laughed. “Interrogation, my dear. They’re very different.” He took her hand and gently kissed it, then looked deep into the old woman’s eyes. “I offer you my promise that we will not inflict any physical harm on you, whatsoever.”

  As those with silver tongues have been known to twist and manipulate the meaning of words throughout the ages, so too did Matthew Hopkins that night. Torture was indeed illegal, but it was relegated to direct physical harm. Matthew Hopkins’ method was what he deemed interrogation, though the line between the two is thin and blurry.

  Elizabeth Clarke was subjected to four days of sleep deprivation. Hopkins, Stearne, or one of their female assistants would rotate in and spend time walking Elizabeth Clarke back and forth through the halls of Colchester Castle. Every time she collapsed, whoever was watching her picked her up and made her keep walking. By the middle of the fourth night, Clarke was hallucinating, teetering between the real world and the dream world.

  Hopkins recognized this. He saw her glazed-over eyes and heard her slurred speech. She was as good as drunk. Sensing his chance, Hopkins sat Elizabeth down at a bench in the hall and spoke in a warm, kind voice. “Ms. Clarke, I hate seeing you like this. You can end this with a confession.”

  “I…shall…not…” her voice was weak and raspy. Her breaths short and shallow.