Dead Trees

by Brent Saltzman

  Elizabeth Clarke pounded on the door of the Rivet house. John Rivet, the local tailor, answered the door and the screaming got even louder, piercing Clarke’s ears.

  “Your child!” Elizabeth Clarke complained. “Does it have a lever to turn it off or is someone going to have to smack it upside the head?”

  “How dare you!” John Rivet growled back. “It is a child. Children cry. Perhaps you even were one once!”

  “Trust me, if I was a child like that then I would have been grateful to my parents for smothering me with a pillow till my heart stopped beating, thus sparing the world from such ungodly noise!”

  John Rivet wasn’t going to take such abuse from the old hag. “Goodnight, Ms. Clarke.” He slammed the door in her face.

  She knocked a few more times, but Rivet ignored it and went to the bedroom, where his wife slept soundly. She’d gotten used to their infant son’s cries. Most of the village had, he suspected, since Elizabeth Clarke was the only one to grumble. At least openly. While he was sure his child’s nightly cries kept others awake, they were at least decent enough neighbors to understand that there was nothing he could do!

  His infant son, Edward, had fussed much more than the other babies born in the village throughout the years. The local physicians suspected that he may have suffered from night terrors, causing him to scream through all hours of the night. John Rivet, while conscious of the baby’s wails, also knew that there was little he could do to stop them. Thus, he and his wife had just grown accustomed. Hopefully the cries would stop soon enough. Lord knows he might eventually have everyone on Elizabeth Clarke’s side if they didn’t.

  John Rivet crawled into bed with his wife and fell asleep to his son’s cries, a process to which he was now well-acclimated. When he awoke the next morning, the cries had stopped. This, again, had become common practice. The child’s screams typically faded as the night went on and he fell into a deeper sleep.

  John went to check on his son when he noticed he wasn’t breathing in his crib. This momentary flash of disbelief was followed by panic as he ripped the baby from its crib and shook it, hoping to wake the child. Instead, the baby boy hung limp in his father’s arms, his eyes rolled to the back of his head and his skin had turned pale blue.

  “No!” John Rivet shouted in agony, waking his wife, who joined in the mourning the moment she saw the corpse of her infant son dangling before her like the lifeless husks of rabbit or pheasant she’d purchase at the markets.

  When it was clear the child was dead, John Rivet placed the body on the floor of his house and prayed, wiping the tears from his eyes as he spoke. He lifted the baby’s shirt, exposing its stomach, where he found something peculiar: a mark. It appeared to be a raised, red bump under the skin, right above the child’s belly button. It was in the shape of a twinkling star, like an asterisk. When John realized what it was, and while his wife was still bawling in the corner, he felt a rage surge through his body like lightning.

  “A witch…” he said, gritting his teeth. He flipped the kitchen table over, spilling food onto the floor. “A witch!”

  “What witch, John?” Mrs. Rivet asked through tears, her face flustered and hair matted.

  John Rivet looked at the door. It was more than obvious who had done this. Only one word came to mind: “Clarke.”

  John Rivet wanted to confront the old woman head on. His blood boiled so hard that he was ready to end the miserable old hag’s life all by himself. It was his wife that stopped him, urging him to go to the local magistrate instead. She reminded him that he was all she had left, and him going to prison for murder would leave her with nothing.

  So John Rivet spoke to the local magistrate. It was clear he was angry, shouting at the old man behind the counter, “Elizabeth Clarke killed my son!”

  The clerk looked startled. “That’s…uh…that’s quite an accusation. Do you have any proof of this?”

  “I…no…but…”

  “Then from where does this accusation come?” The clerk adjusted his glasses without even bothering to look up at John Rivet, instead preferring to jot down mindless notes.

  “My child is…was…” he gulped, suppressing the sadness that had otherwise been hidden behind a veil of anger. “…my child was a bit loud. She complained. Last night, she complained that my son was being too noisy. This morning my son was dead. It is not coincidence.”

  The magistrate looked uninterested.

  Then, perhaps out of certainty that Elizabeth Clarke was the killer of his son, or perhaps out of frustration and grief, John Rivet told a lie. A lie that would have a ripple effect through all of English history.

  “She said,” John Rivet explained, “that she’d have me smother my son beneath a pillow, lest she’d kill him herself.”

  The magistrate looked up. Suddenly, he was curious. “So, she made a direct threat?”

  “Yes,” Rivet lied. “She told me she would kill my son. And she made good on her promise. Her pact.”

  “And was he smothered?”

  “No.” Rivet lowered his voice and leaned in. “This morning, I found a mark on my son’s corpse. It was red. Like the eyes of the Devil. A mark like the twinkle of a star. An insidious mark if I’ve ever seen one. I believe that Ms. Clarke is a witch. She made a pact with the Devil to take my son because she had grown frustrated with his cries. I promise you this is the truth. She must be punished.”

  The magistrate stroked his chin. “Accusations of witchcraft are very serious, Mr. Rivet. It is an executable offense.”

  “She would deserve nothing less,” Rivet replied sternly. “She took my son’s life. She does not deserve her own after such evil.”

  “Be that as it may,” the magistrate coughed, “I cannot authorize an investigation without—”

  Just then, there was commotion outside. A young man came through the doors, out of breath from apparently running in a panic. He looked at the magistrate clerk. “Sir…horses…dead…”

  “Calm down,” the clerk said. “What’s the problem, son?”

  “Two horses just dropped dead out of nowhere, sir. We’ve no clue as to why. S’as if they just had their life sapped. We suspect witchcraft, sir.”

  The magistrate exchanged knowing looks with John Rivet. He then addressed the boy again. “Young man, where are these dead horses?”

  “They fell dead right in front of a house, sir.”

  “Which house?”

  “Why,” the boy said, “the house of Elizabeth Clarke, the old crone.”

  John Rivet eyed the clerk. “Still believe in coincidence?”

  The clerk sighed. Even a skeptic, could no longer doubt the obvious. “You’re in luck. A team of supposed witch hunters have taken up rooms at the inn. A Mr. Matthew Hopkins and his associate, John Stearne. From Manningtree.”

  “Witch hunters, you say?”

  “Supposedly. Matthew Hopkins even has a title from parliament, the Witchfinder General. If anyone can determine if Ms. Clarke is truly a witch, it’s them. In any case, do not fret, Mr. Rivet. Mourn your loss, for which I am sorry. But justice, I assure you, will be served.”

  Witchfinder General was indeed the title that Matthew Hopkins so graciously went by. However, it was not assigned from parliament. In fact parliament, at this point in time, did not know that Matthew Hopkins even existed.

  During the English Civil War, there was a three-year period where the government was, for lack of a better term, closed. There were few formal courts as the government had focused on the war effort; taxation, for example, being a new revenue stream that needed overseeing. As such, many local parishes were free to hold their own courts with their own magistrates. Though, just as Matthew Hopkins had made up his “official” government title, the trials at the time were little more than fraudulent kangaroo courts meant to weed out witches…or anyone else who posed a problem.

  A problem like Elizabeth Clarke.

  The witch hunt, it seemed, had officially begun.

  -7-
r />   Blindness

  MAY 1645

  One Week After the Hanging of Elizabeth Clarke

  I t was raining in the village. Hard. The muddy roads quickly filled with mucky water. The straw roofs leaked like mad. The cattle took shelter and the chickens fluttered their wet feathers about. As lightning crackled in the distance, a man on a lone horse arrived in town. His horse slopped through the mud before stopping in front of the local magistrate’s office.

  When the man dismounted and removed his hood, it became clear to the townsfolk that he was not wearing a cloak, but the robes of a clergyman. The man walked inside, his robes dripping wet, and spoke to the surprised clerk behind the counter. “I need to know the location of the house of Elizabeth Clarke.”

  “And, um, who exactly are you?”

  “John Gaule, vicar of Great Staughton.”

  The clerk’s eyes went wide. Clergymen were treated like royalty in 17th-century England, and John Gaule was no exception. “I apologize, vicar Gaule. Elizabeth Clarke’s home is now county property.”

  “Correct, and I am a representative of a neighboring county here to investigate a potential threat. Article eight, section two outlines this very clearly, that neighboring counties shall not impede an investigation that could possibly affect the safety of said neighboring county.”

  The clerk shook his head in confusion. In truth, he’d never heard of that article…or even had any idea what John Gaule was talking about…but he couldn’t let the vicar know that.

  “Ah…I understand,” the clerk said sheepishly. “Ms. Clarke’s home is on the third street from the north, painted with an X on the front door.”

  “Thank you. Now, that wasn’t too difficult, was it?”

  The clerk glared. Royalty or not, he was not a fan of being patronized. “No, I suppose it wasn’t. Will there be anything else today?”

  “Yes,” Gaule said. “I’d like a list prepared of all of the people executed last week. I would like to speak to the families.”

  “But—”

  “Ah, ah, ah.” Gaule wagged his finger. “Article eight, section two…”

  The clerk grunted. “Be right back.” Then he disappeared down the hall to retrieve the list.

  J ohn Gaule easily found the former home of Elizabeth Clarke. True to the clerk’s word, a white X had been painted on the door, perhaps as a warning to any potential squatters that the house was now property of the county. Gaule still couldn’t believe the clerk bought his lie; he’d simply made up a rule on the spot hoping that the magistrate had little familiarity with them. It worked almost too well. Worryingly well. Why do county magistrates not know their own rules?

  The door was unlocked and John Gaule made his way inside. It was dark and humid. Nesting bugs scurried beneath the walls as light flooded inside when he opened the door.

  Inside, Gaule pulled back the curtain on the home’s lone window, letting in even more light. He poked around for several minutes. He examined Clarke’s desk, where she’d collected half-legible letters and nothing more. Certainly nothing suspicious. He looked under her bed, in her dresser, anywhere he might find a clue as to how Matthew Hopkins’ arrest of her truly played out. He had made himself familiar with the case, or at least the stories of the case. But he wanted to see things for himself.

  That’s when he saw something glinting in the sunlight. Gaule leaned down near the front of the fireplace, where, beneath a chair, was a long, rusted razorblade. He picked it up held it close.

  “You son of a bitch,” Gaule whispered, shaking his head. You used torture to get a confession.

  John Gaule was very aware that the only way to convict was with a confession. It was believed, at the time, that evidence was not enough. It was a confession or often nothing. The problem, though, was that to get around this little hurdle, magistrates and their enforcers would go to great lengths to extract them, often crossing ethical boundaries to do so.

  As he examined the razorblade, a stray cat brushed against his leg. Gaule pat it on the head. “You must be one of Clarke’s ‘Familiars.’ Hmph. You’re awfully cute for a demon.” He scratched the animal under the neck. “So, which one are you?” Carefully, he picked up the cat, sat in the chair in front of the fireplace, and set the animal on his lap, where he stroked its back as it purred.

  Gaule stared ahead from the chair where Elizabeth Clarke had been constrained the night she was arrested. Directly in front of him was Clarke’s countertop where she kept her food and spices and other ingredients. And the first thing he saw was a mason jar, “vinegar” written on its label.

  Gaule chuckled and looked down at the cat. “So, I wonder if you’re Vinegar Tom.”

  “Is that what you’re naming him?” came a soft, feminine voice from the doorframe. “That’s not very creative, if you ask me. He’s already a cat who has to eat mice, at least give him something more beastly.”

  Gaule squinted at the young girl leaning against the door. “Who are you?”

  “Rebecca. Rebecca West.” She walked into the home and looked around. “I haven’t been here in months. In fact, not since the night she was arrested. I was here, you know.”

  Gaule shook his head, confused. He found something odd about this encounter. Certainly, after investigating the homes of dozens of executed ‘witches,’ this was the first time his work had been interrupted by a teenage girl.

  “Excuse me,” Gaule raised his hand, “you…you were here the night she was arrested?”

  “Well, I wasn’t here when she was arrested. Right before it. My mother asked me to borrow flour from Ms. Clarke. I didn’t want to. She was quite crotchety. Quite mad. But, I did love my mother. Pity.” She sighed and sat on the bed, bouncing on the straw. She suddenly looked melancholy as she kicked at the dirt with her bare feet.

  “Wait,” Gaule found himself recalling the names of those executed the week prior, “Rebecca West…you were accused. And your mother…” He got quiet as the realization struck him. “I’m sorry. I’m sure Anne was a good woman.”

  “A weak one,” Rebecca said. “But a good one.”

  “Right.” Gaule stood, traipsing about the home, picking up random objects then setting them back down. He had trouble speaking without moving. Always had. He had been known to give his sermons while pacing back and forth and making wild hand gestures. “Would you like me to say a prayer, child?”

  Rebecca laughed. “No thanks, ‘child,’” she mocked. “I apologize, but God and I have what you might call a ‘strained’ relationship. If you wish to pray, I would not protest. But don’t do it on my behalf.”

  “Ah,” Gaule smiled, “I can see immediately why you labeled your mother as a weak woman. Perhaps all are, when compared to you.”

  Rebecca West shrugged. “You can say that about most things regarding me.”

  “Even arrogance?”

  “If the shoe fits.” She winked.

  This is a smart kid, Gaule thought.

  “So, Rebecca, how exactly did you escape the gallows?”

  “These.” She squeezed her breasts together.

  Gaule raised his eyebrows.

  “I persuaded one of the magistrates to ensure I was not convicted. I was raised believing that all talents should be used, Mr. Gaule.”

  “So, you know who I am,” Gaule smiled triumphantly. “You overheard me at the magistrate’s office. And then you followed me here. Now, Rebecca, I can only assume that your personal interest in this case has to do with vengeance for your mother.”

  “You could say that. While I cannot say I loved her, I can say I was fond of her. I can also say that she did not deserve her fate. She was not so much a witch as a saint.”

  “So, we are on the same side.”

  “Perhaps.” Rebecca stood. “What are you doing here, Mr. Gaule?”

  “Looking for evidence that this ‘witch hunter,’ Matthew Hopkins, has had innocent people executed.” He looked through her pantry.

  “What kind of evidence?”

>   “Oh, like that she was tortured into confession.”

  “But the Rivet child died right after she said she wanted it to,” Rebecca reminded him. “Then they found a Devil’s Mark. And she even named her Familiars!”

  “Ah, yes.” Gaule walked over to the rack of spices. “Names like Vinegar Tom.” He showed Rebecca the jar of vinegar. “Sack and Sugar.” He pointed to a sack of sugar on the counter, which would have been directly in Clarke’s view as she was being tortured. “Jamara.” In the window sill was plant box. Brown grass was growing out of the soil. This was Jamara, a plant from India that was said to emit oils that brought about relaxation. It wasn’t uncommon for people to keep it in their homes.

  “Clever,” Rebecca West said. “And the last one? Holt?”

  Gaule crossed his arms. “Clarke was a widow. The widow of Holt Clarke.”

  “Interesting…”

  “It would appear that Ms. Elizabeth Clarke made everything up under duress. Undoubtedly duress spurred on by this.” He held up the razorblade.

  “Alright…who are you?” Rebecca asked. “Are you a detective?”

  “A vicar, actually.”

  “And that means what, to me?”

  “I oversee the religious community of a small city some kilometers away.”

  “So, you’re a minister?”

  “More or less.”

  “Who dapples in finding witches…”

  “I have more interest in finding the people who claim to find witches. Because I believe they knowingly execute innocent people.”

  “You’re a…a hunter of witch hunters. A witch hunter hunter.” She nodded in approval. “I like it. Does that mean you do not believe in witchcraft? Despite the things people have said they’ve seen?”

  Gaule chuckled, glancing at the girl. She seemed genuinely interested in the subject. Rebecca West had been raised in a world where scientific discoveries were beginning to become indistinguishable from sorcery. Yet, incredibly, the superstitions of the past still remained firmly ingrained in society.